The Falls

The Falls Rav Grewal-Kök (bio) Two boys sit on a log washed white by the tides and wind. A driftwood fire hisses on the sand. Down the beach, the black waves roar. It’s August 1995, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. One boy, one teenager, is pale. The other is dark. Between them, they pass the bottle of Scotch the dark one took from his father’s liquor cabinet. The fire warms their faces. Fog blots out the moon, but the sky still glows with hidden light. The boys have whisky and smoke in their throats, whisky in their bellies. Above their camp, on the cliff, ocean gusts shake the trees. It was easier in the day not to think of the wolves and bears in the forest. Before sunset, the boys wrapped their food in canvas and hung the bundle from a branch higher on the slope. Now they’ll be safe when they sleep, says Luckett, the pale one. And even if they had kept their food in the camp, the big animals would stay away from the fire. The darker boy, Jaswant, smiles as he cradles the bottle. He takes two sips, or three, to each sip of Luckett’s. He looks out at the black water. In the lull between waves, he rubs his neck and holds his breath while he listens to the darkness at his back. The next day, they wake before dawn. It’s cold where they lie, out from the cover of the trees. Overnight, the fog soaked into their clothes and sleeping bags. Now they stand, stretch their arms, and pull on their hiking boots and jackets. They walk away from the camp in opposite directions. Each looks for a dry place to dig his latrine. Jaswant’s head hurts. He doesn’t rush. By the time he returns to the camp, Luckett has retrieved their bundle of food and has set the kettle on the propane stove for coffee. “Hungover?” asks Luckett. “Didn’t I tell you last night to slow down? You can’t make everything into a joke.” Jaswant picks up the bottle from beside the ashes of the fire. He raises it into the gray sky. There’s a little whisky left. He mixes the dregs with coffee in his steel mug before he buries the empty bottle in the sand. [End Page 55] “Amazing,” says Luckett. They eat prunes and salmon jerky with crackers—a dry breakfast, taken in silence. Then, with the light from the east now reaching the black water, they set off with their packs into the wind. The sand is heavy, is soft. With the tide falling, gnats rise in great clouds from the kelp. Luckett has a distance runner’s stride and a distance runner’s love of solitude. He fixes his eyes on the horizon. But his anger—if that is what it is—doesn’t touch the other boy. Jaswant is free. His headache makes it impossible to think. For him, the pain is like the sun, or the wind, or the screams of the gulls when they hang in the gusts. The pain exists and he exists. It’s nothing to suffer when you are young and strong and blessed with the certainty that you’ll endure. Luckett stops at the ladders on the northern reach of the bay. He takes off his jacket and sweater. He rolls the sleeves of his t-shirt to his shoulders. He drinks from his canteen while he gazes at the cliff. Jaswant, when he reaches the ladders, suggests they break for an early lunch. They’ve walked three miles on wet sand without a rest. But Luckett is sick of the beach. He wants to wait until they’ve returned to the forest. So the boys shoulder their packs, clasp their chest straps, and begin to climb. There are two hundred and twelve rungs. The wood creaks beneath their weight. From time to time, one of Jaswant’s hands slips off the ladder. More than once, his feet slip. He is wearing his father’s hiking boots, which are a size and a half too large. He...

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