Timeline - Michael Crichton [147]
“We have to get in,” Marek said. “To look at Brother Marcel’s cell, to get the key that is there.”
“But how, André? How do we get in?”
Marek stared silently at the bridge for a long time. Finally, he said, “We swim.”
Chris shook his head. “No way.” The bridge pylons in the water were sheer, the stones green and slippery with algae. “We’d never climb there.”
“Who said anything about climbing?” Marek said.
09:27:33
Chris gasped as he felt the chill of the river. Marek was already pushing away from the shore, drifting downstream with the current. Kate was right behind him, moving to the right, trying to align herself in the center of the stream. Chris plunged after them, glancing nervously toward the shore.
So far, the soldiers hadn’t seen them. The gurgle of the river was loud in his ears, the only sound he heard. He turned away, looking forward, toward the approaching bridge. He felt his body tense. He knew he had only one chance—if he missed, the current would sweep him downstream, and it was unlikely that he would ever make his way back up again without being captured.
So this was it.
One chance.
A series of small stone walls had been built out from the sides of the river to accelerate the water, and he moved forward more rapidly now. Directly ahead was a watercourse slide, just before the wheels. They were in the shadow of the bridge. Everything was happening fast. The river was white water, a rushing roar. He could hear the creak of the wooden wheels as he came closer.
Marek reached the first wheel; he grabbed hold of the spokes, swung around, stepped onto a paddle and rose upward, carried by the wheel, then was lost from view.
He made it look easy.
Now Kate had reached the second wheel, near the center of the bridge. Agile, she easily caught the rising spoke, but in the next moment she almost lost her grip, struggling to hold on. She finally swung up onto a paddle, crouching low.
Chris slid down the angled watercourse, grunting as his body bounced over the rocks. The water around him boiled like rapids, the current carrying him swiftly toward the spinning water wheel.
Now it was his turn.
The wheel was close.
Chris reached out for the nearest spoke as it broke water, and grabbed—cold and slippery—hand slid on algae—splinters cut his fingers—losing his grip—he grabbed with his other hand—desperate—the spoke was rising into the air—he couldn’t hold it—let go, fell back in the water—grabbed for the next spoke as it came up—missed it—missed it—and then was swept relentlessly onward, back into the sunlight, going downstream.
He’d missed!
Damn.
The current pushed him onward. Away from the bridge, away from the others.
He was on his own.
09:25:12
Kate got one knee on the paddle of the water wheel and felt herself lifted clear of the water. Then her other knee, and she crouched down, feeling her body rise into the air. She looked back over her shoulder in time to see Chris heading downstream, his head bobbing in the sunlight. And then she was carried up and over, and into the mill.
:
She dropped to the ground, crouching in darkness. The wooden boards beneath her feet sagged, and she smelled an odor of rotting damp. She was in a small chamber, with the wheel behind her and a rotating set of wooden-tooth gears creaking noisily to her right. Those gears meshed with a vertical spindle, making the vertical shaft turn. The shaft disappeared up into the ceiling. She felt water splatter on her as she paused, listening. But she could hear nothing but the sound of water and the creaking of the wood.
A low door stood directly ahead. She gripped her dagger and slowly pushed the door open.
:
Grain hissed down a wooden chute from the ceiling above and emptied into a square wooden bin beside her on the floor. Sacks of grain were piled high in the corner. The air was hazy with yellow dust. Dust covered all the walls, the surfaces and the ladder in the corner of the room that led up to the second