He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he’d reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he would partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.
He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn’t getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.
Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here…
Well, it’s the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just… keep moving and stop worrying about it. It ain’t gonna kill you.
“I hope,” he muttered. He frowned at himself. “Shut up,” he said.
He had to stop and empty his bladder again, then take another drink of water. The bottle was getting pretty empty, he saw. What if he got lost and ran out of water?
“Oh, for God’s sake, shut the hell up,” he ordered himself. Drawing in a deep, he hoped, restoring breath, he continued walking.
As he got into a rhythmic stride, he began to think about Doug.
Was it really necessary for him to go on ahead and leave me behind? he wondered. After all, how much more difficult would it have been to set up camp if they’d gotten to the place together, wherever it was?
This was their first day out too. Doug knew he was uneasy. He knew that Marian was uneasy. Was it really thoughtful of him to hurry on ahead to make camp? Or had there been something mean about it, something actually a little cruel under the circumstances?
He thought about the few years they had known Doug and Nicole, then, limitedly, Doug by himself. They were never really close. They’d had a few laughs together but their personalities didn’t really blend that well. Nicole was pleasant enough, very beautiful (she’d been a model), but a little cut off and remote. And, from the very start, she’d obviously been unhappy about her marriage to Doug. The death of Artie had really torn what threads were left intact in their relationship.
What Doug and he had shared most in common was their knowledge and attitudes toward the motion picture and television business. They were both highly dissatisfied and frustrated by it, Doug more than him because, as relative as the pain was, actors did have it worse than writers. He could, at least, submerge his disappointments by writing a short story or a novel. Doug could only do a little theater that while creatively fulfilling involved no monetary satisfaction at all.
In other words, Bob thought—in other words, had there always been an edge of envy, even resentment in Doug? And had he just demonstrated a small bit of that by leaving him behind in the woods?
“The forest,” he said. “The forest.”
It wasn’t any charming, sweet, endearing woods.
It was BIG. Powerful. Unyielding. A massive, silent being that could and had swallowed men alive.
That’s a charming image, he thought.
But he couldn’t dispel it.
Well, here’s another goddamn thing he didn’t tell me about, he thought.
He stared glumly at the fast-moving stream in front of him. On its opposite shore, the path obviously continued.
Now what? he thought. It was definitely getting darker and there was no way he could see to cross the stream: no fallen tree trunk, no stepping-stone boulders.
“Well, what am I supposed to do now, Dougie boy?” he asked loudly.
Breaking a tiny piece of twig off his staff, he tossed it into the stream and watched it be swept away by the bubbling, splashing current. Great, he thought, his face a mask of annoyance. Now I know it’s moving fast. Thank you, Douglas, for that enlightening bit of woodlore. It changes everything.
He drew in a quick, convulsive breath. This isn’t funny, Bob, he told himself. What was he supposed to do, walk across the stream, get his boots and socks and trousers soaking wet? Screw that.
“Well…” Grimacing, he started walking along the edge of the stream, hoping to find a narrower part of it.
Up above, a wind was starting to blow in the high pines. Great, he thought, a storm.
He shook that away with a scowl. Stop being a baby, he told himself. Doug got across the damn stream, so can I.
For a while, he imagined Doug coming up with a rope from his pack, hurling one end of it across the stream, encircling a branch with it, and swinging across like Tarzan.
“Not likely,” he muttered, moving guardedly along the stream edge so he wouldn’t stumble on a stone.
About twenty yards down, he came across a tree trunk fallen across the stream. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” You might have mentioned it to me, he said to Doug in his mind. You know this goddamn forest, I don’t.
As he crossed the trunk, it shifted with him. “Oh, God,” he muttered. Flailing at the air for balance, he lost hold of the staff and dropped it in the stream. By the time he’d fallen to one knee on the tree trunk, grabbed hold of it, and regained his balance, the staff was long gone, washed downstream by the leaping current. Great, he thought as he made it finally to the other side of the stream. Easy come, easy go.
He walked back along the stream until he reached the trail and started along it again. This is a goddamn national forest, he thought as he walked. Why didn’t they put some kind of bridge on the stream so the trail could be followed more easily? It might have been considerate to novices like me.
He concentrated on walking erect, not slumping, lifting his feet, keeping a steady stride. Well, he should be at the campsite soon. He swallowed uneasily. He’d better be. The light was fading fast. At least, it seemed to be. Maybe it was because of the thick tree growth.
Just keep going, he told himself. Erect. Feet lifted. Steady stride. He walked through the deep, silent forest, trying to remain convinced that he would reach Doug soon, have that vodka, dine on chicken à la king, and, most of all, rest his weary bones.
5:13 PM
“Good God,” he muttered.
Just ahead of him, the trail split.
He stared at it in utter dismay. For the first time since he’d started after Doug he felt a genuine sense of fear. What was he supposed to do now? Doug did it on purpose, he found himself thinking.
He’d gone on ahead, not to set up a camp but to leave him behind, hopelessly lost.
A spasm of coldness shook his body. No, you’re being paranoid, he thought. Would Doug have taken him all the way up here for some kind of terrible revenge? Revenge for what? Envy, okay, maybe so. A little jealousy. But this?
“No,” he said. “No. No.” He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was some other reason. Doug hadn’t been up here for a long time. He’d forgotten that the trail split, that was all.
“In that case…” he murmured.
He looked at the bushes and trees around the dividing trail. A piece of paper, a note, a scrap of rag. Something to mark the trail he was supposed to follow.
There was nothing. It was shadowy beneath the trees but surely he’d see a rag or piece of paper if Doug had placed one to mark his way.