“You know what I think?” She wrenched herself free of Pia’s grip. “I think Dean has his own ideas about what’s best for Dean.”
“Good secret,” he signed, looking at me.
“Shouldn’t we find out what he’s trying to tell—” Sandra started.
“Hey, jungle boy. Listen to me—”
“Jesus, Rache,” Pia said.
“You need to go back to your mother,” Rachel said, her finger in his face. “Tell her what you need to tell her, we don’t care. You were late because you had to bury us all. It took time. No one’s ever gonna hear a thing about you or her. You will be safe. Understand?”
Rachel shook her head and turned away from us, fuming at the hovering woods that would kill her, given the chance. Dean listened intently, eyes on our every move as he puzzled out the calculus of our friendship.
“Okay, Rachel,” I said. “We ask him to go and then what? Suddenly we know our way out of here?”
Rachel spun back around to face us. “At least we’ll be alive and lost. Which beats dead and lost.”
Dean uttered a whimpering sound, which made us all jump, so seldom had we heard him make any noise, but he had already turned away from us and plummeted back into the woods. With no further discussion, we arranged ourselves into our pitiful queue and stumbled after him into the choking green. Muttering, Rachel grabbed on to my belt and tripped along behind me, while I followed Sandra, who trailed Pia. By what divination Dean found his way, none of us knew. It was just tree, tree, tree, and more trees, all sickeningly the same.
He picked up his pace. While we did our best to keep up, it felt like we were starting to lose him. I moved as in a dream where the more I tried to push forward, the more sluggish my pace. Thirst was catching up with me, with all of us, I could see it; hunger a luxury lurking behind thirst and exhaustion, but still I felt it weakening me, gnawing away at my strength, making my steps less sure over bulging roots and rocky outcroppings. Guiltily I recalled my clandestine rendezvous with the tiny Mr. Goodbar, ultimately forgiving myself for being a few calories stronger than the others. Of all things, I missed my painful hiking boots, but even as I tripped and landed on my hands or knees, the hurt was a distant thing, not in the forefront of my mind. Survival my only focus. The next step, and the next and the next. When, how, where would we get out of this place?
After an hour or so we began to climb, carving out detours around boulders so large they put us in shadow; many had saplings and other new growth sprouting from the tops of them. Delicate green lichens carpeted the shaded parts. Every instinct said run and catch up with Dean, beg him to tell us his big plan, but I barely had the energy to slog along behind Sandra.
We found ourselves on the dark side of a boulder so large it blocked what was left of the afternoon sun. Dean squatted on a soft bed of pine needles, waiting for us. He looked anxious. I endured a wave of terror that he’d decided to kill us after all, that this second “secret” was an elaborate ruse for this purpose. I kept my face calm. Lesser boulders surrounded him, footnotes left by earth’s slow narrative of glaciers and unimaginable time.
Dean offered us water from some sort of gourd. As we all took small sips, he signed, “Need help. All of you.”
He walked around the boulder, and then disappeared—-somehow—inside it. We followed him. The rock had cracked open at its center, forced apart a good three feet by a handsome, vigorous poplar that sprouted from the top while clutching the two halves of the stone with thick, intertwined roots.
We crept down into the dark cavity, squinting into dappled shadow. A flat, square structure made of logs lashed together leaned against one wall of the split rock face. Dean reached up, grabbed one corner of the thing, and heaved it toward him. The mattress-shaped block came tumbling toward me and somehow I caught the edge. Together we turned it, side over side, until it was free of its narrow cave. We rested it against the mossy face of the boulder and stared.
A raft.
Pia went up and touched it with a kind of reverence. Leather straps and sinew braided into rope bound a dozen pine logs of roughly uniform size and shape. At both ends, a single log crossed the parallel ones, binding the raft snugly. Shreds of colored plastic, flattened soda bottles, strips of tire, bright patches of canvas had been woven into it. It looked as cheerful as a bright quilt, but also terrifically strong.
“You made this?” Pia asked.
“Yes,” he signed.
Sandra walked around it. “You did a good job. Really good.”
I think Dean may have blushed.
“When did you make this?” I asked.
“Two summers,” he signed. “Secret.”
Rachel plopped down wearily on a hollow log. “I don’t get it. You made a raft. Why didn’t you use it?”
He looked at her an extra second, as if parts of her were coming clearer to him. “Scared,” he signed. “World hurts, Mom says.”