Chase left the expedition?”
“Yes,” said Du Pré.
Pearse was humming, he was so happy.
Du Pré told Pearse the tale of Chase’s departure.
“That little prick,” said Pearse. “I have been stewing about having to be civil to him for weeks. And he’s not coming. Thank you.”
“He is pretty bad,” said Du Pré.
Du Pré lingered for a few minutes, walking by the scrubbing tables, where people were knocking the worst of the sand and rust off the ax heads and bar lead, the kettles and frying pans, the fused masses of smaller metal objects.
The chunks were then carried to a spray booth, where a woman wearing a breather mask sprayed them with clear plastic.
Du Pré walked down by the pool. There were lines snaking out into it, tied to a cable that ran across the pool from shore to shore coiled around huge trees on each side. The cable was high above, maybe ten feet. A kingfisher sat on it, head turning.
He glanced at the tidy little tent village. This was a well-run, clean, orderly camp.
He thought of the expedition, how disorderly it was till Chase had left.
Lot of wrecks here over the years, pile up that much trade goods. Damn furs would have floated off or rotted, bones ground to powder by the shifting gravels. The pool was big and mean now ; when the snows melted and the spring runoff hit, it must be awesome.
Pearse wandered over to Du Pré.
“I …” he started, but then there was a shout from the shore down by the pool. People were pointing and yelling at the long falls.
Du Pré started to run to them.
He looked back up the long tongue of fast green water. One of the big freighters was coming down it, paddlers front and back digging to keep the big canoe lined right with the current.
Lucky, the canoe builder, was standing in the middle of the big canoe, holding a staff. Feathers fluttered from the tip.
The freighter shot across the foaming boil where the green tongue of the river dove into the pool. The paddlers dug in and the canoe went free into the green waters. The rear paddler dug his paddle in the water at the canoe’s side and the freighter turned to the shore.
Lucky was still standing.
The canoe ground up over the gravels.
“Pretty nice canoe,” said Du Pré to Lucky.
Pearse was smiling. “I guess some of the time it worked,” he said. “You gave us quite a fright.”
“Yeah, that’s a strong canoe,” said Lucky. “You got to hit the water right, though.”
“Whew,” said Pearse. “Who built it?”
“I did,” said Lucky.
“I wonder,” said Pearse, “if a lot of the deposits on the pool bottom are there because of bad design or flaws in the canoes. Interesting.”
Lucky nodded.
“See if the other one works,” said Lucky. “It don’t got that birch roll in the back there.”
“What other one?” snapped Pearse.
“That one,” said Lucky, pointing back up the river.
Du Pré looked, winced.
The other big freighter was coming down, the women paddling this time. They were keeping the canoe lined well.
The big canoe shot down the tongue and across the foaming boil.
But Bart Fascelli lost his balance.
He’d been standing up like Lucky.
He shot off to the side and sank.
A thwart broke and the canoe hogged and the birch bark ripped down the side at the seams.
The canoe broached to and the women went in and the gear went over. The canoe swamped.
The hydraulics dragged everything and everyone under.
Du Pré glanced to his left, at Lucky, who was laughing.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Du Pré screamed, running.
Before Gabriel Du Pré could prove how well he could swim (not very), the frogman came up, though, with Bart in hand. The frogman hauled poor Bart to shore, where he vomited a lot of water.
“You dumb shit,” said Du Pré sympathetically.
“We knew that,” Bart wheezed.
Du Pré went back up to help carry the smaller canoes down.
That pool, it eat one of these just fast like that, he thought, looking down at the path pounded two feet deep over
“Yes,” said Du Pré.
Pearse was humming, he was so happy.
Du Pré told Pearse the tale of Chase’s departure.
“That little prick,” said Pearse. “I have been stewing about having to be civil to him for weeks. And he’s not coming. Thank you.”
“He is pretty bad,” said Du Pré.
Du Pré lingered for a few minutes, walking by the scrubbing tables, where people were knocking the worst of the sand and rust off the ax heads and bar lead, the kettles and frying pans, the fused masses of smaller metal objects.
The chunks were then carried to a spray booth, where a woman wearing a breather mask sprayed them with clear plastic.
Du Pré walked down by the pool. There were lines snaking out into it, tied to a cable that ran across the pool from shore to shore coiled around huge trees on each side. The cable was high above, maybe ten feet. A kingfisher sat on it, head turning.
He glanced at the tidy little tent village. This was a well-run, clean, orderly camp.
He thought of the expedition, how disorderly it was till Chase had left.
Lot of wrecks here over the years, pile up that much trade goods. Damn furs would have floated off or rotted, bones ground to powder by the shifting gravels. The pool was big and mean now ; when the snows melted and the spring runoff hit, it must be awesome.
Pearse wandered over to Du Pré.
“I …” he started, but then there was a shout from the shore down by the pool. People were pointing and yelling at the long falls.
Du Pré started to run to them.
He looked back up the long tongue of fast green water. One of the big freighters was coming down it, paddlers front and back digging to keep the big canoe lined right with the current.
Lucky, the canoe builder, was standing in the middle of the big canoe, holding a staff. Feathers fluttered from the tip.
The freighter shot across the foaming boil where the green tongue of the river dove into the pool. The paddlers dug in and the canoe went free into the green waters. The rear paddler dug his paddle in the water at the canoe’s side and the freighter turned to the shore.
Lucky was still standing.
The canoe ground up over the gravels.
“Pretty nice canoe,” said Du Pré to Lucky.
Pearse was smiling. “I guess some of the time it worked,” he said. “You gave us quite a fright.”
“Yeah, that’s a strong canoe,” said Lucky. “You got to hit the water right, though.”
“Whew,” said Pearse. “Who built it?”
“I did,” said Lucky.
“I wonder,” said Pearse, “if a lot of the deposits on the pool bottom are there because of bad design or flaws in the canoes. Interesting.”
Lucky nodded.
“See if the other one works,” said Lucky. “It don’t got that birch roll in the back there.”
“What other one?” snapped Pearse.
“That one,” said Lucky, pointing back up the river.
Du Pré looked, winced.
The other big freighter was coming down, the women paddling this time. They were keeping the canoe lined well.
The big canoe shot down the tongue and across the foaming boil.
But Bart Fascelli lost his balance.
He’d been standing up like Lucky.
He shot off to the side and sank.
A thwart broke and the canoe hogged and the birch bark ripped down the side at the seams.
The canoe broached to and the women went in and the gear went over. The canoe swamped.
The hydraulics dragged everything and everyone under.
Du Pré glanced to his left, at Lucky, who was laughing.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Du Pré screamed, running.
Before Gabriel Du Pré could prove how well he could swim (not very), the frogman came up, though, with Bart in hand. The frogman hauled poor Bart to shore, where he vomited a lot of water.
“You dumb shit,” said Du Pré sympathetically.
“We knew that,” Bart wheezed.
Du Pré went back up to help carry the smaller canoes down.
That pool, it eat one of these just fast like that, he thought, looking down at the path pounded two feet deep over
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