Wild Man Island Read Free Page A

thought she would be, until a few months ago. Too many bills to pay. I saved up for this by sacking groceries and working at the museum.”
    â€œMuseum?”
    â€œThere’s a dinosaur museum outside of Grand Junction, just off the interstate. I’m just as interested in the past as you. I’ve been hanging out with the paleontologists. I’ve been on some digs and found a lot of fossils. At first I helped out for free. Now I get paid for giving tours on weekends, believe it or not. I got interested in paleontology because of you.”
    â€œI’ll picture you as a dinosaur hunter, then.”
    â€œNo, I’m more interested in human history. What Iwant to do most is finish what you started. Find the very first Americans.”
    â€œAh, wouldn’t that be something, Andy. But not for my sake. That wouldn’t be right.”
    â€œFor both of us,” I said. “For both of us.”
    The tok-tok-tok of a raven brought me out of the spell. I began to scan the niches in the granite all around the base of the falls. Where would my mother have left the carving?
    I’d heard her describe the spot; if only I could remember. There’s a tree right above it, she’d said. She’d set the boat effigy on a tiny ledge she could barely reach on her tiptoes.
    On the right-hand side of the falls, about fifteen feet above the bedrock, a tree had somehow taken root in the cracks. A stunted hemlock no more than eight feet tall had a foothold in the merest bit of dirt. Could that be the one?
    At five foot nine, I was three inches taller than my mother. The ledge below the tree was within easy reach. I raised my hand and felt along it. Within seconds I felt the smooth touch of soapstone in my fingers.
    My father’s soapstone boat fit easily in one palm. It was just a simple carving of an open boat, an ancient skinboat. He had a theory that the first Americans didn’t walk from Siberia, they paddled boats of sea mammal hides stretched over wooden frames.
    I freed the tiny cedar canoe paddle from the rawhide loop around my neck and placed it inside the carving. I touched the little boat to my heart, then put it back on its ledge. “Good-bye,” I said.
    I listened for his voice but heard only the roar of the falls. I turned and ran.
    At the kayak, I checked my watch. It was 4:35. I had stayed longer than I should have. The slack was over, the tide had turned. I’d have to paddle back against the current.
    The first mile, in the bay, wouldn’t be a problem. The second mile, along the edge of the strait, would just take me longer. Monica and Julia might even be up when I got back. I could live with that if I had to.
    I began to paddle across the bay. I looked around, wondering what was different. Everything, not just the time of day, had changed a little from before.
    I couldn’t put my finger on it.
    I felt a chill go down my spine. Halfway across the bay, the spooky tingling at the back of my neck still wasn’t going away.
    â€œYou’re just scaring yourself,” I said aloud. The sound of the fear in my voice scared me a little more.
    As I headed out of Kasnyku Bay, three harbor seals popped up and looked at me with their shy, gentle eyes. “Gotta jet,” I told them as I paddled swiftly by. They slipped back under water.
    I’d just left the bay and was set to round North Point when it dawned on me how still the strait was. The bay had been the same way. Eerily still. That’s what was different.
    I looked around. There wasn’t the slightest breath of wind in the trees, not a seabird to be seen. When had there been no birds, not even gulls? No raven croaking, no eagle screaming?
    It was calm, uncannily calm. This was too much of a good thing.
    Outside the bay there was a strong current. It was running against me but I was making progress. I paddled on, more and more eager to get back to the group and on my way home.
    Home to Colorado, I