Mink River: A Novel (39 page)

Owen takes his goggles off and stares at the bird.

You asked, says Moses.

You are a most unusual creature, Moses.

I don’t know. We are all unusual by definition, isn’t that so?

Thank you for saving Michael.

I don’t know that I saved Michael. He is a professional and very likely would have found a way to extricate himself from the situation.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Why
did
you do that?

I don’t know, Owen. It was the strangest thing. I was very happy. It just seemed like the thing to do. I didn’t think about it. I just did a barrel roll and went for it. It felt great to fall like a falcon. I have long wondered what it would be like to fall like a fist from the sky, accumulating great energy, and now I know.

Owen stares, smiling. The radio burbles a baseball game from someplace far away where the trees are bedraggled and desperate for water. Outside the shop the wind tacks to starboard and the change roils the smells inside the shop, so that the smells of sawn wood muscle out the oil and turpentine and newspaper and apples and ink. For a moment the smells of pine and alder wrestle with each other and then alder totally wins the day.

6.

The doctor’s house is arranged in such a way that it huddles under the sandy hill like a baby asleep under the maternal jaw; to get to the ocean you go up, through a path splitting the jaw, and then down a precipitous rickety creaking groaning splintery staircase of weathered alder, or you go take the long way down the sandy path and all the way around the huddle of the hill.

Kristi and Daniel contemplate their options.

Down looks easier, says Kristi.

Up’s quicker.

You in a hurry?

Let’s go up. If you push and I pull we can do it.

But maneuvering a boy, age twelve, not slight, all those bicycled muscles still weightily there, in his wheelchair, not light, up an incline, is no easy task, and very soon, pants Kristi, we are not, going to, make it, hey, hey, hold up! Brake!

Daniel would say something witty but he’s exhausted.

I got an idea, says Kristi after a minute. How about we get as far as the top of the stairs in the chair, and then I put you on that sled there?

For indeed huddled in a pile of old stuff under the lip of the hill there is a rusty sled, as well as half a small refrigerator, old shingles, a pickaxe, and what looks like it was once a weed whacker.

And I surf down the stairs? says Daniel. Whoa. Tempting.

Be easier than bumping the chair down step by step. There’s a lot of steps.

Let’s do it.

When they get to the top of the hill the wind says
hey!
and their eyes water with the salt and insistence of it. Kristi helps Daniel out of the chair and onto the sled. Daniel braces his legs against the ancient steering apparatus and pretends it doesn’t hurt his knees. I better strap you in just in case, says Kristi, and she ropes him to the sled in various and intricate ways. They start laughing and cannot easily stop. Ready when you are, captain, says Daniel. Aye aye sir, says Kristi. She sits on the step behind him and wraps the ends of the ropes around her wrists and very gently pushes the sled down one step with her feet, taking exquisite caution not to bump or jostle him. She is staring into his hair from this angle. All that hair. Carefully braided this morning red black brown. She hauls back on the ropes like reins. She’s stronger than she looks and in this way they descend step by step, as slowly as they can go. There are fifty steps. After a while they count out loud. The wind whips. At the bottom of the stairs the sand invites them gently down to the sea. Kristi reverses rigging and pulls the sled. Like a ship, says Daniel. She stops at the high-tide line but he says, let’s go in. She doesn’t say, but it’s cold! and she doesn’t stop to take off her sneakers or roll up her pants but just forges into the gentle surf face-first pulling him. The sled slides into the sea. Kristi doesn’t say, but your casts! and neither does Daniel. She gets waist-deep and stops and lets go the tension in the ropes and Daniel floats there grinning. Both of them are soaked. It’s the sunniest day there ever was in the whole history of the world. Daniel thinks of sea lions swimming through caves at the bottom of the sea. Kristi does not think, how are we going to get back up to the house? Neither of them says a word for a really really long time and the sun is friendly and nutritious and the sled rollicks and a gang of terns goes by all whirry and curious.

7.

