All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full; unto the place where the rivers come, thither they return again.
- Ecclesiastes 1:7
To get out to the coast, they told us, we would have to take the hard trail.
The hard trail.
True enough, it was some of the toughest riding we'd made in our lives, over cliffs and through the thick forests that ringed the canyon once called home. We had set out a little after dawn, picking up a little sweetness for our rations and some extra water for the horses. The other side of the cliffs, down the hard trail through the forest and old Indian territory, we'd arrive at the coast after four day's ride, maybe five. To my companion, it might as well have been a hundred days, or a thousand. The way he tore off at the outset, you'd think he had the whole country to cover.
Mako was a boy, nay, a man a few years older than myself and possessed of the Lord's own strength of arm, as well as the Devil's cunning. He'd been fishing on the rivers near Pubelo del Juego since he was old enough to lift a rod, every night carrying home a collection of silver-scaled wonders, bragging that when his father returned from the Civil War, he'd have a feast waiting for him.
His father never came home.
For the longest time, the only news we heard came from a messenger with the vague note that the man'd gone missing, presumed to be dead. Mako had remained defiant for a few days, figuring that no amount of cannon-fire would take down his dear pa. Then the second letter came. The man hadn't died at all, he'd deserted, fled the battlefield and headed for the coast. He and a bunch of other deserters had taken off into the Pacific in a hastily constructed raft, their former comrades hot at their heels.
The news killed Mako's mother. It turned the young man into a Pariah. The son of a coward and a traitor. He buried his mother, and returned to his fishing trips.
Every morning at dawn he'd head out to the rivers, rushing, not wanting to be stopped or seen by anyone. Sometimes he'd come home, often empty handed, dragging his feet and walking slow as Winter molasses. It had taken weeks to get him to talk. I'd walk with him to the river and sit nearby as he fished, I'd read a book, or write. If he even knew I was there he showed no sign of it for almost two months. When he finally opened his mouth, it was an almost miraculous task to get him to stop talking. We bonded over a love of adventure. He wanted to know and to see what lay outside of town, outside of the canyon, outside of California, outside of America. I wanted to see the worlds from my dreams and stories.
If I learned one thing from Mako, it was that an achievable goal can drive a man to all sorts of mischief.
Most of our journey passed by much as I had imagined it would do. During the day we'd shoot the shit about anything that came to mind. Where did we see ourselves when the 20th century dawned? I'd be a famous author, moving up to the North. He'd be the first man to single-handedly reel in a kraken (Presumably, my stories had rubbed off on him...) But largely the conversations revolved around Mako's immediate plan. When we reached the coast, what then? He'd chuckle, tell me I already knew the answer to that, and then change the subject.
By night we'd set up camp in the best place available, and play a game to while away the hours until we fell asleep. I'd start a tale, Mako would continue it. We'd go back and forth until one of us was asleep. Truth be told, I don't remember ever being the last man standing.
Night of the fourth day. We were close enough to smell the spray of salt in the air. Ahead of us lay the forest trail down the cliffside. Nowhere to set up an effective campsite there. We'd had to settle down where we were for the night. And that meant sleeping in old Indian holy land.
I'll admit that the superstitious side of myself got the better of me. I grew more and more afraid as the night wore on, sitting as close to the fire as I could, wrapping an extra blanket around myself and pressing my hat tight against my head. Mako was thoroughly unshaken. In a rare display of modesty, he had taken to wearing a shirt to keep out the night air, but left most of it open as he checked the sights on his ancient lever action.
"No man, beast or devil can stand up to an angry fisherman," He had told me, trying to calm my nerves with humour. It worked. A little.
"But isn't this burial land?" I asked him, checking over my shoulders.
"What's your point Yugi?" He asked, thumbing the barrel of the rifle.
"Old Pelt used to talk about the Anasazi living up in these hills. Old Indian ghosts or something. Don't reckon bullets'll do much good against a ghost."
"Well, if'n it comes to it, we'll find out won't we?" He grinned and cocked the weapon, just as the most horrific noise I ever heard shredded through the trees. A high-pitched shriek that rattled against the inside of one's skull, warbling and pained. A low groan came along with it, like a thousand hell-spawned fiends all vomiting as one. I hurled myself back into my tent before I had even fully registered that I was moving. I pressed myself back against the canvas, curled up in a ball. Mako followed quickly afterward, always keeping his eyes ahead on the outside, backing into the tent with his rifle pointed at the trees.
We stayed still as death for what felt like a year and a day, neither of us taking our eyes from the thin hole that lead out into the air.
We watched the fire.
We watched the fire burn lower.
Lower.
Lower.
Burning out faster than was naturally allowed.
Blue smoke and ominous, dead cinders.
Mako shuffled back a few paces, now inches away from me. In the confines of the tent, his back seemed enormous, muscle sculpted to be like the side of some glorious mountain, arms thicker than oak trees, a grim look on his face to set every last beast on hell and earth fleeing. In that tent, almost pressed against me, he seemed a hundred feet tall.
When I look back, I know he must have been as absolutely terrified as I was. More so maybe. He wasn't being protected. He had to save my hide as well as his own. No matter how much I try and rationalise it, Mako became a hero of old that night. One broad arm reaching out and gripping my shoulder, pulling me against him. My head held against his chest, broad as a house. My eyes were pressed tight, all I could feel was his warmth, all I could hear was the pounding of his heart. Louder than the roar of a cannon, pumping blood hotter than the Sun.
"No man, beast or devil." He said. I could hear the grin.
The shriek came again.
Less than three feet away.
Inside the tent.
Mako fired.
I fainted.
By the time I woke up, most of the next day had gone. The sun had already begun to set again, throwing me into confusion to see the crimson light spilling into the tent.
I was alone.
I tore out of the tent, biting into my lip as I saw the lone horse tethered to the tent. My horse.
Fresh hoof prints lead off through the forest, down the trail. Without even packing up camp, or fetching any supplies, I flung myself onto my horse and charged down that forest trail. A single wrong step and we would have plummeted down the cliff, horse and rider dashed asunder by the equal forces of gravity and stupidity. I didn't care. I raced that damn horse down the trail until we came out on a verge overlooking the coast.
I saw a speck against the glittering blanket of the Ocean. A dark point against infinite silver, boiling gold in the sunset.
Mako and a hastily constructed raft, drifting off, away, out into the unknown.
I called out to him then, my voice cracking and breaking, like a child on the verge of catastrophic tears. A shameful noise, echoing across the cliffs and trees, booming out back to me and mocking me with the feeble sound of my desperate cry. I watched the raft as it melted away the distance.
I want to say that Mako heard my cry. I want to say that he turned round on the raft and caught sight of me, against all odds, pinpointed me against the wall of greens and blacks and browns. I want nothing more than to say that he gave me that godly grin, lifted his arm and waved to me, gave me one last goodbye before the horizon swallowed him forever.
So I will.
Until the day I die, that's what I'll say happened.