The Way Back from Broken (23 page)

Rain pattered on the underside of the canoe as Rakmen portaged from Chèri Lake to Tiske. The moisture-filled air licked at him. As soon as he flipped the canoe off his shoulders, he was soaked. Jacey had dug out her rain jacket and had the hood cinched down so far that her face was nearly hidden.

Rakmen shrugged into his jacket before joining her at the water's edge.

Waves curled, crested, and broke against the rocky shoreline. As far as the eye could see, peaks and troughs fought each other across the surface of the lake. Rakmen's stomach ached. This was worse than the Screaming Eagle. Rakmen wanted to elbow out of the line.

But Leah was miles behind them and help was miles ahead.

Right in front of them were waves big enough to flip a canoe. He hadn't paid much attention when Edna had gone on about handling what she called “big water.” Something about not getting broadside and making planned turns.

Jacey edged closer to him. “What do we do?”

An icy river sluiced down the neck of his shirt, and he longed to be warm and dry inside the tent. He looked at his watch and wanted to cry. It wasn't even noon. They couldn't stop because of rain. Leah was back there with a shattered ankle and only enough food for four or five days. They still had so far to go.

Rakmen fought the urge to hit the nearest tree.

Don't fall.

Don't drown.

Don't get lost.

He hung on to the lifeline of tasks.

“I'm hungry,” said Jacey in a small voice.

At least he could do something about that.

“Let's have lunch,” said Rakmen, flipping the canoe upside down and resting one end on a stump. “Come on.” He crawled under the small shelter, pulling the packs in after. Jacey squeezed into the little fort. While they ate cheese and crackers, Rakmen rechecked the map.

“Where are we?” Jacey asked.

He pointed to the northern shore of Tiske Lake. The portage they needed was at the opposite end of the narrow oblong of water. It wasn't a big lake, but the wind surged up from the south, whipping the waves higher and higher.

The trailhead felt as far as the moon.

They could wait it out, but Rakmen had no idea how long the storm would last.

And Leah was counting on them.

“We've got to keep going,” he said, talking himself into it.

“Okay,” said Jacey, slumping against her pack like a teddy bear missing most of its stuffing.

Rakmen handed her another piece of cheese. “Hey, girl, I miss you jabbering at me.”

She frowned at him. “Then how come you always acted like I bugged you?”

“Who, me?” he protested.

She turned away like he wasn't even worth looking at it.

“No,” he amended. “You're right. I thought you were annoying.” Jacey swirled one finger in the puddle forming in the low spot between them. “But I don't now.”

In fact, Rakmen realized, her chatter had carried him along the trail in the days before Leah's accident. The treasures she slipped into his pockets had given him a secret boost, and the way she constantly snapped pictures of ferns and flowers and weird yellow mushrooms made him notice the world like he was seeing it for the very first time.

“I like talking to you,” he said. “You're the power, remember?”

Her expression slumped.

Rakmen handed her his piece of chocolate. “Eat,” he said, touching her on the nose. “We can do this.”

“You don't know that.”

“Ouch,” he said. “Ye of little faith.”

She bit into the chocolate. “Well, you don't.”

A renewed surge of rain pounded on the canoe. Water streamed down its sides, carving a muddy furrow in the ground under each gunnel.

“You're right. A whole lot of crappy things can happen, but we've become really good paddlers.”

Her chocolate-smeared lips tilted up in a crooked sort of smile. “You know what I wanted most?”

“I'm not following you,” he said.

“I wanted to be a sister. I wanted to be good at something. I was gonna be the best sister ever.”

The rain was turning everything around them to mud, but all Rakmen could see was the nursery in Jacey's house and the things she'd saved. The list of names. That bit of hair. The sucky bulb for baby noses. Her pudgy arms clutching the box of ashes.

His own mother's pregnancy had been weird and off-putting. He had not wanted to notice her body changing like that, growing ripe and full. He'd avoided thinking of it so completely that when his father put Dora in his arms, she was a revelation.

Unlike him, Jacey had planned and dreamed and prepared, and she got nothing at all. No hello. Not even good-bye. She got scraps. And even these she clung to.

