said:
“Not yet, I think. Look ahead. The river bends. If we hang on we may be taken nearer in.”
The plank in any case was a support which I was not eager to relinquish. The current seemed faster, and certainly more turbulent. There were hills on either side, the river forcing itself between them. We were coming to the angle where it turned, fairly sharply, to the west. As we did so, I saw the green bank on our right divide, and had a glimpse of more water.
“The river . . .” I said. “It must fork there.”
“Yes,” Beanpole said. “Will, I think we must swim for it now.”
I had learned to swim in the rivers around my village of Wherton, and once or twice, illicitly, in the lake up at the estate. Beanpole, though, had grown up in a seaside town. He pulled away from me with powerful strokes, realized I was falling behind, and called out, “Are you all right?”
I called back doggedly, “All right,” and concentrated on swimming. The current was very strong. The shore at which I was aiming slid quickly past. Then I sawsomething which dismayed me. Ahead the shore became a spit, with beyond it a wider reach of water. It was not a true fork in the river, but an island. If I missed landing on it there was the wider passage before me. Already tired, I would find myself in midstream with a much longer haul ahead. I altered course, and swam almost directly against the current. I heard Beanpole call again, but could not spare the energy to look for him or to reply. I struggled on, my arms becoming more and more leaden, the water colder and fiercer and more implacable. I no longer looked where I was heading, concerned only with forcing my arms through the water. Then something hit my head and I went under, dazed. I remembered nothing after that until I was aware of someone dragging me, and of firm ground under my feet.
It was Beanpole who pulled me up on to a grassy bank. When I had recovered enough to take in my surroundings, I saw by how small a margin we had made it. We were within a few yards of the northernmost limit of the island. It lay in the center of the river’s bend, and just ahead the river did broaden considerably. I discovered my head was hurting, and put my hand up to my forehead.
“A plank hit you,” Beanpole said. “From the raft, I think. How do you feel, Will?”
“A bit dizzy,” I said. Something else returned. “And hungry. Across there—isn’t it . . . ?”
“Yes,” he said, “a village.”
Despite the deepening dusk, it was possible to see houses on the east bank; some had lights in theirwindows. By this time I would have been prepared to take a chance on having dirty water thrown over me or being chased by large dogs—even on being questioned as to what I was doing here. But not on trusting myself to the river again; I could think more clearly but physically I was as weak as though I had spent a month in bed.
“We will get across in the morning,” Beanpole said.
“Yes.” I nodded wearily. “In the morning.”
“The trees are thicker farther back. More shelter, if it rains.”
I nodded again, and moved my leaden legs forward. For a few steps only, and then stopped. Someone was standing by the edge of the trees, watching us. When he realized we had seen him, he came toward us. In the dim light I could see that he was a man in his middle years, tall and lean, dressed in rough-looking dark trousers and shirt, his hair long and his face bearded. I saw something else, too. Although his hair hung down behind his neck, it receded at the forehead. It was dark hair, beginning to turn gray. And where the silver band of the Cap should have been there was only flesh, toughened and browned by long years of exposure.
He spoke in German, in a harsh dialect. He had been looking out and had seen us struggling in the water, had watched Beanpole haul me in to shore. His manner was odd, I thought—part grudging and part welcoming. I had the feeling that he would have been
“Not yet, I think. Look ahead. The river bends. If we hang on we may be taken nearer in.”
The plank in any case was a support which I was not eager to relinquish. The current seemed faster, and certainly more turbulent. There were hills on either side, the river forcing itself between them. We were coming to the angle where it turned, fairly sharply, to the west. As we did so, I saw the green bank on our right divide, and had a glimpse of more water.
“The river . . .” I said. “It must fork there.”
“Yes,” Beanpole said. “Will, I think we must swim for it now.”
I had learned to swim in the rivers around my village of Wherton, and once or twice, illicitly, in the lake up at the estate. Beanpole, though, had grown up in a seaside town. He pulled away from me with powerful strokes, realized I was falling behind, and called out, “Are you all right?”
I called back doggedly, “All right,” and concentrated on swimming. The current was very strong. The shore at which I was aiming slid quickly past. Then I sawsomething which dismayed me. Ahead the shore became a spit, with beyond it a wider reach of water. It was not a true fork in the river, but an island. If I missed landing on it there was the wider passage before me. Already tired, I would find myself in midstream with a much longer haul ahead. I altered course, and swam almost directly against the current. I heard Beanpole call again, but could not spare the energy to look for him or to reply. I struggled on, my arms becoming more and more leaden, the water colder and fiercer and more implacable. I no longer looked where I was heading, concerned only with forcing my arms through the water. Then something hit my head and I went under, dazed. I remembered nothing after that until I was aware of someone dragging me, and of firm ground under my feet.
It was Beanpole who pulled me up on to a grassy bank. When I had recovered enough to take in my surroundings, I saw by how small a margin we had made it. We were within a few yards of the northernmost limit of the island. It lay in the center of the river’s bend, and just ahead the river did broaden considerably. I discovered my head was hurting, and put my hand up to my forehead.
“A plank hit you,” Beanpole said. “From the raft, I think. How do you feel, Will?”
“A bit dizzy,” I said. Something else returned. “And hungry. Across there—isn’t it . . . ?”
“Yes,” he said, “a village.”
Despite the deepening dusk, it was possible to see houses on the east bank; some had lights in theirwindows. By this time I would have been prepared to take a chance on having dirty water thrown over me or being chased by large dogs—even on being questioned as to what I was doing here. But not on trusting myself to the river again; I could think more clearly but physically I was as weak as though I had spent a month in bed.
“We will get across in the morning,” Beanpole said.
“Yes.” I nodded wearily. “In the morning.”
“The trees are thicker farther back. More shelter, if it rains.”
I nodded again, and moved my leaden legs forward. For a few steps only, and then stopped. Someone was standing by the edge of the trees, watching us. When he realized we had seen him, he came toward us. In the dim light I could see that he was a man in his middle years, tall and lean, dressed in rough-looking dark trousers and shirt, his hair long and his face bearded. I saw something else, too. Although his hair hung down behind his neck, it receded at the forehead. It was dark hair, beginning to turn gray. And where the silver band of the Cap should have been there was only flesh, toughened and browned by long years of exposure.
He spoke in German, in a harsh dialect. He had been looking out and had seen us struggling in the water, had watched Beanpole haul me in to shore. His manner was odd, I thought—part grudging and part welcoming. I had the feeling that he would have been
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