My bones are cold. It's been a long, long time since they've been this cold. They've been colder, I suppose, but that's never a good thing to qualify. The current suffering is always the worst, because it is the one at present. Thinking on past suffering only serves to cheapen the whole history of terrible experiences.
I should have stayed at Shelby's farm another day. No one would have blamed me. I would have moved on drier, and she'd probably have another notch or two put on her bedpost. That's always a good thing to have behind you. It's good to call on those times during the bad, and our one round in the shed can only do so much. Eliza helped me through some more and a man who would only call himself Mr. Silk did even more. I miss Mr. Silk. I miss Eliza. I miss Shelby. I miss Joyce, although not in nearly the same way. It would be nice to have a weather portent in my pocket. The sky always looks the same to me.
I stop and stare at the sign once there is a tickle in my stomach. I smile and look around, although the rain hides most of it. It's leading me down to the riverbank, somewhat counterintuitively. A tree beckons to me, and I have to take a break. It will be drier under the tree and then I can gather my thoughts. I put my head down and keep moving the branches out of the way.
It was all worth it. The branches interlock and form a wonderful tent. I believe it's a weeping willow. The branches hang low and dip into the water, a few curtains now showing an engorged river. The water's going down fast, chipping away at the shore. The water's clay brown with the churning sediment. A log is carried down from somewhere upriver, twirling and swirling and bobbing. I watch it and then it goes under. I shiver and start wringing out my hair. It doesn't really help, but it does make me feel better. The rest of my outfit can't quite get the same treatment right now. Later. Not now, in a tavern, with some wine and broth and a roaring fire. I don't even particularly care for any companionship at the moment. That's a lie. I could have a friend or two along for the ride up the stairs. But warmth is first. Warmth and dryness and no more rain for a long, long time.
I take a gamble and see what the next 10 or so minutes will bring. It's not all that different, really. I see another log go under. I see a very large fish thrash in the water for a brief moment. I get a river of water dumped on my head and I guess that's a sign to move on and move forward down into town. I take my time wringing myself out a bit more though. I am still not dry enough for what I want to be.
The branches refuse to knit back together, and I am soaked once more. Bad tree, bad, bad tree. It dumps on me again and I can't get up fast enough. The mud slides out from underneath my boot and I am sent slipping into the water. I scream wordlessly and let everything frustrating out in an anguished cry. At least it's only up to my shins. That's wading territory, however unstable the rest of the riverbed is.
The mud slips into my boots, sucking on my steps and threatening to drown me. My guitar is going to need some love and care after this, along with everything else on me. Mud and reeds and river water pouring out from everything I own, wringing out my skin, my fleshy bits, my boney bits. My frustration peaks and then I have to go and do something else for it.
I move, even as the river tries to claim me. I shiver and realize that I should have been moving sooner. There is something coming from downstream that I don't want to deal with. The threat of the drowned bodies and the monster in the current does not come to mind. There is a deep, dark blue coming through the red clay-stained water. I cut to the shore, and something brushes against my shins. Not deep enough right now, but that just makes me move faster.
The current shifts and forbids me from going to the shore. Hands in the water of the water, pulling me away from the dry land. The color slips closer. I reach for the knife at my hip and that does make me feel better.
The thread I follows betrayed me. The fists close around my ankles and pull. I stab and only manage to nick my foot. A hand goes to my wrist, and I try to pull. I keep pulling and my other hand goes to my other knife. That's why I have several on me at any time.
I stab and hit something that isn't me. My wrist is free, and I have a knife. My guitar is useless, so I am not at full power. But a knife will work well enough. I sink my weight and remain steady.
The shore seems so much farther from me now. The hands are still pulling and rooting me down. I keep steady. I keep my frustration down. The color is still flowing closer. I pull. I don't break from it, and I don't know what else I can do.
It's down to a simple shuffle against the current. I am moving. The current is strong, but I am stronger. I have my march, my slow waltz to move my body. I can't see anything. The rain is heavy and cold. My hair is stuck to my forehead. And despite all this, I am still more frustrated than scared. I just want to stab something again, but the last time didn't work out the best for me. I just want to get away from the endless sea of abyss blue creeping up behind me.
The water line grows higher and the hands clamber with it. My balance is failing me, and I still feel for the threads. There is a stone, a stable patch, a bank or something under the water to at least help me be slighter above drowning. There is nothing. The thread is pulling me down and I am calm. I do not like it, I question it, I challenge it and it is still telling me that everything will probably be ok. Or at least alright in the short term. I take one last, deep, waterlogged breath and let what whatever will happen, happen.
I can't see. I can't breathe. I am being drawn down, down, down into the shifting silt of the riverbed. I pick a direction to say is up and I am completely wrong. The thread is down. The pull is up. I am soaked, my guitar is ruined and the only thing keeping my hat on my head is a hand that might not be my own. The panic starts and I can't help it. It is only natural. I am a creature of the air, of open skies, of vast fields. The muck and the river are no place for such a delicate thing.
