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

into the distance and made out some rocks beginning to protrude again, as they had by the campsite. That meant it was becoming shallower – but it also meant obstacles, things to hit.

She tugged at the shovel – if that was indeed what it was – but the hammocks and tarps were tightly wedged in and it wouldn’t budge, the spade seemingly caught against the saucepan at the bottom. From her newly elevated position on the bench, she started seeing the hazards that had been hidden as she kneeled in the hull – the tree branches submerged just below the surface, detritus that had been swept downstream in the torrents now catching on the riverbed. Just ahead, the tip of a rock jutted from the water almost imperceptibly, but it was what lay beneath that concerned her.

Behind it was another one, much larger, a white lace of skittering water spinning out behind it. She was being swept along at a rate that made missing it impossible and within moments the canoe was upon it, the prow propelled onto the hump as the water surged around it. The impact dislodged her from her precarious position astride the bench and she fell back into the hollow, hitting her head on the wooden seat behind. She lay there dazed as for several long moments the boat was stranded on the hummock, rocking erratically as water surged against it on one side and the river continued to rush underneath. She could feel it pushing against the stern of the boat with insistent force, dislodging it centimetre by centimetre, slowly nudging her off . . .

She cried out as the boat suddenly freed itself from its perch, floating sideways down the fast-rushing river for several metres, gaspingly cold water frothing over the upstream side again, before the canoe corrected itself and the prow swung back to nose through the water.

But there was no respite. The rocks were dotting the river like miniature islands now and two seconds later, she hit another one. Momentum meant the boat carried over it for a fraction before becoming wedged again, its prow out of the water, the river rushing around her on all sides.

She looked downriver and, at what she saw there, began screaming. She started hollering, yelling for someone, anyone – Alex! Alex! – to save her. She was screaming not because she wanted to get off this rock in the middle of the river, but because she wanted to stay on it. Because she could see now what had been hidden from sight before – that the rapids up ahead, seemingly shallow rills that might tear the bottom from the boat, actually preceded something far worse – a mist rising like a steam where the river dropped away, out of sight. It just . . . disappeared.

She could feel the force of the water still pushing against the boat, like hands and winds and wheels beneath it, relentless in its pursuit. It felt personal, merciless, as steadily the canoe began to shift in tiny increments. She looked about her wildly but there was nothing to hold on to, no tree branches to grab . . .

The rushing river ahead was now a rolling thunder so that even her screams were swallowed up as the canoe came free again. It skirred over the shallow rocks, hitting each one roughly and throwing her about but not stopping, the momentum too great. She tried to sit up but the boat was being tossed about as the water roiled and frothed, its prow caught and spun like a pinball by half-submerged rocks. She was travelling side-on again, water sloshing over the low sides by the gallon and sinking her ever lower. She could hear the boom of the water, see the smooth rock walls along the banks . . . But she couldn’t see ahead, only up.

The boat hit another boulder, a huge one, the impact slamming her body against the hull, and this time she heard a crack that told her it was all over. Suddenly she was in the water, the boat spinning away from her in two pieces. There was no time to scream. Her hands reached for the sky as she went under, she felt the smooth ancient rocks buried under tonnes of pressure as her body was swept like a rag doll’s over the edge. For a moment she was contained within the body of liquid, almost embryonic, suspended, protected . . .

Then it dispersed into a million tiny crystals and she felt herself fall.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was both endless, and over in moments. The pool below was deep and clear, the debris of the boat pushed under the surface and bobbing up seconds later, several metres downstream. She had landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs so that she surfaced with a gasp. But her lungs wouldn’t inflate. She was winded, quite literally breathless.

The spray from the falls made it impossible to see, a hard-falling rain that pounded down on her head, forcing her straight under the water again, her body sinking easily without the buoyancy of full lungs. Even below the surface she could hear the roar, feel the immense power tumbling above her and pushing her down. Her body was heaving and buckling, her lungs screaming to be reinflated and she knew she had to move away somehow, get to anywhere but here. Her limbs were flailing with conflicting instincts – to surface, to breathe – but she somehow co-ordinated herself enough to kick for three, four strokes, out of the way of the central chute.

Almost immediately, the water became calmer. Calm. She broke through the surface and the air was a slap against her skin like her primal first breath, oxygen filling her lungs as she coughed and wheezed, the spray misting her face. She kicked her way blindly towards the edge, catching hold of a rock and hugging it, sucking in the air in desperate gulps as though she was trying to strip the pigment from the sky. She pulled herself up enough to lie sprawled