The Sacrament by Peter Gzowski: Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Monday started with foreboding. Donna couldn't walk. Literally couldn't move. She'd left her walking stick about twenty feet from their night's shelter, and when she woke up she couldn't get to it. It was there, sticking out of the snow, but it might as well have been in Estevan. It was the stiffness. Sunday's walk must have done it. She was stiff and weak at the smae time, and she had to ask Brent to get the stick for her, just so she could pull herself upright.
There, that was better, but she was still weak, and she didn't know how far she could walk that day.
"We should try and make that plain."
"I'll try."
"That's all you can do. Yesterday ahd to be the hardest. It will just get easier now."
"Yesterday I could walk."
"You didn't look like it."
"You looked like you were trying to wiggle the whole way on your belly."
"And what do you think you looked like? A long-distance runner?"
"Yup. That's me. Brent Dyer of Estevan, Saskatchewan. He's coming into the stadium now, folks. He's finishing his last lap. He's going to make it. He's going to beat all those foreigners! Here he is! The winner! He's stepping up to get his gold medal from the king of - "
"The king of liars probably."
"Just the king. King of the world. Let's go, eh? Let's move on out of here."
They had decided to stay on top of the ridge as long as they could. The ridge was descending now, and by trying to walk along its spine, they would have an easier route into the valley, avoiding the soggy lake they could still see below. On the ridge - the finger of the mountains, as they called it - the snow lay more thinly on the rocks, but to their dismay they found the going over the rough rocks, which varied from small pebbles to boulders the size of station wagons, even harder than over the thick snow of the day before. Their ankles twisted with almost every step, and picking their way through the obstacles, they were unable to keep even the measured, tortuous pace of their first day. As hard as they tried to move in units of ten or twenty or thirty paces, they kept running into natural barriers that forced them to rest.
The finger of the mountain seemed to stetch on forever. By the time the sun hung high over their heads, causing them to sweat and struggle out of some of the outer layers of their clothes, they had covered far less ground than they had hoped. The break in the mountains that lead to the plain - to see the meadow itself - was scarcely closer than when they'd set out.
Then Donna had her accident. Rather than carrying the Bauer bag as a beast of burden would, she'd taken to swinging it ahead of her, sometimes using it as an anchor to throw over a high rock ahead and then pull herself forward. Sometimes she just let it drag along the ground behind her from its strap. She came to a particularly large rock. She whirled the Bauer bag and began to swing it over, and as she did so, she saw, as if in slow motion, one of the zippers open, and from out of the pocket it had been holding closed went one of the precious bottles of gasoline. The bottle shattered against the rocks. Now there were two.
"Three gas bottles..." Hysterically, she almost started to sing.
For once, Brent didn't try to cheer her up. This could be serious.
"Let me take them," he said.
"No, it's okay. I'll just be more careful."
The Bauer bag was the wrong place to carry the gas anyway. Let me take them. I can stick them in the pockets of your dad's jacket."
"Okay. You're not mad, are you?"
"No, I'm not mad. There's still two left."
Half an hour later they were down to one. He must have dropped the other. He wasn't sure where. Probably in one of the patches of snow that still lay along the ridge, or else he'd have heard it fall. He must have been scrambling over another rock or something, but now there was only one bottle left. He was glad he hadn't blown up at Donna.
"We'll just have to save gas from now on," he said. "We won't be able to pour in on the fire tonight. We'll just have to figure out a way to soak a rag in it, or something, just like we did when we could only get a few drops out of the plane."
And finally something went right. Well, almost right. They came to a patch of vegetation that bore berries. Donna thought that the bushes looked like ferns. Brent said sassafras. The plants were about the size of the astor hedge that surrounded his fron yard.
"Whatever they are, do you think we should eat them?"
They had been more than two weeks now without the taste of a growing thing. Still, the berries looked sort of funny. They wished they knew what they were. Some were green, some white. The white ones scared them.
"I'm going to try a green one," Brent said. He pushed it into the gap in his mouth.
"It tastes like a pine cone. It's not bad when you get it in your mouth, but when you swallow it it's like eating a Christmas tree."
Donna took a bite.
"Piney," she said. "I don't think we should eat any more. Our stomachs must be in pretty bad shape."
"I'm not sure mine could hurt any worse. It aches all the time."
"Mine too. But that's probably just hunger. These could be poison."
"There's one here that looks like a Saskatoon. I'm going to try it."
"How is it?"
"The same. Like you could use it to caulk your canoe."
Reluctantly, they moved on. The walking grew no easier. At times it was best to crawl. They came across no waterfalls like the one they'd drunk so lustily from the day before, but here and there ripples of water murmured near the path, and they would put their mouths against the rocks and suck up as much as they could, just slurping away like thirsty hound dogs, trying to filer out the grit and the mud with their lips. Still, it was better than the melted snow.
