Season of Death (8 page)

“W
ALL,
I
TELL
ya one thang right here and now,” Billy Bob said, “
he or she
ain’t ridin’ in my boat. No, sirree. Huh-uh. No way. Not gonna have no head rollin’ around, touchin’ my legs …” He shivered violently at the thought.

Ray stared at the slate gray water. “You suppose the rest of him or her is in there?”

“Eh …” Lewis shrugged. “No way to tell. But you think I gonna wade in dat creek, look for corpse, you crazy.” He laughed. “Fred da Head do without his bod-ee.”

“Fred da Head …”
Ray muttered. “Cute, Lewis.” Fetching his fly rod, he probed the stream a half dozen times, a full third of the rod disappearing before he found the bottom. It was calf to thigh, probably more in places, about fifty feet wide, with a fast current. Lewis was right. Stumbling around in that, feeling blindly for
Fred’s
absent extremities and torso would be a fruidess, possibly even dangerous endeavor

Discarding the fly rod, he told Billy Bob, “Walk upstream a little ways, see if you see anything.” To Lewis he said, “Think you can get across and check the other side?”

Lewis looked wounded, as if fording a swift stream was elemental. “Course.” He tapped his chest. “Expert guide.”

“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot.”

As the cowboy wobbled up the near bank in his borrowed outfit, and Lewis strode recklessly into the brook, Ray evaluated the situation. No phone. No radio. Dead head. Bad choice of words. But then, so was Fred
da
Head. In the absence of a better idea, Lewis’s plan would have to do. They would continue down the Kanayut and call the find in if and when they reached a phone. There weren’t many AT&T booths in the Bush. But according to the map Ray had studied, the same map that was now residing at the bottom of the lake, the village of Kanayut was about forty miles north, and there was a mine a little closer than that. The village would have a phone. If the mine was still operational, it would have a radio.

Ray found Lewis’s fishing kit and used a pair of miniature pliers to begin working the hook out of Fred’s teeth. The jaw was loose, rigor mortis having been delayed by the icy, glacial tomb. Wielding the pliers as if he were working on an ornery grayling, Ray fought to free Fred. Squatting, trying not to touch the head, he pried at the lure until the pliers lost their grip. The skull slid from its place on the rocks and rolled down the bank, splashing into the water like a heavy stone: kathunk! The reel fed out line. There was a snap as the reel caught, then the pole jerked toward the brook.

Ray leapt for it, caught hold of the Orvis, and cranked. He took a deep breath. Wouldn’t that be fun to explain.
Captain, we had this head, but … well … it got away.

With Fred safely back up on the rocks, Ray removed a sweatshirt from Lewis’s pack and wrapped it around the skull.
Lewis would appreciate this,
Ray thought,
sharing his spare clothes with the thinking end of what was once a human being.

Ray cut the line, leaving the tri-hook for a medical examiner to deal with. If Fred made it that far. There was still some concern in Ray’s mind about whether or not the three living members of this “adventure” would make it out of the Bush.

Billy Bob returned, cheeks flushed.

“Anything?” Ray tied the arms of the sweatshirt to prevent Fred from escaping.

“Nope,” the cowboy sighed. He yanked first at the waist of his pants, then at the calves, apparently expecting the denim to stretch in response. “At least, no body, if that’s whatchya mean. I seen plenty a bushes, trees, bugs … Lotsa bugs!”

“Mosquitoes,” Ray said. “Put on some repellent before you get eaten alive.”

Billy Bob nodded at the cotton bundle. “Maybe that’s what happened to Fred. Mosquitoes got ‘em.”

Lewis came splashing back across the stream, a yellow-toothed smile pasted on his face, as if looking for corpses was a great game, almost as good as shooting caribou.

“Well …?” Ray prodded.

“Fred be outta luck,” he announced, the grin making his eyes disappear. When he noticed Billy Bob lathering on Cutter’s, he grabbed the bottle. “Aiyaa … Da monsters like my head.” He rubbed the shiny, naked flesh with a palm load of white repellent.

“That’s what you get for shaving your head,” Ray said, scowling at Lewis’s scalp.

