his brother — and all the people of Ferrytown — could be alive in their imaginations, at least. They could forward him by their best hopes to the coast and then propel him by wishful-thinking (quite a gusty friend) toward the new lands over there. If Franklin still hoped to be a true and dutiful son, he should take Margaret back home with him to introduce her to his ma, to have those ancient hands touch his and hers and give their blessing. A mother could expect no less. How had they ever left her there?
Franklin looked back along the woodwork of the bridge. For the moment, it seemed to him that crossing the river had been an act of abandonment. Certainly, he was not able to contemplate his own journey eastward anymore with much degree of hope or self-respect. But, equally, he recognized the non-negotiable truth. Going home was not an option. It's fearful men who go back home to be with Ma. 'Only the crazy make it to the coast.'
Franklin shook himself. So he'd be crazy, then. He'd force himself to be. He'd not allow himself to fail. He had — again — to do the mean and foolish thing. Not out of spite — more spite — toward the other travelers. What did it matter to him whether their journey to the coast was easy or hard? Not simply to protect the safe side of the river from the burning one and keep the flames from skipping across the bridge like imps. He meant to cut himself off from his own timidity.
He took the sharper of his two knives and went back to the bridge. It was slung across the river and tethered only, on the eastern side at least, to several sturdy tree trunks. It would not be a complicated task to cut it loose. The mooring ropes were thick and greasy, toughened by the weather, but they responded to his blade, each strand and ligament springing back as Franklin severed its tension. The whole bridge slumped to one side when he had entirely cut through the first rope. Anyone crossing it would have been tipped into the waters far below. The second rope was easier and springier, as the weight on it had doubled. Soon the secret bridge was freed from its eastern shorings. With a little help from Franklin's powerful shoulders, it slithered and bounced down the rocky bluff above the river, breaking up a little as it fell and then finally settling in the water.
There was no longer a secret bridge from Ferrytown. There was, instead, a steep, timbered slide into the river on the western side of its coulee. A dangling trail of timber. But not even that for long. The racing waters began to tug on the severed end of the bridge, smashing the planks against the rocks. Within a month, much of the debris would be swept away.
'We have enough,' Franklin said aloud again. He was thrilled and appalled in equal measure by what he'd done. But he did not want to examine his feelings too deeply. He'd have to put his doubts behind him and concentrate only on the journey. There was a job to be done: to find a safe place in the forest or beyond where they could pass the night. He had to make the most of what little light remained. Once more, he put his weight behind the barrow with its obliging, well-oiled wheels and made good their escape from Ferrytown by climbing up through sunshine along the river bluffs until he reached the eastern shoreline of the lake, the silver pendant that he'd only glimpsed before from Butter Hill. He'd never seen a spot more beautiful.
8
THIS WAS NO PLACE for a barrow, especially such a heavy one with a fragile, human cargo. A sledge would have been better — a sledge loves mud. Or even a rowboat, though preferably one with oars — and an oarsman — tough enough to scull through mud and leaves.
The downpours that only three nights previously had shaken the vapors out of Ferrytown lake might have dried out in the open country around the settlements and on sloping ground. But on the east bank of the river, where the water table was high, the going was wet. The flat forest paths beyond
Franklin looked back along the woodwork of the bridge. For the moment, it seemed to him that crossing the river had been an act of abandonment. Certainly, he was not able to contemplate his own journey eastward anymore with much degree of hope or self-respect. But, equally, he recognized the non-negotiable truth. Going home was not an option. It's fearful men who go back home to be with Ma. 'Only the crazy make it to the coast.'
Franklin shook himself. So he'd be crazy, then. He'd force himself to be. He'd not allow himself to fail. He had — again — to do the mean and foolish thing. Not out of spite — more spite — toward the other travelers. What did it matter to him whether their journey to the coast was easy or hard? Not simply to protect the safe side of the river from the burning one and keep the flames from skipping across the bridge like imps. He meant to cut himself off from his own timidity.
He took the sharper of his two knives and went back to the bridge. It was slung across the river and tethered only, on the eastern side at least, to several sturdy tree trunks. It would not be a complicated task to cut it loose. The mooring ropes were thick and greasy, toughened by the weather, but they responded to his blade, each strand and ligament springing back as Franklin severed its tension. The whole bridge slumped to one side when he had entirely cut through the first rope. Anyone crossing it would have been tipped into the waters far below. The second rope was easier and springier, as the weight on it had doubled. Soon the secret bridge was freed from its eastern shorings. With a little help from Franklin's powerful shoulders, it slithered and bounced down the rocky bluff above the river, breaking up a little as it fell and then finally settling in the water.
There was no longer a secret bridge from Ferrytown. There was, instead, a steep, timbered slide into the river on the western side of its coulee. A dangling trail of timber. But not even that for long. The racing waters began to tug on the severed end of the bridge, smashing the planks against the rocks. Within a month, much of the debris would be swept away.
'We have enough,' Franklin said aloud again. He was thrilled and appalled in equal measure by what he'd done. But he did not want to examine his feelings too deeply. He'd have to put his doubts behind him and concentrate only on the journey. There was a job to be done: to find a safe place in the forest or beyond where they could pass the night. He had to make the most of what little light remained. Once more, he put his weight behind the barrow with its obliging, well-oiled wheels and made good their escape from Ferrytown by climbing up through sunshine along the river bluffs until he reached the eastern shoreline of the lake, the silver pendant that he'd only glimpsed before from Butter Hill. He'd never seen a spot more beautiful.
8
THIS WAS NO PLACE for a barrow, especially such a heavy one with a fragile, human cargo. A sledge would have been better — a sledge loves mud. Or even a rowboat, though preferably one with oars — and an oarsman — tough enough to scull through mud and leaves.
The downpours that only three nights previously had shaken the vapors out of Ferrytown lake might have dried out in the open country around the settlements and on sloping ground. But on the east bank of the river, where the water table was high, the going was wet. The flat forest paths beyond
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