The Gorge

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Raintree heard Dove call his name as he took Farrengalli over the edge and into space. Or maybe he imagined it, because the loud smack as he and Farrengalli slammed into the side of the cliff was followed by exploding fireworks inside his skull.

The intensity of the headache was rivaled by the orange strip of napalm in his leg. He was dimly aware of the naked man hanging onto him with a passion Farrengalli had probably never shared with a lover.

He opened his eyes, and the river was above him, its rapids pale in the light of the grounded moon.

Farrengalli’s arms were wrapped around his waist, hooked in his belt. The two of them were swaying, and Raintree understood.

Amateur technique. Poor awareness. The kind of thing you’d expect from a pill-head.

He’d left the safety rope secured in its anchor, coiled loosely at the edge of the cave. His foot had tangled and aborted his kamikaze attack. Hanging upside down, his leg broken and the tendons separating further by the second, blood pouring from his scalp and nose, he could only imagine how silly he must look. A red puppet on a yo-yo string. He laughed.

Farrengalli planted his toes on Raintree’s chin, launching himself upward, grabbing for the rope. Raintree was too weak to hold onto him, the Olympic grip now impotent. His back was pinned to the mat, the ref counting down.

Farrengalli skinned up Raintree’s devastated leg like a summer camper climbing a greased pole for a watermelon. Just before abandoning him and scaling the rope, Farrengalli reached for the belt, tugging at the fanny pack that held the cell phone.

Raintree closed his eyes, focused the LSD chaos into a gleaming beacon of purpose, and jabbed his thumb into the back of Farrengalli’s hand. Farrengalli yelped and let go of the belt. Raintree laughed again.

Two points for a reversal, but the ref was still counting him down and out.

The rope wiggled, sending electric fire though his body. The oxy was letting him down when he needed it most.

Letting him down.

When he was all hung up.

He laughed again, as Farrengalli’s weight was lifted from him. Then he heard Dove’s voice again.

“Robert!”

Robert. She said his name with affection and urgency. The way she might if they had made love “Help me pull the rope up,” she shouted.

“Fuck, no! The crazy redskin tried to scalp my ass.”

“Help me. I’m not strong enough-”

“Sorry, babe. You’re a good lay and all that, but you’re on your own. Don’t you fucking get it? We’ve all been on our own all along.”

Odd, Raintree thought, blood pooling in his head and making him dizzy even as it leaked down the granite wall. The river should be falling out of the sky any minute now.

He thought of the two of them below him, naked as Adam and Eve, sharing the apple and the worm.

“Help me, you bastard!”

Raintree felt a dull, distant tugging on the rope. Dove was strong, but not strong enough. Just as well. Raintree’s only regret was that his fingers were too numb to dig into the medicine bag. A few Valiums would be the perfect topper for this bum trip.

Bum trip. Skipping rope. Amateur technique.

He stared out across the Unegama Gorge, dangling from the heights of Attacoa, the place his Cherokee forefathers had ascended in search of wisdom. He had come up short, that was all.

The rain started again, though the moon still cut though the clouds enough to throw a strange gleam on the sacred stack of stones.

One of the Raven Mockers flew from the cooling mists above, lost and late. It paused in the air, its hueless skin slick from rain or an unwholesome sweat. Then it altered course as if receiving a silent telegraph.

Toward Raintree.

As it closed the distance, Raintree realized this was what he had sought. This hideous, gray, knotty-limbed creature, this ancient evil spirit, was his animal guide.

This was his totem, his medicine.

The object of his vision quest.

The Raven Mocker drew near, uncertain, as if sizing up a possible adversary. Or else having no idea where to sink its curved, yellow teeth.

Good acid, Robert Raintree thought, as the flicker of stunted wings cast a soft, ill wind across his rain-spattered skin. Because my spirit guide is a white man gone gray. It has Jim Castle’s face.