Season of Death (44 page)

A boulder slammed into his hip and pain radiated along his limbs. Snatches of memories flashed through his mind: his father’s smiling face, his mother kissing his forehead, Grandfather losing his temper on a whale hunt, the first day in his second-grade classroom, Margaret just before their wedding, Margaret on the back porch, Margaret …

He was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, about to pass out, about to give up. Gulping water, careening from rock to rock—backward, forward, sideways—Ray relaxed his grip on life and allowed his head to slip below the furious waters. Tired of kicking, tired of fighting it, he let his legs rise to the surface and released his spirit to the Kanayut.

FORTY-SEVEN

T
HE TREE RECOVERED
him like a seasoned lifeguard. From its wide, firmly rooted stance on the edge of the bank, it reached a single, pointed finger into the river, snagging the leather hi-top Nike. The initial jolt of having his forward momentum halted was followed by a wild swinging action as the raging torrent continued its assault. He gasped for air and flailed against the rope binding his hands. Something snapped, the rope gave, slid away, and he latched on to the branch of a frail willow. Leaves peeled off, the branch stripping as he lost his grip. Water rushed over his chest, into his eyes. He performed a floating sit-up, yanking at the wet shoelace, demanding that the boot release him. When it did his legs whipped downstream, and the brutal amusement park ride started all over again. Ten yards later, he careened against the shore and managed to catch a bouquet of alder branches. He made a frantic scramble up the short, severe bank and collapsed.

Moments later, the noise of an agitated motor urged him to get up. It was run or die. Rising on trembling legs, Ray limped through the alders, away from the hungry rapids, into the all-consuming darkness of the Bush. He managed a dozen faltering steps before he tripped and slid down a muddy chute on his hands and knees. He righted himself and continued on, trudging blindly into the night.

Wet to the bone, wearing only one boot, Ray wondered at his chances of survival. The temperature was in the low forties. Comfortable if you had the luxury of dry clothing, the blessing of a campfire, tent, and down bag. Otherwise … The breeze was quickly robbing him of body heat. Hypothermia would overtake him before the night was over if he didn’t find shelter.

Stretching his neck, he was reminded of the fact that he was wearing an explosive device. He wrestled with the harness, numb fingers yanking at it desperately. It was too tight, too secure. He needed a knife. A curse escaped his lips. Then a feeble but sincere prayer dribbled out.

It was difficult to run away from death when it was strapped to your back.

Squinting north—or was it west?—he tried to imagine the terrain. Was he facing a smooth, sloping tundra heath? A miniature forest of willows? A marsh of knee-high tussock grass? A bald face of limestone? It struck him that Headcase’s cabin was out here somewhere. In this general vicinity, at least.

Ray hurried forward at an awkward, anxious pace. Hands extended to avoid bashing into a tree or rock, he used his feet to feel his way along. Every few minutes he paused to listen, half-expecting to hear the sound of heavy feet stomping in his direction. But Chung and Chang were either too far behind to detect, or had yet to pick up his trail.

Ray was a full hour into his “great escape,” racing mindlessly along with no real plan, when he smelled something: warm, sulfurous, repugnant … The unmistakable scent of bear scat. As he investigated, hoping to locate the pile without falling into it, he serendipitously discovered something else. Patting the ground with his booted foot, he realized that he was standing on the edge of a hole. Squatting, he determined that it was more of a tunnel. A burrow … A bear’s den? The perfect place to hide. If it was empty.

Removing his boot, Ray dropped it into the hole. When this drew no response, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Hey!” His voice echoed back at him and then … nothing. No rustling. No growling.

Shivering, he swore under his breath and lowered himself into the hole. His feet touched the bottom and he twisted to fit his shoulders through the entrance.

The vertical shaft curved four feet beneath the tundra, assuming a horizontal position and stretching into a damp, cool, subterranean pouch that was heavy with the stench of animal fur and feces. The sides of the den were wet, lined with moss and lichen. As Ray scooted along, feetfirst, he decided that the space would have been perfect for developing photographs. The consummate darkroom.

He stopped when the tunnel narrowed and made a ninety-degree turn. No sense pushing his luck. Maybe he was in the sitting room and the occupant of the home was down the hall asleep. Hugging himself, he shivered again and wished he had the pack. It contained matches. A fire would be a godsend. So would dry clothes. So would some food. His stomach growled on cue. Wiggling his numb toes, he wondered if his body had the stamina to stave off hypothermia. Sitting, legs outstretched, bomb-clad back against a wall of lichen, head tilted crookedly to one side, he told himself to relax and get some rest.

