Noses Are Red (3 page)

Two lakes later it was coming up to noon, and I was ready to die. Victor was puffing pretty good too. Christopher was still singing his army songs, still paddling as strongly as ever. A machine.

This was a smaller lake than the others, but with the same water and rocks and pine trees. We hugged the shoreline. Up ahead I could see the portage marker clearly.

“Look!” said Victor, pointing with his paddle. “A loon.”

I didn’t know what he was pointing at. I thought loons were crazy people, so I was looking for someone on the shore going
blblblblblbl
, or hanging upside down in a tree.

Victor explained that loons are diving birds, but this one dove before I could spot it.

“Where do you think it’ll pop back up?” I asked Victor. “Paddle!” cried Christopher, the loon behind me.

Another scrunch onto another gravelly beach. “We’ll stop for lunch at the end of this portage,” said Christopher, wading ashore and gathering up the various packs. “You guys must be hungry.”

“I’m okay,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Good. I put a bunch of health food bars in the emergency pack. I was going to offer you one now, but since you’re not hungry, I won’t.”

“Alan!” whispered Victor.

“Race you to the end of the portage, boys. Maybe you’ll be hungry then. Loser has to make lunch.”

“Sure,” I said loudly.

“Alan!” whispered Victor.

Christopher showed us the route on his map. The portage was marked in a dotted line. Straight ahead, then a small bend to the left, then a switchback and we’d be at the next lake. “Don’t forget the switchback. It’s a sharp turn to the right.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

Victor and I had worked out a technique for lifting the canoe onto our shoulders without Christopher’s help. We lifted one end off the ground, together, then he held that end while I crawled underneath the canoe, then I straightened slowly while he crawled underneath the other end. Christopher watched us for a moment, snorted, and ran off, singing:

His laughter faded into the distance. We set off after him. Victor in the front, as usual. A small rise, and then…down down down. Victor pulling; my neck taking a lot of the strain.

“Here’s the bend to the left,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“I guess so. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess so too.”

We turned left. Bushes and reeds all around us now. Not so hilly, and not so many trees. This trail was closer to the water level. What I mean is, it was swampier. The path was quite narrow, especially after the bend to the left, and when you stepped off the path you stepped into mud. The air smelled bad, and the hum of insects was all around us.

“Do you see the switchback?” I asked. “The sharp right turn?”

“No.”

We squelched on. The trail was getting narrower and narrower. I could hardly keep on it.

“Do you think we already passed the switchback?” I asked.

“Don’t know.”

The trail wound around and around. Over rotten logs, beside stagnant water, through slippery mud. The forest closed in on us. The canoe brushed against overhanging branches. They made a loud noise against the metal.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I asked.

“No.”

On and on. The canoe dug into my shoulders. I wondered if I was getting shorter, with all the weight pressing down on me.

“I hate mosquitoes,” I said. Not that I was expecting a disagreement. Show me someone who likes mosquitoes and I’ll show you an alien.

“Me too.”

“Do you think he’s finished the portage by now?” I asked.

“Mr. Leech? Yes.” Victor stumbled, and stepped off the trail. The canoe bounced on my shoulders. Ouch. His socks were black with mud by now. So were mine.

And then he stopped. I nearly bumped my forehead on the thwart in front of me.

“Do you see the next lake?” I asked.

“No.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” I stuck my head out from under the side of the canoe and peered ahead at a muddy puddle surrounded by a clump of bushes and reeds. The narrow portage trail
ran right to the puddle and stopped. Beyond the puddle was nothing except more bushes and reeds.

“This can’t be right” I said. “Can it? Have you ever seen a portage look like this?”

“No.”

“We must have missed the turnoff,” I said.

“No, really?” Victor must be really upset. He’s not usually sarcastic.

“Let’s go back,” I said.

There was no room to turn around on the narrow path. We’d have to go back the way we came. Fortunately a canoe has two front ends. “I’ll lead the way,” I said, spinning around under the canoe so that I pointed the other way.

Now, from under my outstretched arms, I could see a short way ahead. Better than looking at the back of Victor’s pants. “Come on.” I took off back down the path.“Look for a bend to the right,” I said.

“You mean left,” said Victor, from behind me. “Since we’re coming the other way.”

“Do I?” Victor’s better in math than I am. “Well, you look for a bend to the left, and I’ll look for one to the right. That way we’ll have all our options covered.”

Ten minutes later I stopped. “This is no good,” I said. “I don’t recognize anything.”

“But it’s the same trail,” said Victor.

“Of course it’s the same trail, but I was at the back of the canoe,” I said. “For all I could actually
see
, we were walking past the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re at the back of the canoe. What can
you
see now?”

“The back of your legs.”

“It was the same for me” I said. “What about turning the canoe around, so you go first? You’ll be able to recognize things from a few minutes ago.”

“Okay. Do you want to put down the canoe first?”

“No.”

If we took it off, we’d never get it back on again. I didn’t want to crawl around in the mud, trying to lift the canoe onto my shoulders. We backed up and shoved sideways, so that Victor’s end of the canoe went into the bushes beside us. Then I pulled us forward into the bushes on my side of the trail. Then backward again, and then forward. We must have looked like a school bus making a U-turn. Finally we got all the way around.

