Chapter Twenty Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I’m not killing anything that’s not actively trying to eat me,” says Troy.
He’s sitting on the ground right by you, and his breath smells like burnt dandelions.
Diana takes a sip from her water bottle, but like most of yours, it’s running low and you haven’t tried boiling any water yet.
At least you’ve gotten a little better at building fires.
Will found some driftwood near the shore and combined it with a few downed branches from the storm to get something more consistent going for cooking.
There’s a cold wind blowing again, so it’s good to have something bigger.
Keeping warm almost makes up for the lack of nourishing food.
You’ve been staring up at the trees in a famished daze for what feels like a small eternity.
The site you’re on has the tallest pines you’ve ever seen in your life, and they all seem to bend around you like a cage that sways and creaks in the breeze.
The canopy lets in some sky here and there, but it’s only when you peer out over the lake that you can see just how vast the horizon is.
Normally you’d find the sky imprinted on the lake as well, but the wind is rippling the water.
“Killing is kind of against my belief system,” adds Troy.
You can’t tell how much time has passed since he last spoke.
“And what’s that?” says Fran.
“I believe in the Four Noble Truths,” he says. “Specifically: ethical conduct. I also think killing animals is, like, super messed up.”
“Have fun eating grass, bro,” says Will, sharpening a stick on the side of a rock. “You ain’t gonna find any tofu dogs out here.”
Troy rolls his eyes.
“That’s Buddhism, right?” says Fran. “What does the Buddha say about starving to death and dying in a canoe?”
“Leave him alone,” says Diana, shutting the argument down.
She plucks some wild grass and tosses it into the fire. Then she motions to the churning water.
“The way I see it, we have two options for some protein here. The lake or the land. Only we don’t have a fishing pole or a gun, so we’re going to have to…”
“Eat someone,” says Fran.
She picks a cattail shoot out of her teeth.
“That is actually against my belief system,” says Will.
“Improvise,” says Diana. “I was going to say improvise.”
“Or that,” Fran says.
“We can make some kind of fishing pole, right?” you say. “I mean, how hard can it be? It’s just a stick, some string, and a hook.”
“Yes, Case!” says Will. “Hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about, man. You’re finally growing a little backbone.”
He gets up and cracks his knuckles. You’re ashamed to admit that you’re encouraged by his masculine accolade, excepting the word little.
So you stand as well and start circumnavigating the site, looking for a thin branch to use, but again, your energy is so low you can barely pick up your feet without getting lightheaded.
“I mean, I might eat something if you guys catch it,” says Troy. “I just don’t personally kill things.”
“You kill the mood,” says Will. “Is that a Noble Truth?”
You reach down and pick up a long stick that looks perfect, but when you try to bend it, it snaps like chalk in your hands.
“We need to make progress toward the drop,” says Diana. “We shouldn’t spend much longer here without covering some miles. If you could put a rod together, we can try fishing from the boats. Then we can hunt at our next stop.”
You start searching for sticks again and instead decide to snap a small branch off a nearby jack pine.
Will clocks what you’re doing and holds a finger in the air.
Then he somehow finds the energy to sprint over to his pack.
He digs around, eventually producing a single travel dispenser of cinnamon-flavored dental floss.
“Line,” he says.
You point to him.
“We just need a hook,” you say.
This activates Troy, who immediately gets up and hunts around. You watch him as he eventually finds what he’s looking for: his weapon of choice. The collapsible whisk. He looks down at it and sighs. It’s his Excalibur, and he’s not quite prepared for what he’s about to do.
“Troy, no,” you say.
But he’s already getting to work, yanking one of the curved tines out of its slot, until what he’s holding is a thin metal wire, which he slowly curves into something approximating a fishhook.
When he’s done, he hands it over to you to complete the holy trinity of homemade fishing supplies, knotting it in the cinnamon floss.
“What you imagine, you create,” he says. “Gautama Buddha.”
“That was almost cool,” says Will. “But you just ruined it with the quote.”
Troy flips him off, and you’re about to ask him what the Buddha thinks of lewd gestures when Fran materializes behind you and taps your shoulder.
“Hold on a second,” she says. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a hook,” says Troy. “I made it out of the whisk. Didn’t you…”
“No,” says Fran. “That.”
You whip around, expecting another bear. Maybe a moose this time. Your heart is already pulsing through your chest. But Fran is not looking into the woods. She’s looking up.
“What?” says Will. “Where?”
He gazes up, and blinks into a pocket of sky.
You do too. The pines block most of it, so it’s hard to see anything at first. But, eventually, sections of blue come into focus through the branches until you can piece together a patchwork of what’s above, and just barely visible coming up from somewhere in the distance is a ribbon of light gray smoke.
The wind is carrying it toward you, and it zags under a whisper of cirrus clouds.
“Wildfire?” asks Diana.
“Not big enough, I don’t think,” says Troy.
He stands on a rock on his tiptoes and squints.
“Campfire?” you say.
You look at the smoke from your own fire. So does everyone else. It’s the same color, more or less. And about the same amount.
“Maybe,” says Diana.
“Which means…,” says Troy.
“Someone else is out here?” says Will.
He shields his eyes with his hand.
“And not too far away,” you say.
“Silas,” says Fran.
And then you all get quiet.
When you look back at Fran, she’s no longer staring at the sky. She has her compass out, and she’s pointing it toward the column of smoke.
“There’s only one problem,” she says.
Diana walks up and stands close to her, leaning in for a look.
“It’s not true north,” she says.