No, this was not the Hilton. And if the owner showed up, Ray couldn’t do much of anything to fend it off. Bears aside, there was a good chance that he would be delirious in a short time, reeling under the drunken effects of a plummeting body temperature. Either that or the detonator between his shoulder blades would act as an alarm clock, waking him to a bright, momentarily painful morning. But one thing was certain: Chung and Chang wouldn’t find him. Not unless they happened to be wearing X-ray glasses.

This comforting thought kept him company in the lonely silence of the sodden shelter. As the minutes passed, Ray’s mind slowly released its grip, somehow able to ignore his trembling limbs and the collection of muscles that threatened to cramp.

The goons wouldn’t get him tonight. The Bush might. The plastique might. But not the goons.

FORTY-EIGHT

“Y
OU BE LIKE
Raven.”

The voice was familiar: raspy, dry, authoritative. Ray struggled to place it.“You … Raven … some same.”

The bent old man emerged from the shadows like a wraith, floating, ceremonial jacket flapping in a nonexistent wind. His appearance was utterly surrealistic, worthy of inclusion in a Hollywood horror flick. But this was lost on Ray. He was hypnotized by the man’s head. The ghostly apparition had lost his hat. Uncle was totally bald!

“You listen Raven,” Uncle continued when his image had alighted on the hardwood floor in front of Ray. “You an’ Raven, a-like.”

Ray stared at Uncle, unable to make the connection. “Raven?”

“You no know Raven?” The accusation was followed by a hiss as the old man expelled air in disgust. “You sit,” he ordered, producing a pipe. “You learn ‘bout Raven.”

Raven
? Ray was suddenly aware that this was a dream. It had to be. Otherwise, he had lost his mind. Still, there was a certain intangible power to it. Uncle was glaring at him and he felt obliged to comply with the old man’s directive.Sinking to the floor, he silently reviewed what he knew about the cultural icon, half-expecting the old man to quiz him. Raven was a trickster, both hero and villain of Native lore. Raven had supposedly created the world, created man, created fire … He had regularly deceived humans, disrupting man’s unique, symbiotic relationship with animals and, on occasion, killing and eating villagers. Raven was selfish, lazy, always hungry. He had taken advantage of Fox, Whale, Owl. In one narrative, “Dotson’ Sa’,” the Great Raven had called on Raven to act the part of Noah, saving the world’s animals from a global flood. Ray could see absolutely no parallel between himself and the mischievous, sometimes cruel bird god.

Sucking the pipe to life, Uncle nodded. “You hear story.” His eyes gleamed in the surging flame. “How Raven steal light.”

Ray squinted at the remark, vaguely aware of hearing the tale before, vaguely aware that Uncle had begun to fade, his face washing away, blending into the veil of smoke.

Something brushed past him. It circled, vanished, then streaked by, cawing as it dived for the faded orange glow of a distant fire. It had been kindled on a beach and served to illuminate the area for a group of people who were hunched over.

Somehow, Ray knew that it was daytime. Or, it was supposed to be. The sun was gone and with it all warmth and light. As Ray raced toward the fire, flames rising to greet him, he saw that the people were sad, their faces twisted into masks of desperation.

“What happened?” he asked.

Without looking up, an old woman replied, “He has stolen the sun and the moon.”

“Who? Raven?”

This drew a rude caw from the bird that was hovering overhead.

“The chief,” the woman told him. “And now we must forever work in darkness.”

The bird seemed to take this as his cue. Producing a call that shook the ground, he fluttered toward the water’s edge and landed gingerly. After another flap of his wings and a jittery hop-step, he transmogrified: feathers becoming scales, beak shrinking into a rubbery mouth, wings reshaping into fins. The little fish flopped into the river.

Before Ray could question this phenomenon, a young woman materialized. Kneeling, she filled a bucket from the river, then dipped a drinking cup. As she put it to her lips and swallowed, there was a glimmer, and Ray somehow knew that the bird-turned-fish had entered her.

“You!” Struggling to stand upright, the ancient hag waved a long, bony finger at the young woman. “Daughter of evil! It was your father who stole the sun and moon!” She set out at a determined waddle, chasing the girl away.

Ray hugged himself, rubbing at his own trembling arms. It was winter. The river was frozen, the fire a mound of faint, failing embers. The people continued to stumble in a circle, faces to the dirty snow, clothing caked in a glistening layer of ice crystals.

The girl arrived at the river again. She was dressed in a thick caribou parka, her cheeks rosy. Opening her coat, she revealed that she was pregnant. Without warning, she crouched and, an instant later, gave birth to a child. A boy. Ray was at her side. Glancing at her sweaty face, he realized that the woman was Margaret. The child was … a boy … a miniature replica of himself. A baby Ray.