Raft of Stars

by Andrew J. Graff

  “You’re sure you’re up for this?” Miranda asked before completely loosening the knot.

  Tiffany nodded and clutched her paddle across the gunwales. She trusted this woman, frightening as she was. Her time with Miranda had been a time of firsts. She looked downstream where the river bent sharply to the right, beyond which it would begin its run downhill to the whitewater. Her stomach filled with knots.

  “It’s really okay if you want to hike down, you know. I’m pretty sure I can make it without you. It doesn’t mean anything if you change your mind.”

  Tiffany rapped her paddle against the gunwales. It made an impatient thump.

  “Miranda,” she said, “if you ask me again, I will push off with this paddle and run these rapids myself. Now let’s go.” Tiffany’s voice was firmer than she meant it to be. Miranda smiled, let the mooring rope drag in the water, and pushed off into the current with a smooth, one-footed glide. She sat and pointed the canoe downstream.

  “Now listen to my paddle calls,” she said. “There will be times we need to be sideways in the current. Just let that happen. Don’t try to straighten the boat.”

  “Okay,” said Tiffany. The canoe picked up speed toward the bend in the river. The flat surface began to hint of the disturbance that lay ahead.

  “And if I ask you to lean in a certain direction, do so without hesitation.”

  “Okay.”

  Tiffany could start to see around the bend. There was a definitive horizon to the river, a glassy ledge with whitewater licking up like flames beyond it. The flames grew larger. The cutbank drifted past, and the rapids opened up to full view. Tiffany forgot what it was she was supposed to do. The horizon of river drew them in and Tiffany could see over the edge of it now. Whitewater churned and dropped, leapt up in peaks, smashed against the black hulls of boulders. The canoe accelerated into a glassy depression and then lifted along a rise before dropping steeply into what could only be described as a hole in the river. Tiffany froze as the maw opened up to swallow them.

  “Tiffany, paddle forward! Now!”

  Miranda’s voice got lost in the water as the bow of the canoe smashed downward and disappeared beneath the surface. It was like an ocean wave about to wash ashore. But it didn’t wash ashore, it just churned in place, forever breaking over itself. Tiffany was hit in the chest and face, submerged in the frigid wall of water. The tarp did its job. The bow punched and dove and then resurfaced, shedding its water and riding high over the peak of the wave. Tiffany wiped the water from her eyes. Explosions of white rose to her right and left, behind and in front of her.

  Somewhere within the roar of the water, Tiffany heard Miranda’s voice calling commands, and she did her best to follow them. The voice went silent as a wave washed over it, and then it reemerged.

  “Back on the right!” she yelled. “Back on the right!”

  Tiffany, remembering the paddle in her hands, stuffed the blade into the whitewater. She braced it forward for a moment, as Miranda had taught her, and then lifted the blade and braced again. The effect wasn’t immediate, but with Miranda drawstroking on the left, the bow began to point toward the right shoreline. The canoe weathered another wave, smaller than the first, but the boat’s new angle made the impact seem far more precarious. Tiffany lifted her paddle, dug in, and braced it forward again. She looked downstream and saw the peak of a hidden boulder, revealing itself between surges of whitewater.

  “Now forward, Tiffany! Forward! Make this boat move!”

  Frightened, Tiffany reached and pulled with everything she had, leaning out with the paddle, grabbing a bladeful of water, and sitting up with it. The canoe slid across the current, avoided the boulder, bumped sideways down a shallow ledge of rock, and fell into another hole in the river.

  “Lean downriver—lean! Lean left—left!”

  Tiffany did as she was told just in time. When the canoe reached the bottom of the hole, it slammed into the wave face, and the canoe’s momentum was stopped in its tracks. Tiffany felt the force of the hit in her knees and back.

  The canoe stalled sideways in the bottom of the river hole, surfing in place. Tiffany crouched forward on her knees, trying to stay low and left. The current leading into the hole rushed beneath the right side of the canoe in streaks of black and green and white. A pile of froth rose to her left. The canoe shuddered and bucked as it tried to climb out of the hole. Water flooded across Tiffany’s lap. The canoe wallowed.

