smashed into something explosively hard and he thought nothing at all.
22
B right light flashed inside Brian’s eyes—red and glaring—and he opened them to find that he was on his back, staring directly at the sun.
“Ecchh!”
He rolled onto his stomach and spit and nearly choked on water.
He was in the shallows below the rapids, caught up in a small alcove in the shoreline.
The water was six or seven inches deep, with a gravel bottom. His senses returned and with them came the realization that he was all right. He was bruised, but nothing was broken; he had taken a little water, but apparently had coughed it out.
He was all right.
Derek.
The word slammed into him. Somehow, he had forgotten…
He stood—his legs were a bit wobbly, but they held—and looked down the river.
It stretched away for half a mile, becoming more calm and peaceful as it dropped, nestled in trees and thick brush, a blue line in a green background. Birds flew across the water, ducks swam…
There was no raft.
Brian turned, stood dripping, looking upriver into the rapids.
From below they did not look as bad. The pressure waves appeared smaller—even the boulder didn’t seem as large. There was still the sound of the water—although that, too, was muted.
But there was no raft.
No Derek.
“Derek!”
He yelled, knowing it was futile.
He looked downriver again. There was no way the raft would have stopped in the rapids. It had to have come down, floated on downstream.
What had he seen? He frowned, trying to remember what had happened.
Oh, yes—the wave. The big submerged rock and the wave, the great wave had taken the raft and he had seen that—the raft moving off downriver. He did not think it had tipped; he seemed to remember that it was upright.
But Derek—was he still on the raft? He couldn’t remember for certain, but it seemed that he was—everything was so confused. Tumbling in the rapids seemed to have shaken his brain loose.
He fought panic.
Things were—were what they were. If the raft rolled or if Derek fell off the raft, then . . . well then, that was it.
If not, Derek might still be all right.
“I have to figure he’s still alive.”
And if Derek was still on the raft, still alive, he was downriver.
Brian had to catch him, catch the raft.
He started to move along the bank, and did well for fifty or so yards. The bottom was gravel—spilled out by the rapids—but then it ended.
The river moved rapidly back into flatter country, swamps, lakes, and the first thing that happened was the bottom turned to mud.
Brian tried to move to the bank and run, but the brush was so thick and wild that it was like a jungle—grass, willows, and thick vines grabbed at him, holding him.
He moved back into the river—where the mud stopped him. If he tried to walk, when his weight came down, his feet sunk and just kept on going—two, three feet. The mud was so thick it pulled his right tennis shoe off, and when he groped to find it the mud held his arm, seemed to pull at him, tried to take him down.
He lost the shoe, clawed back to the bank and knew there was only one way to chase the raft.
“I’ll have to swim.”
But how far?
It didn’t matter, he thought—Derek was down there somewhere. Brian had to catch him.
He shook his head, took off his remaining shoe, and left it on the bank.
He kept his pants on—they were not so heavy—and entered the river, pushed away from the bank until he was far enough out to start floating a bit.
He kicked off the mud and began to swim. Within three strokes he knew how tired he was—his whole body felt weak and sore from the beating he’d taken in the rapids.
But he could not stop. He worked along the edge, half swimming, half pushing along with his feet in the mud.
Downriver.
He had to catch the raft.
23
H e became something other than himself that afternoon.
When he began to swim—after he’d overcome the agony of starting and his muscles had loosened
22
B right light flashed inside Brian’s eyes—red and glaring—and he opened them to find that he was on his back, staring directly at the sun.
“Ecchh!”
He rolled onto his stomach and spit and nearly choked on water.
He was in the shallows below the rapids, caught up in a small alcove in the shoreline.
The water was six or seven inches deep, with a gravel bottom. His senses returned and with them came the realization that he was all right. He was bruised, but nothing was broken; he had taken a little water, but apparently had coughed it out.
He was all right.
Derek.
The word slammed into him. Somehow, he had forgotten…
He stood—his legs were a bit wobbly, but they held—and looked down the river.
It stretched away for half a mile, becoming more calm and peaceful as it dropped, nestled in trees and thick brush, a blue line in a green background. Birds flew across the water, ducks swam…
There was no raft.
Brian turned, stood dripping, looking upriver into the rapids.
From below they did not look as bad. The pressure waves appeared smaller—even the boulder didn’t seem as large. There was still the sound of the water—although that, too, was muted.
But there was no raft.
No Derek.
“Derek!”
He yelled, knowing it was futile.
He looked downriver again. There was no way the raft would have stopped in the rapids. It had to have come down, floated on downstream.
What had he seen? He frowned, trying to remember what had happened.
Oh, yes—the wave. The big submerged rock and the wave, the great wave had taken the raft and he had seen that—the raft moving off downriver. He did not think it had tipped; he seemed to remember that it was upright.
But Derek—was he still on the raft? He couldn’t remember for certain, but it seemed that he was—everything was so confused. Tumbling in the rapids seemed to have shaken his brain loose.
He fought panic.
Things were—were what they were. If the raft rolled or if Derek fell off the raft, then . . . well then, that was it.
If not, Derek might still be all right.
“I have to figure he’s still alive.”
And if Derek was still on the raft, still alive, he was downriver.
Brian had to catch him, catch the raft.
He started to move along the bank, and did well for fifty or so yards. The bottom was gravel—spilled out by the rapids—but then it ended.
The river moved rapidly back into flatter country, swamps, lakes, and the first thing that happened was the bottom turned to mud.
Brian tried to move to the bank and run, but the brush was so thick and wild that it was like a jungle—grass, willows, and thick vines grabbed at him, holding him.
He moved back into the river—where the mud stopped him. If he tried to walk, when his weight came down, his feet sunk and just kept on going—two, three feet. The mud was so thick it pulled his right tennis shoe off, and when he groped to find it the mud held his arm, seemed to pull at him, tried to take him down.
He lost the shoe, clawed back to the bank and knew there was only one way to chase the raft.
“I’ll have to swim.”
But how far?
It didn’t matter, he thought—Derek was down there somewhere. Brian had to catch him.
He shook his head, took off his remaining shoe, and left it on the bank.
He kept his pants on—they were not so heavy—and entered the river, pushed away from the bank until he was far enough out to start floating a bit.
He kicked off the mud and began to swim. Within three strokes he knew how tired he was—his whole body felt weak and sore from the beating he’d taken in the rapids.
But he could not stop. He worked along the edge, half swimming, half pushing along with his feet in the mud.
Downriver.
He had to catch the raft.
23
H e became something other than himself that afternoon.
When he began to swim—after he’d overcome the agony of starting and his muscles had loosened
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