“I do it for B-ball,” Lewis said with a thoughtful expression. “And biz-ness. Easier to take care of
on
da court and
in
da Bush.”

“Who do you think you are, Michael Jordan?”

“Me and Mike.” Lewis nodded approvingly. “We tight.”

“Yeah, right …” Ray scoffed. “And I’m buddy-buddy with Shawn Kemp.”

Lewis’s face contorted in a pretense of offense. “I got da dunk. What ‘bout you?”

“Let’s get ready to go,” Ray said, changing the subject. He picked up the parcel.

“You don’t got da dunk!” Lewis chuckled. He turned to Billy Bob. “Got half a foot on me. Can’t dunk. I dunk on him. But he can’t dunk.” His lips turned down in an exaggerated pout, expressing sympathy for Ray, the non-dunking Eskimo.

“When we get back to Barrow we’ll see who can dunk on whom.”

“Whom
?” Lewis squinted at this, the grammar confusing him.

“Here.” Ray handed the package to him. “Fred needs a ride.”

“Eh, no …” He dropped the load, and it thumped on the beach. “I not take ‘im.”

“Well, don’t look at me.” Ray asked Billy Bob, “Got a quarter?”

He began fidgeting, reaching into the tight pants pockets before he remembered that he was wearing Lewis’s clothes. Giving up, he went over to his pack and hunched to rummage through the zippered pouches.

“We’ll flip to see who gets the honor.”

“Honor?” Lewis wondered, obviously confused. When it finally dawned on him what Ray was referring to, he cursed. “
Honor
…? Don’t want Fred.”

Billy Bob returned with a dime. “How’s this?”

“Fine.” Ray flung it into the air. “Heads or tails?”

Shaking his head, Lewis said, “Don’t want Fred. Aiyaa! Not gonna take ‘im.”

Ray gave the coin back to Billy Bob. “Wimp.”

Lewis returned fire, in Inupiaq.

“Watch it,” Ray warned. “And don’t even think of bringing my mother into this.”

Lewis did, eyes sparkling.

“What’d he say?” Billy Bob asked.

“Loosely translated, the woman who gave birth to me was a whale.”

“Bowhead,” Lewis specified, almost gleefully.

“And yer gonna take that?” the cowboy asked, eyes wide.

“Guess I have to,” Ray answered with a shrug. “Lewis is mentally impaired … you know, not right in the head. His brain was frozen when he was little. He was so homely as a baby, that his mother tried to get rid of him, dropped him into a seal hole on an ice floe. But the seals threw him back, said his ugly mug was scaring off the fish.”

Lewis’s crooked, stained grin grew, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Eh … so dat’s how you want it.”

“No,” Ray said, shaking his head. He could tell what Lewis was thinking. “Let’s get going,” he urged. “Gotta get to those caribou.”

“Gotta be doo-el,” Lewis announced in an ominous tone. “Loser wins Fred.”

“Lewis, I don’t want to duel.”

“What kind of duel?” Billy Bob asked. “Ya mean with guns and all?”

“Song doo-el. Old Tradition,” Lewis told him, his village English becoming even more stilted. His language skills always seemed to deteriorate when he discussed “Eskimo” subjects. “To settle ah-gu-ment. Old ones used to sing—try best each other.”

“To humiliate each other,” Ray explained. “Nobody does it anymore.”

“Sure. In da villages. Proves who da best man is, who can put down udder guy.”

“Sounds kinda fun,” Billy Bob said. “A little like put-downs.”

“Exactly like put-downs,” Ray said. “Except you sing them. It’s ridiculous.”

“Aiiyaa …” Lewis said, throwing up his hands. “You carry Fred.”

Ray gazed down at the shirt-covered lump. “Okay …” He groaned. “Who starts?”

Lewis thumped Billy Bob in the chest. “You be judge. Listen, see who best is.”

Billy Bob opened his mouth to object, and probably to ask for more information, but Lewis was already chanting. He hummed, sang out indistinct words, and uttered Inupiaq for two minutes, closing his performance with an evil snicker.

“I didn’t catch a single thang ya said.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t much. He called me a half-breed mouse.”

