Some Other Course

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There were boats kept by people who foraged for shellfish up and down the river, mostly the foraging was done on the village side, as people were afraid of the forest. The river was wide, easily a thousand paces across, the current slow but substantial. Manueline had only been out on the river a couple of times before and never actually handled a boat.

When they came down to the beach where the boats were tied up she chose the smallest she could find, hoping it would be easier to get into the water and easier to handle once they were in it. BB was quite unable to help her and stood, swaying on his feet when she left him, cut the mooring rope and started dragging the boat towards the water.

Curiously, she felt nothing of anxiety about what she was doing. It didn't concern her at all that she was taking the boat. Manueline cut the mooring rope and dragged the boat to the water. She left it with the stern just in the water and made her way back to BB. She took him by the hand, and then put an arm around him; holding him to her she led him down to the boat, his bare feet squelching in the mud of the river bank.

It was less dark as a sliver of a moon was just coming over the horizon, giving a silvery sheen to the banks that echoed the surface of the river itself. Manueline and BB walked awkwardly towards the boat, caught in the silvery landscape, taking their time from the rising moon. The moon meant the night was getting old but still had some time to run.

It would be some time before the people of the courtyard woke to find her gone, went out to the field to find the door open, started looking out beyond the fields and the boundaries of the village seeking where they had gone. Long before that happened, while the moon was still low in the sky, Manueline got BB to the boat. She tied the remains of the mooring rope round her waist and pushed the boat out until it was floating free.

She pushed and pulled BB until he almost fell in the boat, almost passing out from the exertion she called on him to make getting across the mud bank; following her, getting into the cold water and then climbing into the boat. On the water, in the boat, she was overcome again by fear. She was afraid of the stream, afraid BB would die before she could reach the other side and she would be left to float alone with nothing but death as her companion; no life to return to, nothing of herself left that she might salvage as a life she could call her own.

Manueline rowed out onto the river. She rowed awkwardly for a while, the dull roar of fear still present in her ears. Manueline rowed facing the stern, looking back the way they had come; looking back at the bank with the cluster of boats.

The river must have gone down a little in the night for she could see where the other boats had been dragged out of the water and where the boat she was in had been dragged back again. The other trails just started in the middle of the mud bank where the water had been the previous day. The trail she made ran accusingly down into the water, pointing straight at her as she looked back at the bank. The trail drew her eye. She couldn't help but look at it and see how it pointed back to the boats as well as pointing straight at her. She knew if she extended the line of the trail further beyond where the boats lay, the trail pointed at the village, drawing her awareness back to where she came from and it terrified her.

She longed to turn away and take some other course but felt she could not. Manueline was afraid that if she turned down stream she would be taken beyond the region of the forest where she knew the woman lived; if she turned up stream there was a danger that she would be swept back on the village side of the river. She rowed as best she could; she took her bearings from the boats on the mud bank; turning every now and then to look at BB and see where she was relative to the other bank.

BB was sitting slumped over huddled in the blanket. Manueline rowed on, feeling as though she would never distance herself from the boats on the shore, as though they would take something from her first before they let her go. She tried to drive the thought away, but could not help thinking of what she was taking from the courtyard.

She was desperately afraid the price for escape from the boats would be BB's life. He would have to die in order for her to get away. She found she was weeping and talking to herself, saying, "No, you cannot have him. I won't let you take him away." She gave up rowing for a time and brought the oars back into the boat. She turned to him and drew the blanket back from his face a little, touching the cold dampness of his cheek.

Her foot bumped into something in the bottom of the boat and almost against her will, she glanced down to see what it was. It was too dark to see. She reached down and felt around with one hand, finding it, bring it up into the light of the stars, brighter out on the water. It was a large wooden mug, battered about the lip on the side opposite the handle.

Looking at it she could see that it was meant for bailing water out of the boat, the lip away from the handle being dragged on the bottom as water was scooped up to be tossed over the side. She sat looking at it for what may have been a long time, she couldn't tell. She knew there was a word for bailing a boat. She couldn't remember what it was. She resorted to mimicking the action of scooping up water and tossing it over the side in an attempt to remind herself of the word by going through the actions the word implied.

She sat stupidly staring at the mug and slowly remembered Wals; remembering he would be thirsty having nothing to drink for nine days. No, not nine eight days, tomorrow would be the ninth day. Not tomorrow, today, it was the early morning of the ninth day and Wals was dying, she held his life in her hands and wondered what to do with it. Wondered what it was for and where it came from. She could see some of how it had been used but there was some fundamental mystery about it that escaped her, she knew she couldn't even name the mystery, couldn't even articulate what the mystery was but it was there all the same and somehow encompassed his life and all there was in it.

Manueline leaned over the side of the boat dipping the mug in the river. She felt it heavy in her hand with the weight of the water and she lifted it a little, pouring some of the water back, lightening the mug so she could lift it and bring it to him without spilling it.

She brought her free hand back to his face and lifted his head a little, bringing the mug to his lips. Wals brought his hands up, trying to clasp the mug or perhaps trying to push it away. Manueline encouraged him, saying, "Here, drink it will make it easier for you."

She brought her other hand to the lip of the mug and curled her fingers over so she could feel the water as she tipped it towards his mouth. She tried several times but was unable to coordinate his movements and hers well enough to get the water to him. She felt the fear coming back, growing out of her frustration at not being able to help him. She said his name again, "BB, you must try, you must drink."

He took her hand, the one that had been holding the edge of the mug and brought it to his mouth. His lips were cracked and dry and his skin felt rough as though it were covered in sand. Manueline could feel the effect of the water on her hands as it came into contact with his skin, how the skin softened, became smooth, almost as though the skin itself were drinking up the water.

She took her hand away briefly, dipping it in the mug and brought it back to his face, offering it to him. He took it with both his hands, putting her hands against his lips as though kissing her and she could feel the moisture as it came into his mouth, how it changed him the way it changed his skin. She dipped her hand in the water again, being careful this time to cup some of it in her palm. She brought her hand up to his mouth and tipped the water on to his lips and again she felt him drinking it, taking the water in.

Manueline had brought a small sack of food with her. In it, she had some small cakes made from honey and ground, soaked barley. Once she judged Wals had taken enough water to be able to swallow, she untied the sack, took one of the cakes out and broke off a tiny piece, putting it in his mouth. She said, "Suck it, just suck it, don't try and swallow." She continued to give him water from the mug by soaking her hand and letting him take the moisture off her hand. Eventually she heard him swallow and tried again, putting the mug to his lips. This time he held it as well, with enough strength and steadiness in his hands to be able to help her rather than hinder. He drank, perhaps two or three mouthfuls, she wouldn't allow him anymore. She gave him another, larger piece of the cake and then sat back watching him eat, going through the slow painful process of taking the food in to his body.

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