Victor stuck out his head and took a long look up the trail. “I don’t recognize anything either,” he said.

“Oh.”

He kicked the big rotten log at the side of the path. A cloud of dust flew out. Out…and out…and out. The cloud of dust grew before my eyes. And it made a noise as it grew, and billowed towards Victor. Some of the pieces of dust landed on his leg.

I wondered about Christopher. Was he worried about us? Maybe on his way to rescue us? Would it do any good to cry for help? I opened my mouth to say something when I heard Victor’s scream, and felt the thwart of the canoe bang into the back of my neck, as Victor ran ahead.

“What? What is it?” I was running too – I mean, I had no choice. Victor was pulling me. He was holding on to the canoe with one hand, and slapping at the dust with the other.

“Quick!” shouts Victor. “Quick, Alan, run for it!”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“They’re everywhere! Hurry!”

He runs, pulling me after him by the neck. The dust cloud rises all around us, and the sound is in my ears – once heard, never forgotten – the buzz-saw whine of a million angry enemies. I can’t get at them with the aluminum construction on my head. I run as fast as I can, considering that I can hardly see where I’m going.

“HELP! CHRISTOPHER!” I cry. “HELP, ANYONE!”

Running recklessly, charging through bushes and across little streams, racing as if we can’t help ourselves, no time to spare for thinking about things like direction. My friend Victor, and me, and a boat the size of a Cadillac – stampeding because of dust.

Only, of course, it’s not dust.

The bees are busy and angry. They buzz all around us. I’m terrified that they’re going to sting me where I can’t reach because my arms are holding up the canoe. I’m terrified that they’re going to get down my shirtsleeve, or up my bathing shorts.

There’s a clump of wings and striped bodies on the inside of the canoe, right –
right
– next to my hand. I jerk my hand away, and almost drop the canoe.

“Hey, watch it, Alan!” shouts Victor, running hard.

There’s a buzzing noise right –
right
– in front of my face. I can’t spare a hand to brush it away. I blow as hard as I can.

–
Hey, watch it, Dingwall!

I shake my head. Hearing things.

My mouth is open. I’m breathing hard. Always tricky to breathe through your mouth in the woods. I’ve already swallowed a bunch of gnats and mosquitoes. But I can’t close my mouth without cutting off my oxygen.

There’s the buzzing again.
Right
at my nose. I can’t see the insect – it’s too close. I open my mouth to blow really hard, only at that moment I put my foot into a hole, and almost fall over. Instead of blowing out, I suck in.

In.

It’s in my mouth. I can feel it. Oh, yuck!! And then – it’s not in my mouth anymore. I don’t actually swallow the insect. I know that. I can’t feel it going down my throat. But it’s not in my mouth anymore. It
was
in my mouth, and now it’s gone. It didn’t sting me. Did I spit it out? I spit again, just to make sure. The whole thing reminds me of the first time I met Norbert, last year.

Funny I should think of him. He used to call me by my last name – Dingwall.

I spit a couple more times, but nothing comes out – nothing except spit, that is.

Victor slows down. The bees seem to be gone. The buzzing has stopped. Amazingly, I wasn’t stung once. “You okay?” I ask.

He nods his head. The canoe moves. “They were all around me,” he says, “but they didn’t sting me. How about you?”

“Same. I may have swallowed one, but I didn’t get stung.”

“Weird.”

I have to ask a question. “Victor, do you have any idea – any idea at all – where we are?”

The canoe moves as he shakes his head.

We’re walking through a swampy bit of woods. Reeds and scrubby trees all around. It’s hot. The mud is fragrant and rich – like chocolate icing underfoot.

“So we’re lost.”

I’m not rubbing it in. I just want to know how badly off we are. And, in fact, we’re pretty badly off. No food, no water, no shelter, no idea of where we are. No grown-ups to help us. We’ve got a boat, but no place to put it, and if we do find a place – a creek, let’s say – then we’ll be up that creek without a paddle.

Can things get worse?

Of course they can. Things can always get worse. I hear a rumble from inside my stomach, and realize that I’m starving. That’s worse. And then Victor takes a step and disappears.

Worse.

I see the whole thing happen. I’m staring at him at the time. His foot – his left foot – lands in a puddle of black
water and keeps going down. The puddle covers his shoe, and then his sock, and then his leg. Everything happens in slow motion, like in a horror movie. Soon Victor is up to his waist in mud, and going down. The front half of the canoe is still on his shoulders. As the boat slips forward, it pulls me down too. I struggle out from under the metal shell, landing on my hands and knees right next to the black water.
Whoa
– does it ever smell strong! I lever myself away from it, and climb carefully to my feet. By now the canoe is flat on the ground, and Victor has disappeared.

I’m still hungry, but I don’t think about that now.

“Help!” That’s me calling out. “Victor, are you there?” I bang on the canoe.

No answer.

Has he disappeared? Has the swamp swallowed him whole? Am I alone? That would be the worst thing of all. I scrabble around to the front end of the canoe, careful to keep to the dryer parts of the mud, and lever the front of the canoe up.

