Seeing Buffalo

by David Rogers

Table of Contents, parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

conclusion

Around the next bend, I saw the islands: tall, narrow, rocky columns, midstream, on top of which a few small trees or patches of grass managed to grow. They were no more than a dozen feet across, some smaller than that but, as they were surrounded by water, they were indeed islands.

“That one is called Norway,” Patty said pointing. “Beside it there is Moscoe.”

“Moscow? Like in Russia?”

“No, no w. That one, where the creek turns north, is Ambaren. The ones to the south are Islington, Suarven, and Buckhorn.”

“Why do they even have names?”

“Why does anything?” she asked.

“Well, giving something a name means it’s important, somehow, I guess. At least to the one who names it.” The names sounded like I’d heard them before, but where? “So who named the islands? And why such odd words?”

“People named them. Who else? A long, long time ago. And ‘Islington’ is not an odd word.”

“It is odd, for a miniature island in the creek around my family farm.”

“Maybe so. If your experience of the world is limited,” she said and pointed again. “The farthest two, side-by-side where the creek is wider, are Flimen and Sandflesen.”

“Flimsy and Sandflea?” I mused, smiling.

“No.” She turned from the islands and looked at me. She saw the amused look on my face and asked, with a flash of anger, “You think this is a joke?” She started back up the path. “City boys. You see nothing, even when it’s right in front of you.”

“Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to...” I said, but she was already too far away to hear, unless I shouted, and she was not listening anyway. I shrugged, looked around at the wilderness, the dark, rapid water, the islands and thought how foreign yet oddly familiar it seemed. I still had no clear memory of ever being here before. Maybe my dad had showed me this when I was a kid, but I didn’t think so. This I surely would have remembered.

By the time I reached the top of the bank, Patty was nowhere in sight. Which was kind of what I expected.

I looked around and did not see the truck, either.

Distant thunder rumbled. A tremendous blast of wind seemed to come from nowhere. Come, stay, said the voice. The wind pushed me back over the creek bank, straight toward the water. Patty grabbed me from behind at the last nanosecond and pulled me back from the edge. The voice sounded like what I heard in the barn the first day. Then the thunder boomed again.

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound terrified. “Did you hear that?”

“What, the thunder? I’d have to be deaf not to.”

“No, the voice.”

She shook her head. “All I heard was thunder. Maybe it sounds different here than what you city kids are used to.”

“Where were you just now? And where’s the truck?”

“Where we left it, I assume. Before we went to look at the islands. Or were you expecting other guests, who might have driven off in it?”

“No. I—” I was about to say, I didn’t even know you were still around. But the thunder crashed again, though the sun was still bright in the nearly cloudless sky. I looked up. “Where there’s thunder, there must be lightning,” I said instead. “We probably shouldn’t stand out in the open like this.”

“First you almost fall in the creek, and now there’s thunder. You’re having a very scary day, aren’t you?” I couldn’t tell if she was mocking or feeling sorry for me. I didn’t like either possibility but couldn’t immediately think of a third.

The horizon began to darken. Thick clouds formed and moved closer, fast. “I think you were right about that rain. We’d better get back to the truck,” I said. “How did we get so far away from it? It seemed like we came and went the same way.”

“We walked. I did, anyway. You seemed busy trying to fly. Or levitate. Or go for a swim. But come on, I’ll show you a shortcut to the truck.” Patty stepped back down to the narrow stone bank along the creek and walked away.

“Wait — I’m sure the truck is back this way,” I called. She kept going, disappearing around the curve. “Fine. Whatever,” I muttered. “She can walk.” I started back the way I felt certain we had come, along the upper creek bank, as the first few drops of rain fell. Midnight-dark clouds covered the Sun.

Five minutes later, I began to doubt my sense of direction. I kept going. A few drops of rain fell. More thunder. Lightning struck, too close for comfort. Ten minutes later, I knew I had gone wrong somewhere. I had not turned at all except where the creek did, but the truck was not in sight. Nor was Patty. That much, at least, was unsurprising. Her odd appear-and-disappear act was the least of my concerns right then. Unless she had driven off in the truck; that would be truly problematic.

The rain began in earnest. I was lost, no idea which way to go. No point getting even more drenched. I found the closest spot where I could slide down to the lower bank of the creek without falling in and ducked under the ceiling of a rock shelter.

