unnoticed and unannounced. If he ran back down toward Ferrytown calling out 'A bridge, a bridge', who could tell what forces might be listening, what demons might rush ahead with their thin hands to tear away the bridge and throw its timbers into the stream?
No, Franklin's head was full of warring flies. Their clamor was deafening. He forced himself to concentrate on the now unwieldy, human weight of the boat barrow and on the awkward balance it demanded as they progressed upstream, avoiding chokes of rock and finding routes around the thickest undergrowth. Then, once he had reached the wider, beaten path above the cascades where the ground was flatter and easier, he busied himself with an inventory of everything in their possession that might help them on their way.
What could they sell? The silver cup, certainly. Finding that had been a piece of luck. The silver cup could make them rich. It could secure them places on a boat. And there was his coat — yes,
his
coat now, perhaps, though parting with it would seem like a further act of treachery. He shook the thought away. There were the partly prepared skins. It was likely, too, that the carved dining platters he had rescued from Margaret's family compound would be attractive, if not here in this land where everybody seemed to be on the move, then possibly across the sea, where there were doubtless many opportunities to feast and many reasons to celebrate.
Then, of course — besides the few clothes he'd brought for Margaret and his own two pairs of everything — there was, or he hoped there was, though he could not remember where he had packed it, the little cedar box containing her three lucky things: the silver necklace that she had shown him as he drew the flux out from her feet, the square of musty, colored cloth, too delicate for him to touch with his big hands, she'd said, and the coins from the old America. The necklace might be valuable, but would she want to part with it? Would he even dare to say she should? What price good luck? Margaret ought to wear the necklace, he decided, and let it hang well out of sight (between her breasts), where it could work its charms without attracting pilferers. In fact, she ought to let him hang it there himself. He could imagine working the chain around her shaven head, lifting it over her exposed ears and guiding it down to settle at her throat. He would find the cedar box and pull out the necklace for her to wear, as soon as they were settled.
They had their riches, then, to trade. And in the meantime they would not starve, not for a while or two. He'd filled their four water bags in the river from the fishing platform where he'd left Margaret earlier that afternoon. It would be enough for several days, if they were moderate. Besides they had the three flagons of pressed fruit juice that he had rescued from her house. And there was honey to eat — or sell! — and enough dried or salted blocks of meat to see them to the coast, surely, and possibly beyond. He even had a scrap of salted pork left over from the provisions that Jackson had entrusted to him all those days ago, and a handful of dried fruit, the final edible reminder of home and Ma.
Thirst and hunger seemed unlikely, and, anyway, in this relatively undamaged land, more forested and fertile than the country he had fled, only the sick and lazy could easily starve. He was well equipped to find their dinner, if there was any dinner to be had. He was a farm boy, after all, even though he had mostly been an unenthusiastic one. He knew what was welcome in a pot and what was poisonous; he knew which parts of plants were tasty in the fall and which were fibrous and troubling. He knew his mushrooms pretty well.
Again he made a list. What had they got to help them eat? They had a good-sized weighted net to fish with. (He even had the fisherman's wading boots to make the task a dry one.) He had a bow and good arrows, should they chance upon deer, game birds or rock goats.
No, Franklin's head was full of warring flies. Their clamor was deafening. He forced himself to concentrate on the now unwieldy, human weight of the boat barrow and on the awkward balance it demanded as they progressed upstream, avoiding chokes of rock and finding routes around the thickest undergrowth. Then, once he had reached the wider, beaten path above the cascades where the ground was flatter and easier, he busied himself with an inventory of everything in their possession that might help them on their way.
What could they sell? The silver cup, certainly. Finding that had been a piece of luck. The silver cup could make them rich. It could secure them places on a boat. And there was his coat — yes,
his
coat now, perhaps, though parting with it would seem like a further act of treachery. He shook the thought away. There were the partly prepared skins. It was likely, too, that the carved dining platters he had rescued from Margaret's family compound would be attractive, if not here in this land where everybody seemed to be on the move, then possibly across the sea, where there were doubtless many opportunities to feast and many reasons to celebrate.
Then, of course — besides the few clothes he'd brought for Margaret and his own two pairs of everything — there was, or he hoped there was, though he could not remember where he had packed it, the little cedar box containing her three lucky things: the silver necklace that she had shown him as he drew the flux out from her feet, the square of musty, colored cloth, too delicate for him to touch with his big hands, she'd said, and the coins from the old America. The necklace might be valuable, but would she want to part with it? Would he even dare to say she should? What price good luck? Margaret ought to wear the necklace, he decided, and let it hang well out of sight (between her breasts), where it could work its charms without attracting pilferers. In fact, she ought to let him hang it there himself. He could imagine working the chain around her shaven head, lifting it over her exposed ears and guiding it down to settle at her throat. He would find the cedar box and pull out the necklace for her to wear, as soon as they were settled.
They had their riches, then, to trade. And in the meantime they would not starve, not for a while or two. He'd filled their four water bags in the river from the fishing platform where he'd left Margaret earlier that afternoon. It would be enough for several days, if they were moderate. Besides they had the three flagons of pressed fruit juice that he had rescued from her house. And there was honey to eat — or sell! — and enough dried or salted blocks of meat to see them to the coast, surely, and possibly beyond. He even had a scrap of salted pork left over from the provisions that Jackson had entrusted to him all those days ago, and a handful of dried fruit, the final edible reminder of home and Ma.
Thirst and hunger seemed unlikely, and, anyway, in this relatively undamaged land, more forested and fertile than the country he had fled, only the sick and lazy could easily starve. He was well equipped to find their dinner, if there was any dinner to be had. He was a farm boy, after all, even though he had mostly been an unenthusiastic one. He knew what was welcome in a pot and what was poisonous; he knew which parts of plants were tasty in the fall and which were fibrous and troubling. He knew his mushrooms pretty well.
Again he made a list. What had they got to help them eat? They had a good-sized weighted net to fish with. (He even had the fisherman's wading boots to make the task a dry one.) He had a bow and good arrows, should they chance upon deer, game birds or rock goats.
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