What the hell, kid, says George Christie to No Horses, let’s do it, what say, you got a real nose for wood and I know wood, and you know what to do with it, we could make a bundle, or hell, we could make enough not to starve anyways, and we both got mouths to feed, what do you say? Jump right in here with yes, kid, because I ain’t getting younger and this is a one-time offer, a bo-freaking-nanza, you in, what say? We’ll do her for a year to start. Special lines of stuff made from cypress, hewn from hemlock, elicited from alder, sculpted from spruce, polished from pine, seceded from cedar, hell, I’m writin’ the catalogue copy as I go here, kid, you taking notes? Because there’s a lot of tourists will come, kid. A lot of people will come through here in the years to come. They’ll be starving for what we got here. We don’t have jack shit here, we think, all we got is rain and drunks and garbage fish, and there’s no more huge trees and huge salmon fish, so we got exactly nothing, that’s what you’re thinking, I know, but I got a vision, kid, I see the future, when people are sick and tired of electric shit and plastic shit and pressing buttons to make everything go on and off, and being stuck inside houses and offices and cars, you mark my words, people will come here just to
breathe
, just to get rained on for a change, just to hear a real river, just to smell real mud, just to see a real fishing boat going out to catch real fish, trust me, people will come a long way just to see something made out of real wood by a real person with a real knife, and that would be you, kid, and there will be people desperate to buy something real, and hold it, they’ll be saying to each other you remember that time we went to the coast and the sun sneaked outta the rain and we ate fish that was caught there and drank beer that was brewed there, remember that? wasn’t that a great time? that’s what they’ll say, kid, as they’re running their hands over your carving of A Old Logger, hell, there’s your first line of product, the most amazing carvings of handsome burly colorful old bastards who all look eerily like old George Christie, what say, kid, you in?

Yes, George, says Nora, grinning. Yep. Yup. Count me in. You got to quit being so shy, George. You want to speak up once in a while or no one will ever know what you’re thinking.

8.

Worried Man in his office in the Department of Public Works goes over and over and over and over and over the equipment, feeling that if he misses one tiny thing, one infinitesimal niggling shy ignorable detail, it will of course be the Crucial Thing, the ephemeral bolt or screw that secretly holds the everything together, and the whole idea will collapse and shrivel and fail, and he will be an idiot, and Cedar will be disappointed, and that will be a great shame. It turns out, he thinks to himself, that even after all these years, even after all the times I certainly disappointed him, that I
hate
disappointing him. Isn’t that interesting? And how many ephemeral screws hold everything together anyway? What if little tiny screws are what actually holds the universe together? If you had a big enough magnet could you find them? And what size screwdriver would fit those screws?

Boots, gloves, socks, wool underwear, sweaters, hats, sunglasses. Tent, tent stakes, sleeping bags, blankets. Ice axes, crampons, rope, more rope, carabiners, skis, ice screws, ice saw, pickets, belay loops, snowshoes, shovel, knives, iodine tablets, matches, more matches. Waterproof match cases. Maps. Batteries. Compasses. Flashlights. Headlamps. First-aid kit. Wristwatches. Ham radio. Toothbrushes. Toothpaste. Toilet paper. Notebooks. Camera. Film for camera. Dried berries. Dried elk jerky. Dried salmon sticks. Walnuts, almonds, pine nuts, peanuts. Water. No beer. Aspirin. Whistles. The whistles make him think of Maple Head again and he smiles and winces.

Owen and Cedar drive up in Owen’s truck. For some reason no one feels like talking. They load the truck, Owen doing most of the work.

If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, remove hence to yonder place, and it shall remove, says Worried Man.

Matthew, chapter seventeen, says Cedar. We’re off, says Owen, and off they go, over rills and hills, creeks and rivers, streams and rivulets, swamps and springs, hamlets and villages, towns and cities, sprawl and suburb, and then up, through Marmot and Salmon and Wildwood and Brightwood, unto the mountain. As they rattle over the Salmon River bridge, just past Rhododendron, the mountain leaps out from behind a curtain of vaulting fir trees. It looks cold and stern and brilliant. It looks like something from another galaxy. It has angles and corners and faces and gleaming ravines. It looks like no living thing has ever been on or near or around or over it since the day it was born millions of years ago. Whosoever toucheth the mountain shall surely be put to death, thinks Worried Man. Exodus.

