Death by Water

by Alessandro Manzetti

  She had no clear sense of how long she climbed. It seemed as if she’d been doing so forever, as if she’d been born on this rope ladder, would age, grow old, and die here, only marginally closer to her destination then she’d been when she’d started. But there came a time when she reached for the next bone rung and her hand slapped down on a piece of flat wood instead.

  She grabbed hold of it, arm muscles quivering weakly, and for an awful moment, she thought she would lose her grip and plummet back toward the water. A fall from this great height would surely kill her, and for the smallest instant she was tempted by the prospect. It might be better to die than face whatever waited for her on the deck of this vast ship. But the temptation passed and she hauled herself over the railing and fell onto the deck. She rolled onto her back, spread out her arms, and lay there for a time, feeling the deck rise and fall beneath her, her entire body throbbing with pain from her exertions. Eventually, the pain subsided a bit, decreasing from agonizing to merely excruciating. She managed to sit up, although the maneuver took so much out of her that her head swam and she thought she might black out. She held onto consciousness, though, and when she felt strong enough, she rose to her feet.

  A huge coil of wet rope lay on the deck close by, a rock tied to one end. It was the rope that had been lowered to rescue her, of course, and she wondered at its true purpose. A simple tool for measuring water depth? Maybe.

  The deck of the ship was a flat, unbroken plane. No smoke stacks, no cabin for captain and crew. This wasn’t a ship to be steered, she thought. Its only purpose was to float. She tried to estimate how long the vessel was, but she couldn’t be certain. Several football fields at least, and perhaps much more than that. She wondered what, if anything, was contained in the decks below her feet. Were they empty? Or did they hold the remains of thousands of animals, all of which had died long ago when the water never receded and the stores of food ran out? But it was what—or rather who—waited for her on this deck that mattered.

  She started walking into the wind, heading for the ship’s bow.

  How long she walked, she didn’t know. Hours, maybe days. The perpetual twilight of this place never varied, making it impossible to gauge time. But eventually she drew near her destination, and the figure that stood waiting for her at the bow, hair blown out behind her by the wind. Valerie joined her sister, and the two of them stood silently side by side, gazing upon the dark water ahead of them. Dead animals bobbed on the surface, large shapes swimming around them, tooth-filled maws occasionally rising out of the water to tear off hunks of meat. Valerie heard a thumping sound and realized it was the noise of the ship bumping aside the floating corpses as it passed. She couldn’t bring herself to look directly at Marie, but she could smell her, a combination of wet mud and rot that should’ve sickened her but didn’t. The smell seemed almost natural here. After a while, Marie spoke, her voice thick and wet.

  “You should’ve shown me the picture in the book. You should’ve prepared me.”

  “Yes,” Valerie agreed.

  She reached out and grasped her sister’s hand. What little flesh remained to it was soft as clay and gave beneath Valerie’s grip. Lightning flashed across the sky in front of them, followed by a crack of thunder so loud the deck shuddered beneath their feet.

  Forty days and nights my ass, Valerie thought. The rain never really ended. There were only brief interludes between storms.

  As she felt the first drops strike her face she gripped her sister’s hand tighter. Marie’s finger bones cracked under the pressure, but she didn’t complain, and together they sailed onward.

  NIGHTHAWK AND LONE WOLF

  by Gene O’Neill

  Memo to Staff

  We are asking all staff to arrive in Calistoga three days early, before 2:00 p.m. on Friday for group orientation. As you know from pre-camp materials, the campers arriving for this month’s camp experience are very different this year. They are all boys in the 12- to 16-year-old range from urban environments, but many come from broken homes. In the past most have demonstrated institutional behavioral control problems, including foster home, juvenile detention, and school settings. This has resulted in a disruption of any continuity of discipline and schooling. All of these campers, for whatever reasons, obviously demonstrate poor socialization skills. That they do not cope well with others is an understatement.

