no one able, no one in attendance to take their crossing fees and set them safely on the far bank.
FRANKLIN HAD NOT wanted to abandon the Pesthouse so soon. He had started to take pleasure in its intimate darkness. He'd argued that Margaret ought to allow more time for her recovery; she was too weak to walk, even if it was downhill all the way. The flux was unpredictable and might return. Her shaven head would frighten people off. He was not fit enough to walk himself, as his knee was still troublesome. Besides, his brother, Jackson, had promised to return within a day or two, and if anything had gone wrong down there in Ferrytown, Jackson would certainly have come back to Franklin at once. That was his way. 'He's mightier than me.'
Margaret's immediate apprehension had been that everybody in Ferrytown had come down with the flux. And that made sense. It would explain the almost empty roads, the stillness and the absence of smoke. Everyone would be reduced to bed, too weak to move or light a fire, too battered to be visible. Her fear of such overwhelming pestilence was not illogical, or unprecedented, even though, according to her report, since the deaths of her father and the six other Ferrytowners three months before, there had not been any disease among her neighbors other than her own. She'd been the only victim of this outbreak as far as she knew, and now look at her, starting to recover after only a day or two and nothing lost except some weight and a lifetime of hair.
So Franklin was not unduly worried. If it was illness that had stifled Ferrytown, then it was a weak and passing visitor. But, in his view, he and Margaret would still be wise to stay up on the hill, at least until the fires were lit again, if not until Margaret's hair had reached a respectable length, as was normally required.
'Let's wait to hear what my mighty brother has to say,' he suggested.
'What if he doesn't come?'
'"Mighty Jackson, but Jackson mighty not."' He laughed like a boy. Immediately, he felt embarrassed to have been so childish in her presence, and blushed again. Blushed like a redhead might. 'That was our joke,' he explained, feeling half her age and suddenly recognizing with a further blushing shudder how foolish and immature and unreasonable he was to be so smitten by this woman, this sick and older woman who would regard him, surely, as a silly youth. 'That's what we always used to joke about my brother,' he repeated. 'I only meant to say, let's wait at least a day or two, until you're well enough to walk, and see if he comes up for me.'
His brother's failure to return so far had bothered Franklin. Jackson was mighty, but he was impetuous and unpredictable as well — 'mighty not', indeed — the sort of man to take off on his own for days on end. That also had been 'his way', since he'd been able to walk. The world was not a dangerous place to him, and so he could never understand why people worried about his absences. Besides, he had a thirst. If there was liquor in Ferrytown, Jackson would sniff it out and knock it back in quantity. And he'd have to sleep it off in quantity as well. So two, three days? Inconsiderate, perhaps, but not unusual.
Franklin had that morning left Margaret sitting on her tree-trunk bench and hobbled as best he could into the clearing at the top of the trail where he and Jackson had parted. Was there any sign of his brother, she'd asked. Nothing yet, so far as he could tell. Nobody coming up. Just stragglers going down, the usual travelers in family groups, alone, with horses, carts or nothing but their legs for company, a little string of refugees from Hardship House picking their way down the track for a night in bed and a country breakfast. Sea dreamers. Everything as normal, then. He tried to challenge her fears. Ferrytown, from his high vantage point, had simply looked quiet and uneventful, he said, hardly a scarf of smoke to be seen, perhaps without the usual bustle at the crossing
FRANKLIN HAD NOT wanted to abandon the Pesthouse so soon. He had started to take pleasure in its intimate darkness. He'd argued that Margaret ought to allow more time for her recovery; she was too weak to walk, even if it was downhill all the way. The flux was unpredictable and might return. Her shaven head would frighten people off. He was not fit enough to walk himself, as his knee was still troublesome. Besides, his brother, Jackson, had promised to return within a day or two, and if anything had gone wrong down there in Ferrytown, Jackson would certainly have come back to Franklin at once. That was his way. 'He's mightier than me.'
Margaret's immediate apprehension had been that everybody in Ferrytown had come down with the flux. And that made sense. It would explain the almost empty roads, the stillness and the absence of smoke. Everyone would be reduced to bed, too weak to move or light a fire, too battered to be visible. Her fear of such overwhelming pestilence was not illogical, or unprecedented, even though, according to her report, since the deaths of her father and the six other Ferrytowners three months before, there had not been any disease among her neighbors other than her own. She'd been the only victim of this outbreak as far as she knew, and now look at her, starting to recover after only a day or two and nothing lost except some weight and a lifetime of hair.
So Franklin was not unduly worried. If it was illness that had stifled Ferrytown, then it was a weak and passing visitor. But, in his view, he and Margaret would still be wise to stay up on the hill, at least until the fires were lit again, if not until Margaret's hair had reached a respectable length, as was normally required.
'Let's wait to hear what my mighty brother has to say,' he suggested.
'What if he doesn't come?'
'"Mighty Jackson, but Jackson mighty not."' He laughed like a boy. Immediately, he felt embarrassed to have been so childish in her presence, and blushed again. Blushed like a redhead might. 'That was our joke,' he explained, feeling half her age and suddenly recognizing with a further blushing shudder how foolish and immature and unreasonable he was to be so smitten by this woman, this sick and older woman who would regard him, surely, as a silly youth. 'That's what we always used to joke about my brother,' he repeated. 'I only meant to say, let's wait at least a day or two, until you're well enough to walk, and see if he comes up for me.'
His brother's failure to return so far had bothered Franklin. Jackson was mighty, but he was impetuous and unpredictable as well — 'mighty not', indeed — the sort of man to take off on his own for days on end. That also had been 'his way', since he'd been able to walk. The world was not a dangerous place to him, and so he could never understand why people worried about his absences. Besides, he had a thirst. If there was liquor in Ferrytown, Jackson would sniff it out and knock it back in quantity. And he'd have to sleep it off in quantity as well. So two, three days? Inconsiderate, perhaps, but not unusual.
Franklin had that morning left Margaret sitting on her tree-trunk bench and hobbled as best he could into the clearing at the top of the trail where he and Jackson had parted. Was there any sign of his brother, she'd asked. Nothing yet, so far as he could tell. Nobody coming up. Just stragglers going down, the usual travelers in family groups, alone, with horses, carts or nothing but their legs for company, a little string of refugees from Hardship House picking their way down the track for a night in bed and a country breakfast. Sea dreamers. Everything as normal, then. He tried to challenge her fears. Ferrytown, from his high vantage point, had simply looked quiet and uneventful, he said, hardly a scarf of smoke to be seen, perhaps without the usual bustle at the crossing
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