The channels grew wider and less choked, the water cleaner as they came out into the river. They followed its edge of ferns and winding mud flats for maybe a mile, staying close in where the water was sheltered. Then a sandbank protruding from a bend forced them out some way into the stream, but they managed to steer their way back in again on the far side. Farther on, they could now see the mouth of a creek entering between high banks on the left, and beyond it a stretch of what could have been marshy shore or maybe a narrow island running parallel to it, fringed by tall reeds along the waterline with stands of higher cane-like growths behind. From what they had seen of the area, it was probably as good as they were going to get. They glanced at each other, both nodded at the same time without speaking, and began paddling inward.
But as they crossed the mouth of the incoming creek, the flow from it carried them out again into choppy waters, and in the battling between paddles and buffeting, Keene felt the makeshift lashings coming apart. “We’re going in, Charlie!” he yelled. “Don’t let go of that pack!” At the same time he grabbed for his own, clamping it down on the mattress with an arm as he floundered down into the water.
The two air mattresses remained tied by a few strands of vine. Charlie clung onto the bindings with one hand and went under, reemerging a few seconds later and dragging his pack up with the other. Keene helped him haul it up from the water and onto the other air mattress. Then, holding on to packs and mattresses like a life raft, they kicked with their legs to propel themselves toward the shore. After about a hundred yards Keene felt down with a leg and touched bottom. Coming into the shallows, they stood and walked the remaining distance, dragging the remnants of the raft and the packs after them—but both the paddles were lost. At the edge they collapsed and sat for a long time recovering their breath and letting the weight of water drain from their clothes.
When they got around to assessing their situation, they found that the pry bar and alloy stake they had brought as weapons were lost. Keene’s compad with the map stored in it was still working. He would have felt more secure had he thought to make a hand copy in a notebook as well, but it was too late now. As to building a better raft, there wasn’t much in the way of a place to work. The thicket of reeds came to the water’s edge, and the cane-like growths farther back were even denser—but they looked useful. The best strategy, they concluded, would be to cut what they needed right there, by the water, and use the clear area that they created as a space to assemble their craft. Not the best workshop in the world, with its roots and cut stems and the waterlogged ground; but it would have to do. They first secured the air beds and packs from floating away. Then, wearily but without any choice, they sorted out the tools they had brought for the purpose and set to work.
This time there were spiders and frogs as well as the ubiquitous mosquitoes and flies. The latter became so irksome that Keene wrapped his head in a waterlogged shirt from his pack. It didn’t take long for his hands to begin blistering. When he stooped to begin sawing at another shoot of cane, he stumbled on a snake. It was an ugly gray-black, maybe two inches thick, with yellow eyes, and slithered away among the roots and mud at the disturbance. But somehow it was all he needed. He warned Charlie to be wary of them. From the absence of change in Charlie’s slow, painful movements, it wasn’t even evident that Charlie had heard. Then Keene noticed the blood trickling down over Charlie’s boot. He had gashed his calf on one of the thorny plants. It was bulbous and purple-hued, the thorns thick and flattened, sharp along the edges like blades. Keene bound the wound up as best he could, and they carried on.