#adamsriver

“That’s where we’re going, m’ lady. This map is hundreds of years old, they say.”

Celista blinked in confusion. “Map?”

“That right there, that’s the Adams River,” he said, pointing at the snake. “They’ve drawn out every twist and turn, every eddy, all the way from where it begins up north to where it empties into Shuswap Lake. The accuracy is incredible, actually. They say it took them over a hundred years to complete.”

“And the paint, it doesn’t wash away?”

Ellis smiled, walked over to the stone, and cracked at the cliff wall with his hatchet. The paint remained undisturbed. “These are pictographs, and the Tribe of the River Eel have been using them for generations beyond count. It tells the story of their people, both their past and their future. This paint will outlive both you and I. They use ochre, mixed with fish oils, and it’s longer lasting than any paint white men have ever created.”

Celista shook her head in wonder. “And who is that?” she asked. “That figure on the tree trunk, with the long arms? Who does that represent?”

Ellis smiled proudly, gazing affectionately at the pictograph ten feet above their head. Surrounded by smaller stick figures, some of them draped spread-eagle across the top of the floating trunk, the ominous red man’s pointed knees reached up to his shoulders while he speared two paddles into the rippling water beneath him. He was spider-like and eyeless, and just looking at him gave Celista a quick shudder of foreboding. 

“That is Nanor, or at least one version of him. He’s a shapeshifter of myth. The Tribe of the River Eel believe that it’s him that accompanies each new soul beyond the limits of death, paddling them beyond the limits of our reality. He takes them to join the countless generations that have descended into the Adams River to begin their new life amidst the tumult and chaos of the rapids. They believe that the souls of their ancestors live inside the water, and direct its flow. The river provides them with everything they need during life, then welcomes them into its arms after death.”

“That’s their religion?”

He shook his head. “The Tribe of the River Eel don’t have a religion, not in the way you and I understand it. You could say that the river is their God, but in their language there is no word for God. There’s no word for Heaven or Hell either. There’s only the river, and its messenger — Nanor. He is the bridge between this present moment, and eternity.”

“But isn’t he evil?”

Ellis laughed, and slung his backpack over a nearby branch. “Another concept that doesn’t exist in their worldview. Is the bear evil for eating the salmon? Is the eagle evil for catching its prey in its talons? Each being has its nature, its role within its environment. If there was no Nanor, some other being would have to take his place.”

Celista was still digesting this alien information as Ellis clambered further up the trunk, his movements effortless and languid. Again she marvelled at the fact that this was the same derelict who had wandered into her clearing the night before, seemingly starving and near death. Now he swung from one branch to the next like an acrobat, his muscles straining against his flannel shirt. Once he’d reached a spot twenty feet above his head, he leaned heavily until the entire tree drooped toward the cliff face in submission. With one outstretched palm he cupped a small protruding red stone, then turned it decisively to the right with a crack.  

“What are you doing?” Celista asked, noting that the stone he’d turned was at the centre of a pictograph of the sun. 

“This, right here, is the secret key.”

Years later, when society would know her as the world-famous Lady Celista Spencer, she would think back to this moment as a pivotal hinge in her life. If her initial trek across the Atlantic had been the moment she transitioned from girl to woman, this was when she fully embraced her future role as an explorer and author. It was about fear management — as a pitch-black hole appeared in the rock, its cleverly disguised stone door swinging into the darkness, she clearly saw the two choices before her: she could turn back now, and never understand what lay beyond, or she could trek forward with Ellis and experience whatever life had in store for her. It wasn’t a choice for her, really. Remaining ignorant would be intolerable; comfortable normalcy was not what she wanted out of her life. Even if it killed her, she had no choice but to soldier forward. 

Ellis dropped from the tree with a thump, and gave her a lascivious grin. He retrieved his backpack and pulled it over his shoulders, then motioned toward the doorway. For a moment she thought she saw flames in his eyes, his sun-reddened face glowing with perspiration. 

“If you’re afraid, I could take you back to the winery. We could be home by sunset,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I mean to see this through.”