  So during pre-camp weekend we will have seminars, workshops, and lectures to be conducted by a group of well-regarded professionals who deal daily with children’s behavioral issues—including a social worker from Oakland, a pair of clinical psychologists from San Jose and San Francisco, and a professor in Exceptional Children Psychology from Stanford. With their recommendations and guidance, we should be able to anticipate most problems and have some potential good solutions available.

  Please keep in mind we will be focusing this month on three important areas:

  1. Camper/staff safety

  2. Developing camper socialization and coping skills in a group

  3. Maintaining our normal primary camp goal of instilling an appreciation of Native American values, skills, background, and history.

  This will be a challenging group of youngsters. There are growing numbers of these kinds of exceptional children in the state who have never had a camp opportunity of any kind. Our special Native American emphasis here should be an enlightening experience for them. Let’s do our best to make this a safe, wonderful, and educational experience for these boys, which will hopefully encourage parents and others to send similar youngsters in the future.

  A film major from SF State will be filming with his voice-over during the month. Oscar Owen is also a weekend DJ with the tag Double O, and his appearance and language should be appealing to both campers and staff. Give him your full cooperation. We hope to use this film commercially, making it available to interested groups, counselors, social workers, foster parents, and especially to similar youngsters that we will be recruiting in the future.

  —Daniel Manspeaker, Director of Camp Little Bighorn

  Double O—filming with voice-over narration, parts to be deleted:

  Monday morning at around noon, I’m just hanging out in the background as the big yellow bus rolls into Camp Little Bighorn, an isolated group of cabins in the foothills north of Calistoga in the Napa Valley, near Lake Fallen Sky. I watch as forty-eight young dudes get off the bus looking about furtively, their expressions guarded. Holy shit! No boisterous shouting and nervous gaiety, as I expected. This group of dudes, some wearing tattoos, after dismounting the bus, look like they’re facing their drill instructors for the first day of Marine Corps boot camp at MCRD or Parris Island, though, they look more like a group of young gangbangers getting off a bus to juvie.

  Although they hide it well with their sullen expressions, I’m guessing they share similar feelings of anxiety, dread, and hostility. They probably wish they were elsewhere. But after leaving the bus, they shuffle nervously in place as they stare at an older man, wearing a beaded headband, long braided gray pigtails, and a buckskin outfit, who is greeting them.

  “Welcome to Camp Little Bighorn. I am Daniel Manspeaker, your Camp Director. This is a camp stressing Native American skills, values, and principles. Each of you for the next month will belong to an Indian tribe. The first order of business is getting you to your tribe’s cabin. There are six of these cabins. Your group leaders will introduce themselves, and then read off your names and cabin assignments.”

  I follow with my camera the last group, who are assigned to the Lakota Sioux cabin. Their leader is a lanky, college-age man, who introduces himself as: Crazy Horse.

  One boy in this group is very different from his streetwise cohorts. He is slight of build and very shy, hanging back in the group.

  After leading the eight boys to their cabin, Crazy Horse says: “You will all now select a Lakota Sioux name from this master list. These will be the only names we will use here during the next month of your Native American
camp experience. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  After selecting their Indian names, the eight campers have a few minutes to store their suitcases and personal gear in small foot lockers under one of four bunk beds, before assembling outside at the fire pit in the center of the circle of cabins for a brief orientation by the camp director, whom I’m sure they all regard as this weird old guy with the odd Indian last name, dressed like a clown.

  Second Day—Letter from Camp

  Dear Aunt Ez:

  I am doing well.

  Everyone here at Camp Little, Bighorn is assigned a cabin with an Indian name, ours is one of the Great Plains Tribes. Lakota Sioux. Everyone in my cabin had to pick an Indian personal name, which is what we call each other here for the next four weeks. My name is: Nighthawk. I kind of like the fierce sound of it in my head when I close my eyes.