Past Government Camp, up to Timberline.

They unload in front of the lodge. Owen helps them with their packs. He and Cedar glance at each other sideways and Owen gives him twice as much to carry. A raven requests character references. Worried Man stares at the mountain. Chipmunks chitter. They review the plan—Pacific Crest trail to the northwest side, easy ascent past the last straggling junipers, camp, slow steady ascent over next three days, assess progress afternoon second day, examining terrain for caves, cautiously exploring caves if practicable, descend back to trail after five days maximum, etc. There are tiny butterflies in the aster flowers. They review signal plans and flags. There is a dusty grasshopper flexing on a rock. They review emergency procedures and contingencies. There are a dozen headlong bees among the pale bones of fallen alpine firs. They synchronize watches. The raven again inquires. They shake hands all round. Juncos and nutcrackers flare and flitter. Worried Man kisses Owen on his rough cheek and says
a chara,
take care of everyone. Ants sprint across seas of moss. Owen watches as the entire Department of Public Works strolls brisk and grinning up the dusty trail. The gnarled tough juniper trees bask and wait.

9.

Maple Head and No Horses walk upriver through the trees. Alder thicket and spruce copse. A flutter of grouse. Up and up and up. Hemlocks. They find a tiny creek neither of them have ever seen before and pause there for lunch. Wading in the creek poking for crawdads, staring at the water striders, listening for ouzels.

Dippers, we are supposed to call them now, says Maple Head.

Never, says Nora. Ouzels forever. Coolest word ever.

Up and up and up. The hills get steeper and steeper. In the afternoon they stop talking and walk along panting a little. On a particularly steep trail they hold hands.

Late in the afternoon, much more tired than they thought they would be, Maple Head suggests gently that they call it a day, and they find a dense copse of spruce to sleep in, with a springy floor that feels ten feet deep in needles, and they have a light supper, and make a tiny fire, and both of them figure they will have a thorough talk, but they are both asleep moments after they eat, and not even dawn trying to stick its fingers into the eye of the spruce thicket wakes them. Finally chickarees do, three of them, chittering loud and long.

Probably never seen beautiful women before, says Maple Head. We’ll be legends in the chickaree world.

Up and up and up, through rills of hills, always along the river, which gets thinner and thinner. Another night’s sleep, this one in a lovely little grassy meadow, the stars as uncountable and incalculable and miraculous as either of them have ever seen and both of them are star gawkers. For an hour they count shooting stars.

The next morning, though, neither of them feels like walking. It isn’t that they’re sore, although they’re sore. It’s just so clear and crisp and warm and perfect a spot in the world that leaving seems silly. They sprawl in the grass and talk. The river is a few feet away and now it’s lean enough that you could hop across easy as pie. They drink from it, leaning their faces in like deer. Tiny fish flicker. Nora puts her head under like she did when she was a child and opens her eyes to see the fish startle past and the cold crystal water slides over and into her skin. They talk some more. They talk about how they don’t talk as much as they should. They talk about old boyfriends. They talk about food and wood and kids and legs. They talk about the dark snow falling on Nora. They hold each other and rock gently. They run out of words. They rock and rock. Far far below they can just see a sliver of surf where the ocean is beseeching the land. The slender river burbles and murmurs. Maple Head’s tears slide silently into her daughter’s hair. They rock and rock. Then Nora sits up straight very quietly, looking at the river, and Maple Head sees it too: an ouzel flying in the river, bobbing up to the surface every few feet and then sliding back under. They sit rapt. The ouzel pops up on the bank after a few minutes and shivers and shimmers and the water flies green and gold back into the river and the bird pops back down but this time not into the water but into a beautifully hidden nest hole under a tuft of the meadow like a cowlick over the river. There’s a pause thin as a pin and then both women burst out laughing and the ouzel sticks its head out of the hole in amazement.