That was when I began to be afraid. The creek was rising rapidly, just a couple of feet below my shelter. If anything, the rain outside was coming down harder. At this rate, the creek would soon spill into my little refuge. I looked around, trying not to let frantic feelings turn to panic.

Behind me, I noticed, the rock shelter was not just a shelter but an actual cave. Wishing for a flashlight, I felt my way back in the dark. At least the roar of rain, rushing creek and booming thunder were quieter here. The only light was a dim oval at the entrance to the cave.

I leaned against the rock wall and prepared to wait for the rain to stop, hoping the cave did not flood. I shoved my hands in my pockets. The familiar rectangle of my phone provided a certain comfort. I took it out and used the light to look around. The walls of the cave were tan sandstone, similar to the outer path, and the passage seemed to lead back, away from the creek, as far as I could see.

An oddly geometric shape caught my eye. I moved closer, pointing the light at a spot on the wall. Carved — chiseled — into the stone wall were the words, When you see the buffalo, run. “Thanks for letting me know soon enough to do something about it,” I said, out loud, my own voice barely audible over the rising creek’s roar.

I moved again, farther up the passage and heard water slosh. The cave was flooding quickly. This seemed like a good time to panic, so I did.

After a few seconds, or maybe minutes, of mindless fear, I looked at the screen of my phone, almost dropping it in the still-rising water. No service underground, of course. The nearest cell tower may have been struck by lightning, anyway, for all I knew. Since there was nothing else to do, I pushed farther back in the cave. At least the passage angled up, away from the flood. What would happen if I came to a dead end while the water still rose was too terrifying to contemplate and also too terrifying not to think about.

The water kept rising. I kept retreating, back and back, up the slight incline.

Something cold and wet touched the back of my neck. I did drop my phone, then and yelled a mindless cry of pure terror.

Watery fingers wrapped themselves around my head and throat, and I looked wildly around and down at the still-rising flood and up at the sky, ten feet overhead. Rainwater poured down. I had almost reached the top of the passage, where it opened to the surface.

I picked my phone up before it could slide into the water, turned it off and looked around in the faint natural light. Heavy clouds galloped across the little circle of sky. More cold fingers of rain splashed down my back.

I stood where the more or less horizontal passage turned into a chimney. A vertical distance of ten or so feet separated me from the surface and safety.

Another blinding flash of lightning and crash of thunder came just before the splintering of branches and thud of a tree trunk hitting the ground. Had I, just a moment before, thought of the surface as safe? The water was nearly up to the tops of my boots now. Lightning and falling trees notwithstanding, I had to try to climb.

On one side, where the most handholds and footholds were, a thousand miniature waterfalls cascaded down. The drier side was smooth as a playground sliding board. I started to climb just to one side of the waterfalls, feeling for handholds, blinded by ricocheting water whenever I looked up.

Six feet into the ascent, my left foot slipped. My right foot still groped for the niche I had just had my hand in, moments ago. Both hands gave way and I fell.

The water seemed to do nothing to break my fall, though it had risen halfway up my thighs. My left ankle twisted, crumpled and felt as if it had been struck by one of the lightning bolts. Fighting panic, I started to climb again. I think I cried out every time that ankle bore my weight for even a second.

After what seemed like hours but could not have been more than five minutes, I reached the top and grasped a sapling that grew close to the edge, pulled myself the rest of the way out and sprawled on the flat, grassy, solid ground. Sitting up, I saw that I was on one of the islands, mid-creek. Irrationally, I tried to remember what Patty had called this one. The lightning-stricken tree had landed on the next island upstream. It formed a natural bridge to the bank, but there was no way I could swim against this current.

Then I wondered how I had somehow gotten under the portion of the creek that now separated me from the bank. I had gone constantly upwards since leaving the stone path to escape rising water. Yet here I was. The geometry of the cave must be like one of those amusement park rooms where floors and ceiling are just enough off-kilter to throw your visual perceptions out of sync. A real-life Escher print, where down somehow turns into up and up into down. But you can never say exactly where the impossible transformation takes place.

Water, however, could not be deceived by optical illusions. It would follow where gravity led. I had gone back and upwards, in retreat from the rising flood. That was a fact.