“Shrew,” Lewis interjected. “Half shrew, half beaver.” He burst out laughing, as if this were the worst of insults. “And I say father Haida. Mother Tlingit. Parts of totem pole.”

Billy Bob pursed his lips, assessing the quality of the insult. “Yer turn, Ray.”

“This is stupid,” he muttered, struggling to think of something to sing. In the duel, at least in Lewis’s version, nothing was off-limits. Though Ray’s parents were long dead, they were fair game in this tried-and-true contest.

“Okay … how’s this?” Ray launched into a lyrical story about Lewis’s misguided guide service, using the melody of “Louis, Louis” to disparage his ability and call into question his sanity. He concluded with “When Lewis says, ‘Come on Joe,’ just tell him no, no—you don’t want to go. Oh, oh, oh, oh …”

Billy Bob laughed at this. “Perty good. Perty good. They were both perty good.”

“Who won?” Lewis demanded.

“I’d have to call it a tie, I thank. They was both good.”

“‘Nother round,” Lewis said.

He was clearing his throat when Ray waved him off. “You win. I’ll take Fred.” Suddenly the idea of having a disembodied skull onboard his kayak wasn’t as bad as listening to Lewis’s strained, whining voice hail him with ridicule.

Lewis celebrated the victory with a pantomime of a sky walk, climaxed by a dunk on an invisible goal. “Fletcher monster dunk at da buzzer!”

“Can we go now?” Ray wondered.

“Sure,” Lewis answered cockily. “Just don’t forget Fred.” He cackled his way over to his pack and began stuffing gear inside.

Ray retrieved the clothes and sleeping bag. The gortex parkas were dry, the rest still getting there. He decided that they could complete the airing-out process when they stopped to make camp that evening. After stuffing the apparel into Billy Bob’s pack, he placed the heavy cotton bundle in the stern, packing the hole with the nylon mummy bag, in hopes of keeping old Fred from making any unscheduled appearances.

“I ain’t positive I’m up to this,” Billy Bob conceded. He had already loaded his pack and was standing two feet from the water, eyeing his craft suspiciously.

“You’ll be fine,” Ray assured, wondering how in the world the cowboy would navigate a swift river when he couldn’t handle a calm, glassy lake. “Tell you what …” He scanned the driftwood strewn about the beach. “No … These won’t work. Lewis, I need a couple of tent poles. And some rope.”

“What for?”

“To lash our boats together—sort of an outrigger setup. It’ll be more stable.”

“Stable? Eh … But a real dog to turn. Bet you hit da first rock we meet.” He bent to dig his pack out of the kayak. A minute later, he threw Ray two aluminum shafts and a ball of yellow climbing rope. Together he and Billy Bob jury-rigged the boats, binding them together.

“That’ll keep us from butting together all the time,” Ray explained. He took hold of the poles and tested the arrangement with a firm shake. “Pretty solid. Should last through most of what we’re heading into. We can always make repairs.”

“Not to da head,” Lewis teased, patting his scalp.” ‘Specially not Fred da Head.”

“Ignore him,” Ray said. After Billy Bob was aboard, he pushed their double-hulled craft away from the shore and climbed in.

“Now we start next leg of da trip, floating da Kanayut,” Lewis informed, playing the guide again. “Ready, Mista Attla?”

“Ready,” Ray sighed.

“Ready, Mista Cleava?”

“Naw. Not really,” Billy Bob replied, swallowing hard.

“Ready, Mista Fred da Head?” Lewis answered his own question in a deep voice. “You betcha. ‘Cept I can’t see from in here.”

Lewis’s choppy, high-pitched chortle resounded over the water, hit the far shore, and came back. Billy Bob found this hilarious as well, adding his twanging laugh to the mix.

Ray had to admit, it was funny. The whole thing was humorous in a pathetic sort of way: Billy Bob’s motion sickness, the cowboy’s inability to stay afloat, almost drowning, losing Ray’s pack, being forced to wear skintight pants and a muscle shirt, snagging a skull with a spinner, even the song duel … The three of them would never forget this trip. Just hours old, it had already been
memorable.

Hopefully, the remainder of their time in the Bush would be less eventful.

NINE