Read Online Jo's Journey by Nikki Tate - Free Book Online Page B

Too heavy to carry, I thought with a bitter smile.
    Loose in the bottom of the pack I found a few more small items—my flint and steel, a stub of candle, a sliver of soap. Not much, but along with the folding knife in my pocket, it was all Bart and I owned in the world. With any luck, we might be able to get through the night.
    How could they have left us to perish? “Halloo?” I called one last time. But of course, there was no answer.
    I lifted the pack and retraced my steps along the creek until I drew close to the place where I had left Bart. The closer I got the faster I went, slithering and scrambling over rocks and fallen trees, splashing in and out of the water.
    What if I couldn’t find the place again? What if I was too late?
    â€œBart?” I started calling when I recognized the final giant boulder before the eddy. “Bart! Answer me!”
    I hesitated before coming around the corner, hoping to hear Bart’s answering call. Nothing. No sound. No movement.
    â€œBart?” I whispered, approaching the still form at the base of the cutaway bank. Even before I reached out to touch my coat, I could see it was soaking wet. The bit of hair that I could see past the coat’s collar was plastered to Bart’s head.
    Everything was completely drenched, sodden and muddy.
    Not wanting to see, I drew the coat back from Bart’s face. His skin was pale, his eyes closed. Soft rain fell over both of us. I leaned in close, hoping to catch a sound, a whisper, anything.
    When I felt the softest whisper of a breath against my cheek, I crunched my eyes shut so tightly my head ached.
    Bart was still alive—but only just.
    I tugged the coat back and replaced it with the blanket from my pack. I added the wet coat on top, and then I worked like a creature possessed. I snapped twigs, peeled back bark, and shaved the finest shards with my knife so the sparks had something dry to land on.
    Carefully I fed the tender flame, adding tiny twigs and small sticks one at a time, placing each just right so the fire did not collapse on itself.
    Soon flames jumped higher and stronger, and I risked leaving the fire for a few minutes at a time until I had a healthy pile of wood ready to burn and a blazing fire that easily held its own against the drizzle.
    Once or twice Bart moaned, but each time I went to his side he was just the same—still, pale and silent.
    I pulled Bart as close to the fire as I dared, noting with satisfaction when my damp coat began to steam.
    While Bart began to dry out, I boiled a little water in my gold pan. The men hadn’t bothered to take the mug tied to the pack, and the minute the water was hot enough, I made a cup of tea.
    Even without milk or sugar, the first sip was the most delicious drink I had ever enjoyed.
    â€œBart,” I said, talking to him like he could hear. “You’ve got to have some of this.”
    I pushed the pack under his shoulders and held his head while I lifted the cup to his lips.
    He moaned.
    â€œBart. Cooperate. You won’t get better if you don’t drink.”
    I tipped a little tea into his mouth. “Attaboy. Don’t spit it out. Drink it down.” I smiled when he took a sip. It wasn’t just the idea ofthe tea slipping down his throat that warmed me. A memory long buried came to me of my mother tending me during an illness. I must have been quite small, but I remember her lifting the cup to my lips, stroking my hair, touching my feverish cheek.
    I reached to smooth away the damp hair still stuck to Bart’s forehead, and it was almost as if my mother’s hand was guiding my own, helping me to save the boy who lay so close to death. “Good,” I murmured. “Have a little more.”
    When I laid him back down, it seemed he wasn’t quite as pale. I scraped together a thick mound of pine needles behind the fallen log and rolled Bart onto the crude bed. I propped the pack over top of him to help ward