Memory Boy Page 12

  She shrugged and gingerly got on board.

  “Now departing, the Titanic,” Sarah said. She stayed close to the center of the raft; Emily seemed quite happy at the prospect of being on the move again. Maybe in a previous life she was a hood ornament. “Baaack!” she called, and with that we shoved off.

  Into complete silence.

  After all the splashing and scraping and work at the landing, we were suddenly moving slowly downstream with only the tiniest of rippling sounds. My father gave me a thumbs-up as he worked his pole. We didn’t really have to push, but only keep ourselves from getting too near the banks where the river curved.

  And curve it did, like a slinky toy. Around each bend, ducks or herons and once an eagle lifted up, startled. What a sight we must have been.

  The water depth varied from five or more feet to sometimes only a couple of feet; that worried me a bit. My father tested the depth with his pole. “Quarter twain. Half twain. Mark twain,” he called. “Actually, I forget which is shallower.”

  “Did you know that’s where Samuel Clemens took his pen name?” my mother said to us.

  “Everybody knows that,” Sarah said.

  Except me.

  Deeper into the marsh, which spread out for blocks on either side, the current slowed. Grasses rose up several feet tall on either side. Their pale tops ruffled lightly in a faint breeze.

  “First mate, shall we run up the mainsail?” my father said.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I replied. Hoisted by rope and ring, the canvas rattled its top above the marsh grass and caught the breath of wind, and we began to move along steadily again.

  We slowly passed through the marsh. The tall, silent, grassy walls meant that we couldn’t see out, had to trust the current. Ancient dark logs lay half sunken here and there, and carried lines of little turtles down their backs. From a distance the logs looked like alligators. As we drew closer, the turtles plook-plooked into the water and disappeared into the dark, spongy river bottom. With our poles we had to push against the grassy sedge; beneath the raft, there was nothing to push against. Soft and mucky. Loon shit, I called it.

  We kept moving. We were all silent by the time we rounded a bend and saw the forest again.

  “Land ho!” my father called.

  “Thank God,” my mother said, smiling.

  I agreed. Sturdy banks and trees slowly drew close on either side of the river now. Here the river bottom became lighter, sandier; minnows flashed in the deeper, green pockets, and the sudden shadows of larger fish (bass? northern pike?) arrowed away from the River Queen. Tall bushes lined the banks and drooped with clusters of berries still green but turning to pink.

  “High-bush cranberries,” I said suddenly.

  My family stared. At first they didn’t see them.

  “There,” I pointed.

  As we passed through forest, the river narrowed further. Both my father and I could push off nicely from the firm riverbanks.

  Where I lived, a good man could jump clear across the Mississippi....

  My only worry was that the river would become too narrow for the raft. I began to squint into the forest on either side as the river narrowed further. A stretch of tall maple trees formed a canopy, a dusty green tunnel, just ahead.

  Crossed the river in my car, kept it hid in the trees....

  Was there another bridge nearby? I kept looking. “We’re not far now,” I said.

  “I don’t see anything,” Sarah said.

  “Me neither,” Nat said.

  As we scanned the banks, peering into the trees for sight of a cabin, the canopy above gradually grew lower. And at the moment I remembered our mainmast, it was too late. The raft rocked in one shuddering motion—there was a sharp snapping sound—and we were all pitched into the shallow, chilly water. One moment silence, then chaos as we splashed and scrambled to rescue our suitcases and other gear. “Baack! Baack!” Emily called.

  “Pitch everything up onto the bank,” I shouted. And I was amazed: We acted so fast—sort of like high-speed cartoon characters—that hardly anything got wet—except us.

  “What happened?” Sarah sputtered. Emily, on shore, shook off a spray of water like a wet dog.

  “The mast hit an overhead branch,” I said. “It’s broken.” I couldn’t believe I had let this happen.

  “Not a branch,” my father said. “Look.”

  Stretching bank to bank several feet above us, and nearly invisible with overgrown branches and leaves, was a thick wire. Both ends disappeared into the foliage.

