walked on down the trail.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “That’s real nice.” I felt I could have killed him just then, and I muttered awful things behind his back.
But I forgot my anger as we walked deeper into the forest. Moss grew thick and heavy, covering every hump and hollow, every fallen log. Where we walked it sprang right up behind us, and we left no tracks; we made no sound. The trees soared straight as columns, then suddenly spread out in a shimmering roof of green and gold seven stories high. No logger had ever been there, and the trees might have lived a thousand years.
We didn’t talk as we walked through the forest, and then for another mile along cliffs of staggering height. Then the land sloped down to a gravel beach. And there, among stranded logs and enormous boulders, we found a fishing boat.
Something has gone very wrong.
Of all the things I’ve imagined, I never once thought of fog. But far to the north and out to the west, the sea is hidden by a thick, white blanket.
A voice whispers doubts in my ear.
Nobody’s coming. It was only a dream.
How will anyone find us if our world shrinks to a gray circle?
I shout aloud, trying to drive away the thoughts, “Today is the day! This is the day we’ll be saved!”
Just off the shore a seal pops its head from the sea and stares at me with enormous eyes. It must think I’m crazy to be screaming at the sky. But I’ve told Frank that if we have any doubts, it will not happen. If we
believe
we’ll be saved, we’ll be saved.
I keep chanting: “Today is the day. Help’s on the way.”
I repeat it over and over, until the words become a senseless jumble. But the fog is growing thicker. I can see it spreading south.
I glance back at the meadow, at the trees and the dark bushes. If Frank appears now he might lose hope. He might blurt out words that will ruin everything.
On the grass beside my favorite chair are the drums we’ve made from a bucket and a metal barrel. I sit, take up the sticks and start to beat a rhythm on the barrel. It’s a savage sort of sound that rumbles out across the sea.
Boom-boom, boom, boom-boom.
My arms move like levers. The sticks bounce up from the drum. I drive them down again.
Boom, boom, boom-boom.
Frank would not believe me, but I can drum the fog away.
I pound on the drum, but the fog keeps rolling closer. I can imagine it creeping along the shoreline, covering the river, swallowing the boulders, filling the old boat with a cold, gray gloom.
•••
When I first saw that boat I thought we were saved.
It sat upright among the logs, like a bird in a fabulous nest. I thought we could drag it down to the water and sail away, and I ran toward it.
But when I got a bit closer I saw that the boat was a wreck. A log had pierced the cabin windows—in the back and out the front. Like a huge wooden nail, it pinned the boat to the land. Shattered glass lay everywhere.
A name was still painted on the bow, though it had nearly faded away.
Reepicheep.
Frank frowned as he touched the letters. “What the heck does that mean?”
“It’s a mouse,” I told him. “Reepicheep was a warrior, the bravest mouse in Narnia, and—”
“Who cares?” said Frank. He slipped around behind the boat, then appeared on the deck, popping up between the logs.
The boat gave me a feeling of sadness, and I didn’t go any closer. I stood fiddling with the raven’s red wire while Frank explored the places where the fisherman had lived and worked, and maybe died. He crawled right inside the wreck, through a narrow gap between the planks and the gravel. I could hear him shouting that the engine was still in the boat, that he’d found a jigging line, that he’d found a gaff.
When he came out he was happy. The gaff was stout and heavy, a club with a hook on the end. The jig was a pink lure wrapped with fishing line around a rusted bolt.
Frank nodded toward the wreck. “That was his boat.”
“Whose boat?” I asked.
“The
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “That’s real nice.” I felt I could have killed him just then, and I muttered awful things behind his back.
But I forgot my anger as we walked deeper into the forest. Moss grew thick and heavy, covering every hump and hollow, every fallen log. Where we walked it sprang right up behind us, and we left no tracks; we made no sound. The trees soared straight as columns, then suddenly spread out in a shimmering roof of green and gold seven stories high. No logger had ever been there, and the trees might have lived a thousand years.
We didn’t talk as we walked through the forest, and then for another mile along cliffs of staggering height. Then the land sloped down to a gravel beach. And there, among stranded logs and enormous boulders, we found a fishing boat.
Something has gone very wrong.
Of all the things I’ve imagined, I never once thought of fog. But far to the north and out to the west, the sea is hidden by a thick, white blanket.
A voice whispers doubts in my ear.
Nobody’s coming. It was only a dream.
How will anyone find us if our world shrinks to a gray circle?
I shout aloud, trying to drive away the thoughts, “Today is the day! This is the day we’ll be saved!”
Just off the shore a seal pops its head from the sea and stares at me with enormous eyes. It must think I’m crazy to be screaming at the sky. But I’ve told Frank that if we have any doubts, it will not happen. If we
believe
we’ll be saved, we’ll be saved.
I keep chanting: “Today is the day. Help’s on the way.”
I repeat it over and over, until the words become a senseless jumble. But the fog is growing thicker. I can see it spreading south.
I glance back at the meadow, at the trees and the dark bushes. If Frank appears now he might lose hope. He might blurt out words that will ruin everything.
On the grass beside my favorite chair are the drums we’ve made from a bucket and a metal barrel. I sit, take up the sticks and start to beat a rhythm on the barrel. It’s a savage sort of sound that rumbles out across the sea.
Boom-boom, boom, boom-boom.
My arms move like levers. The sticks bounce up from the drum. I drive them down again.
Boom, boom, boom-boom.
Frank would not believe me, but I can drum the fog away.
I pound on the drum, but the fog keeps rolling closer. I can imagine it creeping along the shoreline, covering the river, swallowing the boulders, filling the old boat with a cold, gray gloom.
•••
When I first saw that boat I thought we were saved.
It sat upright among the logs, like a bird in a fabulous nest. I thought we could drag it down to the water and sail away, and I ran toward it.
But when I got a bit closer I saw that the boat was a wreck. A log had pierced the cabin windows—in the back and out the front. Like a huge wooden nail, it pinned the boat to the land. Shattered glass lay everywhere.
A name was still painted on the bow, though it had nearly faded away.
Reepicheep.
Frank frowned as he touched the letters. “What the heck does that mean?”
“It’s a mouse,” I told him. “Reepicheep was a warrior, the bravest mouse in Narnia, and—”
“Who cares?” said Frank. He slipped around behind the boat, then appeared on the deck, popping up between the logs.
The boat gave me a feeling of sadness, and I didn’t go any closer. I stood fiddling with the raven’s red wire while Frank explored the places where the fisherman had lived and worked, and maybe died. He crawled right inside the wreck, through a narrow gap between the planks and the gravel. I could hear him shouting that the engine was still in the boat, that he’d found a jigging line, that he’d found a gaff.
When he came out he was happy. The gaff was stout and heavy, a club with a hook on the end. The jig was a pink lure wrapped with fishing line around a rusted bolt.
Frank nodded toward the wreck. “That was his boat.”
“Whose boat?” I asked.
“The
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