Chapter Seven
It took the three of them a great deal of effort to haul the two logs back upriver. If he’d completed the rest of the raft first, he might have floated that downriver to where the new logs waited, but he hadn’t.
They left the logs floating in the river, and, once again, Fingin asked Sean to drag them along, though the donkey remained on shore. Fingin stood by in case the new twine got tangled in bushes or rocks along the journey. With several rests and more than a few snags, they returned to the small beach with the other eight logs.
Now Fingin set to work with the rest of his twine. Sean slept, and Bran kept an eye out for any interruptions, bounding in the woods and chasing the curious ravens away. Once he surprised a brace of rabbits but caught nothing.
In and out, Fingin twined around each of the logs, pulling them tight and tying the string. The first two secure, he added a third, then the fourth, and so on. He built it right on the edge of the beach, so all he’d need to do was shove it into the water. Then he’d need to get Sean on board. He should persuade the donkey to sit down. Standing on the raft would be more dangerous, and would make it more likely to capsize.
His twine supply had almost run out when he tied the last knot. With a grin, he tested his work’s sturdiness.
Just as he tugged on the last knot, he realized he needed one more thing. “Bran! I need you to find me a slender log, something I can use as a pole to steer the raft. As long as you can find, but strong enough so it won’t bend. Can you find me one?”
Without answer, Bran bounded into the trees, disturbing a flock of robins who had just settled down to dig for worms. They complained in a raucous chorus, both in Fingin’s mind and in chirps. They had some choice words for the blundering dog who disturbed their meal, making Fingin smile.
Sean had woken again, but he still seemed off-color.
“Would you like some water, Sean?”
“I don’t want any water ever again.”
Fingin chuckled. “I don’t blame you, my friend. But we need to drink water every day. I’ll get you some.”
With his cooking pot, he scooped water from the river. He also gathered more sweet sedge grass for a treat. Sean had well earned it. Fingin wondered if the donkey would be too afraid to get on the raft afterward. He’d deal with that later. He wanted to ensure his friend was rested and fed.
Bran’s barking in the distance made him rise. “I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his axe and walked toward Bran’s summons.
His dog had found a suitable tree. The thin tree had grown straight, with only a few knots, and those didn’t bend the main trunk. With a few axe blows and some trimming of the offshoots and top, he had a serviceable raft pole.
He dragged it back to the beach, where Sean slept again.
Fingin squinted at the overcast sky, judging the sun’s height. Through the thin cloud cover, it seemed to be farther to the west than overhead. Today would not be a good day to embark on their journey. He should let Sean sleep and get some rest himself.
Instead, he built a small fire with leftover branches he’d trimmed from his raft logs, tied the raft to a tree near the shore, and settled down to cook a meal. He’d been eating jerky and the last of the bread for several days and craved a hot supper.
Turnips, carrots, onions, garlic, and rosemary went into the pot. He soaked the dried fish before tossing it in with the rest. He let it simmer for a long time, his mouth watering as the aroma enveloped him. A proper stew took all day, but he didn’t have all day. The sun had almost set by the time he allowed himself to sample the stew. The fish remained tough. He should cook it a half a day more, but his stomach informed him in vocal insistence he shouldn’t wait any longer.
He scooped some of the steaming food into a bowl for Bran, who finished it in short order, despite the heat. Fingin forced himself to savor his. He wouldn’t be able to cook on the raft, but they’d stop each night on the shore.
Fingin didn’t have much practice guiding a raft, but he had to try. He’d used a raft a couple times when he was younger and had learned how to craft one from his older brother. They’d made smaller rafts and explored up and down the river.
He drifted to sleep thinking of days past, but for once, he didn’t dream of that. Instead, he drifted through a fantasy landscape, filled with fluttering insects in rainbow colors. His feet didn’t touch the ground. He floated on a musical note, riding it like a horse, as if he knew how to ride a horse. He had no blanket, so the note hurt his legs. It rose up and down on a soaring scale. His ears almost burst with the pure sound as it spun and wheeled.
The note came near the earth at the end of the song. When he dismounted, the ground grew spongy beneath his feet. He tried to pull himself from the quagmire, but it sucked him back, and he couldn’t move.
When he woke, dripping nervous sweat, the night had engulfed the world. A few stars poked through the clouds, but the moon remained hidden, not even a faint glow through the overcast sky.
Bran snored next
