Downburst (6 page)

I put everything back in the pack except for the map, compass, ruler, and coordinates, which I lay out on a rock. Then I study the map and try to get my bearings. It takes me a minute because it’s not a USGS topographic map, like the kind I learned to read in 4-H. It’s a 1/250,000-scale map, issued by the National Topographic System of Canada. I look at the scale bar at the bottom of the map and read, “1 cm = 2 ½ km.”

After I locate the town, I find my island and the coordinates Jeremy gave us. He wasn’t kidding when he said sixty-four kilometers. Using the ruler, I match the orienting arrow on the compass with the lines on the map then pick up the compass and turn my body. When the needle lands on the arrow, I know which way I need to go.

I look out across the lake. The slanting sunlight hits the crests of the waves, blurring the details in the glare and turning the shaded troughs an even darker blue. I probably have three good hours of daylight left—I’ll need to make as much progress today as I can.

As I return the ruler and coordinates to my backpack, I run the calculations in my head. A three-mile-an hour pace will get me there if I plan to kayak for twelve straight hours tomorrow, which I don’t. So I have to go faster than that. Six miles an hour will have me arriving around early afternoon. I hope that speed is doable. I’ve never kayaked that long before.

I hang the compass around my neck and slide the backpack into its spot under the bow. Then, walking the kayak halfway into the water, I get in and push off with my paddle. As I’m working my way out of the bay, I hear voices on the shore.

“Did you see how slow she was?” a familiar voice says. “I knew she was a wimp, even though she tried to impress Jeremy by showing off with that knife. And she was so gross!”

“Yeah, super bad B.O.,” a boy answers. “Bet you twenty bucks she doesn’t make it to the camp.”

When I round the corner, I’m not surprised to see Diva and Gander. They’re standing on some rocks on the island, holding their maps and compasses but not doing anything with them. Dee and Dum are also on the rocks, huddled around a map and talking over each other as they argue about the right way to go. I guess I
should
be surprised that they’re talking, but I’m not.

It’s obvious that they’ve been discussing me. Their words sting, but I try to brush them off. After all, I’m already back in the water even though I got to the island long after they did.

“So wait, what do I do with this ruler?” Dum asks.

“You could try paddling with it!” I call.

All of them jump, and the shock on their faces almost makes me smile. I wave and then paddle quickly away.
Would Aura have broken the silence?
Maybe, maybe not, but it’s not like
they’re
going to tell on me. We’ll just see who makes it to the camp now.

The temperature is pleasant as I make my way across the lake, the heat of the day trapped in a lingering goodbye, and the muscles in my back begin to relax. It feels good to be out of the city, away from the crowds and railways, the gangs and police. Overhead, I see a large bird, maybe an eagle. It swoops over the water and snatches a fish in its talons.

Before long, I near a sizeable peninsula and have to choose between kayaking around it or getting out and hiking over it. I consult the map and decide it’s not worth getting out of the kayak yet. I’ll have plenty of trekking to do later, and I’m not eager to get started—I got more than my fill last month when I hiked over the Canadian border, walking three full days to get to Winnipeg.

I’m just rounding the peninsula when the waves begin to grow more turbulent. In a matter of moments, the water turns black. Not a good sign. I look up at the sky and see big storm clouds hovering in the near distance
.
I set my sights on the stretch of land ahead of me, maybe a mile out, and paddle fiercely. The wind is behind me, bringing the clouds closer, but at least I’m not fighting it.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a dash of green. Someone—I think it’s Bullseye—is zooming forward at an incredible speed.
How is he freaking doing that?
I paddle faster, but my arms are already growing tired.

“Kava,” I spit, some of my earlier frustration returning. The rain starts to fall, and I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and keep going. The kayak rocks dangerously as I rise and sink with the waves. Water splashes onto my feet, and I hope the backpack isn’t getting soaked. The raindrops plop into the lake, leaving dark pinholes that are quickly covered up and then punctured again by other drops. I feel them pelt my back, trying to make pinholes in me too.

