Backcountry

by D. E. McDonald

  Onward she staggered, trying to drown out the voices, finding it impossible to separate them from the real noise of the forest. They seemed as real as the birdsong and as present as the croaking of cicadas in the trees. She could no longer separate reality from the tricks her mind was playing on her; all she could do was trust her feet to keep on moving as she followed the stream. She ignored the warnings that she was going the wrong way, that the stream was leading her to a dead end or, worse, back to her campsite and the horror that waited there for her. Other voices told her that the beast was waiting for just around the next corner and that she needed to run—new ones interrupted to tell that her if she did, she would be running straight back into its jaws. Struggling to hold firm in her purpose and trembling with the conflict raging within her, all she could do was believe that the only reality was the act of putting one foot after another, and that doing that would eventually take her home. Finally, mercifully, the voices began to recede, no more than background noise that she could, with effort, zone out. She sighed in relief.

  A moment later, she was missing the sounds. Everywhere she looked, there were shadows: shadows beneath the trees, shadows moving farther back in the treeline, shadows that moved and danced as her eyes tried to focus. Each of them seemed to be hiding something from her, something that she needed to see. Movements in her peripheral vision made her constantly turn her head back and forth to make sure nothing was sneaking up on her, but each time, there was nothing to be seen but more shadows. Her heart was beating so fast that all she could hear now was the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Frantic, filled with terror at the thought of what might be watching her, she tried to monitor every direction at once. Anything could be waiting, biding its time, and she would not know until it moved out of the trees. And the trees—the trees seemed to whisper and shake as she moved past them, leaning in toward her threateningly. Branches that had lost their leaves looked like claws that at any moment might reach down to rend her. The branches that hadn’t lost their foliage looked as if they had already tasted blood. The forest seemed to be closing in around her, contracting, narrowing the space she could walk in until she felt as if she could no longer breathe. She hunched her shoulders and kept on walking, trying to ignore the feeling of oppression beating on down her, the irrational feeling that the forest had decided she belonged to it, that it was not going to let her escape. Whether it was with the bear, her the lack of food, or her injury, the forest would ensure that she never saw the lights and asphalt of the city again.

  There was the crack of a branch breaking somewhere in the trees, and Jenn stifled a scream, terrified that any noise would bring something crashing down on her. She kept walking, her hands clutched tightly around her walking staff, wondering how well it would serve as a spear. Everywhere she looked, there was a clump of dark shadows that could have been the animal that had terrorized her. Each time she took another step and saw that it was merely another stump, bush, or boulder, she kept walking. But each time, it took a little longer for her heart to slow down, a little longer for her breathing to settle. Soon, her head was pounding and every step was a fresh act of torture. Black spots appeared in her vision, taking on strange shapes that danced around the edges of her perception and followed her progress downstream. The woods seemed full of furtive movements that stopped whenever her eyes fell upon them, only to resume when she looked away. Her paranoia grew, and she jumped every time the wind picked up and rustled though the branches or an acorn fell to earth with a thud. She would freeze, waiting for something to launch itself at her, only to resume her slow, shuffling trek once more. The sun seemed to stand still in the sky for what felt like hours and then suddenly jerk ahead. The shadows lengthened and contracted as her sense of time began the same slow disintegration as the rest of her senses. She could no longer remember how long she had been walking, or the progression of events that gone before. Had Brad come before the bear, or after? Had they gotten lost because of the storm, or before it? She could feel her grip on reality becoming more and more tenuous as she no longer knew what she could rely on, where she was, or even when she was.

  Jenn stumbled, throwing out a hand for balance and landing it on the solid, reassuring trunk of an ash tree. There was an agonizing stab of pain. Her hand had come down on a thin branch, a twig really, that had broken off into a jagged stump; this had driven deep into the soft flesh of her palm. Blood trickled from the wound, and she used her teeth to pluck out pieces of wood that had broken off in her hand. The pain had brought the world back into focus, leaving her alone in the forest. The only sounds now were normal ones, of bird and beast, and the only sights the occasional flutter of bird’s wings as her passage scared one into flight, or the iridescent colours of butterfly’s wings as they moved from branch to branch.

  As if this had been some sort of tipping point at which her mind had reached the limits of its elasticity and snapped back into place, the visions began to recede. The forest lost its layer of unreality and the only fears it held for Jenn were genuine ones: fear of not being able to find her way out, of starving to death, of infection, and most of all, of the bear returning to finish the job. But worse than the fear was the painful clarity that replaced her earlier sense of unreality. No longer could she shield herself from the fact that Alex was dead, that whatever it was that they’d had and whatever it was blossoming into was dead, too, cut off in mid-bloom. She replayed all their conversations in her head, wincing at the arguments, but taking joy in the good times that they’d had. Most of all, she held on to the memory of that last night by the fire, before the terror had begun. She hoped that Alex had realized what she was hinting at, that when he asked again—and she was convinced he would have as soon as they had gotten home—she would have accepted his proposal. She wanted to believe that he had that knowledge in his last moments, that it had been some small consolation to hold on to. Whether he had or not, though, she could not doubt how much he had loved her, how he had put himself between her and the jaws of death, and how he had paid that price, using his last breaths to try to save her.