  “It’s a power line!” Nat said, fear suddenly in her voice.

  “No. It’s like a fence, or a cable of some kind,” I said.

  “Whatever. We’re still wet and the mast is broken,” Sarah said. “Now what do we do?” She was very close to blubbering.

  “Let me lower the rest of the mast; then we’ll reload our gear,” my father said.

  “Yes. I’ll be right back,” I said, my eyes on the cable.

  “Don’t get lost!” Nat called as I scrambled up the riverbank, which rose up toward the big wire. Soon I could grab hold. It was taut, about an inch in diameter, and thick with ash. However, underneath was a black film—grease—that rubbed on my fingers. Why would there be grease on a wire? I pushed through thick brush and leaves to see where it was anchored.

  And suddenly there sat a small cart. A cart hung on the cable by two small iron wheels. The cable itself was secured to what looked like a length of railroad iron driven who knew how deep into the ground. I examined the little cart again.

  The car!

  I began to laugh out loud.

  “Miles—what’s the matter?” Nat shrilled from below.

  Didn’t run on gasoline, it ran on itself. I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Miles, come back, you’re scaring us,” my mother called.

  “Okay,” I called. I untied the little car—its rotted tether rope fell away in chunks, but the car itself, the wheels, and the cable were solid enough to last another hundred years. “Here I come,” I called, and pushed off.

  As I burst through the leaves high above the river in my cable car, the shouting and the scrambling below really should have been videotaped. Emily went “Baack! Baack!” and bolted for cover; so did the rest of my family.

  “Whoa!” my father said. He had grabbed a long pole as if to defend himself.

  “Whoa is right!” I called. I was picking up speed—the cable ran slightly downhill—and not far beyond a shroud of green leaves on the opposite side, the car hit hard. I kept going, flipping at least once and landing with a whooph! on the dirt bank.

  “Miles—Miles! Are you all right?”

  I struggled to catch my breath—had the wind knocked out of me. Couldn’t speak. My parents scrambled up the bank and burst through the brush. I managed to at least sit up before they arrived.

  “All right … all right,” I wheezed.

  “That will teach you,” Sarah said; she stood there, hands on her hips.

  “I agree,” Nat said.

  “This is it, don’t you see? This is Mr. Kurz’s car. We’re here,” I said hoarsely.

  They all looked around.

  “I don’t see any cabin,” my mother said.

  To my supreme annoyance it was Sarah who took one step farther up the bank, held aside some leaves, and yelled, “There it is! I found it!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MEMORY BOOK

  I BROUGHT UP THE REAR, though not for long. My mother drew up short; I stumbled against her. “That’s it?” she whispered.

  I stepped around her. A few yards ahead, facing south and dug partially into the bank of the hill, was a little wooden cabin. And a vandalized cabin at that. The front door hung askew. One of two front windows was broken. Two rough-hewn chairs lay tipped over on the porch.

  “Somebody’s been here,” my father said.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” I led the way.

  Vines coiled and trailed around the posts of
the little front porch. Grass poked up here and there through the board floor like a botched haircut. My father and I mounted the steps. They were sturdy enough.

  “We’ll wait down here,” my mother said.

  At the sound of our boots near the front door, a striped ball of fur dashed between us, leaped past Nat and Sarah—who shrieked—and scuttled away down the riverbank.

  “Raccoon!” I said. “They’re harmless.”

  I examined the broken door. There were large, raking claw marks where some creature had torn away enough wood to loosen the hinges.

  “Bear,” I said softly to my father.

  His eyes widened.

  “Not here now,” I said. “There’s no fresh tracks anywhere around.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “Maybe not.” I peered inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the shack, I could see the damage. The bear had trashed the place. Tables and chairs were tipped. Cupboards were ripped off the wall. Canisters were scratched and clawed. Jam jars were broken and emptied. The raccoon, and then mice, had finished the job. Everything wooden was gnawed on. The corners of tables and chairs were rounded off and splintery. A wooden bed frame tilted from a short leg.

