| |
“Angus, hand me that mallet, would you?”
It had been explained to AC that the family would be sleeping outside. Mr. Clark had used adjectives like fun, relaxing, and peaceful. Mrs. Clark had remained silent with a sour expression on her face.
AC cowered beneath an umbrella in the driving rain and watched Mr. Clark squish stakes into the mud surrounding the tent. Mr. Clark had sited two adjoining tents beneath the boughs of a large Douglas fir tree. The tree sheltered the larger of the two tents, the one in which Mr. and Mrs. Clark would sleep. While Mr. Clark had assembled it, Mrs. Clark had erected an outdoor cooking shelter and was now attempting to light a fire with little success. The wet logs were smoking.
The smaller of the two tents, though technically beneath the tree, was under the portion where the limbs had long since died. Rain pelted out of the sky on to the canvas, undeterred by foliage.
Mr. Clark shook his head, sending water droplets flying in all directions.
He turned his wet face to AC and said, “It would be more helpful if you held the umbrella over my head. Mallet please.” He pointed at a green gear bag. “Over there.”
AC tiptoed gingerly through the mud: There was no telling what kind of bacteria bred in this wild place. He readjusted his surgical gloves, bent, and picked up the heavy rubber hammer. He tiptoed back to Mr. Clark.
Mr. Clark stood, wiped his dripping face with a flannel shirt tail and took the mallet.
“I pitched the tent for you. All you need to do is hammer these stakes into the ground ... here ... and here. Got it?” He grabbed the umbrella from AC and put the hammer into his hand. “Your tent, your turn. Be sure to stake down the sides also. It looks like we’re going to get some wind tonight. I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”
Mr. Clark hurried to the larger of the two tents, unzipped the door flap and clambered in.
“Don’t track mud inside!” Mrs. Clark hollered over the sound of beating rain.
AC tied his hood tighter around his head and shivered. He bent to hammer in the stakes as Mr. Clark had advised, but he couldn’t bring himself to kneel in the mud, so he half-heartedly tapped at them from a bending position before wandering over to the cooking shelter. Mrs. Clark was blowing through a long hollow wooden tube on to the smoldering logs.
“What is that?” asked AC.
Mrs. Clark held out the wooden tube for him to examine. The two-foot long stick was smooth; someone had whittled the bark from it. It appeared to have been made from one large tree limb and the remnant of a smaller twig was still attached. A hole had been bored through the center of the limb from end to end creating a tube.
“It’s called a bouffadou,” said Mrs. Clark. “Hold the notch at the top and blow through it. It will concentrate the oxygen of your breath on to the embers.”
AC brought the blow pipe to his mouth and blew on a smoldering log. The smoke blew away, leaving a red glow on the log’s surface.
“Again,” said Mrs. Clark. “You’ll get a flame with a few blows. Why don’t you get the fire started while I work on dinner?”
AC drew in a fresh breath and blew again. The surface of the log glowed brighter. A few more blows, and a small flame appeared. AC blew once more, and the flame went out at first but reappeared with gusto. He moved around to the other side of the campfire circle and worked on those logs next.
By the time Mr. Clark crawled out of his tent wearing clean dry clothes, the rain had stopped and AC and Mrs. Clark were roasting weenies on sticks over a blazing fire. The hot dogs crackled and spit in the heat, their juices sizzling when they dropped into the flames. Mrs. Clark stood and stirred the baked beans warming on the camp stove.
“Have you got one for me?” asked Mr. Clark. AC handed him the hot dog he was cooking before stabbing another one with his camping fork. “When was the last time we did this? Anyone remember?”
“Golly, Angus must’ve been six or seven. It’s been a while,” said Mrs. Clark.
“Too long,” said Mr. Clark.
The smell of the roasting meat had AC’s mouth watering again. Mrs. Clark handed him a hot dog bun and reminded him to take care not to burn his tongue.
“Mustard and relish, right?” she asked before squeezing a yellow sauce over the top of his hot dog. She spooned the beans on to his plate and gave him a spoon.
