Chapter One

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL: APRIL 2023

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I live on a hill, high above the Genegantslet but don’t read anything into the elevation of my home; It is not water that I’m afraid of. In fact, living here is often hard on me. In the winter, when the hill is windswept, it sounds like a flood is rushing suddenly upon me. When it does, I go upstairs, fold myself into bed and dream that I am on a raft. My bed rises and falls fitfully.

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The summer storms get me too; water pours from the sky and I feel that there is no escape. I worry the rain will seep through the cracks of my house and trap me within my own walls.

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Last night was the worst. The world was calm and I did not dream at all. It was as if I were dead. When I became alive again, I came down stairs, sat at the front window and I brought the flood upon myself. I imagined the Genegantslet crawling out of its narrow channel and filling the world with dark, murky water, all except my home on the hill top. That has a way of burying them, I think.

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Today I saw Kent’s jeep coming up the driveway, so I let it all drain away. His wheel wells were caked in dirt, the bottom half of his jeep, speckled and sprayed. On the roof, he carried two identical kayaks. I imagined them floating on an invisible current, and I looked away.

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I had forgotten. My hiking bag was packed days ago, stuffed full and tight, and leaning against the wall by the front door. It was ready. I was not. I was suddenly aware of my pajama pants and wrinkled t-shirt.

 

We have been talking about this trip for years, mostly hypothetical. So really, what should be the rush all of a sudden? I can not even remember why it was so important to us. I think Kent just wants to get me out of the house, but It felt far too early in the day, and far too late in life.

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I went to the kitchen and started to mess with the coffee pot. I was scooping in the grounds when Kent knocked on the side door and waved through the glass. I let him in.

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“That can’t be what you're wearing,” he said.

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“I assured him everything was laid out– It would just take a matter of seconds. Hardly the worst lie I ever told.

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I went back to the coffee pot and just stood there with the little scoop in hand, trying to remember how many I had already put in the basket. I am not sure I was even counting. I estimated two more heaping scoops then pressed the power button.

 

“You want coffee?”

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“I had my coffee hours ago,” Kent said.

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He probably expected me to go up stairs and change, but instead I sat down at the table. My camera was there so I slid it away to lean my tired weight in its place.

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The coffee pot popped and hissed, differently than normal.

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“You forgot the water!” Kent sprung over and took care of it for me. When everything was set right, he stood over me and sighed.

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“Look, If you don’t want to go…”

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“No, I do.”

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He put his hands up. “Because it’s no big deal for me.”

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“It is for me,” I said. “I want to go.” That was the truth, although I was well aware of how I was coming across.

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“I’m just saying, maybe you don’t force yourself. It’s a big first step.”

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I looked up and saw his sincere face looking down at me. I did not like that he called the trip a first step. It is not as if I have become a recluse. I left the house every week to pick up groceries, and… well, I guess that was all I really needed. But also we had been planning this trip.

 

“If I don’t force myself,” I said, “Then I might never go. And then things will never be normal again.”

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I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it. I think Kent did too, because he became oddly mute. He blew out an exhausted breath, then shrugged.

 

“What’s normal?”

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He dropped down in the seat across from me, where I sat most mornings to read Pam’s old Bible. It was there, currently opened to the book of Job. Kent moved it aside like a filthy place mat he did not want before him.

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The pot began to fill, making its normal gurgling sounds. The smell alone got me to sit up a little straighter.

 

“You’re going to take pictures?” he asked.

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I grabbed the camera case and opened it. I must have pulled it out of the closet by habit, even after all these years. That is what these trips were always about.

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We worked together at the Explore Shunderland Magazine. Kent still does. In fact, he is Editor in Chief now. But this trip is not for the magazine. We are fulfilling a plan, nearly three decades old. We are finally going to paddle the Ledger River.

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The Ledger is utterly unlike the Genegantslet. The Ledger is the longest river in Shunderland. The most peaceful too. It is known for its scenic views, expanses of wilderness to the north, and the mountains to the south. Thirty one miles of serenity to the bay.

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I got up. “I need coffee. You want some.” I forgot I had already asked.

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Kent sighed. “Fine. Small cup, but you know the most beautiful part of the day is going to be gone.”

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“The most beautiful part,” I repeated to myself. I was aware that I was moving slowly, watching the black torrent of liquid pour out into our cups like the Genegantslet had poured out of its banks. I could not stop saying those words to myself. The most beautiful part is gone. The most beautiful part is gone.