Short Story: ‘Fever Pitch’ ( The Camp)
It was a dark cloudy winter night, with no moon in sight. The darkness and silence of the forest camp had been interrupted rudely by the camping group.
The hot embers of the bonfire died. Some seething remnants glowed in red. The party was over long back.
People who were clapping, singing, and dancing around had broken into smaller groups. The introverts left first, moving into their tents much earlier than the chatting individuals.
There were the lovers, the conspirators, the gossip mongers, strangers making friends — it was a potpourri group of employees of a corporation from different parts of the country.
The air became nippier and a whiff of breeze kindled the embers, which glowed brighter in response, angry at being disturbed, as they headed towards a dimmer slumber on that wintery night.
A couple wrapped a blanket around and went for a small walk. Another group of boys headed towards the fringes of the campground, to relieve themselves.
Slowly, the cold night took over, except for those who wished to stay awake into the wee hours of the morning. Besides their huddled whispers, the only sounds were that of snoring from the tents and crickets somewhere beyond the boundaries of the campground.
Two pairs of yellow glowing eyes watched the quietening camp from the darkness, rivaling the glow of the remnant embers. Nobody was awake to notice them.
The chill of the morning had kept all but a few fitness enthusiasts to stay inside the tents.
If someone got overzealous for an early morning rise and opened the curtains of their tent, the spongy mist, and prolonged darkness acted as additional layers of curtains, killing the zeal in that person, and pushing them back into their beds.
The sun was high up in the eastern sky when the campers woke up. As they got ready, the mist still hung around, still reluctant to leave like a clingy lover.
The plan was to assemble at the edge of the river that flowed at the feet of the hill that housed the campsite. The river was deep and calm as if holding on to the mysteries of the tales that the forest held. The silence was eerie and the clinging mist added to a somber mood in the group.
From the banks of the river, just at the foothills of the campsite, the campers could see mountains afar, covered in haze, bringing a whole new meaning to the adventure that they had signed up for. The campers realized for the first time, that they were in the middle of true wilderness, where their gadgets would not work, and the true meaning of ‘offsite camp’ dawned on them.
The silhouette of trees, even when the sun was trying to shine bright, added to the building sense of isolation. There were no sounds of birds, but only crickets. In a sense, it was still night, except that the sun had risen and the campers were awake.
Even the waters of the flowing river were still. Nobody dared to make the first sound. It would be sacrilege to the stillness and silence that prevailed.
Finally, the camp master decided to blow his whistle.
The first whistle of the camp master was the wake-up call for the entire jungle.
Suddenly, the mist disappeared. The sun took center stage and went about its duty to shine brightly and raise the heat, worried that the camp master might put it on some other task.
The crickets went silent as if their night duty was over, and the birdies fluttered from branch to branch, chirping and cooing to each other. The day was on.
Below the trees and at the bank of the river, the lazy camp goers started to pair, and on much goading from the camp master, started to settle in the small canoes.
Pairs were broken up based on their ability to take care — one person who could swim, and another who could not. The camp master was ruthless, splitting lovers and friends. The safety of his job depended on their safety. Many grumpy faces and involuntary friendships started emerging.
But once each pair got into the water, two things happened. Either one got excited because they were in the water, or they were afraid. In either case, the grumpy face was replaced with excitement or fear.
Slowly, each pair tried to figure out the oars and they drifted into the deep, slow-moving waters of the silent river, pedaling their oars awkwardly.
The river was reticent, not willing to participate in the excitement that had sent in since the first camp master’s whistle.
All was well, till one member lost the grip was the oars and the canoe turned turtle. The pair splashed furiously, shouting to be saved.
The river, it seemed, was angry, as it sucked in the overturned canoe. The pair got desperate and shouted louder for help while swallowing up water.
But…
But…
The life jackets that the two campers wore kept them afloat. The camp master and a helper took a motor raft and set towards the floating campers.
The half sunk canoe was turned up, while both the campers — a father and son, were put back on the canoe. The camp master asked the helper to tie the canoe behind the motor raft.
The 9-year-old child, just saved from life-threatening danger, shouted. ‘I want to row. It is fun. I don’t want to go back.’
The helper, holding the rope in one hand and pulling the canoe towards him, while standing at the rear end of the motor raft, looked at the camp master. The camp master was confused. He looked at the father and the child and again the father.
‘Son, you have just fallen into dangerous waters. It is better we get you both to safety.’ He tried to sound cajoling, but his shaky voice betrayed his tension.
‘No. I insist.’ The boy almost stood on the canoe, as it wobbled and threatened to topple. The father pulled his son down and made him sit, while he held his oar in his other hand.
The camp master was sweating by now. ‘Sir, please advise your son.’ He motioned the helper to tie the knot with the canoe.
The father, himself drenched and shivering, but smiling all the while, held his son in one hand and his oar in the other and looked at the tense camp master with a wicked smile.
‘Sir, this is fun. It is fine…Don’t bother. I know how to swim.’ The father towed the kid’s line. The kid snorted in response. Some water and mucus fell out, as he rubbed his nose in his elbow. The father patted his son’s back.
‘An odd couple. Today’s trouble.’ The camp master frowned and waved at the helper to step back into the motor raft.
‘As you say sir.’ He shouted back at the father while giving a woeful look at the sun. He hid his scorn with his hands above his eyes as if to shield himself from the mid-day sun.
As much as the camp was about adventure, it was the camp master’s job to ensure that he practiced safety and put on the guard rails and safety net with the campers, who were his agency’s clients. He preferred zero incidents and non-adventurous campers, who helped him keep his job. He hated this kind — the father and the son, that put his job at stake.
He did not want to create further chaos, so he bid the helper steer the motor raft to the jetty. The exasperated helper and the anxious camp master left the incident spot.
The father and the son had moved on, steering the canoe with their oars, as the sun now joined their fun.
The duo reached the jetty safely, after a harrowing hour during which the anxious camp master waited for this couple to reach ashore safely.
The father and son lifted their hands, holding the oars, in elation as if they had crossed a finishing line when the helpers pulled the canoe to the banks.
The camp goers had long gone to their tents, and the father and son were the last to leave.
The sun chuckled, hiding behind an odd cloud, knowing that it was just another day in the life of the camp master. The calm returned to the quiet river, ever reticent and uninvolved in the occasional melee that disturbed its flow.
The camp master let out a sigh, having saved his job for one more day. As he saw the helpers moving the canoe that carried the father and son, the name of the canoe caught his eye.
It was printed ‘Fever Pitch’ in black on white.
~Ashok Subramanian