  Then I heard a scratching noise at the same moment as my father yelled and leaped through the door.

  “There’s something in there, Miles!” he shouted. “Watch out!”

  In the corner, staring dully at me, sat a small dumpy animal with beady eyes and long coarse fur, almost like feather vanes.

  Stupidest animal in the woods. Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t do anything right. But that’s why he has quills. Everybody leaves him alone.

  “Porcupine,” I called. I found an old broom. “Shoo!” I said.

  His back arched up and his floppy tail waved menacingly, but then he turned and lumbered toward the door. There were various shrieks and exclamations outside.

  “He’s harmless,” I called.

  My family gave the porcupine a wide berth as he passed by on his way back to the forest.

  “Safe now,” I called.

  As I continued to inspect Mr. Kurz’s cabin, my family slowly gathered just inside the doorway.

  My mother let out a breath. “We can’t live here.” Her voice wilted to a whisper.

  Sarah was speechless.

  “It’s a little messy,” I said. But I didn’t care about that. I examined the ceiling, which was fairly low, under eight feet, and made lower still by the heavy round log beams that stretched across; however, there were no stains or other signs of leakage from the roof. The walls and the floors were solid. A barrel stove, its pipe knocked down, sat ready at the rear; a rusty wooden cookstove waited near the pantry.

  “It’s not the mess, it’s the size,” my mother said.

  I looked around. All in all the cabin was about sixteen feet square. A one-man, one-room cabin.

  “All four of us can’t live here for a winter,” Sarah said. “We’d go crazy.”

  “It’s definitely not Birch Bay,” I said.

  “What are these big scrape marks all over?” Sarah asked.

  I glanced at my father and he at me. “Various-sized rodents,” I answered. “But they’re all gone now.”

  “I’m sleeping in the tent tonight, that’s for sure,” Sarah answered as she looked around.

  Outside, I followed the path toward the shed. Low skinny bushes with small pointy leaves lined the path. Some of them had clusters of gray berries. As my boot knocked against one little bush, the gray dust fell away.

  “Blueberries,” I said. I knelt and picked a couple.

  “Are you sure?” my mother said quickly.

  I nodded and popped them into my mouth. “They taste just like blueberry syrup.”

  Sarah cautiously picked a single berry and tasted it. “It’s true,” she said to my mother.

  But I was headed to the shed. Its door, too, had been clawed and battered, but inside, the contents were intact. The walls were hung with sledgehammers, wood-splitting mauls, axes, Swede saws, crosscut saws, ice saws, ice tongs, block and tackle, chains, and tools I could not name. Many appeared to be for handling logs—rolling them, peeling them, notching them. In the corner was a large pedal grindstone for sharpening blades of all kinds. There was even a pail full of rusty nails. The shed was like a museum of hand tools from a previous century.

  “Cool!” I murmured.

  “What’s there?” my father said from behind me.

  I stepped aside so he could see for himself; that’s when I saw, through the brush, the overgrown sawmill complete with piles of slab wood and rough boards.

  “Everything we need,” I replied.

  We camped that evening down by the river. Mother and Sarah found the trashed cabin too depressing to look at—let alone consider living there. I built a campfire, and we had a decent supper of rice and pasta and cheese and tea. As we ate, a fish splashed in the small pool where the river bent deeper into the trees. Emily, on a tether, grazed contentedly on tufts of grass on the bank. Nobody said much. Nobody mentioned the cabin.

  “Well, gang,” my father finally ventured.

  “Well what?” Sarah said, not looking up from the red coals.

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?” Sarah said with exasperation.

  “About the cabin, I’d guess?” my mother said.

  I was silent.

  “I have to say, it would be tough for all of us to live here all winter,” my father ventured.

  “I agree,” I replied.

  Sarah looked up at me with surprise.

  “But it’s not winter yet,” I said. “Not for three months, four if we’re lucky.”

  “Meaning?” Sarah said.

  “As we all agreed, we could do worse than camp on the Mississippi for the summer,” I said.

  They looked around at our little river valley.