  Surprise, Auntie: I’ve made a real friend already! He is called Lone Wolf, the same age as me, although very blond, bigger, and stronger. He is beginning seventh grade, too, in September, but at a middle school in San Francisco. Tomorrow we begin learning Indian skills, including fish netting, paddling a canoe, and the proper use of the bow and arrow. The Great Plains Indians—most of the tribes here—hunted buffalo from horseback with a bow. So skill in this area was critical to their survival. Neither Lone Wolf nor I have ever drawn a bow and shot an arrow at a target. We will be a bit nervous. But you know I’ll concentrate and do well.

  Our cabin leader calls himself: Crazy Horse. We have found out that he is indeed strange, to say the least, maybe even crazy. For one thing, he likes to watch all of us shower. He says he’s required to monitor our safety at all times. I suppose theoretically someone could slip on a bar of soap and injure themselves (that’s a joke of course). Lone Wolf says that our cabin leader is just a creepy perv.

  I will write again tomorrow night.

  —Love, Luc (Nighthawk)

  Third Day—Letter from Camp

  Dear Aunt Ez:

  Today we had our first campfire and met an orange-headed lady, Red Deer, who is an oral story-teller. She does more than tell a story, she is a terrific one-person play, acting it all out in different voices. She knows a large number of ethnic folk tales, including many that originated with the various Indian tribes. But she decided to introduce herself with one from her original homeland, Ireland.

  Red Deer told us a story from the famed Red Branch Tales about the legendary Irish hero, Cu Chullain. He was a mythical figure from the first century of Ireland. He was a bit like Robin Hood in England. But unlike the Sherwood Forest hero, Cu Chullain possessed a mystical ability called Riastradh in Gaelic. This supernatural ability was later translated into English as: Wasp Spasm, because initially one shook visibly as if stung while under its spell.

  When Cu Chullain called on this secret ability, he could do all kinds of unusual things, resulting in him never suffering defeat in combat. In a low, mysterious voice Red Deer explained: “Among other skills, he could mentally control the flight trajectory of every spear he threw.”

  I was enthralled by the exploits of Cu Chullain, the story hour passing much too quickly. After a nice hand from the campers, Red Deer promised she would tell another Red Branch Tale later in the month. But she said that she had many other good ones she wanted to share each night at campfire, including a number of excellent legends from the Great Plains Tribes.

  Red Deer is my favorite part of camp, so far. I think I’d like to stay the whole twenty-eight days after all, and hear all her stories. I hope she does tell more about Cu Chullain and his special mental abilities.

  Do we have any Irish blood, Auntie? Is that why Gramps is so special?

  I will write again soon.

  Love, Luc (Nighthawk)

  Double O—filming again with voice-over, no deletions:

  After the briefest instruction with a bow, this skinny little guy is hitting only bull’s-eyes. It’s amazing, his arrows begin wobbling weakly, and then somehow straighten out and forcefully hit the target dead center. Because they eventually win the bowman competition, he’s the hero of his Lakota Sioux tribe. He is called Nighthawk. But he should be called Robin Hood or some other expert bowman name.

  Sixth Day—Letter from Camp

  Dear Aunt Ez:

  The first week has gone very well. I helped Lone Wolf with his bow-shooting skills, encouraging him to concentrate and visualize the accurate flight of his arrows.

  Earlier today, we finished the week with a competition in riding horses bareback, canoeing, swimming, and archery. All the Lakota Sioux did well. In shooting long distance at targets, both Lone Wolf and I shot possibles. That means we put all ten arrows into the target bull’s-eye—100 possible points added to the overall tribe score. So the Lakota Sioux won and can wear the White Eagle Feather for Best Tribe Performance, Week One.

  But our archery instructor, Swift Arrow, got mad after the archery shoot and yelled at Lone Wolf and me, because he didn’t believe that we’d had no previous bow training. And in an angry voice, he said: “You lied and had obviously benefited from advanced training in archery. It would not be fair to others in camp to let you carry a bow and quill of arrows next week during the survival training camp-out in the forest. Lone Wolf was very upset and angry, because we hadn’t lied.

  I will write again soon, after we return to base camp from survival skills week.

