Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,19
me.
“You just said—”
“I didn’t say anything.” He’s staring at me as if I have a horn protruding from my forehead. Come to think of it, it didn’t sound much like his voice. It had a rougher edge to it, but not only that, there was an accent. Australian, I think. I turn back to where the voice came from, but the room is empty. All I see is that picture of the two Skiffington brothers, smiling together.
“Um, okay,” I say, and then try to cover up by saying, “So, what’s over on the other side of the river?”
He waves his hand over there. “Oh, death. Destruction. All that good stuff.” I guess I must be staring at him, because he says, “I’m kidding. Well, only partly. It’s an old cemetery.”
Ah. Perfect.
He continues, “Haven’t you ever heard of what the west bank means?”
I shake my head.
“Many civilizations used to believe the east bank of a river symbolized birth and renewal. The west bank symbolized death. And so people lived on the east bank. They buried their dead on the west bank.”
I shudder. We really should not be talking about death at a time like this. I’m about to say something like “How interesting,” although really I wish he’d talk about bunnies and rainbows, when it comes again:
What the devil is that?
This time I’m sure of it. It came from the direction of the picture. I stall in the doorway and turn to Spiffy right away, but he’s just jingling his keys and trying to usher me out the door so he can lock up the office. I want to ask him, “You didn’t hear that?” but I already know the answer. He didn’t hear a thing.
Maybe it was just the wind whistling through the trees outside.
But when I climb down the stairs to the gravel driveway, the first thing I notice is that the pines surrounding the Outfitters cabin are completely still. Overhead, a blackbird caws. We may be on the living side of the river, but I can’t stop myself from shivering as I board the bus and we rumble down the dirt road toward the put-in site.
Chapter Six
Justin holds my hand on the bus ride down to the river. He likes to trace letters in my palm, secret messages, but this time I’m only getting fragments. First a U, then some other letter, then a K. He looks at me expectantly, but I’m just puzzled.
He does it again. This time I concentrate on it. U O K. You okay?
I smile at him and nod, even though my hands are shaking. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from looking at the Death side of the river. It probably doesn’t look much different from this side, but I can’t get it out of my head. And if I was going to start making up voices in my head, why would my head choose a phrase like What the devil is that? And in the accent of a gruff Australian guy? I never knew my subconscious was that creative.
The bus bumps along, and the blueberry muffin I’d taken nibbles of in the back of the office bumps along with it in my stomach, threatening to make an escape. Hugo is mumbling something about how the zipper on his wet suit is chafing his neck, and meanwhile Angela, looking prettier than I’ve ever seen her, is just staring out the window at the river like it’s a cookie she wants to take a big bite of. Justin is tracing messages on my hand again, but this time all I catch is a V and a U. It doesn’t matter. I know what he’s saying. I turn his palm over and trace LUV U 2 on his.
The bus jostles us along for a few miles and then turns toward the river, down a narrow path that’s more potholes than road. A beefy guy with a crew cut, probably in his mid-twenties, comes down the aisle, finally stopping at the seat in front of us. “Hey, I’m Michael. Your guide,” he says to us, shaking Justin’s hand. “Not that you’ll need a guide.”
“Have you been out there on this release yet?” Justin asks.
Michael exhales. “Oh yeah. Yesterday. It’s going to be a blast. Great time.”
Justin and Angela nod, excited. I look out the window to see rows of equipment lined up in metal cages near a long pier. I guess we’re here, at put-in. Everyone starts funneling off of the bus and for a