The Raft: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

at the lodge: sweep out the foyer, restack the pamphlet rack, unpack the boxes of vegetables and put them in the pantry. Just the thought of it bored me and I decided I’d continue for another few minutes before turning back. I still hadn’t come across anything new, although I had seen a few sparrowhawks, which was always a treat.
    It wasn’t long, however, before I came across a new surprise: a small, shallow brook, gurgling its way to the distant ocean. It was only a few metres wide and not very deep, but brooks were always great places to spot things you otherwise wouldn’t see: kingfishers perched on rocks, pools of tadpoles, little black sucker-like things that slid on their bellies and seemed to live off lichen.
    I got down on my knees at the river’s edge and drank some of the running water. It was cool and refreshing. I stopped to breathe, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and as I lifted my head, was startled by a long, dark reflection rippling on the water. I looked up.
    A man was standing on the other side of the river.
    I lifted my head slowly and got to my feet, keeping my eyes on him. He was high up on the opposite bank, staring down at me. There are some things I don’t remember as clearly as others—that is only natural, I suppose—but I will never forget my first impression of that man on the other side of the stream. The image of his body is burned into my mind just as a black mark is left in a plank of wood by a soldering iron. I remember how tall he was, and gangly—a lamppost dressed as a person. If you’d asked me then I would have told you he was seven feet tall, maybe taller. Perhaps it was the way his legs seemed to blend into the ground rather than rest on it. I could barely tell where he ended and his sinewy black shadow began.
    He was wearing a long dark trench coat and he had his hands in his pockets. From where I was standing I could not make out the details of his face. He said and did nothing. For a moment I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, that he was a being conjured out of nothing but light and shade, but I quickly dismissed that possibility.
    The funny thing is, I felt no fear. You may find that odd, but don’t forget, I was a young and innocent child. Quiet men standing on riverbanks didn’t scare me. Loud, barking, snapping things like dogs were more likely to send me off in a sprint.
    From across the water, I asked his name, but he said nothing. He didn’t move. I asked if he came there often and finally he nodded. That gave me the go-ahead to continue asking questions. I asked where he was from and he shifted his head to his left, telling me. I asked if he had a home and he shook his head slowly— no.
    Eventually, after running out of questions to ask, I told him it had been a pleasure meeting him, I was going home, and turned away. As I walked from the river, I looked back over my shoulder. He was still in his spot, watching me go. I waved and continued on, through the woods, back to the lodge to deal with my chores.
    That night I could not get the man out of my head. I remember sitting at the dinner table, rolling peas on my plate with my fork as my father talked about something or other and my mother fed my sister in her high chair. I hadn’t told them about the man in the woods. There didn’t seem to be any need to do so. He was just another one of the many woodland curiosities I kept to myself. I guarded my time in the woods the way one guards a diary full of secrets that may never mean as much to anyone else as to oneself. I confided in the woods the way the woods confided in me, revealing each of its marvels so faithfully.
    After dinner I went to my room, climbed onto my bed, and stared through the window at the moon. I thought about where he could have come from and what he wanted. I was struck by sympathy for him. He had seemed so alone. Not just alone in the woods, but always. Anywhere. I struggled to imagine him knowing anyone, which was not an assumption