  “True,” my mother said.

  Sarah shrugged in agreement.

  “What I’m saying is, give me a couple of months to work on the cabin, and then we can decide whether or not to stay.”

  “You can fix it up all you want, but it’s still not going to be any bigger,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I replied. I let my eyes flicker to the sturdy trees that rose up all around us, a whole forest of them; I already had a plan, but I didn’t want to say much right now. It’s never a good thing to talk a lot about what you’re going to do. Just start on it and keep on it until you finish.

  “I don’t want you to go to a lot of work for nothing,” Mother said to me.

  I shrugged, and with a stick pushed at a red ember. “That’s what you said once about the Ali Princess.”

  She was silent for a moment. “That’s true. I shouldn’t have doubted you, Miles.”

  “Me neither,” my father said softly.

  I looked up. Across the campfire my parents were sitting close to each other and smiling. At me.

  “Maybe things in the city will improve over the summer,” Sarah said with sudden optimism. “We’ll keep track of the news, and when we know that it’s safe, we can go back. Back home.” Her voice broke slightly at the end.

  “It’s possible,” my father said.

  We all fell silent. Just then, low and dusty orange rays of sunlight leaned around the trees and lit up the river. It was sundown in the valley.

  “So we’ll stay here this summer, right?” I said.

  There was another brief silence. We all looked at one another.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yes.”

  “Unanimous, then,” I said.

  “But I’ll warn you right now,” Sarah said, “it would take a small miracle for me to live in that shack this winter.”

  “I hear you,” I said easily. In the quiet moment that followed, a fish splashed in the shady corner pool; I thought about finding my fishing pole and making a couple of casts, but he would be there tomorrow.

&nb
sp; “You know, I think I’ll turn in,” my mother said sleepily.

  “Me too,” my father said.

  My mother hugged me—and then, awkwardly, so did my father. I hugged him back.

  After Sarah secured Emily, she too headed into the tent. “Don’t stay up too late, Memory Boy.” It was her way, too, of apologizing for doubting me.

  “I won’t.”

  When my parents and Sarah were in their tents, I stretched out by the fire and watched the stars come out and listened to night sounds. An owl went “whoo-whoo-whoo”; the campfire whispered. Then, when I closed my eyes, I heard Mr. Kurz’s voice:

  Burn too much pine in your stove and you’re asking for trouble. Creosote tar builds up in the pipe, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a chimney fire....

  Upstream there’s plenty of wild rice. Listen for mallards—the ducks that quack loudest—they’ll tell you where to look. There’s plenty of rice for everyone. Cook it dry and slow when you parch it. In winter boil it in water with a little salt. It’s better than potatoes any day....

  I suddenly opened my eyes and looked around—but there was only Emily, the tents, and the campfire. So I closed my eyes again and listened to every story Mr. Kurz had told me. Some of them had parts missing because I hadn’t listened well; others came back whole. They flowed out of my memory like a river.

  If you need venison, take a small deer. One that might not make it through the winter. Find a deer trail, make a little brush blind twenty yards off it, and wait there. Keep the wind in your face and stay quiet as a tree. The deer will come. Aim for the neck. One good shot is all you need. Dressing out a deer is messy, but don’t worry about the gut pile. The fox will clean it up overnight....

  Living in the woods is like swimming in deep water. If you fight against it, if you’re scared of it, you’ll drown. But if you learn to trust it, to take what the land gives you, you’ll be okay. In fact you’ll be more than okay—you’ll be fine.

  I suddenly opened my eyes: It was almost dark, and there was one last thing to do.

  I eased my backpack from the tent, and from it took out the small, well-sealed bottle. It felt lighter than ever.

  I went to the river and knelt there. Carefully I unscrewed the lid. Before me the water was blue-purple now, and darker still where it curled into the dusky forest. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed Mr. Kurz’s ashes onto the water. For a moment they rode high, then sank in a swirl of gray. I watched their lighter shape drift on the current, turn, spin—almost like dancing—and then he was gone.