The Plains of Abraham

Chapter 6

 It was a week before I could paddle again. Meanwhile Malcolm managed the heavy lifting. The temperature grew warm, a late Indian summer. I reclined in the canoe and watched the landscape sail by. The trees buzzed one another about the coming winter with the nonchalance of a backyard cookout, each one looking to the horizon for signs of approaching snow.

We made hooks out of thorns and hardwood and caught fish. Once in a while I got lucky and shot a rabbit or squirrel with the musket. Dandelions, chickweed, and sorrel served as vegetables. Wild onions if we could find them. Mushrooms if we trusted them.

When I was well enough I climbed trees and scoured nests for eggs. Malcolm always questioned the species.

"How should I know?" I said. "Eggs are eggs. Enjoy them."

"Yes, but what kind of bird laid them?"

"A flying bird."

"Aren't birds supposed to lay eggs in the spring?"

"Not these birds."

"We should have brought chickens with us."

"They would have made too much noise as we snuck out in the night. Besides, they'd shit the canoe."

"At least we wouldn't have to eat newfangled eggs."

When it rained we moved the fire indoors, but the smoke struggled to escape the small opening in the top of the hut. We coughed and our eyes stung. At least it kept the mosquitoes at bay, who were fattening up for hibernation. When we slept outside we scattered wet leaves on the fire to repel the beasts. Problem was, the mosquitoes were willing to sit even closer to the fire than we were.

The river narrowed and the current strengthened against us. Sometimes we had to stop and carry the canoe along the bank. We were always watchful in the woods, fearing mutants hiding among the trees.

Headwinds were another hindrance to progress. We stayed close to shore; both wind and current were weaker there. Nevertheless our arms grew weary and as day's end approached we paddled listlessly. The only consolation, if anyone were following, was their muscles were giving out as well.

Evenings we stopped, aching and exhausted, wondering if we'd have the strength to paddle another day. We erected our bark shelter and collapsed into hastily made beds. Mornings we rose before dawn, searched our necks and arms ritually for ticks, lit a fire, and cooked leftovers from the previous evening's meal. If there were any. We packed the canoe and shoved off, willing our sore muscles to face another cycle.

As fish became scarce we saved their bones and ground them up to use as flour.

Nights grew crisp. Paddling kept us warm through what amounted to rigorous exercise. But at night our fingers and toes acted as sentries alerting us to the encroaching cold. We shivered under thin blankets and animal skin quilts, reminiscing about sweltering dusks, even attended as they were by armies of biting insects. The brilliant fall colors had faded to dull, tedious grays. Even the most tenacious of leaves let go and drifted to join their ancestors in the soil.

We made the fire bigger now, no longer fearing a posse, and sat near it longer each evening, soaking in every pulse of heat before retreating inside and wishing each other good night through chattering teeth.

One morning I woke in the early darkness to a scuffling sound outside the shelter. At first I thought the posse had followed us after all, and I readied my musket. Waking Malcolm would have risked creating noise, so I remained still, listening. The scuffling continued, accompanied by angry snorting.

A bear. I cocked the hammer of the musket. If he tore through the bark wall of the hut I'd have but one shot to fend him off. Reloading would task the bear's patience.

We hadn't left anything outside of interest to a bear, so after a few minutes the night was quiet again. I opened the flap a couple of inches and peeked out. Nothing but cold and darkness. I uncocked the musket and went back to sleep.

The rapids got rougher. Each time we hit a rock we winced as though it had struck our own fragile bodies. Every new crack in the bark meant more leakage, more bailing. And a thorough penetration meant stopping for repairs. Wilbur held up admirably. Birchbark no doubt served the birch, but when God made it He had river navigation in mind.

The current was against us. The rocks stood in our way. Even the wind took sides. Somebody didn't want us reaching the first Great Lake. We looked for it, past boulder after boulder, around bend after bend.

Sometimes it seemed like we stood still on the river. I'd check to my right, mark a tall tree, and minutes later it would still be there, a straight shot down the line of my shoulders. Or maybe it was a different tree. Maybe frustration led me to conclude all trees look alike.

Hello again, Tree. Long time, no see, Tree. You haven't aged a bit. We really should stop meeting like this.

We threaded a myriad small islands. Trudged around a sequence of turbulent rapids. Hefted Wilbur over furiously gushing waterfalls. By the time we were ready to concede the Great Lakes were a myth, we were treated to a vast expanse of greenish blue, textured with dark, choppy waves. Water, and yet more water, all the way to a dull, undulating, and mysterious horizon. We'd arrived at the limits of modern human exploration.

Cedars had claimed the shores. Close to the water they gave way to golden marsh grass, which itself gave way to gentle swirls and roils. The land around was craggy with rocks thrusting up from the earth, wearing angry faces. And all of it ceded authority to the flat calmness, the tranquil presence of the lake. Proof that serenity conquers all.

We would keep to the south shore. Because according to legend the north shore harbored Turonado, which still glowed at night from radiation. It had been a large, densely populated city before the poisoned rains. A city of culture and learning. Now it inhabited the nightmares of Kebekian children and served as a handy threat for parents warning them against bad behavior.

In truth Kebek was no better; its surviving citizens lived outside the original city, in a wooden metropolis hastily constructed after the war. We grew up with the historic skyline on the horizon: charred smokestacks like broken masts. Concrete towers gaping penitently at an indifferent sky. Yet as sinister as Kebek was, Turonado housed an evil that Kebek was spared.

An old map Malcolm found and hoarded warned, near its edge, "Beyond this place, there be dragons." It would be a fitting label for our current position. For in all the fireside ghost stories, and in all my childhood nightmares, Turonado was a fortress of mutants.

***

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