Chapter 5

Once clear of the bay, Cole swam even harder. Misty rain roughed the water as waves washed over his head. When he stopped to rest, his breath came in ragged gasps. His numb limbs felt wooden and stiff, moving awkwardly as if disconnected from his body. Cole turned to look back. At first his mind rejected what he saw – he was still at the mouth of the bay. He shook his head to clear the illusion. This was the same spot he had been at a thousand strokes earlier. But how could it be? The wind and waves hadn’t been that strong, yet even as he struggled to tread water with his numb limbs, he found himself drifting back towards the shoreline. In that instant, Cole realized his mistake. His anger had so clouded his thinking, he hadn’t considered the incoming tide. With every stroke forward, a giant invisible hand had pushed him two strokes backward into the bay, returning him toward the shore. A sharp cramp gripped Cole’s leg, then his other leg started cramping. He gasped for breath and panicked. He had to make it back to land. Any land. Frantically he flailed at the water. Struggling did little to affect Cole’s movement, but on the incoming tide he steadily drifted closer to shore. He fought only to keep his head above water. When the rocky bottom bumped against his feet, he kept thrashing his lifeless limbs. Again and again his feet struck the rocky bottom, and pain shot up his legs. Finally he quit fighting and let the waves push his body into shallow water. A wave brook over his head, and he came up gagging and spitting salt water. He tried to lift himself, but his arms collapsed. Finally, using only his elbows, he squirmed and crawled his way over the slippery rocks and up onto the grassy ground above the tide line. There he lay spent and shivering, his body bruised, his cold skull throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Cole had lost track of time and struggled to think. All he could conjure up were fleeting notions: He couldn’t stand up. He needed warmth. It was almost dark. He felt pain. One thought repeated: He needed warmth. He knew there was no warmth, and yet he remembered the flames. Where were the flames? He had to find them. Cole tried to stand up, but his legs collapsed under him. Imagining a fire, he dragged his way forward again on his belly. His legs pulled behind him like worthless anchors. It was hard in the gathering darkness to make out shapes. The waves, the shoreline, the trees, the bay, all existed like parts of a puzzle. Cole rested again until the throbbing in his head had disappeared. His head felt hallow, his mind empty. One detached thought kept coming back to him: There had been flames. But where? Night had come quickly, and Cole scanned the dark shadows around him, sensing a vague familiarity. Again he tried to stand but couldn’t. He dragged himself forward one last time, and collapsed. Slowly the cold disappeared. Lying on his belly down in the darkness, Cole felt his legs and chest sting as if they were on fire. Then he became aware of another feeling. Stronger than the burning in his arms and belly, more haunting than the darkness that surrounded him, was the realization that he was alone, totally alone with himself. And it scared him. Sometime during the night, Cole drifted into a fitful sleep. When he woke, darkness still hid the island. His first conscious sense was pain. His toes, hands, elbows, chest, legs, all ached. What had happened? Vaguely he remembered burning the supplies and the shelter, and then trying to escape by swimming. After that he remembered the tide and crawling up the rocky shore. There had been terrible cold, then more crawling. Then he recalled his skin burning. After that, a damning loneliness. Cole breathed in the cold, damp night air. Where was he now? The air smelled of salt, seaweed, and something burnt. Then he slept again. When he woke the next time, dawn had crept into the sky. Lifting one arm, he found it covered with black ash. He was lying nearly naked, squarely in the ashes of the burned shelter. He gathered his strength and struggled to his feet. The world seemed to tilt and spin. In the dawn light, billowing clouds mounded against the far horizon like a snowdrift. The warm ash stuck to the raw scrapes on Cole’s chest and legs. Blood crusted his elbows and knees, and his dry mouth kept him from swallowing. Every joint in his body ached. As he wavered on his weakened legs, Cole became aware of a presence. Not a movement, only a lurking presence. Grimacing, he searched the trees and shore. At first nothing appeared different or out of place. Then something large and white broke the smooth pattern of the shoreline. He squinted, and the image cleared. A bear. A white bear. Out across the water, on the point of shoreline near the opening of the bay, a massive white bear stood as motionless as a statue, facing him. Morning light glinted off its shiny white fur and made it glow. The bear stood patiently, proud, nose forward, ears alert. Cole kept blinking his eyes. Could this possibly be one of the Spirit Bears Edwin had spoken of? He had said they lived hundreds of miles to the south on a different island. And yet what else could it be? Shivering in only his underwear, Cole crouched and picked up a rock. This Spirit Bear did not have any right to stare at him. It didn’t have pride, dignity, and honor like Edwin had said. It was just a mangy animal. Cole flung the rock, even though the bear was nearly a quarter mile away. “Keep staring, I’ll kill you,” he shouted. What really angered Cole about the bear was that it stood there frozen on the shoreline without any sign of fear. He looked around for some kind of weapon. In the ashes he spotted the charred blade of a hunting knife from one of the boxes. He picked it up and turned back towards the Spirit Bear. It had disappeared. Cole searched the trees, but the bear was gone. Puzzled, he tossed the knife back on the ground. “I ever see you again, you’re dead,” he vowed. “I’ll teach you to be afraid of me.” As he turned back towards the ashes, another bright object caught his attention. Not ten feet away lay the colorful red-and-blue blanket Garvey had given him. What had he called it? At.oow? it rested near some tall grass, completely untouched by the flames. Cole picked it up and examined it with his sore fingers. Had he missed when he threw the at.oow into the flames? Shrugging, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He hobbled on his bruised feet down to where he had left his shoes and cloths. Cole felt no regret for having burned the supplies and the shelter. Nor did he regret hurting Peter. This was all somebody else’s fault. If it weren’t for his parents, Peter, and the stupid Healing Circle, he wouldn’t even he here. Somebody would pay for what is happening. He would get revenge, especially against those who had wanted him in jail. People like Peter’s lawyer. He hated her. Cole remembered the first time he had seen her hold the feather in the circle. She waved it like a wand and pointed it directly at him. “That boy is dangerous,” she said. “Next time he might kill someone. This Circle Justice has its place, but I oppose any plan that does not isolate Cole Matthews.” Cole didn’t like someone accusing him. He hated sitting in a room across from a slimeball creep he had used as a punching bag. And he hated being around his parents and the high-priced lawyer they had hired for him. The room felt stuffy, and he dug at the women fabric on his chair with his fingernail. Circle Justice stunk! Each word spoken in the Circle was like kindling added to his smoldering anger. “Cole must go to jail and get anger counseling,” somebody said. “He’s proved that he can’t be trusted .” “Cole is a risk to our children and to our community.” Another person in the circle said. “We can’t rick his release.” It was the next voice that made Cole explode. His father held the father, toying with it in his fingers. “We’ve always wanted the best for Cole,” he said, “His mother and I have devoted our lives to him, but he –“ “That’s bull!” Cole shouted suddenly, although he wasn’t holding the feather. “You drink until you can’t stand up, and you’re gone all the time. A devoted parent doesn’t whip his kid until a shirt can’t hide all the bruises!”