There was enough rope somewhere on the barrow, under Margaret's body, to make lassos or trip-snares. Anything they caught or trapped could be butchered and prepared with his two knives. And anything they cooked and ate would have the garnish of some fine fresh mint.
He could imagine it, the two of them, their faces warm around a fire, their backs defended from the cold by Margaret's blankets, dining on some venison he'd caught and butchered. And then, when they retired to sleep, they'd have the barrow as their raised cot, too high for dew to bother them as they held hands beneath the tarps, their bodies separated only by the necklace at her throat.
'We have enough,' he told himself out loud as he proceeded on an easy but narrowing path into the woodlands on the high bank of the river. Soon they'd be across, and they could rest. His dream became more complicated and more comfortable, more settled, oddly. No huddling round a makeshift fire, no venison, no cold night air, no boat barrow. Instead, there was a clearing in the trees, a little soddy built of boulders and wood and earth, a narrow bed, and just the two of them, asleep, a curl of smoke from their shared hearth, his fingers wrapped around her toes.
THE LIGHT WAS weakening when they reached the bluffs where the falling torrent from the lake had etched a deep, unclimbable gulch into the hillside. They could go no farther on this bank of the river. Franklin, not wanting to wake Margaret before he'd delivered her to a safe place, left her sleeping in the barrow while he went in search of access to the bridge. He'd spotted its slatted, wooden sides from lower down the path, swaying high above the water. A fall from it would be fatal. But once he'd reached its level, the bridge itself seemed to have disappeared. He had to clear away some wood and debris from the deep undergrowth and pull aside a screen of branches. It could not have had much use in recent months.
Thankfully, the bridge was wide enough for the two wheels of the barrow and it seemed firm, too, despite the swaying. A little weight would steady it. The crossing, actually, was easier than he had feared. The planking of the bridge was smooth, and sagged slightly downward toward a lower mooring on the far bank. Franklin had to concentrate only on keeping a good line with the leading tip of the barrow and trying not to let himself or his load tilt to the side. He was not fond of heights. He'd never been a boy for conquering trees or swinging out on ropes. He counted heartbeats as they went across, taking one step for every other beat, and hadn't reached a hundred before he was able to bump his load over the last impediment, a strut of raised wood, and put his feet and the barrow wheels on solid ground. His first step in the east. He should have felt proud of himself. Triumphant. Mightily relieved. He should have felt brave. But he did not. Rather, now that he no longer needed to be determined, he counted himself weak, dishonest, craven and troubled by disloyalty.
Something had happened that he did not truly understand. Not the slaughter in the village — he'd never have an explanation for that, except what he had always known, that life hangs on a spongy spider's thread that can stretch only so far but then is bound to snap. Not his own unexpected secrecy about the bridge, his failure to inform the other travelers. Not even the likelihood that, even if Jackson had managed to survive, he would never take another step at his brother's side, or slip his long arms into the sleeves of his own goat coat. No, what troubled Franklin from the moment he reached the east side of the bridge was the fear that he had made a big mistake, that where he truly should be traveling was westward, back to the family hearth, back to mother waiting at the center of abandoned fields. If, instead of taking the path eastward down Butter Hill that morning, he and Margaret had fled westward, heading back to his mother's house, then
He could imagine it, the two of them, their faces warm around a fire, their backs defended from the cold by Margaret's blankets, dining on some venison he'd caught and butchered. And then, when they retired to sleep, they'd have the barrow as their raised cot, too high for dew to bother them as they held hands beneath the tarps, their bodies separated only by the necklace at her throat.
'We have enough,' he told himself out loud as he proceeded on an easy but narrowing path into the woodlands on the high bank of the river. Soon they'd be across, and they could rest. His dream became more complicated and more comfortable, more settled, oddly. No huddling round a makeshift fire, no venison, no cold night air, no boat barrow. Instead, there was a clearing in the trees, a little soddy built of boulders and wood and earth, a narrow bed, and just the two of them, asleep, a curl of smoke from their shared hearth, his fingers wrapped around her toes.
THE LIGHT WAS weakening when they reached the bluffs where the falling torrent from the lake had etched a deep, unclimbable gulch into the hillside. They could go no farther on this bank of the river. Franklin, not wanting to wake Margaret before he'd delivered her to a safe place, left her sleeping in the barrow while he went in search of access to the bridge. He'd spotted its slatted, wooden sides from lower down the path, swaying high above the water. A fall from it would be fatal. But once he'd reached its level, the bridge itself seemed to have disappeared. He had to clear away some wood and debris from the deep undergrowth and pull aside a screen of branches. It could not have had much use in recent months.
Thankfully, the bridge was wide enough for the two wheels of the barrow and it seemed firm, too, despite the swaying. A little weight would steady it. The crossing, actually, was easier than he had feared. The planking of the bridge was smooth, and sagged slightly downward toward a lower mooring on the far bank. Franklin had to concentrate only on keeping a good line with the leading tip of the barrow and trying not to let himself or his load tilt to the side. He was not fond of heights. He'd never been a boy for conquering trees or swinging out on ropes. He counted heartbeats as they went across, taking one step for every other beat, and hadn't reached a hundred before he was able to bump his load over the last impediment, a strut of raised wood, and put his feet and the barrow wheels on solid ground. His first step in the east. He should have felt proud of himself. Triumphant. Mightily relieved. He should have felt brave. But he did not. Rather, now that he no longer needed to be determined, he counted himself weak, dishonest, craven and troubled by disloyalty.
Something had happened that he did not truly understand. Not the slaughter in the village — he'd never have an explanation for that, except what he had always known, that life hangs on a spongy spider's thread that can stretch only so far but then is bound to snap. Not his own unexpected secrecy about the bridge, his failure to inform the other travelers. Not even the likelihood that, even if Jackson had managed to survive, he would never take another step at his brother's side, or slip his long arms into the sleeves of his own goat coat. No, what troubled Franklin from the moment he reached the east side of the bridge was the fear that he had made a big mistake, that where he truly should be traveling was westward, back to the family hearth, back to mother waiting at the center of abandoned fields. If, instead of taking the path eastward down Butter Hill that morning, he and Margaret had fled westward, heading back to his mother's house, then
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