The Sea Runners - Ivan Doig [89]
Twice more Wennberg hallooed. "Got to be someone about, got to," he insisted.
They labored two-thirds of the distance to the cabin before Karlsson could make himself bring out what was wisping in his mind.
"Doesn't look right."
"We don't give a fly's shit how it looks," Wennberg panted. "Just so it's roof and walls."
"Wennberg. Wennberg, it's not."
"Not? Skin your goddamn eyes, Karlsson, it's right there, it's—"
But a further twenty yards dissolved the cabin details entirely. All the Wennbergs and Karlssons of the world could have put wish to it at once and still the profile would have been only what it was emerging as. The green roof roughening into growth of bush. The weather-silvered curve of wood, high as the men, dropping pretense of gray cabin wall.
A huge butt of cedar drift log, nursery of salal atop it. Mammoth chip from this coast of wood, undercut by some patient stream or other and carried in here, years since, by the tide.
Karlsson swallowed, felt an ache sharpen itself behind his eyes.
Wennberg stood and shook his head like an ox discouraging flies. "Why couldn't it've been—"
The way one plods the distances of a dream, both of them slogged on to the huge log. Wennberg slumped against it, sagged until he sat with his back to the silvered wood. His knees came up and his head went down to them.
Karlsson leaned against the inland edge of the log, propped bis weariness there. A rust was spreading in him. Judgment, movement, both now seemed so tedious that he had to force his mind to them.
... Done it all this far. Done the work of the world. Can't end here. Oughtn't. Need to see how...
Karlsson made his feet turn until he was viewing north along the bay edge.
... Bay and bay and more of it. Got to be a mouth there somewhere. Over those dunes. Find it, figure...
"Wennberg. Wennberg, we need go for a look. Just over there. Find how to get the canoe out of here."
"No use to it." The blacksmith's tone was muffled, head still to his knees. "No use," he droned. "Just more muck."
"The bay mouth. Need to see what it's like."
"No."
"It's our only way out of here."
Wennberg did not answer.
"You'll stay here to the log, then." Karlsson tried to focus instruction. "Just where you are."
... He goes off into the mire and tide catches him, there'll be his end. Ironhead he is, but not that. Doesn't deserve that....
"Wennberg! Wennberg, hear me! You'll stay to the log. Ave?"
"Stay—" agreed the muffled voice.
Karlsson aimed inland, off the mud of the tideflat. When he reached sand and made bis turn north, now he was wallowing through dune grass high as his waist.
... Maps, we'd know. Could see to the place Astoria, on them. But we'd still be in here....
He pushed the grass aside as he trudged, until he felt its sharpnesses biting at his hands. To stop the stabs he brought his hands up and in, put his elbows out, woodsman's habit against brush.
... Step it off. Like pacing where the tree'll fall....
The whetted grass was on all sides of him now, color of a faded rye field, lines of these sown dunes rolling parallel with the bay.
...Guts are out of Wennberg. Someway get him on his feet, get us out....
Whiteness stroked up into the sky, in a slow strong swim passed before Karlsson, Two yellow eyes estimated him harshly.
The snowy owl flapped far into the dunes before perching again.
Karlsson tramped on north until it came through to him that the footing was wavering, creeping in front of him, A slow crawl like tan snakes: sand blowing in ropy slinking patterns. He was out of the dune grass. Water lay a meadow's width in front of him.
Now at water edge. Beautiful blue.
Peering out into the bay entrance which the fog had poured them through.
Squinted to be sure of what he was seeing.
Instead