him.
Then, halfway through the second page, he saw it. The river had grown all along, gotten wider so that it made a respectable blue cut across the map and where it made a large bend, cutting back nearly straight east, there was a small circle drawn and the words:
Brannock Trading Post.
Leading away from Brannock’s Post there was a double line heading down and to the southwest. When he found the symbol for the double line on the map’s legend he saw that it stood for an improved gravel road.
There would be people there.
Right there, on the map, at Brannock’s Trading Post there would be people. They wouldn’t have a road or name the place or make it a dot on the map unless there were people there. A trading post would have people.
Which, Brian thought, doesn’t mean a thing.
He wasn’t at Brannock’s Trading Post. He was here.
Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the spot on the map. It was there, on the same map—just there. And he refolded the map so it would show the lake where they were and the trading post at the same time. He used his fingers to make a divider and measured it straight down, but it didn’t mean anything.
Then he remembered that the grids stood for five kilometers each, and when he counted the numbers of grids between the lake and Brannock’s he came up with about sixteen squares.
“So how far is that?” he said to Derek. “Five times sixteen—maybe eighty, eighty-five kilometers.”
But that was straight—in a straight line southeast.
The river was nowhere near straight, looping back and forth and actually flowing slightly north back along itself at one point.
He started counting, measuring the river as it turned through each five-kilometer square, marking each ten kilometers in the dirt with a line through it, then the next set of ten. It was involved and took him some time, but finally he was done.
He counted them.
“One hundred and fifty kilometers,” he said. “One point six kilometers to a mile. Just under a hundred miles.”
He looked at Derek, who did not move, who made no sign.
“There are people just under a hundred miles from here.”
But what good did that do?
“Here it is—I could leave you and try to follow the river out and bring help back.”
Which, he thought, sounded insane. There were animals. They would come, and if they thought Derek was dead…He was defenseless. They might attack him. Even eat him. Even small things—ants, bugs.
“I can’t leave you.”
Brian looked at the map again. It was there, the answer was there. Brannock’s Trading Post was the answer and the river was the answer, but he didn’t see how.
He couldn’t leave Derek.
He couldn’t leave Derek…
What if he took Derek with him?
He said it aloud. “What if we went out together?”
On the face of it, it sounded like madness. Haul a man in a coma nearly a hundred miles out of the wilderness on a river.
You could say that, Brian thought, but there was a lot of difference between saying it and doing it.
How could he?
The river. If he had a boat . . . or a raft.
If he made a raft and put Derek on the raft, there might be a way he could make the run and take Derek out, get him to the trading post and to help.
And even as he said it he knew it was crazy. A hundred miles on a wilderness river with a raft, hauling a grown man who would be nothing but dead weight, was impossible.
He would have dropped it, except that he looked up from the map and saw the truth then; looked up and saw Derek with his eyes half open and not seeing, awake but not truly living, the minutes of his life moving past and Brian knew that he really didn’t have any choice.
If he stayed Derek would die of thirst in two, perhaps three days. Well before the week or ten days that would pass before the pilot came looking to see what happened.
If he stayed, Derek would die.
If he made the run, took Derek down the river, at least there was a chance.
He had no choice.
15
T ime was everything
Then, halfway through the second page, he saw it. The river had grown all along, gotten wider so that it made a respectable blue cut across the map and where it made a large bend, cutting back nearly straight east, there was a small circle drawn and the words:
Brannock Trading Post.
Leading away from Brannock’s Post there was a double line heading down and to the southwest. When he found the symbol for the double line on the map’s legend he saw that it stood for an improved gravel road.
There would be people there.
Right there, on the map, at Brannock’s Trading Post there would be people. They wouldn’t have a road or name the place or make it a dot on the map unless there were people there. A trading post would have people.
Which, Brian thought, doesn’t mean a thing.
He wasn’t at Brannock’s Trading Post. He was here.
Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the spot on the map. It was there, on the same map—just there. And he refolded the map so it would show the lake where they were and the trading post at the same time. He used his fingers to make a divider and measured it straight down, but it didn’t mean anything.
Then he remembered that the grids stood for five kilometers each, and when he counted the numbers of grids between the lake and Brannock’s he came up with about sixteen squares.
“So how far is that?” he said to Derek. “Five times sixteen—maybe eighty, eighty-five kilometers.”
But that was straight—in a straight line southeast.
The river was nowhere near straight, looping back and forth and actually flowing slightly north back along itself at one point.
He started counting, measuring the river as it turned through each five-kilometer square, marking each ten kilometers in the dirt with a line through it, then the next set of ten. It was involved and took him some time, but finally he was done.
He counted them.
“One hundred and fifty kilometers,” he said. “One point six kilometers to a mile. Just under a hundred miles.”
He looked at Derek, who did not move, who made no sign.
“There are people just under a hundred miles from here.”
But what good did that do?
“Here it is—I could leave you and try to follow the river out and bring help back.”
Which, he thought, sounded insane. There were animals. They would come, and if they thought Derek was dead…He was defenseless. They might attack him. Even eat him. Even small things—ants, bugs.
“I can’t leave you.”
Brian looked at the map again. It was there, the answer was there. Brannock’s Trading Post was the answer and the river was the answer, but he didn’t see how.
He couldn’t leave Derek.
He couldn’t leave Derek…
What if he took Derek with him?
He said it aloud. “What if we went out together?”
On the face of it, it sounded like madness. Haul a man in a coma nearly a hundred miles out of the wilderness on a river.
You could say that, Brian thought, but there was a lot of difference between saying it and doing it.
How could he?
The river. If he had a boat . . . or a raft.
If he made a raft and put Derek on the raft, there might be a way he could make the run and take Derek out, get him to the trading post and to help.
And even as he said it he knew it was crazy. A hundred miles on a wilderness river with a raft, hauling a grown man who would be nothing but dead weight, was impossible.
He would have dropped it, except that he looked up from the map and saw the truth then; looked up and saw Derek with his eyes half open and not seeing, awake but not truly living, the minutes of his life moving past and Brian knew that he really didn’t have any choice.
If he stayed Derek would die of thirst in two, perhaps three days. Well before the week or ten days that would pass before the pilot came looking to see what happened.
If he stayed, Derek would die.
If he made the run, took Derek down the river, at least there was a chance.
He had no choice.
15
T ime was everything
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