Cedar and Ash paddle each day into the late afternoon, gliding to the shore to portage when needed. They see James’ escorts camped on the shore and stop for Ash to discuss the conditions of the river with them. Cedar waits in the bow of the boat and ruminates on this puzzle piece about Ash’s and James’ identity. Judging by the number of escorts, they must be wealthy. She had only seen his camp once, on the night they left. The dark had not revealed much other than more tents than seemed necessary.
Ash says his farewells and joins Cedar. He shoves the boat off the shore and jumps in. Cedar fixes her eyes forward and begins to paddle.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Cedar takes several paddle strokes before she answers. “You have become something of a mystery to me.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been much for conversation. A lot on my mind.”
Cedar checks the impulse to probe further. She reminds herself that she is not heading south to be with Ash, and has no right to intrude on his privacy.
After several moments of silence, she hears the rustling of maps. A river as wide as this one has many potential routes. Many of them end with stagnant water.
Ash steers them down what he deems to be the primary current and they paddle until the sun sinks low in the sky.
“See a good place to make camp?” Ash asks, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, on the east bank.” She gestures with her paddle.
When they pull to shore, they haul the canoe out of the river. Ash pulls out his map, and Cedar joins him to make a plan for the next day. They go back and forth about where they should chance the rapids and where they should portage.
Portages are often difficult through this thick, uninhabited forest, but the recent increase in migrating southerners and tourists has widened the paths. They choose a possible place for a campsite the next night, then go separate ways to prepare a meal and set up the tent.
Ash and Cedar retire early that night. As usual, Cedar divides the space in his tent by laying their bags in a line down the middle. Ash does not dare suggest they let their mutual body heat warm them better. She is as wary of him as she had been when they first met.
He wakes halfway through the night and moves sleepily over to Cedar’s side of the tent. The sleeping bag is slung over his arm. He gently shakes her shoulder. She wakes easily, cold as she is.
“You don’t have to do this,” she mutters.
“Take the sleeping bag, Cedar.”
Cedar collects the thin blanket and exchanges it for the sleeping bag, crawling inside without further comment. She has not objected to the arrangement since he had insisted that first night that they take turns with his warmer bedding. What had happened to raise the issue again? He adds layers of clothing over what he has on and makes himself as comfortable as he can under her thin blanket. Cedar’s breathing has an even quality of sleep.
He tries to sleep, but Cedar’s contrived distance keeps him awake. Every time he broaches the subject of what she wants to do when they reach their destination, she ignores him or changes the subject. Does she plan to fade out of his life when they arrive?
He drifts off sometime before dawn. By the time he is awake, Cedar’s place in the tent is empty. The sleeping bag is draped over him, and her few belongings are packed.
He stumbles out of the tent. Cedar is arranging their gear outside.
He hands her a cranberry granola bar.
“Your favorite,” he says.
She accepts it. Ash fishes out an almond granola bar for himself. He watches Cedar unwrap hers and take her first bite. Granola bars are a novelty to her, and she treats them like a gourmet meal.
When they finish their simple breakfast, Ash checks the weather forecast. His connection is finicky, though his gear is top-of-the-line. No one in the north has internet access or any kind of tech except for the occasional satellite phone, but Cedar takes less interest in Ash’s many devices than she does in his granola bars.
Most days, like today, are clear and bright. The weather will become warmer the farther south they travel. Snow is rare on the southern tip of the island, but they still have a long way to go to avoid the risk of freezing winter weather.
Cedar moves into the canoe with a dancelike motion. A duo of river otters swim by, splashing one another. They pass near enough that their splash sprays onto Ash and Cedar. He laughs, and she turns to smile at him. For a brief moment, it is the way they were when they would meet in the village. Then he experiences the familiar stab of pain as she looks away. She needlessly rearranges their gear before she fits her hands onto her paddle, waiting for his push-off.
CEDAR MAKES THE CALL to pull to shore on a clear and sunny day. Ash has vomited over the edge of the canoe twice. He insists he can go on, but is so quiet in the stern of the boat that Cedar’s concern keeps her glancing back at him. When his face loses all color and his limbs shake, she orders him to steer to shore. He is too weak to question her. They reach a shallow eddy before he vomits a third time.
Cedar jumps from the boat. Ankle deep in the water, she pulls it ashore with Ash barely keeping his seat. He takes her offered arm as he hoists himself from the boat, and she finds him a dry place on the bank. He collapses, too exhausted to help, or even apologize for his uselessness.
Cedar works to make camp, used to the routine that has been so many days in the making. While she works, Ash lies on the ground, curling into a fetal position. He watches her, looking miserable before he falls asleep while she is setting up the tent. He only wakes when Cedar places a hand on his arm.
