The Gorge

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Maytagged their asses,” Farrengalli said, looming over Raintree a s he and Dove checked Travis Lane’s condition. “Put the fuckers throug h the spin cycle.”

Raintree gave the idiot a cold look, but Farrengalli kept on. “Hey, where’s Whitlock and the Golden Boy? Making out under the waterfall? ”

“If you don’t want to help, at least shut up and stay out of the w ay,” Dove said. Farrengalli glowered and shoved his boot against the b eached raft, sending it skidding across the mud. Then he went to the w ater’s edge and squatted, waiting for the foundered second raft to mak e its way downriver.

“How is he?” Raintree asked Dove. Lane had been unconscious when t hey’d pulled him from the water. He appeared to be breathing regularly, though when Dove peeled back his eyelids, his pupils were tiny dots of ink against the gray irises.

“I don’t think it’s a concussion. Pupils are the same size. Pulse is normal. No shock.” Dove moved with knowledge and experience, checki ng Lane’s scalp for trauma.

“Should I get the first-aid kit?”

“Want my armchair diagnosis?”

“Sure.”

“He passed out from fright.”

Raintree was glad Farrengalli hadn’t overheard, or he would have r idden Lane for the duration of the trip. “Well, if he wet his pants, a t least it won’t show.”

Dove grinned, but only for a second before her eyebrows arched wit h concern. She looked upriver at the waterfall that had dumped the raf t. “Bowie, where are you?” she said, half to herself.

She’s worried about him. And not just as a team leader.

Raintree felt a twinge of jealousy, and it annoyed him. He touched her wrist, and was about to tell her not to worry when Bowie emerged from the rock shelf and gave out a shout. “Get the raft!”

Farrengalli waded in until the water was above his knees, and then swam toward the half-submerged raft with smooth strokes. He caught it fifty yards downstream and guided it toward shore, pushing it before him, hanging onto the grab loop with one hand.

Bowie and McKay climbed the rock face beside the waterfall, findin g a natural shelf and edging along it until they reached the shore. By the time they reached Lane, the man was sitting up, spitting brackish phlegm and cussing.

“Passed with flying colors,” Bowie said.

“It didn’t burst,” Lane said.

“Took on water too easy.”

“It’s a field test.” Lane gave a wet hack. “We can take all the in formation back to the lab. ProVentures wants us to reach takeout in on e piece, and we’re still in one piece.”

“Another incident like that and we’re walking out, bonus or no bon us.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bowie,” Dove said. “We could use a break an yway. Early lunch?”

Raintree was impressed with the way Dove Krueger handled both Whit lock and Farrengalli, as well as her calm approach in treating Lane. H e knew little about her, only that she was a highly regarded journalis t known for her coverage of extreme sports and outdoor adventures. She and Bowie exhibited a familiarity with one another that made it seem like they’d worked together before. None of his business, though. His spirit was already troubled enough without speculating on the affairs of others. He touched the medicine bag for comfort.

McKay helped Farrengalli wrestle the second raft ashore, tipping t he water out and dragging it beside the first. Lane stood on shaky leg s and inspected it. “See, no damage at all. Built to withstand the wor st that nature has to offer.”

“Is that the ad copy or did you improvise?” Bowie asked.

“Maytagged your asses,” Farrengalli said.

Lane ignored Farrengalli’s taunt. “I have complete faith in our pr oducts, or I wouldn’t bet my life on them.”

“But what about betting our lives?” Bowie asked.

“Hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Farrengalli said. “ If a couple of you clowns buy the farm, then there’s more glory for me.”

“Hey, man, this isn’t a canned episode of Wild Life with Natalie,” McKay countered. “This is reality. I’d like to see you handle that spill.”

“No sweat, Golden Boy.” Farrengalli puffed out his chest, as if ex pecting another physical confrontation. Raintree stepped between them, sensing Dove would do so if he didn’t. “Let’s eat, gentlemen. Accordi ng to the map, we’re about halfway to Babel Tower. Two more hours on t he water and we should reach our campsite.”

