A False Mirror - Charles Todd [77]
Above him, the high rise of land loomed, and as he stepped across to the earth, he heard pebbles skittering down, like a warning that one false move could bring another twenty yards of solid ground down on his head, breaking up and burying him as it came crashing toward him.
But nothing happened, and he made the leap to the landslip, his feet sinking above the ankles in the soft, pliant earth. Laboring to bring one foot out and then another, he wallowed like a drunkard toward the first of the shards of lumber that littered the ground, many of the bits sticking straight out of the mud, others buried and only recognizable when his boots struck something solid underfoot.
It was a wild-goose chase, Hamish was telling him roundly. “And how ye’ll manage to clamber back into yon boat again, God alone kens!”
But he was here now, and the only thing to do was go forward. Casting a glance back at the squall line, he wondered if Perkins would abandon him if it came to a choice between the boat and the stubborn fool who had brought them out here.
He struggled on, searching with his eyes, his hands busy keeping his balance. The footing was so treacherous he found a length of door framing and tried to use it as a cane, only to find that it sank too deep and nearly had him stumbling in its wake.
Sticks of furniture, a rusted pot, a vase—miraculously in one piece, the lilacs on its surface a small bit of color in the shambles—lay among the ruins. As Perkins had predicted, Rutledge could barely tell what room or what part of the structure lay where, the whole smashed to nothing. Like an iceberg, the debris went deep, only a portion of it showing on the surface where he walked.
He rescued the small vase and tucked it in a coat pocket, intending to take it back to Perkins as a souvenir. Bending over invited disaster again, and he slipped and fell, swearing, against a protruding beam and part of the chimney corner. For an instant, he could feel the earth under his body shift, and he thought, This was not a very wise decision, with a fatalism born of long practice.
Hamish was after him, urging him back to the boat, telling him to take the warning seriously.
After a moment of perfect stillness, he could sense that all movement had stopped, nothing more was going to happen, at least not now, and he shoved himself upright, testing his weight with extreme gentleness just where he stood. It was then that he saw something on the far side of the chimney, caught in what appeared to be the splat of a chair back.
With great care he shifted himself to one side, and then found a length of planking wide enough to use as a footbridge to the other side of the chimney, and then another added to that.
Walking on the slippery boards, he kept his gaze fixed to where his feet were set, and he didn’t look up again until he’d come to the far end of his improvised bridge.
What he’d seen was there in front of him: a wad of bloody bandaging, the dark red already turned to a running pink in the rain. But bandaging it was. A doctor’s work, he thought to himself.
He reached out for it, and in the nick of time stopped, remembering what he’d risked retrieving the vase. Move his weight a bare few inches more, and the plank behind him would dip like a board over a pool, sending him headlong and face-first into the smothering earth.
Just the fear of it made him shiver like a man in fever, but he caught himself and took a deep breath, shutting out the voice roaring now in his mind. He’d been buried alive once, in France. It didn’t bear thinking of. And this time, there would be no body lying above him, giving him a precious pocket of air to keep him alive. Hamish’s body—long since rotted to bones in the rains of the Somme Valley.
To one side he saw a rung from the broken chair or perhaps its brother, and carefully squatted down until he could retrieve it, though his feet slipped and nearly launched him where he most feared to go. Catching himself again, he used the muscles in his thighs to bring himself upright