Raft of Stars by Andrew Graff (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

sound. Coyotes, Cal thought. They were far off. The sound might carry for miles on a night this still. The forest seemed quiet tonight, calmer somehow, and Cal was growing accustomed to it. If he had heard coyotes the night before, he would have lit up the shadows with his flashlight. But even after these short two days in the wild, he’d become accustomed to the sounds, or lack of sounds, the loneliness. He had braved a rushing river, been bucked from a horse, made a decision to ask Tiffany on a date, and nearly had the boys. It was amazing what a man could sort out in the woods. Besides, he thought, turning back to the task at hand of starting a fire, he had Jacks with him now, Jacks’ keen eyes and ears, and nose, too, which had led him to the boys’ bikes and a chewed-up cedar tree. He imagined a man could sleep more soundly in a forest while a dog kept vigil at his side. He smiled at his dog, shook his head. How did Jacks get out here, anyway? Was Tiffany here somewhere? Cal thought it over and decided she couldn’t be. Jacks must have run away. Sniffed him out. Cal couldn’t begrudge that kind of loyalty, yet he felt sorry for Tiffany’s sake—she’d worry—but all would be well very soon. Just another day or two, and then Cal would walk out of the forest with the boys, and Jacks, and he would stride up to Tiffany and scoop her waist and take her out to dinner.

Cal became aware he was smiling dreamily at his dog, alone in the dark, and the fire hadn’t been started. He shivered and resumed his work. Fire was becoming increasingly important. The night would have been cool even if he had stayed dry, but the swim at dusk had chilled him to the bone. After letting the boys slip, Cal waded to shore through the muck and cattails, and pushed his way slowly through the thick brush of the riverbank. Thorns stuck in his feet, and after picking them out and dressing again Cal had to warm his hands in his pockets for a few minutes before peeling some bark and rummaging through the horse’s saddlebags. His matches had been ruined in his swim down the rapids the previous evening, and he found himself muttering, “Come on, come on, please be there,” as he searched blindly through the depths of the saddlebags. Eventually he felt what he was looking for—a two-inch-long rod of ferrous metal tied to a sharp-edged rectangle of steel. The whole unit was no larger than a nail clipper, but it was all-important. His early faith in Teddy was vindicated. The man had placed a flint and steel in both their saddlebags. Cal smiled when he found it. “Divvy the gear,” he said to no one in particular. The horse shifted its weight, blinked its giant eye.

Cal studied his little pile of cedar bark. The moon was up now, and nearly full, and it provided enough light to work. He’d been on a few Boy Scout trips as a kid, but he hadn’t really been into earning merit badges, and he usually opted for a lighter or match when it was his turn to start the fire. Once, when it became apparent that his scout leader wouldn’t remain quiet about his need to learn the flint, a young Cal secreted a Bic lighter in the folds of his uniform. He made a big show of wanting to work alone, and after a few feigned strikes of the flint, he reached down and lit a thread of birch bark with the Bic. He remembered cupping the tiny flame with his hands and blowing on it until the smoke rose into his face and the fire grew hot. His scout leader was proud.

“What kind of scout cheats at fire-making?” Cal asked himself. He shook his head and laughed. “A scout who wants to eat hot dogs already,” he answered. Cal’s stomach growled. There were two cans of tuna and four cans of beans in the horse’s pack. Cold tuna would work, but after that swim, with the ache and chill of the river still in the knuckles of his hands, a hot can of brown beans next to a fire sounded a whole lot better.

Cal bunched up the cedar bark again so it made a little pile next to a tepee of twigs. The dried twigs looked white and brittle in the moonlight, like chicken ribs. He was so hungry. Cal held the ferrous rod in his left hand, with the rod’s tip buried in the cedar bark. With his right hand he pressed the sharp edge of the steel against the rod and prepared to strike it toward the tinder. He’d experimented with the thing a few times to get the hang of it. With the right amount of pressure and speed, the steel’s edge threw an impressive shower of yellow sparks from the rod, but he couldn’t figure out how to keep from knocking over his tinder pile in the process. He’d make sparks, knock over the tinder. He’d regather the tinder and strike at it harder, and then knock over the tepee of twigs as well. This time he stroked more gently, and a few yellow sparks landed on the tinder pile. He watched the silvery bark for any sign of a glow. One of the sparks seemed hopeful. It landed in a successful position and glowed for a moment, just the smallest pinprick of orange. Cal’s eyes grew wide and ravenous, but then everything faded again to moonlight. Cal, impatient, stroked the rod again and knocked over his tinder pile.

“Son of a—” He stopped himself. Jacks looked at him with a question in the tilt of his head. “No need to get upset, Jacks. Getting upset won’t help.” The horse gave a slight whinny from the shadows and sounded like it was chuckling.