“You would have been a great sister. I know it.”

She smiled at him.

“Jordan missed out big time.”

Jacey nodded.

“We can paddle this lake,” he said. “Bow straight into the waves. Don't stop for anything.” Rakmen zipped her jacket to her chin and pulled the hood down low on her forehead. He helped her into her life jacket and cinched it down hard before securing his own. They squatted under the canoe and squinted out at the deluge.

“Ready?”

Jacey threw back her shoulders. “Ready.”

“Okay. Let's do this.”

Like a jackrabbit, she shot out into the rain. Quick as anything, Rakmen flipped the canoe and tossed in the packs. The canoe bucked and rocked in the waves, but Jacey managed to clamber over the thwart into her seat. When she was in, he held his paddle crosswise to the gunnels and crouched like a sprinter on the blocks.

Jacey held her paddle up, and he launched them into the storm.

The bow rose up the crest of the first wave and slapped down the other side. Spray flew up on either side of the canoe. Jacey paddled hard, and he matched her pace.

Speed was everything. He wanted them through these waves and off this lake. Already they were shipping water. Each crashing descent of the bow sent water over the side. It pooled at his feet, but Rakmen couldn't stop to bail. Paddling required everything he had. Unless the bow was exactly straight into the wind, it grabbed at the canoe, trying to swing them broadside.

They inched away from the shore, fighting both the wind and waves, which tried to push them back. If either of them stopped paddling for even a second, they lost precious distance. Don't look at the shore, Rakmen told himself. Only the next wave. That's all that matters. And the next. And the next.

Rakmen was soaked through every layer he had on. His hair dripped into his eyes, blurring the sky and lake into a roaring gray mess. The only points of clarity were Jacey's bright blue rain jacket, the golden wood of the canoe, and his own hands on the shaft of his paddle.

He paddled as if the lake were his enemy, and he had to beat it back.

He paddled in a rage against all that he had lost.

He paddled because that was the ride he was on.

The muscles in Rakmen's chest and arms trembled with exertion. He willed them across the water, ignoring the pounding fatigue, scanning the waves for the far shore. A million paddle strokes later, Rakmen caught a glimpse of green through the curtain of rain. Ahead of them was the yellow sign marking the portage. A renewed gust of wind threatened to push them back, but he dug in and drove the bow into shore.

They had made it. Almost as soon as he had pulled their gear into the protection of the trees, the wind shifted, and the rain began to slow. The thinning clouds were letting in hints of sunlight.

Rakmen shook the water out of his hair. “I will never join the Navy or the Coast Guard or Captain Hook's pirates or any other gang that sails the sea.”

Jacey grinned at him, rubbing the cramped muscles in her hand. “But you make a good captain.”

“I don't know about that,” Rakmen said, but he smiled back at her.

A half an hour later, every remnant of the storm was gone. Sun streamed out of a blue sky dotted with sheep-like clouds. Steam rose from the ground and their clothes. They changed into dry socks and set off again. Already the exultant feeling of having made the dangerous crossing was fading, and Rakmen's urgency returned at double intensity.

There was still a lot of ground to cover.

Fifteen lakes.

Twenty miles.

Two more days.

CHAPTER 30

Jacey dropped her paddle on the gunnels with a bang. “We're lost, aren't we?”

“No,” said Rakmen, staring first at the map on his thighs then at the maze of islands in front of them. He hated this lake.

On the bow seat in front of him the girl slumped. Her filthy T-shirt stretched tight across her back. “This sucks,” she moaned into her kneecaps.

Some jerk-wad explorer who thought he was funny had called this Twisted Lake. On the map, it was a blue mess of bays, poking out in every direction like splayed fingers. The longest, the middle one, was definitely flashing him the bird.

For three days, he'd kept them on course, tracking their progress from lake to portage. The map was soft from folding and refolding. The paper was separating along the fold lines, tearing a little more each time he opened it. But thanks to quadruple checking, they'd gone right.

Until now.

Molly's instructions—
Don't get lost
—pounded through his head. What he wouldn't give for an intact GPS.

Or a Coast Guard helicopter.