So I had no rational explanation for how I had somehow gone under the water without seeming to go down. My ankle ached too much to question further just then. Soaked to the skin all over, I shivered. The cold spring deluge continued. The duel between physics and psychology would have to wait.

A question far more serious than how I got there pressed itself on me. What if the waters continue to rise, covering my little island refuge, such as it was? I did not think I could swim these rapid waters to safety, even downstream. Amazingly enough, my phone still worked, but of course there was no signal here, either. Odds still seemed good that lightning might have taken out the nearest tower.

I sat and shivered for quite some time, numb with fear and cold. At last the rain slowed, and the sky grew a little brighter. I did not relax. Flash-flood horror stories on TV had taught me creeks and rivers could keep rising after the rain stopped, as water from upstream continued to swell the current.

There was, however, nothing I could do but wait. For what, I was not sure.

Eventually the rain turned to drizzle and mist and finally stopped. I became aware of a curious noise. It sounded almost like someone chopping wood or splitting kindling. Then I thought it sounded more like someone slicing onions, on a cutting board, for salad or soup. The vision of a warm, dry kitchen may have been a symptom of delirium brought on by cold and fear.

“Are you going to sit there and shiver, or get in?” Patty said, behind me, chopping her paddle fiercely now to hold the canoe steady by the little island. I was too befuddled to say anything but only crept on hands and knees to the edge and tumbled into the boat. My clumsy — or, as I would prefer now to think of it, inelegant — method of entrance nearly caused the canoe to capsize. Somehow Patty held it upright and let the water carry us downstream to a shallower part of the creek. There the bank sloped gently down to the water’s edge. The truck was parked a few feet away.

“Where did you go?” I asked, when my teeth stopped chattering and I could speak without biting my tongue.

“To get the boat, obviously.”

“But why? You disappeared before it even started raining.”

“You were enjoying being stuck on the island, and you wish I had waited?”

“No, but...” I was too cold, wet and bruised to ask further questions for her to evade with frustratingly plausible responses.

“You want me to drive?”

I nodded, limped to the truck and got in. My ankle ached too much to fumble with pedals.

* * *

Only later, after calm reflection about that strangest day of the strange summer at Horseshoe Farm, did I wonder if the warning in the cave by the creek — When you see the buffalo, run — meant I was not the first to pass that way under perhaps similar circumstances. My predecessors must not have had water rising over their feet, or they would not have stopped to chisel messages in stone. Or if they had an experience like I did and returned later, why not leave the warning in a more obvious location? But who would know what to make of it, unless they had had a strange experience of their own? Perhaps what it really meant was: “Welcome to the survivors’ club.”

The rest of the summer passed in merciful serenity. I limped for a while on my sprained, fortunately not broken, ankle; counted horses, filled water tanks; tossed hay from the loft; and read books by Stephen King (The Shining, for the third time), Albert Camus (The Stranger, for the second time), Algernon Blackwood (The Centaur), Alix Harrow and N. K. Jemisin; and saw no more strange animals, heard no more voices from unseen speakers and felt no more invisible hands on my back. Maybe the peace and quiet was a privilege of belonging to the survivors’ club. If you see the buffalo and live, maybe you can relax a while.

I did not go near the creek again. One successful ascent from the maelstrom of the unknown was enough. I was not going to press my luck. Nor did I see Patty again. Or Pasiphae. Or... whoever she was. Whatever she was. Like the islands in Horseshoe Creek, some things have names given a long time ago, by someone you never met, for reasons you may never know. I, for one, felt okay with that. It was enough to be alive, with solid earth under my feet and blue sky overhead. There’s always plenty of mystery to get comfortable with.

I did go to town a few times to look at microfilm with Katie Winsome, who certainly knew her way around the equipment. The town was a sleepy little place, with nothing much to do but talk and get to know each other, but that was enough. By the time August rolled in, with its foggy mornings and hints of fall, I was ready for the change that returning to school promised. It seemed a lifetime ago when I had wondered if I would ever go back. Ready as I was, I knew I would miss Horseshoe Farm. Just not enough to stay.

Aunt Willa could find someone else to look after the place for fall and winter, and, if they were lucky, I guessed they might also get to join the survivors’ club.

Copyright © 2021 by David Rogers

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