At one o'clock, Brent stopped. Just stopped. Couldn't go any further and didn't want to. He was beat. They'd tried to go too far too fast. He had to rest.
They were down on the shoulder of the ridge now, trying to follow what seemed to be a natural path. Just below them lay a large patch of snow, big as a parking lot, only thick. Brent pulled himself to a rock that stood above it, and then jumped down with the suitcase. He pulled the suitcase under him and let himself slide down to the bottom of the snowpatch. Then he crawled to some boulders in the shelter of a tree and collapsed.
Donna took command. She slid down after him.
"You sleep for a while," she said. "I'll get us settled in here."
She slogged about on her aching feet, gathering firewood. She opened the first-aid kit and used soap to wash herself and, as best she could, Brent. Remembering Brent's advice about the gasoline, she pressed one of the remaining gauze bandages across the lip of the bottle until it was wet, then, carefully covering it with twigs, used the lighter to spark it to life. With the fire going, she lay back in the sun. They could rest there for the night.
When Brent woke from the heaviness of his slumber, they ate. The meat was holding up despite the daytime heat, and not rotting as they had feared it might, although the snow they had packed it in had long since melted, and soaked through the wrapping. They resolved to use what was left of the day to gather strength; they would eat again at midnight and in the morning.
To Cindy, Brent tried to keep an optimistic front: "We just about made it to the valley between the mountains to day," he lied. But then the truth started to creep through:
I ran out of strength. This side of the mountain is so rough....This is the most tired I have ever been since I started writing. I didn't think I could make the last 100 yards to our shelter, but between Donna, God & love for you I was able to....Cindy, I love you & will write you later tonight by the firelight. Hug the kids for me.
That night, his words to Cindy had a new tone. It may have been the exhaustion, or the results of his much needed afternoon sleep, which was the deepest and most restful he had enjoyed since the ordeal began. Now, just as he had been able to open himself to Donna at the crash site, he could bare his inner self to his wife. The love and the longing he had spoken about in each of the diary entries shone through every line.
The news, as always, was in printed letters: "We have had supper now & our strength is returning. So far it is a beautiful evening." Then, for the first time - and he was now working on his twenty-second sheet - he began to write in his awkward script, using space recklessly, and the words fairly danced across the small page.
My heart feels real good tonight...Somehow...I just feel that I am going to hold you in my arms again. The part that bothers me most of all [is that] if I say I had died the suffering would have been over for me, but just starting for you. When I get home I want to live a good clean life, following the Lord's way. I am going to turn over a new leaf and have a real happy life. I want to be smart dresser from now on. My hair is even going to have to be combed. I want to trade my truck in for a respectable car.
But most of all I want to change to be a family man. Every one of my hobbies mean nothing to me out here. Just you and the kids and this strange love for God. He has shown me a new way in life & I am sure that I can follow it. You and Geoffrey always did have faith & now so do I. When I get home I want to see your priest and cry in his arms. I think that there will never be a happier family group ever. I want to go to Dad and give him a hug and tell him that I lvoe him. I want to take Mom and set her in my lap & run my fingers through her hair...Donna just said to tell you that she loves you & the kids. It's getting dark so I have to go take care of things for a while. Till I get there hug & kiss the kids and tell them Dad is coming home.
They would have to lighten their load. If there was anything they didn't need in either the suitcase or the Bauer bag, it would go into the fire that night. "My flight computer," Brent volunteered. "I'll just hurl it in there. That and my pilot's log."
"But won't you need it to get your licence?"
"Somehow I have the feeling I won't be flying too much when I get out of here."
"You should still save it."
"Okay. I'll burn these blank pages at the end. And maybe there's some extra paper in the back of the diary."
"My Office Practice book, you mean."
"Better save it. Who knows what I'll write. What about this, then? You hair curler?"
"Burn it if you want."
"There's no place to plug it in here anyway."
"I'm going to a hairdresser first thing when we get out."
"Don't go to one. We'll order one up. Just like movie stars do. We'll say, hey there, Mr. Bernard, or whatever, you just come up here and do Donna's hair like it was before."
"By a hairdresser?"
"Sure," Donna said. "Get a razor cut. Get it blow-dried."
"Why not? Shall I burn this then?"
"Your flight computer and my curler. That's fair."
"And whatever else in here we don't need."
"Not the money."
"No."
The fire flared up. Donna watched the flames lick around the edges of her Clairol curling iron, then catch the plastic. The flames were pretty. Pink and blue, like one of those scented logs they sometimes had at home for Christmas. She wished she could pull it out of the fire. Her hair was a mess. But a deal was a deal. And it sure looked nice as it burned.
Just after they had curled up for the night there was a terrible noise from the mountain above.
"Oh, God, it's an avalance," Donna cried. "That snow is going to roll right over us. We shouldn't have made our camp here."