  Tears streamed down Jenn’s face as the floodgates opened, and all the grief she had been holding back overflowed. Great, wracking sobs escaped her even as she tried to stop them, her loss too much to be borne any longer. She cried for Alex, for all the things that they would never get to experience. She cried for the way he had died, in pain and in terror, and she cried because his last thoughts had been of her. And as she cried for him, she also cried for herself as she wondered how much more she could bear and whether she would ever see her home again.

  Thursday Afternoon

  Morning drifted into afternoon and Jenn was moving more and more slowly. Blood trickled down from the hand clutching the stick where blisters had formed and broken; the other hand still clutched the spent flare hard enough to ache. If she had been asked why she was still holding the useless cylinder, she would not have been able to answer, but she had long since moved beyond the capacity for any rational thought. All that mattered was that the flare was hers. She had had too much taken from her already, and therefore she would not let it go—it was as simple as that. Gone was the fresh-faced young woman who had stepped out of the canoe what seemed an eternity ago. She had been replaced by an old woman who shuffled along, her shoulders hunched and her feet seeming to weigh a tonne each as she lifted one, then the other. She had long since stopped thinking about her destination; all that mattered now was the journey. The idea of getting out of the park had fled her mind; all she wanted now was to take that next step without falling over, and then the next. She trudged on, all thought stripped away. All that left was an animal core that wanted to live, survival its
only motivation. Her vision blurred as her eyes slipped in and out of focus. She was becoming confused. She looking around, trying to get her bearings, and failed.

  “Alex. I’m . . . I can’t,” she mumbled. “Please, honey . . . I don’t . . . I can’t.”

  She looked up at the trees that swayed in the wind, seeming to lean in toward her as if they were about to fall and crush her. Her vision started to darken and the sounds around her slowly faded away. She looked down at the ground and it was moving beneath her feet. A wave of dizziness rolled over her. She tried to take another step, but there was nothing left. She fell to her knees and began to crawl. Reaching the base of one of the trees, she sat against it and leaned back. At the very limit of her endurance, Jenn closed her eyes and waited to die.

  Friday Morning

  All through the evening and long into the night, Jenn remained motionless, the tree the only thing keeping her upright. All around her, the forest went about its mysterious business, uncaring of the intruder in its midst. If she dreamed, she showed no sign of it. She hung on to life by a slender thread; she might have been a statue left in the wilderness. As the sun rose to greet the dawn, a fly landed on her face. There was no reaction, no movement, no twitching of skin—just the fly crawling over her lips and nose and eyelids, undisturbed. In the distance, the sounds of hooves could be heard, growing louder and louder, closer and closer, until finally the noise seemed to reach down into the place where she had sought refuge. Her ears twitched and then her eyes, sending the fly buzzing away. Her eyes opened and struggled to focus, and when they did, it was on the deer standing mere yards away from her. She didn’t move, but only watched as it took a step closer, and she wondering whether she was dreaming. The stream in the background, the wind sighing gently through the trees, and the deer coming closer and closer were like a scene from a fairy tale. The deer was only inches from her face now. She could see its dark eyes, eyes that seemed to look deep inside her. She didn’t—couldn’t—move, and she felt a deep sense of serenity wash over her.

  Time seemed to stand still, and then the deer began to walk away, following the stream.

  “Wait,” Jenn croaked.

  The deer ignored her, and Jenn somehow dragged herself to her feet, leaning on the tree for balance until she felt strong enough to follow. Taking her stick, she began the slow, torturous task of following the deer down the stream. Step after step, she stumbled on, eyes locked on the deer. It seemed to know that it had nothing to fear from her, walking slowly enough that she managed to keep it sight. But then it followed a bend in the stream out of sight.

  “No!”

  Summoning up the last of the strength, Jenn moved faster, rounding the bend. She froze, unable to believe her eyes. There before her was a canoe. No, not a canoe—their canoe, she could see the number six clearly. It was exactly as Alex had left it. And beyond it, the trees opened up to reveal where the stream joined the lake, the dawn sun glimmering on the wide expanse of water, the waves sparkling jewels of dancing light. As she watched, the deer moved to the shore and stepped into the shallows, lowering its head to drink. It was the most beautiful thing Jenn had ever seen.