Victor’s head is lying there. Like he’s been – what d’you call it – decapitated. Staring eyes, wide-open mouth. Unmoving. His chin is resting on the mud. His head is the only part of him above ground.

Of course he’s alive – his eyes flick left and right.

“Vic!” I say. He doesn’t reply. He’s too scared to talk. Too scared to move.

My hand is tired. I drop the canoe. Now he’s gone.

I scrabble around and lift the canoe. There he is again.

It’s scary, but it’s also kind of…well, call me crazy, but it’s also kind of funny. Reminds me of my grandmother’s funeral. Everyone looking very solemn, Mom in a hat with a veil, and suddenly, all I could think about was a TV commercial where the world turned to chocolate.
Oh, Henry! Oh, Grandma!
says the kid.
What happened to you?
I laughed, and everyone turned to look at me with these mournful faces, which only made me laugh harder.

It’s the same now. I know it’s serious. I know that laughter is inappropriate (“Really, Alan, I’m ashamed of you! You’re as bad as Uncle Emil! What would Grandma think?”), but I can’t help it. It’s funny. I mean, I’m absolutely lost in the middle of a swampy nowhere, with nothing but an overturned canoe…and underneath the canoe is a boy’s head. I laugh and laugh, and Victor’s head turns to stare at me, and his eyes get wider, and that only makes me laugh harder. I can’t stop laughing now; it’s like I’m riding a bicycle downhill, going faster and faster, and the brakes don’t work. I’m too weak to stand up. I’m on my knees.
Everything
is funny. Victor opens his mouth and nothing comes out, and that’s funny. I drop the canoe back over his head, and that’s funny. I tilt up the canoe, and there’s his head –
peekaboo!
– and that’s so funny I drop the canoe again.

I’m hysterical. I want to stop laughing, but I can’t, and there’s no grown-up to take me to the back of the church. I’m gasping for breath. Tears are streaming down my face. My nose is tingling.

Actually, it’s tingling in a familiar way. I stop laughing long enough to take a breath. I haven’t felt that in a while. Not since….

–
Good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Dingwall
, says a high squeaky voice.

“Norbert! You’re back!”

–
And not a minute too soon. Look at this place. Dust everywhere! Who’s been living here? Pigs?

“No one’s been there since you left,” I tell him, scratching.

That was almost a year ago. I saw – no, make that
heard
– Norbert at the beginning of the summer, in New York City, but he hasn’t lived with me since last fall, when I was having all that trouble with the bullies at my school. “Lived with” makes it sound like Norbert is in my spare bedroom. He’s not.

He’s in my nose.

I didn’t realize until Norbert told me, but my nose is a big place. Your nose too. Bigger on the inside than the outside. In a way, it’s bigger than you are. Apparently I have a living room, back room, bedroom, and kitchen (with appliances – Norbert loves to make cocoa in the microwave).

–
Mind you, it looks pretty good under the dust
, he says.
You’ve done some work on the living room, I can tell. And the garage renovation is new.

“What renovation?” The garage would be for Norbert’s spaceship. He’s from Jupiter, you see. It may be the biggest planet in the solar system, but it has the smallest inhabitants.

–
Stop scratching!
he yells.
Anyone would think you were a dog.

Smallest and rudest inhabitants.

“You should know about dogs,” I tell him. He stayed in a dog’s nose in New York. Sally, a lively and affectionate stray.

–
That was a mistake, and you know it.

“Uh-huh.” Would you believe I’m feeling better? Norbert hasn’t done anything, yet, except insult me, but just knowing he’s here makes me feel better. I’m not alone.

–
Honestly, Dingwall! You ask for help; I fly right over, and what thanks do I get?

“That was you, then, just a minute ago? I thought I heard you call my name.”

“Help! Help!” The voice comes from under the canoe. “That’s Victor,” I say. “He’s trapped down there.”

–
know.

Victor doesn’t understand about Norbert. He thinks it’s me doing the talking in a high squeaky voice. “Don’t worry, Victor, we’ll get you out,” I say. I lift the canoe off him. Now that I’m not laughing, I’m strong enough to move it away.

“We?”

“Norbert and me.”

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes travel up and down me. “You feeling okay, Alan?”

“Sure.”

“You’re talking kind of weird, like you did last year at school.”

“Don’t worry, Victor. Everything is going to be okay. Now, Norbert, what’ll we do?”

Silence.

“Norbert? Come on, we’re waiting for you. Tell us what to do.”

Actually, I have no idea how we’re going to get Victor out. I hope Norbert can come up with something fast.

–
Say, when did you get the oil painting in the living room?

“Norbert?”

–
I just noticed it. Very nice. The composition is very…plastic. There’s something a lot like it in Frieda’s father’s office in New York, Impressionism, I think, Manet? Monet?

“Money?”

–
Something like that.

“Norbert. Help us. What should we do with Victor?”

–
Huh? Why, get him out of the mud, of course! And then wash him. He’s very dirty, even for a human. You’re not exactly a commercial for Time detergent yourself, Dingwall.

“Time’s
a magazine. Do you mean Tide?”

–
Whatever, And let’s move it! Time and Tide wait for no one.