"Wait a minute."
"It's still going on."
The rumble rose to a crescendo, then fell off, then started again.
"It's animals," Brent said.
"Maybe."
"They're fighting or something. Must be some of those sheep. Big horns. Two males, maybe. Listen."
"I hope it is."
"Why?"
"Maybe there's two of them fighting to the death."
"Maybe. Could be, from the sound of it."
"And one of them will be killed, and..."
"We'll find him tommorow."
"Already slaughtered for us."
"Roast sheep. That would be good."
"And we could carry out the horns for a trophy."
They slept almost too soundly. During the night the fire spread, and ignited Brent's pants. Right though thte leg of the outer pair of jeans, the ones he had borrowed from Donna, it went and though his own jeans underneath. It scorched the sleeve of Don's pyjamas before he felt the heat searing his flesh. The stab of pain woke him, and he beat at the fire with his hands, but the brown and black edges of the hole in the cloth kept spreading, and a knife now seemed to be sticking in his calf. With a yell, he rolled over and into the snow. Finally he smothered it, but he could see the scarlet of his calf under the pyjamas. He got the Blistex from the first aid kit and smeared it over his flesh.
Tuesday morning the pain was still there, and spreading more lotion on Brent's leg became a part of their daily medical routine, which had included folding back the dressing on Donna's hand and, whenever they could, changing the bandage and adding more Stop-Bleed. About their most serious injuries they could do nothing. Brent's jaw was now badly infected. Slivers of bone worked their way through the flesh, and in spite of Donna's remonstrances he would push and rove at it, squeezing out the pus. Donna's toes remained numb, even in the hottest part of the day. They were now convinced she would have to lose them. She dared not dwell on what that would mean. The sliding and crawling of the trip had also agitated her hip; it now ached steadily and wakened her through the night as she tried to change positions on the hard ground.
They had laid out pieces of the plane's carpet to act as groundsheets during the night, but these afforded little comfort. Now, they decided to leave the carpet behind. They would travel as lightly as possbile.
The high sun was burning their faces now. Before they set off each day they covered as much of their exposed skin as they could with the Bonne Bell lotion. On their lips it tasted sour and oil. The Blistex gave better protection there.
Tuesday morning's walk seemed easier. Their units of passage sometimes stretched as long as a hundred paces, and once or twice, as they continued down the ridge, they found themselves losing count altogether. But toward noon the terrain turned rough again, scattered with rocks, and offering no apparent natural path. Progress slowed.
By noon, having reached a tree hollowed by rot, they decided to rest. Sitting, they found the sun too hot - they did not cease to wonder at the extremes of the day's heat and the night-time cold - and, even after shedding most of their outer garments, they had to use the rotted tree for shade. They removed their footwear and let it dry. Brent rearranged the layers of his trousers so the holes wouldn't overlap. To his surprise, he found he could now do up the pair of Donna's jeans he wore as his outermost trousers. His waist, always slender, was shrinking.
They moved on. The ridge seemed to be running out, dropping off to the valley below. By mid-afternoon, they could once more see the gap ahead and its promise of green pastures. Their belief kept them going. It was a good day.
That night the tone of Brent's diary changed again. Where he had written before of what he planned to do when he got out - he had never resorted to "if" - he was offering more specific plans. There was a practicality about it, like a memo. The plans seemed more carefully thought out, less fantasy than firm intention. But there were moments of desparation to it, too. There could not be much farther to go.
He began with triumphant news:
We are at the edge of the mountain and the plain is out in front of us. It sure looks beautiful. We had another hard walk again today, but we made it with God's help. We are really going to try to get a hold of you by our anniversary & we think we can. Depending whether or noy you pick us up or we fly home. I want to use that money for my buoyancy compensator [a piece of Scuba equipment] to get a new set of clothes. As you can imagine, these have had it....
If you pick us up I'll have you help me pick out my clothes. I'll get a hold of Dad & he can get you some money. I have to get home. Who is going to build those shelves in your laundtry room? Both of us feel so close to being home but we cannot hold back the [urge] to be home now & we get a little homesick. Donna says that when we get back that the three girls are going on a shopping trip to Regina or Winnipeg. I have so darn much love tied up in me right now & we can only talk (Donna & I) about that. If I don't let it out pretty soon I don't know what I'll do. You'd never believe the serenity and respect that I have learned for simple things. When I get back I am really going to take over that business of ours & make it run like clockwork. Within 6 months to a year I'll be running theshow & Dad can take it easy. I know in my heart now that love for family & God can make anything happen. When I close my eyes at night now I get happy pictures, not sad ones any more. I am really going to teach you what Donna & I have found. Donna and I are going to talk about today, tommorow and the future now. So kiss the kids for me. Give yourself a squeeze and please sleep restful tonight with God in your heart & me in your mind.