Free This River Awakens by Steven Erikson Page B

a model ’55 Chevy, not yet finished, and on a shelf above it sat a ’32 Deuce, a 326 Hemi Model-A, and a Model-T roadster.
    This room could easily hide rats. Warrens beneath the piled clothes, nests among the dustballs under the bed, baby rats in the back seat of the Chevy. I looked up at the B-27 bomber hanging from the ceiling, my eyes narrowing on the cockpit, but the plastic glass remained impenetrable.
    The closet door was jammed open by socks snagged under the frame. Inside, stacked cardboard boxes containing old models leaned against one wall. Dozens of wire hangers hung bare and vaguely accusatory. I sniffed. The air was musty, reminding me of the crawlspace. I scanned the few areas of visible hardwood floor, hunting for rat pellets. None. This wasn’t very reassuring. Here on the second floor – I was suddenly convinced that there were rats here – they’d be smarter than their comrades in the basement. They’d take their pellets with them.
    I went to work. Three traps under the bed, one beside the radiator, another beneath my desk. Three more in the closet. Within the biggest mound of clothing I fashioned a cave in the centre and a corridor leading out. I set a trap and pushed it down the corridor until it was inside the cave.
    Satisfied, I turned my attention to the trapdoor in the ceiling. No handle was visible, so I assumed it would push upward. From my equipment bag I took out a flashlight. I pulled the desk chair over and stepped on to it. I paused. Through the window I could see the river between the trees. There was less ice now – the red-brown water was flat, unmarred for long stretches. Watching the inexorable current, I felt a moment of dizziness and put a hand against the wall for balance. Over the river two crows wheeled in low circles above something riding the current. Whatever it was bobbed once, then slipped beneath the surface again, leaving spinning eddies in its wake. The crows stayed above it.
    I swung my attention to the trapdoor above me. It was beyond reach, so I stepped up on to the window sill. Father had said to use the stepladder if I had to, but from the sill I found I could push the door upward. Woodchips and sawdust drifted down. I pushed harder and it cleared the attic floor and slid to one side.
    I hefted my knapsack and tossed it up through the opening. It disappeared into the darkness and I heard a thump. Then I gripped the edges and swung away from the sill, hanging a moment before pulling myself up.
    The attic’s floor wasn’t flat, as I’d thought it would be. A grid-work of boards lay set on end about thirty inches apart, the spaces filled with woodchips. I flicked on the flashlight and directed the beam forward.
    A narrow corridor ran no more than ten feet ahead, opening out into a larger space. An attic with tunnels. Tense with sudden excitement, I crawled forward.
    II
    In 1962, while towing an Iberian oil tanker into Halifax Harbour, a Samson cable snapped ten feet under water. The first indication Walter Gribbs, able-bodied seaman on the tug Lifeliner, had had of danger as he stood near the winch amidships was the growing shriek behind him. He awoke two days later in the Halifax General Hospital, suffering from a severe concussion and a partial loss of hearing in his left ear.
    Suddenly freed from the tension created by the tanker’s weight, the cable had recoiled back to the tug. It swept three men from the deck in less than a second. Walter was the only one still breathing. One had gone down into the water, wrapped in the cable, where he drowned before anyone could get to him. The other man had been decapitated.
    Nineteen sixty-two was also Walter’s last year at sea. After the accident he found it difficult to keep his balance on a sidewalk, much less a pitching deck. For him it was over. He soon realised that living close to the sea was like sleeping night after night beside a woman he couldn’t touch. He boarded a train bound for the centre of the