The Garden of Fragile Things by Richard J. O'Brien

Author:Richard J. O'Brien [O'Brien, Richard J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Alley Press
Published: 2015-06-15T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The fire Jack built felt good after slogging through the wet mud. We had made it across the creek only to find that the tide had turned the far bank into a veritable marsh. My shoes were sucked right into the mud and off my feet twice as we struggled to haul the row boat onto dry land. In the end, the three of us had to lift the small boat up over our heads, which was a bitch because dirty creek water trapped in the boat rained down on us when we did. Ten yards past the marshy bank, we propped the boat on its side against a tree and camouflaged it with some fallen branches and dead leaves as best we could. In the state forest, it was illegal to light a campfire outside the designated camping areas, but we were tired, wet, and hungry, and with the forest fire miles away from, us we took a vote and decided that our little campfire could do no harm. We were more right than we knew that afternoon. Thirty minutes after Jack got the fire going, it began to rain. That was good news for the firemen out there trying douse to the forest fire, but bad news for three kids dressed in soaking wet clothes in autumn.

“Let’s just go find the house,” said Jack, disgusted that all his hard work went to waste.

Shrouded in a mix of smoke, cold mist, and drizzle, the woods appeared desolate, like some purgatorial wasteland. We walked through the wet woodland, our footfall padded by the dampened pine needles and fallen leaves: three shades lost in a Dantean landscape. For a change, Jack and Tim remained silent, making the trek longer than I remembered. The grayness all around me and the still air offered little in the way of direction; my sole hope for finding the house again rested on Jack’s ability to navigate us through the murk of the forest.

The ground sloped downward, toward a narrow ravine. Underfoot, a weave of exposed roots and twisted vines slowed our every step. Some of the trees were bare, bent and crooked like skeletons of deformed giants; other trees still wore their coats of red, gold, ochre, and orange leaves.

“This is useless,” said Jack.

“How much longer will it be?” Tim asked.

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“Come again?” Jack stopped, turned, and shook a low branch full of wet leaves.

“Asshole,” Tim said, as rainwater from the leaves splattered all over him.

“We’re in the ravine,” I told Jack.

“You said it was close.” His brother wiped his face clean with his shirt.

“Shut up, Tim,” Jack said. Then, “I’m listening.”

“The bridge crosses this ravine,” I said.

“You don’t know what the fuck you are talking about, Joe.” He gritted his teeth now. “There are ravines all over the woods. And all of them have little streams and tributaries that lead out to Hobbs Creek.”

“Let’s just follow this ravine,” I argued. “If I’m wrong, we turn around and come back.”

It didn’t take long after that to find the bridge with its hand-carved arch and railings.

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