The Book of Boy by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

Author:Catherine Gilbert Murdock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

18 Downstream

Rocking is the word for the motion of a boat. But it’s a false word, for a boat does not rock like a cradle, no; it quakes like a witch shaking a baby. I did not want to sit in a boat with naught but a shred of wood betwixt my bottom and the bottomless deep. But ’twas our only solution, for the river flowed faster and straighter than ever we could walk.

All that morn we had trekked away from the ruined church and the awful night within it. The hounds leaped round my legs, delighted with the adventure, baying Rabbits! and Hunt! and Me, too!, and I listened so I would not have to think of anything else.

At noon we found the river, a river half as wide as the sky, and the hounds sniffed out a tiny boat beneath a pile of branches. Hunt, hunt! they bragged. Men hid this!

“What are you doing, milord?”

Secundus tossed the branches aside. “I’m getting us where we need to go, Boy.” He pushed the boat into the water. “Get in.”

The hounds leaped about: Hunt! We found it! What now?

Across the river stood a huddle of buildings—and a huddle of men shouting at us.

“Silence those hounds,” Secundus ordered, “or I will.” He settled in the boat the size of a wine cask. Waves smacked its hull like claws wishing to drag us to death.

Such fun! bayed the hounds. We can swim! They leaped into the river.

“Get in, I said,” Secundus snapped. “Or should I leave you behind?”

The thing is mine, the steward had said. . . . Shivering, I stepped into the boat. How it rocked. I gripped the sides with both my hands, and tried not to look at the water.

Secundus pushed off. The hounds swam around, baying. “You’re bringing them with us?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’m not—’tis not my decision. They want to come.”

“If they follow us, they will drown.” He began to row.

Oh, I did not want them to drown. But I did not want to lose them, either, for then I’d be alone with naught but a wasps’ nest of thoughts. Hounds, I cried, sadly. You must not follow us.

What? they answered. No hunt? But we’re fine! You said so!

Yes, I did—and you are. But ’tis not safe. My heart sank, saying these words. You should find your kennel, and your keepers. And your pups.

Ah . . . our kennel. Our pups. One by one, they turned to shore, though a few ran along the riverbank till they, too, peeled off, and followed their own trail back home.

Good-bye, I cried. Good-bye, friends. And then I had naught to think of but my own unhappiness, and the misery of this wee small boat.

The rest of that day we floated. We passed cliffs and villages. We passed rafts of barrels and rafts of sheep, and ferries with horses tied behind, swimming. I’d think I will drown when the boat rocked, or I will vomit . . . although I had naught to puke for never did I have food in my stomach.

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