The Plains of Abraham

Chapter 37

We lived in a sea of white powder. We hunkered down behind drifts contoured like deer licks that shielded us from the wind. Our lives alternated between suffering from the piercing cold while hunting and foraging and suffering from the smoke of inefficient fires while huddled in our shelter.

The rabbits had gone to finishing school and become insufferable. Or maybe they'd learned enough about humans during Malcolm's and my earlier passage and were now saying, "Fool me twice, shame on me." They dodged musket balls with agility and grace. Eli fashioned traps, however, and soon we were eating bunnies again.

He and I went ice fishing together almost daily. Once we had cut a hole in the surface we could use it repeatedly. We built short stools to sit on and made conversation as best we could through clattering teeth. The ice groaned under our weight. This detracted from our cheer and sense of security but we needed the fish to supplement our diets.

The sky was desaturated, the color and texture of indistinct dreams. We grew restless with cabin fever and the monotony of daily life.

Hunt. Check the snares. Gather firewood. Start a fire. Restart the fire. Melt snow for drinking, cooking, and bathing. Forage. Shovel snow. Make repairs to the hut. Fish. Daydream of an ethereal sun. Hunt. Check the snares.

The three of us occupied one hut for shared warmth and company. Adrienne and I slept in each other's arms, but our sexual liaison necessarily went on hiatus. I was content to hold her, to press my lips to her ear, whisper my love for her, and hear the same whispered in return.

Adrienne and Eli listened to tales of Kebek, my friends there, the seminary basement, my sister. And the authority figures we would have to persuade. Adrienne remained silent, and I knew she missed Bounty Rock. My secret fear was that she regretted making the trip. There was nothing we could do now but press forward.

Eli seemed to have a different opinion. "So," he asked, watching the snow fall in heavy flakes, "you think we should keep going?"

"You think we shouldn't?"

He shrugged. "The direction one chooses to travel depends on where the good things are."

The temperature improved, and our spirits with it. We watched the sky for the birds to return. Snow still blanketed the land, but now hope floated on stiff winter winds that abated more each passing day.

One morning as Eli and I walked onto the ice to fish we spoke of readying the canoes to continue our journey. I thought we still had plenty of time, but Eli was impatient and wanted to begin preparing. I agreed because it would give him something to do, it would scratch the intolerable itch he had to be on his way again.

We sat on our stools with our lines penetrating the icy water and planned the breakup of the camp. He spoke of how good it would feel to be paddling again. How satisfying it would be to put rested muscles to work.

From far away came a sharp noise, a cracking sound I couldn't place. At first I thought it was a distant gunshot. Or heavy branches splintering under the weight of ice and snow.

Eli stood up from his stool and said, "We need to get off the ice."

They were his final words. The ice opened beneath his feet and he plunged into the frigid water.

"Eli!" I lay down flat and crawled to the edge of the hole. I couldn't see him. The water was murky and bottomless. A current moved lethargically eastward. I crawled parallel to the current and tried to spot him under the ice. But the pane separating us was opaque and only reflected the gloomy sky above.

"Eli! Eli!"

An eerie silence gripped the lake. My friend was struggling somewhere in the numbingly cold and indifferent water beneath my feet. He had perhaps a minute of air left in his lungs, maybe less, and only needed an escape hole and a helping hand.

But I didn't know where to cut the hole. I tried nevertheless. I chose an arbitrary spot downstream and hacked at the ice with the hatchet until I could plunge my arm into the water. I reached around in vain, grasping at slippery swirls in the flow.

"Eli!"

Farther downstream I cut another hole. Minutes had passed since he went under.

"Eli!"

The silence was rent by more cracking noises, and by the viscerally nauseating sound of ice sheets grinding against one another, like tectonic plates exulting in their power and sovereignty, disdainful of anyone who dared tread upon them.

"Oh God, Eli, I'm so sorry. Eli! Eli!"

***

www.stephenparrish.com