“We…need to…get dry,” he told her. “We need to…keep…warm.”
Patrick searched through the dark for anything dry enough to be used as kindling. He used his Sheffield knife to cut enough branches to build a decent fire, and thanks to finding Schoville’s pack, he also had a lighter to light it with.
Satisfied with the meager campfire, and somewhat proud that he’d at least managed that much, Patrick strung up their soggy blankets to dry. But if they intended to survive the night, Linley and Patrick would have to get dry as well.
“I have to get you out of these wet clothes,” he explained as he unlaced her waterlogged boots and pulled them off. Next came her blouse and skirt, until Patrick had stripped her down to her underlinens. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, peeling those off as well.
He stripped himself down. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her naked before. And it wasn’t like she had never seen him naked. But Patrick felt acutely aware of their nakedness there in the forest. Miles away from any other human beings on Earth.
Just a man and a woman, as God intended.
Like Adam and Eve before The Fall.
Patrick stared down at her—thin, frail, and wholly dependent on him. He pulled her to him and held her close, rocking her back and forth in his arms. Regardless of his intentions, he had signed her death warrant when he dragged her out of the monastery. He could not even save a healthy grown man. What good could he possibly do for an invalid girl? She could no more depend on him for survival than she could a toddler or a blind man.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he rocked her. “I’m so sorry.”
***
At sunrise, Patrick dressed and headed down to the river to look for Schoville. It was foolish, he knew. The man could be miles away, and time spent looking was time wasted. And with Linley weaker than ever, every second counted.
He beat his way through the tall, broad leaves and buzzing, stinging insects. The sun was barely over the treetops and already the heat had grown unbearable. Patrick stopped to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his dirty shirtsleeve. Everything around him looked the same—more trees. More insects. More mud. He needed to keep track of his path through the forest, or else he might lose his way back to Linley.
Finding the river was easy. Patrick followed the sound of rushing water until he reached the soggy banks. The low mist of the forest followed him there, hanging thick and heavy in the little river valley, choking the tops of trees and swirling around Patrick’s ankles. It would be hard to find anything with such little visibility, but neither he nor Linley could afford to wait until the fog cleared.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Schoville!”
No sound but the birds’ wings beating against the leaves as they scattered from the trees.
“Schoville!”
Again, there was nothing.
Patrick looked around. The river was still rising, and would continue to do so. If he intended to look for Schoville before all traces of the man were swept away, he needed to hurry. Patrick’s watch had long since stopped working, but he figured that he could walk a mile and back over rough ground in a little less than an hour. Certainly Linley could spare him for an hour.
An old military chum once told him the Ancient Romans calculated a mile to be exactly two thousand footfalls of an average soldier. Patrick considered himself an average sort of chap, so he set off one step at a time downriver in search of Schoville.
By footfall number three hundred and seventy-six, Patrick saw a can of tinned beef lodged between two rocks jutting out of the water. It was well out of reach, but it was a good sign. Here and there along his path, Patrick found traces of their accident—a piece of shredded canvas, bamboo shards from the bridge, and even an electric torch.
Around the thousandth step, he began to smell something burning in the air. The morning mist was still too thick to see any smoke, but Patrick was certain somewhere nearby someone had lit a fire. He continued along the edge of the river, only now he kept his eyes focused on the thickets of trees along the banks.
Patrick had long since given up counting footsteps by the time he saw the trickle of smoke escape from the forest canopy. Under the cover of a large tree only a few yards from the water’s edge, a man lay on the ground, warming himself by a small fire.
“Schoville!” Patrick called, tripping up the embankment.
The man shifted, rolling over to face him.
It was Schoville, back from the dead.
“Jesus Christ!” Patrick cried.
Schoville cleared his throat. “Not quite.”
“I’d nearly given you up for dead.”
“Somehow I managed to cling to the tree as it carried me downstream.” He paused to look Patrick up and down. “I’m surprised you made it out.”
“I find myself accomplishing lots of surprising things lately,” Patrick replied.
“And our Linley?”