moments I stand there, examining her hardened eyes glistening with unshed tears. I am tempted to turn and start walking. It would be so easy, and I have more than enough reason. Instead, the intense, naked honesty of her direct, unflinching gaze deflates my skepticism. I do believe her sincerity. Whatever else may happen, she is not going to stab me in the back again.
I cannot take back my words, much as I regret them now, but I can give an equally sincere apology. Dropping the travois, I walk over to her and hold out my hand. “Okay, I do believe you, so let’s make a new start. Shall we pledge to be friends?”
Her expression is impassive as she regards my face for several long seconds before making up her mind, then uncrosses her arms and says, “Alright, then, as of this moment whatever happened in the past is behind us. I swear that I’ll be a good and true friend.”
Tears finally emerge from her eyes when she takes my hand and shakes it. Then she gives me a long embrace followed by a kiss on the cheek, before reaching down for her pack. I pick up the sledge crossbar, and we resume our trek to town.
Now that we have made nice and she has agreed to leave town, I can leave her in Port Sadelow and walk away with a clean conscience, but a chivalrous part of me continues to nag. We have gone about ten steps when I say one word.
“Entiak.”
“I’m sorry, what’s that?” she asks.
“Entiak is where I’m going,” I tell her. “A small, unremarkable fishing boat will be there for a few days, looking to hire a crewmember. Particularly, someone who meets my description.” The rendezvous is not the only reason I am going to Entiak. I need to swing by there anyway, due to some unfinished personal business I have to take care of while I am in this region. But that side trip comes after getting the generator into Archives hands.
We walk along the trail under the leafy canopy for about a half-mile before she responds, “That’s where my father is from. He only took me there once, but his brother lives in Entiak, so I think I’ll go stay with my uncle for a while, until I get on my feet.”
Great, I knew that was coming. I still have not figured out how I will get myself there, let alone my newfound friend. “I’ll help you get as far as Entiak, but that’s it.”
Danae nods.
The hike to Port Sadelow is uneventful and quiet, and the hours turn into miles. As we near the first farmsteads, several small caravans pass by, heading toward us. They move quickly and do not even slow down as they approach, let alone acknowledge us. I scramble to pull the travois off to the side in order to avoid being trampled. It is mid-afternoon when we reach the last hill leading down into the town.
Those caravans rushed by as if fleeing a fire, which rouses the paranoid survivalist in me. So my instincts tell me not to rush down blindly into the port town. I learned the hard way decades ago that it is better to be safe than dead.
At the top of the ridge overlooking Port Sadelow, I find an abandoned barn on the edge of the forest. Large blackberry brambles have grown up, mostly engulfing the outside. After ensuring no one is observing us, I clear a path and drag the travois inside the dark structure. The damp smell of rotting wood permeates the air, and thick stands of fern dominate the floor.
Half of the interior stalls have fallen over and the other half require little encouragement, but the walls of the barn itself seem sturdy enough that we are not in imminent danger of being buried alive.
Just inside, I stash my rig with the packs in the broken remains of the first standing stall, along with my walking stick. Outside the barn door is an old cistern which is seriously falling apart. What water it manages to hold is somewhat brackish, but it is regularly flushed with rain that runs through a drain from the roof. I definitely would not drink the liquid, but it is bearable enough to clean up and make ourselves presentable
I cannot take back my words, much as I regret them now, but I can give an equally sincere apology. Dropping the travois, I walk over to her and hold out my hand. “Okay, I do believe you, so let’s make a new start. Shall we pledge to be friends?”
Her expression is impassive as she regards my face for several long seconds before making up her mind, then uncrosses her arms and says, “Alright, then, as of this moment whatever happened in the past is behind us. I swear that I’ll be a good and true friend.”
Tears finally emerge from her eyes when she takes my hand and shakes it. Then she gives me a long embrace followed by a kiss on the cheek, before reaching down for her pack. I pick up the sledge crossbar, and we resume our trek to town.
Now that we have made nice and she has agreed to leave town, I can leave her in Port Sadelow and walk away with a clean conscience, but a chivalrous part of me continues to nag. We have gone about ten steps when I say one word.
“Entiak.”
“I’m sorry, what’s that?” she asks.
“Entiak is where I’m going,” I tell her. “A small, unremarkable fishing boat will be there for a few days, looking to hire a crewmember. Particularly, someone who meets my description.” The rendezvous is not the only reason I am going to Entiak. I need to swing by there anyway, due to some unfinished personal business I have to take care of while I am in this region. But that side trip comes after getting the generator into Archives hands.
We walk along the trail under the leafy canopy for about a half-mile before she responds, “That’s where my father is from. He only took me there once, but his brother lives in Entiak, so I think I’ll go stay with my uncle for a while, until I get on my feet.”
Great, I knew that was coming. I still have not figured out how I will get myself there, let alone my newfound friend. “I’ll help you get as far as Entiak, but that’s it.”
Danae nods.
The hike to Port Sadelow is uneventful and quiet, and the hours turn into miles. As we near the first farmsteads, several small caravans pass by, heading toward us. They move quickly and do not even slow down as they approach, let alone acknowledge us. I scramble to pull the travois off to the side in order to avoid being trampled. It is mid-afternoon when we reach the last hill leading down into the town.
Those caravans rushed by as if fleeing a fire, which rouses the paranoid survivalist in me. So my instincts tell me not to rush down blindly into the port town. I learned the hard way decades ago that it is better to be safe than dead.
At the top of the ridge overlooking Port Sadelow, I find an abandoned barn on the edge of the forest. Large blackberry brambles have grown up, mostly engulfing the outside. After ensuring no one is observing us, I clear a path and drag the travois inside the dark structure. The damp smell of rotting wood permeates the air, and thick stands of fern dominate the floor.
Half of the interior stalls have fallen over and the other half require little encouragement, but the walls of the barn itself seem sturdy enough that we are not in imminent danger of being buried alive.
Just inside, I stash my rig with the packs in the broken remains of the first standing stall, along with my walking stick. Outside the barn door is an old cistern which is seriously falling apart. What water it manages to hold is somewhat brackish, but it is regularly flushed with rain that runs through a drain from the roof. I definitely would not drink the liquid, but it is bearable enough to clean up and make ourselves presentable
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