  She staggered to the canoe and pushed. She moaned in protest. It wouldn’t budge. She pushed the end of the stick underneath the end of the canoe and leaned on it, using the leverage to unstick the canoe from the ground and move it toward the water slowly. Half pushing, half prying, she managed to get it to the water, and it slid into the shallows with a gentle sigh. It almost got away from her then, moving out into the water. Desperately, she grabbed the edge and pulled it back toward her. Then she splashed into the water and heaved herself over the gunwale. For a moment, she simply lay in the bottom of the boat, but she roused herself and grabbed one of the paddles. Weakly stroking the water, she moved the canoe out into deeper water and began to head in what she hoped was the right direction. Each stroke of the oar sent another wave of pain up her arm, but she barely felt it as some part of her became aware how close she was to safety.

  Jenn made slow progress, and she grew weaker as the day wore on, her oar only sinking shallowly into the water with each stroke. Her wound had broken open and blood dripped down the shaft of the oar, making it hard to grip properly. Still she paddled—the same way she had walked through the forest—one stroke at time, her focus narrowing to what lay ahead, thoughts of home and safety filling what was left of her waking mind. A terrible fear began to rise within her that she was paddling the wrong way, that each minute was taking her farther away from the ranger’s cabin, but she pushed it down, knowing that all she could do was hope. Maybe another couple would pass her, or maybe the ranger was looking for her, or—she stopped that thought right there. She knew that the only one who could save her now was herself. She looked around, looking for any sort of familiar landmark, hoping against hope that she might recognize something from the trip up.

  There! She was looking right at the slab of limestone that had glimmered in the sunlight on their way up the lake. She remembered how they had been splashing each other as they passed it and tears came again. She blinked them away; there would be time for tears when she was safe, when she was home. She was shocked to discover that, for the first time, she actually believed that she might survive this, that the end was in sight. All through her trek out of the woods, part of her had been waiting for the bear to find her again, or for her body to give way, or for the forest to claim her in some other way. Part of her had believed that she was destined to stay there forever, her bones whitening in the sun, year after year. But now, stirring in her heart, she felt an emotion that had become unfamiliar to her: hope. A tendril of fear darkened it as she tried to remember. She had found a landmark, but it was no good unless she could use it to find her way home. She thought frantically: had it been on their right or left as they passed on the way up? Right. Definitely her right, and now it was on her left. Jenn smiled, her dry lips cracking, but the pain was inconsequential. She was headed home!

  It had taken Jenn and Alex under an hour to make the trip up. He had been an experienced camper and had done much of the paddling, and he had instructed Jenn on the best way to use her oar. Now she was on her own and exhausted, pushed beyond her limits. She developed a system of paddling for as long as she could and then bringing the canoe in against the rocks to hold it in place when she blacked out. That was happening more often now; stretches were missing from her memory. The world was wrapped in grey and fuzzy when she awoke. But she had come so far—she was not going to give up now. That darkest moment had been and gone. She had never been a deeply spiritual person, and the rational voice that made her such a good lawyer insisted that it was just an animal, but part of her still marvelling at the miracle of the deer. All that she cared about was the fact that she was out of that forest and that whatever happened now, it would not be the bear that got her.

  As the day wore on, Jenn’s skin began to redden. In the forest there had been enough shade to protect her from the worst of the sun, but out here she was completely exposed. Worse, the glare reflected off the water around her made her head begin to pound. She was still feeling the effects of her blow to the head as she had fled, and this only exacerbated the problem. She tried dipping her head in the water in an attempt to cool down, but the canoe rocked so alarmingly that she gave up from fear of tipping it over. Weak as she was, she wasn’t sure that she would be able to pull herself back into the boat or make it to shore if it did tip. Alex had never told her how deep the lake was, but she imagined the water would at least come over her head, and that was all it would take. She had not come this far, survived so much, simply to drown. She made do with splashing herself regularly and taking
generous gulps of the water. She wondered why she felt so hot—it was fall, after all. She placed a hand on her forehead and gasped. She was burning up. Even more worryingly, the wound on her arm was now leaking pus as well as blood, and the flesh around the cuts was red and nastily inflamed. She wondered how long she had to find real medical attention before it was too late.

  Visions of a cold glass of lemonade, condensation beading on the side of the glass, filled Jenn’s mind. Of a burger with a side of fries. Of chocolate cake. Of a glass of champagne to celebrate her survival. Then she remembered Alex opening the bottle he had packed for them and she realized that, even if she did make it home, a part of her would always remain in the woods with him. Too tired to paddle any longer, she felt her vision clouding once more and turned the canoe in toward the bottom of the cliffs running along the side of the lake. Once it was wedged in between some rocks, she let herself relax, lying back. Bringing her hand up in front of her face, she watched the diamond sparkle in the sunlight and tried not to cry. As darkness claimed her, she dreamed of a life with Alex, their wedding, their children and their own house, a life spent together. This time her dreams did not contain not claws or teeth or screams, but were once again her refuge, and as she slept, she smiled.