At last, I make it to land. There are no smooth beaches here, so I find a slab of rock, aim my kayak directly at it, and paddle as fast as I can. I glide up the stone and stick. I climb quickly out, pulling the kayak the rest of the way with me, then reach inside and haul out the backpack, swinging it over my shoulders and buckling it around my waist. Finally, I turn around and take in my surroundings.

There’s a clearing at the edge of the rocks. After that, a thick wall of trees marks the beginning of the forest. Reflexively, I name the species I can identify: Black Spruce, White Spruce, Balsam Fir, Tamarack Larch, Jack Pine, Trembling Aspen, White Birch. Not much else.

I eye the long grasses in the dell. There will probably be ticks in there. I tuck the bottom of my jeans into my socks and zip my jacket all the way up, tying the hood securely. Then, getting a firm hold on the kayak, I stomp through the clearing and plunge into the trees.

There are millions of trees, and they grow unbelievably close together. The forests are dense in Minnesota too, but when I ran from Williams, I was able to follow the train tracks all the way to Winnipeg. Here, I have no such luxury, as a thwack from a branch confirms. I quickly realize there’s no way I’m going to be able to make even a two- or three-mile-an-hour pace, especially with a ten-foot hunk of plastic in tow. Fortunately, there’s water everywhere. I just need to get back to it.

The thick trees block most of the rain—I can hear the droplets tap dancing on the leaves above my head—but they also block out the light, and I continue to trip over rocks and scrape my cheeks on pine needles. After an hour or so of agonizingly slow progress, I decide to give up and make camp. Mercifully, I reach the edge of a small lake and find another clearing along the shore. As I step into the glade, I it stops raining.

I clear a place for a fire pit and gather some wood. Thanks to the dense forest, I’m able to find plenty of dry branches. In no time at all, I have a fire going, and I fill up the water bottle in the lake and add a purifying tablet. While I wait for the tablet to work its magic, I eat the rest of my energy bar, set up the bivy, and pull out the soup mix and mess kit.

Too bad I don’t have my Remington; I’d get myself some real dinner.
When I ran, I took the rifle with me, and it kept me alive—in the forest. But in the city, there was nothing to shoot. So I sold it. The worst part is that I didn’t get even close to what it was worth. A model 798 like that should have earned me a few hundred dollars. The jackass storeowner gave me fifty. I argued for more, but he accused me of having stolen it and threatened to call the police. Since the cops were the last people I wanted to talk to, I had to give in.

Thinking about it just makes me angry, so I pull out the map and try to gauge the day’s progress while I wait for the soup to warm up. I didn’t go nearly as far as I had hoped to. Tomorrow I’ll have to hit it hard if I want to reach the camp before dark—and if I want to beat Diva and company. At least now I know my strategy: I’ll kayak the whole way, or as much as I’m able to anyway.

I groan and roll my aching shoulders. By tomorrow night, my arms will be dead. Thanks to my scraped-up palms, my hands are already blistering. I’ll have to wrap them in something or I won’t be able to paddle.

As I eat the soup out of the pot, I listen to the birds. There must be thousands of them, each one maxing out its vocal cords, their shrieks and whistles overlapping in a deafening cacophony. I wonder what this would be like in the middle of summer, before migration.

Across the lake, the sun begins to set. The sky is yellow at first, the sections furthest from the hazy orb the color of a ripe peach. Then the soft orange morphs into a rosy pink and veils the water in velvet lavender. The lavender grows darker, bursting into layers of magenta, plum, and amethyst, highlighted with streaks of tangerine. I breathe it in, admiring even the dancing silhouettes of insects above the water. I didn’t see any sunsets when I was in Winnipeg.

Then the light is gone for good, and midnight blue spreads across the heavens as the birds stop their chattering. It’s time for some shuteye. I return my food supplies to the backpack and hang it from a tall tree branch, four feet from the trunk. Next, I take advantage of the toilet paper, put out the fire, and scoot into the bivy. I zip the cover closed and curl up in the sleeping bag.

I close my eyes, but the crickets and frogs have picked up where the birds left off, and their chirps and croaks are ten times louder than anything I heard back home, each cadence filling in the gaps of another so that there is no break in the noise. I clap my hands over my ears and try to block out the interminable droning. At length, however, I give up and hope my fatigue will prove stronger than the tumult.