Farrengalli glared at Bowie. “You going to let Geronimo here give the orders from now on?”

“That wasn’t an order,” Bowie responded. “Let’s give Mr. Lane a ch ance to recuperate, and we could all stand some refreshment. If you do n’t mind, that is.”

“Bush-league bullshit,” Farrengalli said, stalking off toward the edge of the woods.

“He’s going to be trouble before the trip’s over,” Dove said to Bo wie.

“He was trouble before it even started. Okay, folks, crackers and dried fruit; then it’s time to catch some serious hair.”

Raintree gathered his backpack, noticing Dove and Bowie sat down t ogether to share their rations. He went into the woods away from Farre ngalli, wondering if the sylvan glade would offer up the vision he sou ght. A large part of him felt foolish. Vision quests were archaic, los t in the early nineteenth century, vanished like the buffalo and elk. Nowadays, vision quests were offered as vacation retreats, a week in t he desert or the high mountains with a self-proclaimed “spirit guide” who accepted cash, traveler’s checks, or credit cards. Like the sad ol d men who made their living posing in ceremonial headdress for tourist photographs, Raintree was just another sellout. He’d traded on his im age and heritage as much as anybody, a cigar-store Indian with good te eth and muscle frame, blessed with a lithe form that might in another time have wrestled grizzly bears and cougars.

Farrengalli clearly hoped someone would die on the journey. Raintr ee didn’t care. He didn’t know which was worse.

But he wanted to succeed. He would do it for his people, though th e Cherokee had changed along with the rest of the civilized world. The

White Man took their lands but later made good by granting gambling c asinos. The Great Spirit had abandoned its people yet again, but then rolled sevens after they had given up all faith.

He rummaged in the medicine bag. A couple of the black, a white, and maybe one of the yellows for good measure. Raintree looked toward the sky, up where one of the White Man’s gods was supposed to dwell on a golden throne. He saw no sign of such a god, but a few clouds had drifted from the northwest, high cumulus with swelling, gray underbellies. All part of the Great Spirit, along with the forest, the river, the rocks, and “Where the fuck is everybody?”

Farrengalli. A force of nature unto himself.

Raintree was about to return to the others along the riverbank when he saw a creature drifting high off the cliffs, perhaps a half mile away.

A hawk? A feathered brother that would fulfill his quest and provide him with strength and knowledge?

No, its wings were too awkward for that of a hawk, its flight uncertain. This creature angled against the wind as if it had been thrown off the rocky heights and expected to fly or drop like a stone. It flew as if it had no direction, no purpose.

Raintree squinted against the veiled sun, trying to make out the winged form. Eagle? They were rare in the mountains, he’d heard, but liked to nest in pairs near water, so it wasn’t impossible. He’d never seen an eagle in midair, but suspected its flight would be majestic, not crippled. Falcon? Not as rare as eagles, but again, such a bird of prey would project more strength in the air. This was more likely a vulture.

Even from this distance, though, the creature projected a non-avian aspect. Whatever it was, its lower body was dense, not built for aerodynamic grace. It appeared to be gliding, its wing-like projections held out stiffly from its trunk. It cut a slow, lazy ellipse, a darker speck against the clouds, and then it disappeared among the distant treetops.

Seconds later, Raintree realized what he had witnessed, but could only smile to himself. The Great Spirit played tricks when delivering visions, and those who sought too hard often engaged in flights of fancy.

The thing had been a man.

Flying without a plane, hang glider, or parachute.

Raintree touched his medicine bag. Psychedelic mushrooms, jimson weed, foxglove, and belladonna were natural paths to visions. But Raintree didn’t want the natural path. He craved the finest that modern drug companies had to offer, in clean, easily digestible pill form. He had been saving the best stuff for some unforeseen sacred moment. Maybe visions came when least expected, and made so little sense the seeker had to dream on them for weeks or months or even years to understand their meaning.

Or, perhaps, he had imagined the whole thing.

Raintree unfolded himself, rose, and headed back to the rafts, anxious to finish the journey, no longer so curious to suffer sacred visions.