VAGABONDS: An American Fantasy

Flood Stage

Corrie shoved through the bushes and stood at the river’s edge. Brown water boiled at her claws. Massive branches tumbled through the torrent like twigs. The river was already too high—a  flash flood.

Dark clouds scudded across the sky. At her back, Victor and Galen shouldered through the opening in the shrubs.

“We’ll have to go back and wait for weeks.” Corrie’s voice was bleak with despair.

Corrie scanned the riverbanks, searching for any way across. A shaft of light glittered on the water. It quickly disappeared, and with it, Corrie’s last hopes. There was no way to cross.

Galen studied the riverbanks. “There must be a way.”

“Nothing’s lost if we wait a month or two,” Victor said. “It could take us a year to find the trekkers, anyway.”

Why didn’t Victor understand her urgency? El Garro might not have a year. And her sisters were lost. Desperation clawed at Corrie’s insides. She didn’t want another day in El Garro’s den where the smell of sickness grew ever stronger. She didn’t want to watch her Father weaken every day. She didn’t want El Garro to die before he saw her quad-sisters again. She didn’t want to fail. No false trails, no detours, no injuries, no adventures. Just a fast trek with a clear answer at the end.

Corrie surveyed the river, wondering if they could walk across the bottom. But a boulder twice as big as El Garro tumbled a few yards, stopped, then rolled again. Walking underwater was impossible.

Corrie voiced her uncertainty, “There must be a way to cross?”

“We’ll find it,” Galen said.

Corrie was comforted that Galen was on the trek; after all, he was one of her oldest friends. Yes, she was aggravated that he had pointed out El Garro’s weakness in front of everyone, but he was right. El Garro didn’t need to be out trekking.

Galen’s encouragement bouyed Corrie. There must be a way to cross, she repeated to herself. And a determination, born of despair, grew in her. She was a solid boulder of strength to her father, someone who could be trusted to take the prudent path. The boring path.

Corrie shook her armor angrily, throwing off that stolid image of herself. Not now. For this, she would do or say or think whatever was necessary to cross the river. A thrill of unexpected excitement shivered through her.

A wave lapped at Victor’s feet, and he backed away. “The water will be out of the banks in another hour. The fields will flood. We need to get back to high ground.”

Victor turned away; Galen hesitated, watching her.

Corrie still peered at the rushing water. A compulsion bubbled up within her. She wanted—more than anything—to return to her father’s den.

“It may be hard for you to trek,” El Garro had warned her. “As first born, your curse is to stay home. Some can fight it for a time and trek a short ways. If it becomes too strong, come home. We all live with the curse. We’ll understand.”

But if she turned back, it meant she would dishonor her father; sending out this search party was probably his last big decision as Colony leader. She couldn’t turn back.

“There must—” Each word was slow and deliberate, but the excitement of the unexpected pulsed through her. “—be a way.” Corrie stepped closer to the churning water. Her legs were hard to move, heavy, weighted down with the curse of her people. First born stayed home; they didn’t trek. Another deliberate step. She stood stiff-legged at the very edge. She felt the bank’s softness, felt the danger. But she would not back off.

“Get back!” Galen yelled.

The ground gave way beneath her. Yes! With a sudden lurch, Corrie pitched into the water.

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