The Point of Vanishing by Maryka Biaggio (best e ink reader for manga .TXT) 📕

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyeing their solid leather shoes and brimming packs. “It’s around back.”

He led them to a garage and tugged its creaking doors open. It was his work shed. Greasy tools covered a pocked workbench. A jumble of pots and gardening implements crowded in a corner. No, Barbara thought, I could never live like this, weighed down by shabby stuff and ever-beckoning chores.

“Here she is,” he said, walking to a canoe balanced upside-down over two sawhorses. He grabbed its midsection and rocked it onto its side. “She’s an Old Town. Trusty as they come.”

“Pretty good-sized,” Nick said.

“Yup,” he said. “Eighteen feet.”

Barbara stole a glance at Nick. The canoe’s hull was battered and patched, and four of its ribs cracked. It lacked a bow seat. She turned to the old fellow. “Looks like she wants some repair work.”

“Oh, those broken ribs? That’s nothing. A canoe’s not worth its salt without some give. She’s as good as any you’ll find.”

Hmm, Barbara thought, never heard anyone put it that way.

Nick knelt and examined the bottom. “Won’t leak, will she?”

“No, see here.” He stroked the hull. “She’s got a nice coat of shellac. Exactly what you want in a canoe.”

Barbara asked, “Can we try her out a few days?”

“If you pay me first. Don’t mean to be ornery about it, but I don’t know you folks.”

Nick scratched his cheek. “How much do you want?”

“I’ll take twelve dollars.”

Barbara scrunched up her eyebrows and pleaded with Nick. Oh, for a canoe to explore the lake’s mysterious inlets and islands! But Nick was the one who’d be paying for it.

Nick shook his head. “Seems like a lot.”

The old man shifted his feet. “That’s with the oars and a setting pole.”

“Don’t think we can afford it,” said Nick.

The man tugged at his beard. “How about eight?”

Barbara nudged her chin toward a blocky handmade stool. “Will you throw that stool in for a bow seat?”

“I figure so,” he said.

Barbara smiled at Nick. It sounded like a good deal to her.

Nick asked the old man, “Do you think we could manage the Kennebec in her?”

“Might want to portage around the rapids. But sure, she can handle that old river.”

“All right,” said Nick. “It’s a deal.”

✭

They tried the canoe out on Moosehead Lake, gliding around rocky points and by island shores, pleased with how smoothly she moved, especially after they harmonized their paddling. The next two nights, they camped on uninhabited islands and fell asleep to the mournful call of loons. Barbara couldn’t explain why islands enchanted her so, but they did as if the surrounding waters turned them into sanctuaries, places unmolested by the world’s cares.

The next day they tucked their gear into the canoe’s bow and stern and paddled across the lake, to where it emptied into the Kennebec River. Putting paddle to water, they maneuvered to the river’s mouth. A strong current gripped the canoe and pulled her into its rippling middle.

Barbara glanced back at the lake. “On to the next adventure.”

Their second day on the river was windy. Strong gusts rattled the branches of the birch and black ash trees and howled through the treetops. Barbara pulled her wide-brim hat down over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the morning sun, as they tacked eastward along the bending river.

Ahead she spied a buck grazing in the brush, its antlers bouncing as it foraged. She pulled her oar out of the water, twisted around to catch Nick’s eye, and pointed ahead. She held herself still and let the canoe drift closer. As they hurdled over quickening water, the deer spotted them and bounded off into the woods.

They rounded the winding bend. Ahead the river roared.

Nick hollered, “Hear that?”

“Trouble,” Barbara called.

“Better get to shore.”

She thrust her oar to the right side to paddle for the left shore. At the same moment, Nick backstroked toward the opposite shore. The force of their countervailing strokes swung the canoe sideways. Rushing waters grabbed and swept them into a guttering torrent. The canoe bounced over breakers and angled toward the frothing rapids. Ahead white water swirled and rushed around boulders.

“Straighten her out,” Nick called.

Barbara stroked, trying to keep the canoe pointed forward. Whoosh, the front end lifted. Barbara bounced up off her seat. She crouched to steady herself. The canoe smacked down and rocked to the side. She leaned in the opposite direction. The canoe righted. With a grating scrape, its bottom ran over rocks and plunged ahead.

Barbara dared not turn around. She called, “The boat okay?”

“Just paddle,” Nick hollered.

The canoe bounded and fell in the writhing waters, grinding against rocks. The current swirled it sideways. Barbara struggled to steer the front downstream. She pressed her knees and legs against the canoe walls to gain leverage. But the seething torrent held the canoe in its grip. She was helpless against its power.

Bam, the canoe slammed against a rock. Wood cracked—either the hull or a rib. Her thoughts converged to a point: We’re in danger. No boat can bear this. She’ll break apart. We’ll end up in the water. Swim with the current. Head up. Arms out. Watch for rocks.

The canoe swished forward, straightened and swooped over black potholes, leaped over swells, and smacked down in swoops, jerking like a bucking bronco.

But still, it floated. She dug her paddle in, again and again, seeking some grip on the current, steering for the calmer center channel.

Then the river broadened and smoothed into a mild ruffle. The canoe seemed to relax as if releasing taut muscles.

“Better put in,” Nick called. “And check the canoe.”

Barbara’s body hummed with the ebb of adrenalin; her arms and legs went wobbly. She steered for the shore. “There,” she said, pointing with her paddle, “on that sunny bank.”

Once the canoe’s front caught the gravelly bottom, she leaped out and dragged it ashore. Nick followed.

“Look at us,” she said. Their shoes and clothes were soaked, their hair plastered to their heads. She shivered from the