  “Brace downstream!”

  Tiffany had no idea what that meant. She was busy clutching the gunwales and trying not to lose her paddle. She glanced backward and saw Miranda leaning out over the downstream side, her paddle buried vertically in the white curl of the wave. Tiffany was struck by the sight of her, Miranda leaning out of the canoe in her wet denim, her sinewed arms buried in a pile of leaping water, wet hair wrapped around her face and neck, teeth bared. And then the realization struck her in that compressed and precarious moment: Tiffany was in the boat too, alongside that fierce woman. It was her clothing wet and plastered, her strong arms, her wet and worthy hair.

  Tiffany released a battle cry, leaned out, and jammed her paddle down to shovel the whitewater. At first the blade just fluttered in the wave. But when she pressed it down deeper, as Miranda had done, her whole arm in the water, the blade seemed to catch against a firmer current that pulled downstream. Tiffany pushed her blade deeply into that hard water, pulled against it, and the canoe lifted and broke free of the hole.

  The boat rose into the sun, and Tiffany unleashed another howl into the blue sky.

  But the celebration was short-lived, because Miranda started cussing. Loudly. And it was bad cussing, too, the kind even Tiffany rarely let fly.

  “Back left! Back on the left!” boomed Miranda.

  The canoe felt much heavier and cumbersome now that it was half filled with water. It wasn’t as responsive as before. Tiffany glanced downstream as she pulled back against her paddle. There was another drop ahead. And downstream of that, a massive boulder arched its back into the morning sunlight. The river formed a pillow of water against the rock, and then shattered down either side of it.

  Tiffany cussed too.

  “Back left! Back left!” Miranda hadn’t stopped yelling.

  Tiffany paddled with everything she had, but the sodden canoe wouldn’t respond. They were headed right for the boulder, dead center, broadside. The canoe sped down the face of the wave toward the hissing pillow of water. For a split second, as they crashed into the spray, Tiffany felt as if the canoe might be buoyant enough to rise and spin off, but as they rose, the upstream gunwale slipped just beneath the surface, and instantly—Tiffany actually thought about this as it happened, how instantly the craft seemed swallowed—the canoe disappeared from beneath her. Tiffany’s world became white. The froth rose to her neck. She saw the black gleam of a wet boulder, reached out for it, and then everything in her field of vision became tea-colored. Sound stopped. Water rushed into her throat and nose, pressed on her ears. She felt tangled in something, the canoe or her paddle, and she kicked away from it. She felt herself being dragged along something hard and smooth. She closed her eyes and opened them. She saw darkness and light. Her outstretched arms raked glass-smooth river rock, pockets of gravel. And just when she began to be really afraid, she was carried upward, burst into air and light. She gasped, wiped her eyes, and found herself riding the peak of a high white wave. She held her breath as another came. All was tea again. She held her breath. And then all was light. The cycle repeated until the river calmed and Tiffany drifted along gentle black waves washing toward a shoreline.

  She pulled herself to her knees in the gravel, took two deep breaths, and blinked. She flexed her hands, her toes. She was okay. She made it. She was alive.

  “Tiffany!”

  Tiffany turned to see Miranda floating along downstream of the boulder. Beyond her the overturned canoe bobbed heavily in the water. Tiffany saw a paddle near the far shore.

  “Are
you okay?” Tiffany called, shielding her eyes from the glare on the water.

  Miranda coughed as she swam. Tiffany hauled her in. Miranda collapsed on her back in the shallow water, winced. The two women just breathed for a moment. They made it. The angle of the sun made the water they sat in a pool of light.

  Tiffany couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “I’ve never experienced anything like that,” she exclaimed. “When that boat went under? Whoosh! I mean—the power of it!” Part of her felt like doing it again. Everything seemed to be so bright right now. The trees were extra golden and green. The river shone like the sun itself, the rapids spraying sparkles of fire and ice. The air smelled so good she could taste it. She could taste rocks and river. She could feel her heart in her chest, the blood in her veins. She took a deep breath and held it in so the oxygen could spin around in her body awhile. “And you,” she said, “you were amazing out there! I didn’t know church girls could cuss like that!”

