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| BRIAN REYNOLDS recently retired from teaching and moved "up" south from two isolated native communities along James Bay in far northern Ontario, Canada. His stories have been published recently in SmokeLong Quarterly and edifice WRECKED. |
| "squall" Strong winds fought the tide and current, whipping gentle chop into a white-capped fury. The squall had risen without warning, the way of things out at the river's mouth, out on the Bay itself. The sudden sting of salt spray hurt his eyes; the crush of air against his ears defeated sound. “Jesh!” Her lips and frown exclaimed it. Her voice was swallowed by the wind. Focus. Almost there. He glanced along the shoreline looking for the mark, saw nothing but the black spruce zigzag that he'd watched all afternoon. Maybe, passed it. No. Just focus now; just concentrate on waves that hide a rock, shades of foam that mask a driftwood log, gusts that drive you onto shoals and shear a prop, leave you useless, powerless, at the mercy of the storm. He knew how long each second lasted, how fragile life could be. “Goddammit, Jesh!” No time. Can't calm her outstretched arm. He stood, legs spread, knees bent, buttressed into weather. One leather hand twisted through a rope steadying himself; the other held the throttle. Jesh grimaced at her fear, focused on his grip, his flesh against the rubber handle. He felt the throb against his finger tips and rode each wave that bucked and twisted like a bull beneath the vessel's hull, threatening to slay all three of them. “Je-esh?” He moved his thumb along the shaft: a tease, a gentle ease to port, a stroke that timed each smash of Deep against the cedar-strip canoe. He felt the comfort of the handle, the power of forty horses. A touch to starboard. A waltz across the muskeg. A low, smooth stroking of his mettle. “Jesh! Where are we?” Her voice, the passenger's, half-swallowed in the rain. Her swollen abdomen, sheltering their child. Her waters broke near noon; the radio was dead. They'd made the choice to risk the long, rough journey down the river to the Station. Don’t look her way. Don’t think; don’t feel her pain. Can't comfort now. Just find the mark, just get to shore before the birthing starts. Focus on the now. “Jesus! What’s..." Ease it faster. Slower. Find rhythms in the sea. Rise and fall inside them. See through the twilight. He felt it all inside his palm. “For God's sake, Jesh!” He knew the shudder of that tension and went rigid with excitement. Just the hand. Relax. He lightly rubbed the grip. “Jesh. There! Over there!” Squeeze it. Tight, now. Guide it. Patience. “Jesh!” Don’t think her, feel her warm, sweet pain, not yet. Not yet. "Oh yes!" § Withdrawn inside the waves, inside himself, he finds his peace. The wind abates inside the shelter of the cove. He guides them safely to the jetty. Exhales. He wipes his sweat across his sleeve. And then, without a word, embarrassed at his isolation, he blushes as he helps her up and onto safety, the gently rocking dock, then walks her slowly to the nurses at the Station. ### |
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