“The tent is ready.” She pauses. “Can you walk?”
He struggles to sit. “Can I lean on you?”
“Yes.”
He grasps her arm and stands. He leans on her, and they walk to the tent she left open. He collapses onto the blankets.
He is mumbling something, and she leans closer.
“I didn’t hear you,” she says.
“Th-thank y-y-you. I’m l-lucky.”
“We both are. Now sleep.”
She tucks the blankets around him as best she can without asking him to move off them. She keeps the cooking pot near Ash, and he uses it several times. On her part, she twice makes a mad dash for the trees with the little shovel. She has no other symptoms.
She stays awake and cares for Ash. She cleans out the pot in the river after each use and returns it to his side. Sometime before the sun rises, he falls into a deep sleep. When she feels his forehead, his fever is broken. With a sigh of relief, she lies down close beside him.
When she wakes, she is spooned against Ash’s warmth. Ash has draped an arm around her. She squirms closer, relishing in the comfort and security of his body. Then she becomes aware of where she is and what she is doing. Reality dawns on her despite her reluctance to admit it, and she moves away, inches at a time. Ash remains asleep.
It is bright daylight now, but she builds a fire, hoping it provides the same comfort outside of the tent that she had found within.
CEDAR IS STILL AT the fire when Ash emerges from the tent.
“We have to leave today. We can’t risk the weather.” Ash wears layers of clothes but still shivers.
Cedar pokes the fire with a stick and eyes him with skepticism. “Okay, but I’ll take the stern.” She extinguishes the fire and prepares to leave.
Once on the river, Ash’s paddle moves sporadically in the bow. He is silent as Cedar steers them around the obstacles. Ash does not seem to have the awareness to call out obstacles.
A crack of thunder booms. Cedar jumps, not used to thunder this late in the year. Northern winters are fierce, but she has come to know what to expect. Here, everything is unpredictable.
The river gains speed, and rushing water creates foam and spray off the boulders. The obstacles increase. Jagged boulders appear on either side, and giant trees carried down from the mountain create strainers. Cedar’s mind and reactions begin to feel sluggish. Ash takes no notice, fatigued as he is.
Clear of the worst of it, Cedar looks up. A cliff wall towers on either side. It will soon block them in and funnel them down a narrow, curving, channel in the river. She glances about. Jagged boulders line the riverbank.
“Ash,” she yells.
Ash jerks his head up and swears. The severity of the situation gives him energy he did not have before, but it is too late.
“I’m sorry, Cedar…” is the last thing she hears him say before the roar of water swallows all other sounds.
High cliffs loom on either side, and the gap narrows ahead. Cedar can feel the shadows of fatigue around her, trying to inch into her muscles. Her thinking becomes foggier. She needs her mind sharp, and for that she needs oxygen. She reminds herself to breathe.
Ash gestures with a sharp jerk of his head, and she steers the canoe to follow his gestures around hidden rocks that lie beneath the surface. She knows better than to chart the course herself, inexperienced as she is in reading white water. She focuses on following the movements of his head. There is no time to pause between maneuvers.
Finally, the river stretches out in a straight line before them. The cliffs still loom high on either side, but there are fewer boulders scattered about.
“There is a tricky passage at the exit of this ravine. I’ve never attempted it before.” Ash pauses. “I’m sorry, Cedar. If I’d been doing my job I would have realized where we are. We should have portaged this.”
He looks back, assessing her, and Cedar is reminded that she is not wearing a life jacket. She never used one at home, had not known anyone who owned one. Ash had tried to wrap his around her the first morning of their travels, but it had been too large.
For her part, she is relieved Ash is wearing it. Of the two of them, she is in better health for a cold, intensive swim to shore.
“I can swim,” Cedar reassures him.
He snorts in response, and his voice has an edge of sarcasm. “That’s hardly useful if you take a blow to your head or get sucked into a strainer.”
He takes a deep breath, then tries to explain the layout of the exit. It would have been tricky even without what happens next.
She sees the sheets of rain coming down before she hears or feels it. It is like a flood from the sky coming straight towards them.
The skywater reaches them, hitting them with a cold, sharp onslaught. It creates so much splash that the line where the surface of the river begins is completely obscured.
Cedar’s hand flies to her waist, checking that the stone is secure.
The river drives them against a jagged boulder.
They hit the boulder with such force that it throws them from the small security the boat provides into the breathtaking cold water. Cedar has swum in her lakes all her life, up until the thin autumn ice freezes the surface, and is spared the gasp reflux. Still, swimming in a current is nothing like a lake, and a moment later she feels herself pulled beneath the surface.