  A red grin crept onto Miranda’s face as she tried to push herself up. She winced and clasped her wrist to her stomach. “I’m a Pentecostal,” she said. “People say we’re enthusiastic.”

  Just then the canoe floated past their little pool of light, its bulbous hull floating belly-up in the water. Like an exhausted carp, it nosed onto a rock and lay there. Laughter rose into Miranda’s eyes and mouth. She bowled over and cackled. Tiffany laughed too. It felt wonderful to laugh. It gave the adrenaline a place to go. Tiffany remembered what Burt had said about Pentecostals, but the word seemed less frightening out here, amid the roar of the river, the tall cedars, the expanse of things.

  Tiffany watched Miranda wipe her eyes and lift her face to the sunlight. She was praying, Tiffany knew, speaking a silent poem to it all. After a time, a lone cloud passed. Miranda cradled her wrist against her stomach and frowned downriver, and Tiffany knew the woman was thinking about her son again.

  Thirteen

  CAL’S SORE TAILBONE FORCED HIM TO STAND MORE HEAVILY IN the stirrups, which helped him move as one with the horse rather than as an accessory to it. In all, he began to feel less like a saddlebag, physically at least. They had moved slowly during the night, and Teddy had been good enough to take the reins of Cal’s horse and lead it directly behind his own through the dark. For the first several hours, Cal rode in a ducked position and felt the branches brush over his back. It made him feel like a child being led on a pony ride, but the maintenance of his tailbone mattered much more than his pride at the moment. One more fall on that thing and he would be thoroughly out of commission. Eventually—lost in the darkness and branches and sound of hooves—Cal closed his eyes and dozed.

  When dawn arrived, the air was cool and the sky vivid. Cal opened his eyes to horsehide, and lifted them toward orange spires shooting up and breaking apart the purple sky. To his left, the river ran like a sliver of light through the trees. The conifers awoke and filled the forest with musk. Cal smacked his lips and wanted water. He had horsehair on his tongue. Teddy rode ahead of him, still holding the reins.

  “How long was I sleeping?” Cal asked, slightly embarrassed. He reached for his canteen.

  “Didn’t know you were” came the reply. Ted turned and smiled, bags under his red eyes, and tossed Cal’s reins back to him. As the morning turned to day, they were able to spur the horses into a canter from time to time. When the shoreline grew too thick, they followed deer trails and creek beds. They weaved between white pines. Cal noticed the landscape begin to change. The thick underbrush and river marshes opened into meadows that grew wider and larger, the edges bordered with wild blueberries and poplar slashings.

  Jacks jogged wildly along with the horses, bolting now and again after a squirrel or rabbit. The dog had refused to leave his toy cat behind, so Cal stuffed it into his saddlebag so Jacks could run and breathe without his mouth stuffed. He smiled at the thought, and then smiled at his smiling. Cal hated to admit it, but he was beginning to enjoy being out in this forest, up here in the Northwoods, in the Land of the Beaver. It smelled good. It filled the lungs with pine and river. The forest itself seemed to breathe. Cal exhaled. He still had to concentrate on riding, but he could see himself getting into this woodsman’s life, maybe learning to hunt with a bow, one of those recurve jobs with cedar arrows and feathers hanging from the quiver. He could wear moccasins, carry a bowie knife. He shook his head. That was too much. But there was grace out here, a mercy of sorts. Being led on the horse made him feel like a child, but being led by Teddy allowed him to accept it in some new way. The whole forest seemed to be giving Cal a nod, telling him he was okay, where he was, as he was, a sheriff without a gun, missing a boot. It was enough. It was plenty.

  The sun rose high overhead, and the day grew warm. They emerged from beneath a canopy of hemlock into a sun-filled meadow bordered by immature hardwoods. Teddy drew his horse to a slow walk. It shivered its hide at a mosquito, switched its tail.

  “You hungry?” Teddy asked, stepping down from his horse in one smooth movement.

  “I could eat.” Cal closed his eyes and tilted his head up at the sun. After missing last night’s supper, now even cold tuna sounded good. Cal let himself down from his horse, yanked his boot from the stirrup.

