The Secret Path by Karen Swan (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

‘I can’t!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll capsize!’

She watched as Alex’s mouth opened but no words came out. He didn’t know what to say, how to help her – because there was no way to help her. For once, he couldn’t do anything. ‘. . . Tara!’

She scanned the hollow of the boat for something she could use – something to throw over the back to act as a drag and slow her rapid progress – but there was nothing except a half-coconut ladle that would barely dole out soup. She thought fast about what they’d packed in their rucksacks, but it was just camping stuff – sleeping and cooking equipment.

She gave a whimper of terror, feeling her fear grow in waves. There was nothing they could do. Not her. Not him. Her grip tightened on the wooden hull as she looked back. Alex was already a diminishing figure, growing smaller by the second as the canoe slipped into the pleated central channel, as the river sped through the mountain pass. He was sprinting along the riverbank now, his momentary shock thrown off for action. The look on his face was no longer visible, but his shouts carried over, betraying his fear. She heard her name carry into the sky, up with the birds, pretty and useless.

She looked ahead again. The river – broad and smooth – stretched ahead like a silver mirror, deceptively benign, but she felt the incredible power of the current beneath the boat, propelling her along. The sun was still shining but the sky had grown hazy during their morning trek, and in the next moment, a cloud took the light away again, like the closing snap of a fan. She felt the shadows slacken upon her face, a cold chill rippling over her sweaty skin.

She glanced back. Alex was still running, his arms and legs like pistons, his shouts still carrying to her, but he was falling further and further behind. There was no way he could keep pace with her. The boat was now settled into the centre seam of the water and sailing along like a car on rails, smooth, fast and unimpeded.

She was alone. He was calling her but she couldn’t hear even her own name anymore and she had to twist now to see him – and to twist meant rocking the boat. She just wanted to be still, as still and small and light as she could possibly be. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend this wasn’t really happening. She wanted to curl up in the hollow of the canoe and just lie there till somehow, safety came.

The canoe rocked gently in the slipstream. There was nothing she could do. She was at the mercy of a river that was vast, fast-flowing and crocodile-infested. It stretched out peaceably, calm and deceptively tranquil, and had she been on the riverbank – bathing, washing up, filling buckets – she might have said it was beautiful. Instead, she warily watched the banks for company as she was led downriver, eyes searching for a ripple on the water’s surface, bubbles popping, footprints in the muddy banks. But she was no expert – she didn’t know the warning signs of what to look for, the specific areas these river predators might choose to lie in wait.

Alex was out of sight now. She looked back as best she dared, but even if he could have kept up with her, he couldn’t have kept his line running along the water’s edge. The landscape had begun to change as the miles slipped past, the stony shore now submerged as the river abutted the banks, the shallow tree-topped embankment growing ever taller, mud swapped for rocks. He would have been forced back into the trees, losing sight of the river’s edge.

She had no idea how far she had travelled already. Two miles? Three? More? It was impossible to track. She saw Alex’s pack lying in the front of the boat and realized what that meant for him too – with no supplies, he was as defenceless as her. He would have nowhere to sleep, no food—

Then she remembered. The small shovel he had used for digging the toilet! Could that work? As a paddle? Or even just as a brake? Could it slow her enough to allow her to steer her way back to the shallows?

She crawled forward on her hands and knees towards the pack. There were two bench seats between her and it, and every time she scaled a seat, the canoe rocked precariously, the waterline lapping the edges. Her nerve was failing her, her fear mounting as the boat continued to slice through the water, seemingly frictionless and hydrodynamic.

With one seat between her and the pack, she kneeled on the bottom of the boat and reached over for it, but the bag was heavy – twenty kilos at least. She heaved and strained as hard as she could, but she couldn’t kneel on an unstable base and lift that weight above her head. She would need to get in beside it to unfasten the clips.

With a deep breath, she steeled herself to climb over the last seat, keeping her body low as she swung one leg over. Water slopped over the sides from the jerky movement and she watched it deepen the growing puddle along the base. Carefully, scarcely daring to breathe, she sat astride the bench and leaned down to unfasten the bag, sliding her arm down the back of it. Her hand groped for the narrow handle amidst the kit but everything felt industrial and unfamiliar . . . Was that it? Her fingers closed around a hard stem. She glanced up distractedly and in the corner of her eye, caught sight of something. Her head jerked up as she focused – disturbances to the water’s surface were breaking up the serene banner of silk. The river was beginning to change, to shift, the cool smooth waters beginning to gurgle and chatter ahead. She peered