Raft of Stars Andrew Graff (free biff chip and kipper ebooks txt) 📖

it in her own heart before. Forsakenness. It comes from the deepest deep. Forsakenness is a woman standing in a hailstorm, or a tent at night, forsaking everything back.

And now this whale. Tiffany became aware of a different sort of noise in the wind. A growling or moaning. It immediately grew louder until the moan and growl overtook the sound of the storm and Miranda. Tiffany braced herself, clutched her paddle in the darkness and the noise. Whatever was coming, it was upon them. Miranda raged in the bow of the boat, her hands purple fists.

“Miranda, get down!”

Lightning cracked again as a realization crystallized in Tiffany’s mind: the moan was a motor. The whale was a boat. And in the space of that realization all hope shattered in fear. There was no way the boat would see them in this downpour. Lightning illuminated the scene in a maze of flashes, and everything froze in strobes, still-frames. Within arm’s reach, a flat-bottomed boat raced into the wind. Its motor howled and warbled with strain. A bright white wake of water hung suspended in an arc over the gunwale of the canoe. A lone figure sat in the back of the boat, one hand pinning the throttle of the outboard motor, the other holding the hood of a rain poncho down over his eyes and face. The boatman didn’t even see them.

The world snapped black again, the canoe rolled across the wake, and Miranda went overboard with a percussive splash. The wave of river water, as cold as it was, felt warm in Tiffany’s lap. The growl of the motor swept past and filled the sodden air with the smell of hot exhaust. Without thinking, Tiffany found herself bailing the canoe with her paddle blade, shoveling water and hailstones out into the darkness. The canoe wallowed but was still floating. About three inches of gunwale remained above the surface.

“Help us!” she yelled to the boatman as loudly as she could. Hailstones stung her face, and she had to turn away from the wind. “Jerk!” she yelled into the sky, but it was no use. The boat was already out of sight, its wake of froth and exhaust winding away into the storm. Tiffany heard Miranda sputter and cough several yards off in the darkness, beating her way back to the canoe in her denim dress.

Not pausing, still shoveling, Tiffany had a thought, and was struck by the peculiarity and clarity of such a thought during this sort of moment. As she reached out and stroked toward Miranda, she felt something very odd, some warm presence, some sort of charm in the storm. As she paddled, she felt as if she was gathering blessing unto herself, like the coyote in her poem, stretched out in a desperate run toward its tribe, toward abundance, and pain too, and she felt that the more she paddled, the more she would gather. And she wanted to gather it, pull it all into her lap like the river and embrace it.

The hail fell. The wind pushed. Miranda called out to Jesus in the water. Tiffany felt blessed.

CAL SPENT THE PAST HOUR SLAPPING MOSQUITOES AND WATCHING Teddy cuss and slash his way through spruce trees. The constant drizzle wasn’t enough to keep off the bugs. If anything, it seemed to enliven them, prod them to feast. The rain was just enough to soak everything slowly. First the foliage, then Cal’s jacket, and then his jeans and boot. Cal heard thunder far off to the west, back where the river was, and couldn’t decide which would be worse, to be caught in that storm or in these clouds of mosquitoes. Right now, damp as a rag, with itchy welts on his neck and hands, sweating but unable to remove his coat for fear of the swarm, Cal voted for thunderstorm, hands down. A tree-bending wind would do these bugs in nicely. There was another itch too. Cal wanted a drink. And he wanted one badly enough that it scared him, threatened all the hope of newness he’d found in this forest.

Cal walked slowly behind Ted, who hacked and hacked. Cal held the reins of both horses. Jacks fell in behind, constantly whining and grumbling and shaking his ears. It would be Cal’s turn to slash through the undergrowth soon, and he’d welcome it. They’d already traded off about four times.

Hours ago, when they first approached the stretch of forest that held Teddy’s logging road, Cal felt in his gut that it was a bad idea. As they moved farther inland, the open hardwoods and clearings gave way to cedar and pine and spruce. Every so often they’d come across a small stand of white pine that made for easier walking, the massive trees keeping the ground clear of undergrowth. But then the men had to plunge once again into thickets and branches so tangled a person couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen feet. It was just pine. An endless hedge of pine. When the woods became so thick that they had trouble leading the horses, Teddy took out his map. Pine boughs looked on over both of his shoulders. Cal held one away from his face, swatted bugs with his free hand.

“Shouldn’t be much farther now, and we’ll make the road.” He ran his finger along the map while Cal eyed the woods suspiciously. They should have stayed by the river. This was misery.

Teddy rolled up the map and retrieved a long canvas sheath from his saddlebag. The sheath was matte green and faded, with a military designator printed along one side like an old tattoo. It held a machete. Teddy grinned a bit as he slid the machete free.

“We weren’t supposed to keep these,” he said. “But I figured they wouldn’t miss it. Some guys kept more.” He turned the blade over in his hand, brushed his thumb against the edge, held it up into a patch of gray light. “Come on,” he said, “less than a