I am there in the swirling current for an eternity and a day by my flawed reckoning. I am tossed about with no care as to what shape I should be in. My ankles are up by my ears and that's alright. Ma arms are twisted behind my back into knotted pretzels. My spin is a crescent moon threatening to snap in half. I am calm. I would take a deep breath, but that little bit of reason still there says that would be a bad idea. It is. It really is.
More hands now and I am calm. All of the hands are cool and welcoming and dark, dragging me down into the black. I'll see Cout again, in a way. He'll shake his head and tut his tongue, adding me to the final tally for the day. I'll see Eliza at least. That will be nice. She'll be sad. She'll have more nightmares, and no one will be there to soothe them.
Dark, everything is dark and there is stillness calling to me. I really should have pushed for another day with Shelby, just to try and get one last round in. No one can blame me for wanting that.
Another hand comes for me and the others don't want to share. I am pulled in something I think is down, but it must be up. And the new hand is winning. I don't know which one I want to win. It's all not up to me anymore. Higher powers engaged in a tug of war over the rightful state of the world, and I am in the middle.
The newest one wins, yanking me up and dislocating my shoulder. I like that shoulder. It was a good shoulder. And the other was having a rough time of it as well. It couldn't quite handle any of it anymore. It tumbles out and then I lose my hat. I can breathe again, and I 'm not sure that it's a good trade off.
I hear a woman sob, uncontrollably, off a bit to my right. I cough and I can't hear her for a bit.
---
I'm not out for a long time. I don't even think I'm out at all. I'm just lying down on a hard deck for a spell. We all need a good lie down where everything is simple, and no responsibilities are out there. I have a certain nobility about me in this position, with my eyes closed, pretending that the world isn't the way it is.
Somebody pokes me and I am reminded that I am lost in a delusion. The rain was doing a decent job, but I was managing. I groan and motion the intruder away. A roll over and I am on my stomach, head propped and neck straight. It's a good time. Until I am poked again.
"Are you alive," ask the poking hand. Such great concern and I don't want to seem unappreciative. It's a flaw, really. If I was a better person, I would try and rectify that.
"Of course, he's alive, Gawain," says a slightly less concerned voice, "And he's just pretending."
"I am alive," I say, "But I'm still asleep. This is all a bad dream."
"Oh, that makes sense.," says the first, "Blake, he's dreaming. He has to be asleep."
"Yeah, Blake. Don't you know anything?"
"And you have a mouth on you. Great," sighs Blake.
"Nose too. Maybe even a few eyes. Never bothered to count."
Blake grumbles and a series of heavy stomps carry him away. That's nice. I can sleep in peace now. Except this Gawain person is poking me again and refusing my self-pitying indulgence.
"Why are you poking me?" I ask, "I am asleep."
"Well," the finger says, getting dangerously close to my eye, "In my opinion, this is a bad place to sleep. You could fall right back into the river and then we'd have to fish you out again. I don't think Miss Gerardine can convince the river to give you back again."
"Shame. Do you think you could talk to the river and save me?"
"No. Not in the slightest. We have some hammocks set up below deck if you want to lay down. But we'll be at Riverbend in a few hours."
I sigh and groan and make a big to do about actually getting up. But I get there. Gawain actually helps me, although the strength behind the motion is somewhat lacking. Small hands, delicate touches, soft skin, so it is not entirely unpleasant.
The rain is a bit calmer on my savior's vessel. It's a skiff, riding the water against the current. I see the suggestion of the hands that saved me paddling along. I am on a centipede, it seems, endlessly crying and sobbing over its grand predicament. It has hands instead of feet and it is swimming. My hand goes to my head and my stomach drops. My hat is gone. I don't want my hat to be gone. It should be here, on my head, resting on my beautiful horn, protecting me from rain and sun and everything bad.
"Did you pull up a hat with me," I ask. I glance around the deck for my answer. Gawain's shaking head is enough to confirm.
They're a Kuhrk, that much I can see from where I'm at. The teeth are always a dead giveaway with the slight jut. They have a small pair going up to their lips, under a sharp nose and hidden eyes. Small, slight, deep in the folds of a robe, obscuring all other forms that I might be able to see. They barely come up to my shoulders. Honestly kind of surprised they were even able to get me up to my feet with the vast difference in forms. I'm no gargan, technically, but I am tall. Not Eliza tall, but tall.
I throw my head back and sigh, letting the rain come down my features and try to make sense of it all. It'll turn up. It'll have to turn up. I am here on a river barge, chugging along with a woman sobbing underneath my feet. Gawain shivers and I take that as a sign that none of us want to be here.
So, we carefully walk down to the lower hull. The sobbing gets louder, and I shiver. The blue-black swirl of storm clouds and flooded banks is all around me. I did not want to be here, if only because the crying is getting a bit on my nerves. It shouldn't. The crying is a requisite for who they sent to deal with the problem. It's fine. I can deal. It's better than drowning. Gawain is a helpful little thing merging into the shadows of the dim candlelight awash in an orange glow. I have a chair to get sopping wet.
