But then what? If he were out there on those pieces of wreckage, what could he do for his mother, or even himself?
At least, he thought as windblown mud spattered his face, he wouldn’t be alone. When the lightning finally dwindled, the sky was so dark that it was not clear whether dusk had come or not. The mound was surrounded by a sluggish black river so wide Jason could not see its banks. He realized he was thirsty.
He wondered if he dared to drink the water.
He thought about the water jug in his mother’s refrigerator, with the quartz crystal that was supposed to give the water magical powers. For some absurd reason tears came to his eyes at the thought of that jug, of the forlorn plastic container of magic water rolling along the bottom of the river. He pressed his head into the mud-spattered moss and let the tears flow down his face, let his breath fight past the hard lump in his throat.
From above the clouds, from above the darkness itself, he could hear the sound of a jet aircraft rumbling far overhead, like the echo of a vanished world.
Eventually he rose, wiped the tears from his face with a muddy hand, and carefully descended the mound’s steep side. The water had stilled and seemed to be receding a little. He thought about bending over the surface of the water, anchored firmly to the mound with one hand on a tree limb, and easing his thirst.
No, he thought. There are dead people in that water.
He shuddered and drew back.
And then he saw, half-concealed by a fallen elm, the scrolled words. The letters were upside-down. Jason tilted his head, read Retired and Gone Fishin’.
Mr. Regan’s bass boat.
Jason remembered the carport tearing away on the Regan’s house, falling into the cellar along with the rest of the building. Apparently the boat had been liberated at the same time, though he didn’t remember seeing it bob to the surface.
Weird hope fluttered through him, tentative as the wings of a new-born butterfly. With the boat, he could rescue his mother from the ruins of their home and take them both to someplace safe. Jason approached the boat, one foot sloshing ankle-deep on the steep slope. He climbed over the fallen elm, then was jerked back by a weight on his shoulder.
The telescope. He’d forgotten he was carrying it by its strap.
He disentangled the telescope from a tree limb, then hiked both feet over the bole of the tree. The boat floated upside-down before him, its aluminum hull scarred by collision with trees and debris. It was caught in a tangle of leaves and branches, and its bows were half-sunk beneath the waters. Jason hung the telescope from a limb and splashed into the water. He tried to heave the boat over, but it was very heavy, his footing kept sliding away beneath him, and at one point he found himself swimming. He paddled back to the mound, but it was too slippery for him to climb, and eventually he hauled himself, hand over hand, up the length of a sapling.
He lay on the steep mound for a moment and panted for breath. The boat was too awkward and heavy to turn over by main strength. He was going to have to find another way.
He decided to try hauling it up onto the mound as far as it would go, then try to turn it over. He waded into the water, reached under the stern, and grabbed the stern counter with both hands. He heaved, throwing himself backward. Water poured off the boat, and it moved. Jason sat down, the stern of the boat in his lap. He dug his heels into the wet soil and scrambled backward up the bank, hauling the boat after him, gasping for breath after each heave. Sweat popped onto his forehead. There was something springy in the feel of the boat, something that kept trying to pull the boat back into the water. With every heave, the boat’s bows sank deeper into the water. Eventually Jason couldn’t haul the boat any higher. It was caught, he realized.
He had to uncatch it, obviously enough. He scrambled out from underneath the stern, then waded out into the water, feeling his way around the port side of the boat. The steep mound fell out from under him very rapidly, and soon he was up to his chest. He gave a careful look at the bow of the boat, at the branches trailing in the water, to see if there was any dangerous current.
The water appeared to be barely moving at all. Jason slid into the water, kicking as he moved along the side of the boat. The bow ducked beneath the waters as he put weight on it. Underwater branches slashed at his kicking legs. He felt along the underside of the submerged bow, found nothing holding the nose of the boat under water. As he hung onto the submerged bow, the water was past his chin. He dog-paddled over, and began to feel along the starboard side.
Nothing.
Jason paddled back to the mound, climbed out of the water, and tried to catch his breath. Whatever was holding the nose of the boat down was clearly underneath the boat. He would have to dive beneath the boat to free it.
A cold tremor shook his nerves. He imagined being under the cold, dark water that had already killed so many. Groping in the blackness. He could so easily be caught and held underneath—by a branch, a cable, a piece of wreckage, anything.
He imagined drowning in the dark water, alone and lost, trapped under the river where he would never be found.
His gaze involuntarily turned northward, toward the line of trees where the wreckage of his house had been caught. The boat was his only way of reaching it, of finding whether his mother still lived. The water seemed colder than it had before, and it made him gasp. Water lapped up to his lips, his chin. He felt his way along the overturned boat, took a gasping breath, and pulled himself under by his fingers. He could see nothing in the murky water. He held onto the boat with his left hand and swept out with his right, trying to encounter the obstruction. Tree limbs lashed him—and for a moment he felt a pang of fear at the thought they might hold him under—but none of the limbs seemed to be attached to the boat in any way.
Jason surfaced, caught his breath, moved a little closer to the bow of the boat, and dived again. Again he held on with one hand and probed with the other. And this time he touched something different, something braided and slick.
Rope. Nylon rope.
He felt along its length, found a metal shackle hooked to an eye on the boat’s bow. It was the rope that was used to winch the boat onto its trailer at the end of a day’s fishing. Apparently the boat’s trailer was somewhere underwater, carried along with the boat by the flood, and the two were still connected. Jason was out of air. He pushed off from the boat toward the surface, kicking, but he ran into a tangle overhead, sharp and unforgiving branches. He batted at them as panic rose in his throat. Twigs stabbed at his face. His frantic kicks only seemed to lodge him more securely in the tangled, spiny nest. Bubbles burst from Jason’s lips. There was a throbbing ache in his throat. He snatched at the branches as his pulse beat in his ears. And then it occurred to him that he was going the wrong way, that he couldn’t go up, that in order to get free he’d have to go down and then over. He pushed at the overhead branches, trying to force himself down. His legs thrashed. He struck out with a breast stroke, trying to move laterally in the dark water. Invisible fingers clawed at his scalp. He thought of the hands of dead men and thrashed out frantically, more bubbles bursting from his nostrils and lips. He came to the surface with thunderous splashes, gasping for air. He beat for the shore, dragged himself up the steep bank. Coughs racked his ribs. Nausea gripped his stomach.