Yeah, right. He had nothing.

On the map, the portage they needed was down the middle finger, which pointed southwest on the other side of a cluster of small islands. He scanned the rocky, tree-covered masses in front of them, trying to figure out if these were the right islands.

Leaving the map on his legs, he resumed paddling, betting that they would be able to spot the portage bay from the other side of the islands. “Come on, girl,” he urged.

Jacey didn't move.

The canoe slipped between an island the size of a train engine and another five times as big. A few craggy pines clung to their tops, roots clinging to cracks in the rocky surface. He didn't know how they grew like that. There wasn't even real dirt involved.

“Rakmen?” She was still bent double, staring at the bottom of the canoe.

“Yeah?”

“I can't stop thinking about my mom.”

The storm yesterday had probably barreled through the campsite on Allard Lake, tearing at the tarp lines and battering Leah's tent. She would have struggled to keep the fire going. Rakmen didn't know how bad an ankle break could be. His dad said people sometimes got infections and died really fast, but that was usually in hospitals, staph or something. The skin wasn't broken. Rakmen clung to that small good thing.

“The faster we get to Edna, the faster we get back. So paddle,” he ordered.

Jacey huffed at her legs.

Amid thoughts of what might be happening back on Allard Lake, Rakmen's concern about their pace ballooned. Slugs would travel faster than they were. He swabbed sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt. The canoe kept gliding forward when he stopped paddling to refer to the map again. Looking up, he caught a flash of yellow in trees ahead.

He peered at it, praying for a portage sign.

Come on. Come on.

The water in front of them swirled to life as a loon rose from the depths.

“Jacey,” he whispered. “Look.”

She lifted her head an inch. The bird's red eyes practically glowed. Rakmen held his breath. They'd never been this close to one before. It was unbelievable how perfect it was. The tiny lines of white on its black throat stood out like snow on ink. If Molly were here, she would draw it, capturing the way it seemed made of water as it dove.

After the loon was gone, he went back to searching the tree line. That was a yellow portage sign. He was sure of it. “There,” he said, pointing down the bay. “That will get us to Fancy Lake and then to Pen. We're close.”

She peered suspiciously over her shoulder at him. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” he said, trying to convince both of them.

“What kind of a lake name is Fancy?” said Jacey, sitting up.

“Beats me. Maybe it's Barbie's lake.”

She snorted and began to paddle.

“Posh ladies rent it out for tea parties.” If he could keep her talking, they could keep moving. “You have to wear a ball gown to paddle it. Too bad I forgot my tuxedo.”

Finally, his girl laughed—a weak, little giggle.

They made it to Fancy.

And paddled it.

Tuxedo-less.

Unloading the canoe at the portage to Pen Lake, Rakmen was beyond exhaustion, stumbling along in an out-of-focus, sleep-deprived hallucinatory state punctuated by explosive nerves that sent him scrambling to recheck the map.

“Come on, Jacey.” He hauled her to her feet. “One more portage to Pen Lake.”

“I'm really tired,” she whined, as he helped her load up.

He'd been talking nearly nonstop about whatever random fluff seemed likely to keep her going, but the well was running dry. He cast about for something to distract them both. “On this portage, I want you to tell me everything you'd take pictures of if you still had your camera.”

“I don't want to take pictures.”

Rakmen shouldered his pack and threw up the canoe.

“Pretend pictures.”

“What's the point?”

He urged her up the trail. “See any mushrooms?”

“No,” she said, plodding in front of him.

“That's a cool fern,” Rakmen said, pointing from underneath the canoe.

Jacey said nothing.

The map in his pocket crinkled as he walked. He wanted Molly to know that he was not lost. Not yet, at least. Eight more lakes.

Tomorrow—he clung to the word.

Tomorrow they'd make it out.

CHAPTER 31

Worry urged Rakmen on. He paddled hard down the length of Pen Lake and kept pushing. At least they were back in familiar territory now. Seeing the sign for the portage which would bypass the rapids and take them to Wrangel Lake was like seeing the Safeway in his neighborhood back home. What he wouldn't give for a basket of jojos.