  “We’re making good time,” said Ted, loosening his saddlebags.

  “How close are we to the gorge?”

  “We’ve covered maybe thirty miles. I figure we can make another forty before nightfall. More if we push ’em,” he said, nodding to the horses. “If we have to.” Ted reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a map. Cal looked around the meadow. He noticed a few bald spots in the grass, weathered slabs of granite emerging from the earth and soaking up the sun. The closest slab was twenty feet wide, its cracks sprouting lichen and moss. An ancient-looking apple tree grew near its edge. Teddy crouched on the rock and unfolded the map. Cal joined him, wondered at the apple tree, how it got there. He walked to it and ran his hand against its scaly trunk.

  “That radio in your saddlebag been making any noise, Teddy?” Cal asked. During the ride, Cal had spent about five minutes second-guessing his decision to follow the older man again. Maybe it would have been better to hustle back to town, call in reinforcements to meet at the gorge. But the boys were so close, and Teddy seemed confident they could beat them to the falls. And besides, surely the boys would see the gorge, or hear it, and get out of the river. Cal was committed to Teddy’s course.

  Teddy shook his head. “We’re too far from town.” He pointed to a place on the map where the river bent its way through a blank green patch encompassing half the county. “By my reckoning, we’re within a mile of this bend.” He slid his finger north along the river for an inch or two. It wound to the northwest before spilling into the plains and lakes of Ironsford, where the map turned tan. “The gorge is here, before the town.” Teddy stared at the map, then lifted his hand to his face and rubbed his eyes.

  “You all right, Teddy?”

  “I’m fine. Need some coffee is all.”

  “You sleep since we left town?”

  “No.”

  Cal bit his tongue and shook his head. He admired the man. Teddy had the kind of grit Cal knew he did not possess, which was why Cal also knew he needed to seriously rethink this sheriff business. Maybe growing vegetables was more his speed. Corn farming, maybe. He pictured himself on a tractor, digging furrows through a field. Back and forth, the dirt overturned, the world turning around. Cal liked that image of himself riding a tractor. It felt peaceful like the forest felt peaceful. Lonely and quiet and good-smelling.

  “If we keep at it, we should make the gorge a little before the boys do.” Teddy tapped his finger on a line in the map, nodded to himself as if making a decision. “Or,” he said.

  “Or what?”

  “I’ve been thinking how if we left the river entirely, we could travel along an old logging road that runs through here.”

  Cal studied the map.

  “There’s no road there.”

  “It�
��s there. I drove skidder for the guy who logged it. About eight or nine years ago, but it’s there, and it’s long and it’s straight.”

  “If we leave the river, we also leave our chance of spotting the boys.”

  “We’ve been weaving in and out pretty regularly. There’s a good chance we’d miss them anyway, if we haven’t already. We know where they’re headed, and if we take the logging cut, we can make a beeline for about twenty miles, then cut back in. That should do it.”

  “You’re the boss, Teddy.”

  Teddy looked at him. There was immense exhaustion in the older man’s eyes, but there was fire there too. The old rancher had reserves. Cal knew that Teddy had served in Korea but used to have a hard time picturing it. He could see it now, though—a younger Ted with those same gray-blue eyes, humping a pack along some steep Korean hillside, a pouch of Red Man tucked in his helmet band, pure severity.

  Ted looked back at the map.

  “I’m lost out here, Ted. I mean it. Just tell me what to do.”

  Ted nodded, softened a moment. “You could get us a fire going,” he said quietly. “I’m going to water the horses. I’ll get some water for coffee too.” Ted rubbed his eyes again.

  Cal swallowed at the prospect of having to try to make a fire again. “Teddy, how about you hang back and make the fire and rest up. I don’t mind walking the horses down and fetching water.”

  Teddy was already on his feet, however, unbuckling packs from the horses. “I’ll water ’em,” he said, dropping a heavy saddlebag onto the bedrock. “You don’t know how much to let them drink.”

  Cal nodded, pushed out his lip, feigned confidence. The slab of bedrock nearest the apple tree was littered with dry sticks of various sizes. The lichen and moss, some of which looked dead and dry, seemed like it would make decent tinder.