AC bit into the colorful sandwich and groaned with delight. The mustard and relish squeezed out of the bun and ran down his arm. He didn’t even care that his fleece jacket was now stained yellow. He scooped the sweet, warm beans on to the spoon. The sticky brown sauce dribbled off of the spoon and landed on his pants as he brought it to his mouth.
As soon as AC finished his first hot dog, he grabbed another. He coated this one in baked beans before devouring it and roasting a third. Mrs. Clark wasn’t sure who would eat more, Angus or his father. She had known that at some point in his teen years, her son would out-eat his father, but she was not prepared for his tremendous appetite to begin this weekend. She hadn’t packed that much food.
Halfway through his third hot dog, AC began to slow down. Mrs. Clark said, “I’ll clean this up. Why don’t you two boys explore the beach?”
“Are you sure? Don’t you want help?” asked Mr. Clark.
Mrs. Clark looked at the pile of plates and utensils coated with bean residue, and then she looked at the tiny plastic bucket of lukewarm water she would be washing them in.
She sighed and said, “You’d better get out of here before I change my mind.”
AC grabbed Mr. Clark’s arm tightly. He’d never seen such vast openness. The white sky stretched forever without a break until it met the steel gray water miles away. Angry waves crashed on the rocky beach with a reminder that the clouds might be resting for the moment, but the rain would return.
AC had seen the sky this color in his world. He’d seen rain in his world. But that had been from indoors, looking through safe polymer windows. In this wild setting and with only a piece of canvas to shelter him, he felt afraid.
“Can you feel the power of the ocean?” asked Mr. Clark, glee painted across his face with broad strokes. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, catching the wind as the two elderly women had done on the ferry. AC looked at the man standing beside him and slowly released his arm. He closed his eyes and focused on the nip of the fresh, brisk sea air on his cheeks and nose. He breathed in the salt and let the moisture settle on his forehead and eyelids.
When he opened his eyes, Mr. Clark was no longer there. The familiar anxiety returned, but only for a moment as AC realized that Mr. Clark had walked down the beach and was merely a short distance away. AC followed behind him at the water’s edge.
The boulders and logs stacked farther up the beach looked interesting, though dangerous. If AC fell he would require an ankle or a wrist implant, maybe even need to have his skull mended. However, he couldn’t help looking at them and wondering what it would be like to climb on them. They beckoned to him, luring him to touch them, sit on them, and walk on them. He was being pulled to them as if by an invisible force.
The rocks and logs whispered and tempted until AC could resist no more. Heedless of the possible injury to his person, AC clambered over their tops, leaping from log to boulder and back again.
Mr. Clark turned around and saw him. “Angus!”
Just as AC was beginning to enjoy this world, of course his alter’s father would have to warn him about dangers. Exactly the same as his own father, even if he didn’t have body part implants.
But Mr. Clark only said, “Remember when we used to build forts on the beach? I know exactly what you’re thinking. Let’s build one now!”
Mr. Clark pointed to two boulders not far from where Angus was standing. They rested side by side with a two-foot space between them.
“We can use those stones to support a roof.”
Mr. Clark selected a piece of driftwood and dragged it across the beach. AC briefly wondered how this old father was moving that large log without bicep or back implants.
“Help me lift it,” Mr. Clark said. AC grabbed one end and helped Mr. Clark hoist the log to rest on top of the boulders.
“It seems a little precarious to me,” said AC. “Dangerous, even. I believe we should construct walls first to buttress the roof.”
“Great thinking, Angus. Shorter logs for that. Then we’ll build the roof.”
By nightfall, AC and Angus’s father had completed two sides of the fort.
“We should be getting back to camp. Your mother will be worried about us,” said Mr. Clark.
They felt the wind picking up as they walked back across the beach to the campground. Mr. Clark switched on the flashlight as the entered the dark shelter of the trees.
AC felt the strength of the arm around his shoulder, even though it had no bicep implants.