The Gorge

CHAPTER SIX

Robert Raintree tuned out Farrengalli’s blathering, looking forward to reaching camp so he could go off on his own. For prayer, medicine, and peace and quiet. He didn’t understand how anyone could enter such an obvious temple of nature as the Unegama Wilderness Area and not be hushed by the spiritual glory. Though the North Carolina mountains had been logged heavily in the early 1900s, the terrain along the river was so treacherous that the lumber companies had left them alone. Hardwoods towered over the trail, knitting a rich, green canopy that filtered the dying sunlight. The undergrowth was robust and varied, with waxy-leafed rhododendron, lavender stalks of blazing star, the creamy white three-leafed trillium, and jewelweed with its fire-colored and drooping petals.

Raintree was no botanist, but he suspected he was the only one in the group who had done any real homework on the region. Maybe because he was the only one who had a real connection with this land, though the connection had been severed through President Andrew Jackson’s forced evacuation of his people. The Cherokee had called the place Eeseeoh, which translated into English as “river of many cliffs.” The white people had named it Lindale after an eighteenth-century explorer who had been murdered here by the Cherokee. Collective and belated national guilt had led to the adoption of the name Unegama, Cherokee for “white water,” when it was added to the National Wilderness Preservation system in the 1960s. Unegama was a somewhat forked-tongue version of the language, but then, the whites had named the Cherokee tribe from a Cree word, not realizing the Cherokee language has no r.

“Step it up,” Farrengalli shouted from the rear. “There’s a bonus if we reach the falls before dark.”

Raintree wondered how Farrengalli would have fared on these trails three centuries ago, when buffalo and elk still made their seasonal passes and wildcats and red wolves stalked easy meat. He somehow believed even the hungriest of predators would find the man’s flesh distasteful.

Equally annoying was the man in front of Raintree, who peppered his dialogue with corporate slogans. The group had obviously been chosen with care, but the company man was a tenderfoot. Raintree couldn’t claim any true outdoor experience, but at least he was in shape. He’d won a bronze in the 2000 Olympics, wrestling in the middleweight class, and had gained a few weeks of notoriety as sportswriters worked the “noble savage” and “the last pure American” angles. Though he’d never won a collegiate championship, he’d survived the Olympic trials by somehow upsetting better wrestlers, and had been an Olympic long shot. He was dream copy, and it didn’t hurt that he had raven-black hair, piercing dark eyes, and the type of chest muscles that led to a few seminude appearances in high-brow magazines marketed to frustrated females.

Raintree parlayed the fleeting fame into a fitness gym in Oklahoma, and his clients included a handful of minor Hollywood stars known more for their builds than their brains. Raintree expanded his network so that it now included six gyms, and ProVentures had partnered with him in developing a line of personal workout equipment. In truth, Raintree had offered little input, merely letting the company use his face and facsimile signature on the products. In exchange, he signed the checks and smiled for Dove Krueger, the company’s official photographer. Like him, Dove had also been recruited on this trip, though he suspected his motives were far different from hers.

Ahead, Bowie Whitlock stopped and stood aside while the company man passed and took the lead.

“Keep walking,” Bowie said to the ProVentures rep. He didn’t speak to Raintree, but their eyes met in mutual sympathy. Raintree noticed the guide was panting a little. Probably could have used the ProVentures Raintree Regimen, where “you measure your chest by the size of your heart.” Trademarked, copyrighted, satisfaction guaranteed, and your money back if you didn’t notice results within thirty days. Of course, most men were embarrassed to admit that they had failed a manly challenge of any kind, so refunds were few.

The woods had a rich, earthy smell, almost that of a corpse. The smell had grown stronger and more primal the further up the steep trail they’d hiked. The group had debarked at a popular scenic overlook, where rubbers and beer cans were the most significant signs of wildlife, but they hadn’t met any fellow hikers in the last two hours. The casual outdoors enthusiasts rarely ventured into this kind of terrain, which had made it all the more appealing to the ProVentures marketing department.

“We’ll be at the falls in an hour,” Bowie said, not shouting but in a firm enough voice that everyone could hear, even Farrengalli. “Don’t worry about bonuses. We’ll all do fine once we make it out of here alive.”

Raintree smiled to himself. The guide had said “once” instead of “if.” Raintree didn’t really expect anyone to die, but he knew ProVentures wanted to play the whole thing up like some kind of reality show, where a team of rugged individualists had to work together while simultaneously competing to see who was strongest. The company would be disappointed if there wasn’t at least a broken leg out of the trip, though they also wanted to prove the safety of their new inflatable rafts.

Raintree had drawn short straw and a $2,000 bonus for being one of two lucky “contestants” to carry the raft. The Muskrat was surprisingly light, weighing only four pounds, and was made of a synthetic rubber blend that ProVentures claimed was “the ultimate evolution of the kayak.” Slogans, catchphrases, sucker language. This trip was all about the hype, and if Raintree had to play the “noble savage” yet one more time, that was okay, because this time he had his own agenda.

He touched the medicine bag at his side. White magic, white medicine.

He was only half Cherokee, but his father’s side was about as genetically pure as possible, given the tribe’s long and civilized association with the white settlers before President Jackson declared war. Most of the Cherokee that once populated the North Carolina, western Georgia, and eastern Tennessee regions had been rounded up and driven west in an infamous forced march fraught with disease, exhaustion, and death. The Trail of Tears led to a reservation in Oklahoma, which the Cherokee shared with a handful of other Native American tribes. The Cherokee were among the smartest and most adaptable tribes, the first to form a written language in an attempt to negotiate with the federal government. Wisdom and diplomacy didn’t fare well against the U.S. Army’s rifles, yet more proof that the pen was never mightier than the sword. However, not all were relocated, and scattered members of the tribe that called itself Aniyunwiya, “the real human beings,” managed to survive the settlement push.

Over a century and a half later, the Cherokee still clung to a tiny reservation in western North Carolina, the debt for the tragedy paid in the form of a sparkling gambling casino. Raintree wasn’t bitter about such things. History had rolled over millions of victims, the human tide swept on, and the best one could hope for was to find personal peace. Which was his mission now.

His Cherokee ancestors had trekked these mountains, had hunted the ridges in the summer, setting up seasonal camps along the river. For a young man, the trip was a challenge of courage, journeying alone for days at a time on a vision quest. Hunger and exhaustion may have contributed to the effect, but the male didn’t return until he had encountered the animal that would serve as his spirit guide. Raintree might never be a warrior, and he was already approaching middle age, but this trip offered him a final chance to follow the distant footsteps of his forefathers.

Even if he walked with palefaces.

“Pick up the pace, you guys,” Farrengalli shouted. Raintree hoped the Italian’s own vision quest included a skunk.

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Bowie said, now some thirty feet behind Raintree but moving again. Dove Krueger was in front of Farrengalli, and Raintree figured the loudmouth was ogling her ass.

“I want to get camp set up so I can munch some of these dee — licious ProVentures N-R-Gee Bars,” Farrengalli said.

“‘Nature’s tasty boost,’” said the company man at the head of the group, quoting a television commercial that ran on a series of MTV extreme sports shows.

“Plenty of time for a campfire, Farrengalli,” Bowie said. “Don’t get your Lycra in a twist.”

Raintree walked on, wishing he were wearing moccasins instead of five-hundred-dollar custom boots.

Something was out here, he knew. Call it his medicine, his vision, his destiny. In this forest that was older than his people, older than all people, something waited.