Acts of Nature - By Jonathon King Page 0,43
shade. Tell me you love me, Max.
I thought again of delirium. What was the treatment? Shit. Had she answered my question?
“I love you, Sherry,” I said. “We’re going to be there in just a little bit.”
It was raining again by the time I looked up from a more determined pace. I was stroking as deeply as I could, feathering out the rhythmic repetitions, trying to block out everything but the reach, pull-through, kick out with as little interruption of momentum. I’d been repeating this motion for years paddling out on my river, even in darkness with only the light of the moon to guide me, up to the dyke flow and back, working the edges off whatever new rock was in my head. I could do it now, through exhaustion.
The drops of rain on my head mixed with the sweat and ran into my eyes and the sting finally made me look up. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been cranking but in the distance I could finally see what might be the remains of the hammock. From half a mile out, the dark rise of trees made the little island look like it had been sheared in half. A couple of taller spikes formed odd-looking inverted Vs against the background of pale sky. I took a break, fed Sherry the last of the bottled water we had, and then drank myself from the bailing scoop I’d fashioned from the Snows’ coffee can. I’d convinced myself that the rainwater would be pure enough to keep me hydrated and whatever else got mixed in with it from the bottom of the canoe would just have to be ignored. The bands of rain from the back end of the hurricane had followed us along the path but now the bottom of the boat was filling too fast for that to be the only source. My jury-rigged job with the duct tape was failing. The canoe was leaking. Glades soup was seeping in and trying to swamp us, but there wouldn’t be a fix now. If the darkening mound out there in front of us wasn’t the one we were looking for, or if the camp inside its sheltering trees was blown away, we were in deep trouble. I bailed while I rested and then reached out to touch Sherry’s foot. No reaction. I got to my feet and with my hands on either side rail of the canoe I leaned forward. I could still see the pulse in her neck so I sat back in my seat, began paddling again, head down, the pace a step faster than before.
I checked the GPS twice, three times, as we approached the island. The electronics were the only thing that could convince me. This was the place, but it looked nothing like the thick green, idyllic hammock we’d passed four days ago. The lushness was stripped away. Simone’s winds had brought down the long graceful limbs of cypress and dumped them onto a mud-covered web of mangrove and what at one time might have been a fern bed. The taller trees now showed the splintered white wounds from where their branches had been ripped away and I was immediately reminded of Sherry’s once-exposed thigh bone, and then pushed our way into the hammock’s interior, looking for the structure of the camp, hoping.
It was easily midafternoon by now and the light was already failing. I finally had to get out and pull the canoe through a nest of tangled grass. I stumbled and jerked the boat to one side and Sherry gasped in such a high, keening tone I went to her side and couldn’t stop repeating, “Sorry, babe, sorry, sorry, sorry.”
She was grimacing, probably a good sign. And she reached down to put a hand on the injured thigh, another indication that she knew her pain and was still cognizant of where it was coming from. While I’d still been paddling I’d set the open cooler out in the space between us trying to catch whatever rainwater would accumulate inside. I now poured it carefully into one of the empty bottles and held it to her lips. She drank, almost greedily, until it was done.
“We’re here, babe. I’m going to go find the camp,” I said to her closed eyes. She tightened her lids and weakly whispered “OK.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I picked up the flashlight we’d brought and stepped easily but with a purpose, worried about the sharp branch points and possible sink holes that