Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [4]
“As God wills it,” he growled. “I’ve seen worse for men that lived. We need make haste. I’m sure we’ll be pursued.” That said, he held out a hand. I helped him up. After shaking himself like a wet dog, he plunged deeper into the forest.
I hurried after, but kept glancing back.
The forest was without tracks or trails. The more we stumbled on, the more I lost my sense of time and place. Stout oak, elm, and ash grew beyond any number I could count. The warp of branches hid the sky. The air was humid, thick with the stench of decay. Tangled bushes clutched our feet. Here and there were boggy mires. All in all, it was an uninviting world, with not the slightest trace of human life.
Bear was constantly clutching his arm, increasingly a-sweat with struggle. Even I was short of breath.
“Shouldn’t we seek a path?” I asked after we had labored long.
“The more marked the path,” said Bear between heavy panting, “the more likely it will take us to a place others will know. Didn’t someone say, ‘New lives require new paths’? This way’s best.”
In faith, I’m not sure who led the way, Bear or I. It might have been the occasional ray of sunlight that gave us direction—fingerposts set down by God on high.
After we had gone for what felt like many leagues, Bear began to falter increasingly until he abruptly halted. “God’s heart,” he exclaimed. “I can go no more.”
All but falling, he sat with his back propped against an oak. His face was drawn, paler than normal. Shivering, he wrapped his cloak tightly round while holding his wounded arm in such a way I knew it was giving him much pain.
“You said the wound was not bad,” I said.
“No such thing as a good wound,” he muttered, shutting his eyes.
I stood there dismayed. “What shall I do?” I asked.
“All I need is some food, warmth, and a term of peace.” He turned toward me without opening his eyes. “If you have any to spare, I would be willing to share.”
Not fooled by his raillery, I sat down opposite and waited anxiously for him to do something. Alas, he continued to sit in a state of collapse, breathing deeply, as if he had run a race and lost.
The more he remained there, the more unnerved I became. With the two of us, Bear had always taken the lead. Great in soul, size, and voice as he was, I had never had to wait on him. What kind of freedom had I gained, I wondered, to be so soon on the edge of calamity?
“Are you hungry?” I asked, somewhat lamely.
“I can’t remember when I’ve eaten last,” he confessed.
“I can set a trap,” I said. He had taught me how. “I’ll catch a hare.”
“Good lad,” he murmured, his breath labored, his eyes still closed. Then he said, “I’m cold.”
I stood up. “While I’m gone,” I said, “this might help.” I set his split hat back on his bald head, and tied it round his cheeks. A poor thing, that hat, but I knew he cherished it as an emblem of his being. When I set it on him, the bells that hung from the two points tinkled; in the forest they made an empty, mocking sound.
I gathered some fallen leaves and spread them over him from his feet to his chest.
“Does that make you any warmer?”
“I’m well planted,” he replied. “Just don’t let it become an early burial.”
“Bear!” I said.
“I jest,” he said, but, in faith, it didn’t seem that way to me.
“I’ll be quick,” I said, and started off.
“Crispin!” he called.
“I’m here.”
“I’m not prepared to die.”
His words struck hard. “What … what do you mean?” I said, upset that he should speak that way.
“In Jesus’s name, I’m weak. And I’ve sinned much.”
“I’ve … I’ve never seen you sin,” I said.
He took a deep breath and started to speak, but seemed to change his mind. Instead he whispered, “Just don’t abandon me.”
“By all that’s holy, Bear,” I returned, “you know I never would. Call with any need. I’ll be no farther than a shout.”
I stood there, afraid to leave. But when he said no more, I made myself set off in search of a likely spot to place a snare. As I went, I kept thinking how painful it was for me to hear Bear speak of weakness on his part.
For if he was weak, what did that make me?