  —Love, Luc (Nighthawk)

  Thirteenth Day—Letter from Camp

  Dear Aunt Ez:

  Survival camp-out for five days in the forest was really fun. We learned lots of useful things, like how to start a fire with a tiny bow and wood drill. Of course that was easy for me to do after I concentrated. We learned lots of other stuff, including what plants and mushrooms to eat and what to avoid in the forest. How to track animals and other humans. Lessons in canoe paddling and swimming in Lake Fallen Sky were great—it’s cooler out there on the water.

  But our tribe didn’t win the White Eagle Feather for second week, because there was arrow shooting at pop-up targets while moving about. Very difficult for everyone, including the Lakota Sioux. Lone Wolf and I were not allowed to participate in this phase of the competition. This was an unfair handicap for our tribe’s overall score.

  And a boy called Big Bear, from the Cheyenne tribe that won, made fun of Lone Wolf and me, because as I’ve said, we weren’t allowed to carry a bow and arrows like everyone else, unable to record a single bull’s-eye for our tribe. Big Bear called us losers, sissies, and other names. Lone Wolf said something back, and Big Bear struck him in the face with his fist, giving Lone Wolf a nosebleed. The camp nurse fixed Lone Wolf up. He’s fine now. But very angry at Big Bear.

  —Love, Luc (Nighthawk)

  Third Week—Memo to Staff

  I would like to remind all staff that our primary goal this first month is the safety of campers and staff. Unfortunately we’ve had several incidents, inexplicit accidents/illnesses. The victims have been two staff members and one camper.

  Rowdy Jenkins, group leader of the Lakota Sioux, was the most serious, requiring transport to the nearby full-service sanitarium hospital between Calistoga and St. Helena. Medical eye specialists were available there and are treating Rowdy for what they diagnosed as detached retinas. But he does not remember any traumatic blow, fall, or accident that might have caused such an injury. The specialists say this will require surgery and believe Rowdy will probably, at the very least, regain partial sight in both eyes, perhaps full sight with a best case scenario.

  Don Weber, our award-winning archery instructor, has been hospitalized with a case of extreme laryngitis—apparently he caught a bug during survival week. Even though no one else demonstrates virus symptoms, it might be wise to keep an eye out for campers developing coughs, runny noses, or such. We do not want any type of cold/flu epidemic outbreak. Don is expected to be released tomorrow, and will be back to work soon, with hopefully a full recovery of his voice.

  Elm
er Jackson, a camper, a Cheyenne, suffered some kind of injury also during survival week, resulting in several fractured bones to his right hand. Elmer says he fell during tracking while wading in a creek the last day of survival week, and he thinks that’s when it might have happened. Strangely, he woke up in severe pain during the first night after returning from the forest. Fortunately, he will be able to finish his last week of camp, but will have his hand in a cast, limiting some activities. His parents have agreed to this after visiting Elmer yesterday.

  Please, stay alert. No more unexplained accidents or incidents, people. Let’s finish this month with everyone returning home healthy, sound, and well.

  —Daniel Manspeaker, Director of Camp Little Bighorn

  Twenty-First Day—Letter from Camp

  Dear Aunt Ez:

  I have a confession to make.

  The first day of camp, Lone Wolf showed me some magic card tricks he brought from home. I disobeyed you and demonstrated one of the special mental skills taught me by Gramps to Lone Wolf: How I could lift my suitcase without touching it. And I bragged about some of my other special abilities. Of course he wanted to know all the secrets. So I taught him how to do some of my other tricks.

  But Lone Wolf has a bad temper, and he used some of the things I taught him in a bad way. He hurt several people here at camp.

  I’m terribly sorry. I know you taught me never to reveal any of Gramps’ special abilities in public. I guess I just wanted to show off to Lone Wolf.

  But don’t worry, I made him promise not to use any of them again and hurt anyone else.

  Love, Luc (Nighthawk)

  Twenty-Fifth Day—Letter from Camp Director