That’s when I spot you.
You lie perfectly still, directly below the place where I stand, on a strip of rock just above the water. Did you fall? Before I can process all the possibilities, I’m lying on my stomach, lowering myself, feetfirst, over the edge. I hang by my hands for just a moment before I drop into the ravine.
Even through my heavy sealskin pants, the cold cuts into me like daggers as I slide into the water. Surfacing, I call your name, but the sound is swallowed up in the roar of the rapids. I scramble to the side of the stream. The wall is too steep to climb out, but the water runs shallow and my feet find the bottom. Careful, careful. My legs brace against the force of the current. If I fall—if the water pulls me away—there will be no hope for either of us.
You lie on your side, facing away from me, your legs underwater from the knees down. Your hips balance on a small ledge that protrudes from the wall of rock just beyond you.
I call your name again, but you give no response.
The dread I’ve been feeling transforms to gradual acceptance—you are not conscious. You can’t be—if you were, you would answer. But you must be alive. . . . You must be. The position of your body—your head out of water—you couldn’t have fallen like that. No, you must be alive.
All I need to do is reach you, to find a way to lift you out of the ravine.
I lean heavily into the current, taking slow, steady strides, clutching at the canyon wall. One . . . two . . . three more steps and I am there.
I reach out to lay a hand on your back, but before I touch you, my hand jerks away. A wide stripe of blood paints the back of your parka from collar to hem.
A head injury . . . blood must be running down from some hidden wound.
Careful to hold on to the rock you lie on, I run my eyes over the stain and up the length of your back to a dry, crusty puddle on your collar, protected by your draped hair. I reach out a hand and gently touch you. To my surprise, you startle and turn toward me.
“You’re awake.” It’s obvious, but it’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Where is she?”
“Where’s who?” I ask, though I’m certain what your answer will be.
“Where’s Lo?”
“I don’t know,” I say, taking care to look behind me without compromising my balance.
“She found me in my hut—I’d gone to get another spear. She found me, and we fought. I cut her—a gash across her forehead. There was so much blood. . . .”
I remember your hut, the bloodstains on the walls.
“I threatened her, warned her to run back to the beach, but she said I would have to kill her—I would have to kill her or die. . . .” Your voice trails off and your eyes fall shut, as if you have dropped back to sleep.
“Mya?” I squeeze your shoulder and your eyes fly open again.
“She followed me,” you say. “She chased me into this canyon. We struggled. . . . We struggled and we fell.”
Could Lo still be here? To my left and right, to my front and back, I see no one, yet there are plenty of spaces and crevices between rocks for a person to hide. We need to get out of the open. The cave is our best hope, but we’re not there yet.
Despite your quick reaction to my touch, you are far from alert. Talking seems to have exhausted you. You scowl and turn away.
“Mya, you can’t sleep here. Mya!” I shake your shoulder, not rough but firm, and you spin around, wide-eyed, as if you’d already forgotten I was here. You whirl so quickly I grab you by the waist to keep you from falling from your narrow perch. “Mya!” Your eyes are already closed; your forehead slumps against my shoulder. I take your face between my two palms. Your cheeks feel warm, despite the cold all around us. “Can you stand?” I shout into your face. “We need to get out of here.”
“I can’t go now. . . . I’m tired,” you say, keeping your eyes pressed shut and jerking your head from my hands.
Cold claws at my feet. If we are going to get out of here, I am going to have to get us both out on my own. “I’m sorry, but we have to go now.” Without another word, I wrap one arm around your back and scoop up your legs with the other. I lift you slowly, mindful of my footing under the water, rushing and flashing, as if it, too, were full of panic, hurrying out of these hills.
As I straighten, you wrap your arms around my neck to hold on. “Why won’t you let me be?” you ask, though you don’t put up any fight and even let your head fall against me.
I don’t answer you. I doubt you would hear me. Besides, I’m not sure what my answer should be. I didn’t come looking for you because I think you need me. You have too much strength for me to think that way. I owe you; that’s true. You saved my life more than once already.