And then, as I’m finally drifting off, I hear something—not a chirp, not a croak—something the wind carries across the water.

Someone is crying.

I unzip the corner of my bivy and listen. For a moment, all I hear is the insistent
chirr chirr
of the amphibians and insects. Was I imagining things? No, there it is again. A wheezing, spluttering sob. It must be one of the initiates—no one else would be out here. Rolling over on my side, I plug my ears and hope the person will grow a backbone so I can get some sleep.

But the crying doesn’t stop. It only gets louder. I press my palms against my ears more forcefully, but I can still hear it. The truncated rhythm forces its way into my brain, and I know I won’t be able to fall asleep.

Muttering under my breath, I fish for my flashlight and shoes. I crawl out of my bivy and, switching on the light, walk in the direction of the sound. I step carefully over the rocks and logs, spotting low-hanging branches just in time to stoop down. Well, almost in time. I hit my forehead on one and curse. This had better be worth the trouble.

I march forward, swinging my flashlight in a large arc, and then I glimpse something gleaming dully behind a tree. I walk toward it, giving the tree a wide berth and keeping the light fixed on that spot. It’s what I thought it was. A kayak, identical to my own, tipped over on its side.

As I raise the light again, I catch sight of a backpack, not five feet away, its contents strewn across the ground. The sleeping bag is unraveled halfway, and the box of matches lies open, the cardboard box warped and soft. I bend down to pick up a match. It’s wet. I reach out and experimentally touch the sleeping bag. Soaked through.

A sniff to my right makes me swing the lamp into the trees. I peer into the shadows, and then I see them: two puckered eyes staring back at me.

“Hey—” I say before remembering I’m not supposed to talk. I don’t know if this is one of the rule breakers or not, so I just motion for him or her to come out from behind the tree. The person hesitates, but after a moment, she steps into the beam of my flashlight.

My lips form an “oh,” but I keep the sound from coming out. The girl is sopping wet and shivering violently. Water drips from her clothes and makes her wispy hair almost unrecognizable, but I would know that tiny frame anywhere. It’s Charity.

Stepping forward quickly, I take off my jacket and wrap it around her. Then I hurry over to her gear and scoop it into the pack. I swing the water-soaked thing over my shoulders then grasp her kayak handle with one hand. My other hand still holds the flashlight. I wave the light in the direction of my camp and walk toward it, dragging the kayak behind me. I look over my shoulder to make sure she’s following. She is.

When we get back to my campsite, I start a fire while Charity watches me, snuffling and quivering. I sit her down on a rock, search through her bag for her water bottle and purifying tablets, and treat some water from the lake. She hasn’t said anything, so, using hand gestures, I instruct her to take off her wet clothing and lay it on the rocks. When she’s shaking in her underwear, I check her for ticks. She has three, and I remove them with the tweezers from my pocketknife.

After I’ve disposed of the parasites, I wrap Charity in my jacket and push her into my sleeping bag. She’s shivering even more now, enough to worry me. Moving swiftly, I turn her bag inside out and lay it by the fire next to her clothes, along with the matches and other gear.

I find the soup packet and mess kit and repeat my earlier dinner preparations. Once the soup’s ready, I force Charity to eat it, holding the spoon to her lips. When she’s finished, I put the utensils and rest of the food in the backpack and hang it up, near mine.

It’s only then that I realize I haven’t seen her map or compass. I look by the clothes to see if she put them out to dry as well, but they aren’t there. I frown. Without her compass, she would have had no way of knowing where the camp was. Maybe she could have made her way back to the town, but if she was even the slightest bit disoriented … if I hadn’t been there …

I recall Jeremy’s words. No one would have come looking for her.

They wouldn’t
really
have left her out here, would they?
But I think about the initiates’ sober faces, the mysterious nature of this whole trip, and my throat tightens.

When I’ve taken care of everything, I climb into the sleeping bag with Charity and wrap my arms around her tiny body. She’s still trembling, and her wet hair numbs my cheek, but as I continue to hold her, her shaking eventually subsides. When her breathing is no longer ragged, I relax my grip and slip gratefully into sleep.