Page 62 of Beyond

“Mornin’,” said one in a floppy straw hat to Alberdina. “Nice day fer fishin’, ain’t it?” And he gave a little gulp of a laugh. Well, that seemed to make sense, since aside from his pack, he had a huge bundle of fishing poles on one shoulder. He was followed by a blacksmith, and a confused-appearing man, probably some kind of herbalist or grower, with a string of garlic hanging from his belt.

Evidently Alberdina knew the fisherman, because she gave him a little tap on his shoulder as he headed for the ruins.

Several dogs came through; there were two mastiffs, and several dogs that seemed to be part of a hunting pack, because they kept together and hard at the heels of the man she assumed was their master.

“I think I’m—” Jonaton began.

“You’re eating first,” Alberdina contradicted him, and gestured to Delia to come too. Some of what the newcomers had been carrying were foodstuffs, so at least she was not going to have to fetch more baskets and bundles from the Foothold Gate. Delia ate glumly; Jonaton ate gluttonously. Alberdina was too busy directing all the new people as to where everything was to pay any attention to either of them.

And still more people poured in through the Gate, a regular procession of them. Then something she had never seen before—small logs strung on bits of rope, each end of which was attached to a longer rope, so that the whole thing looked like a rope ladder made for someone who was too obtuse to realize that the rungs were going to roll under his feet. It passed through the Gate, and she couldn’t see the other end.

But then she realized what it was, as boxes and bundles and other large containers were shoved across the Gate, riding freely on those rolling logs. Some of the men started gathering them up and taking them to the ruins. It was all so organized! She could hardly believe her eyes.

And then the procession of containers stopped, the rollers were neatly stowed aside, and a flock of traumatized sheep blundered through, preceded and followed by herd dogs. A squad of woodsmen and builders came through, bearing backpacks laden with more weight in tools than a team of horses could hope to move. They moved up the hill as one unit, without even waiting for directions.

“Kristoff! Has anyone sent that coracle across?” Jonaton bellowed to someone over in the ruins.

“Right here!” shouted the fellow who’d had all the fishing poles, bringing over something she’d taken to be a very big basket, which was, in fact, a round thing of woven willow, with a tarred canvas cover sewn tightly over it. There was a board across the middle of it.

He put it in the water behind the two water-Gate uprights and gestured to her, and to horror, she realized that this was how she was supposed to get “behind” the water-Gate.

A Tow-Beast came through the land-Gate, led by one of the Valdemar stableboys. It was at this point that it truly dawned on her that the land-Gate could not possibly be linked to the Foothold Gate in the cellar.

The man with the round boat-thing gestured to her again, impatiently, and with great reluctance she went to him. “Yer t’ git down in this here coracle, milady,” he said, sitting on the bank and holding the contraption “steady” with both hands. “Jest sit down here on bank, next ter me. Tha’s right. Now put yer feet in ’er—”

Little by little, he coaxed her into the unsteady thing, until she was perched, terrified, on the board across the middle, afraid it would turn over at any moment, and even more afraid that he was going to let go of it.

But he didn’t, and Jonaton went to work again.

Doesn’t he know I don’t know how to swim? she thought frantically.

But the stranger held the wretched thing tightly against the bank, and she squeezed her eyes shut and endured. She’d never been so panicked and frightened in her entire life. Her stomach was certain that at any moment she was going to find herself in the water, being sucked down to her death.

But eventually, she’d been scared for so long that fatigue set in, and she opened her eyes. Kristoff—if that was his name—gave her a reassuring nod. Her hands hurt. She glanced down at them to see that she was holding on to the board she sat on so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Heerd ye got a Gold foal,” the man said, matter-of-factly. “Tell me ’bout her.”

He’s trying to get my mind off this, she thought. He sees how scared I am. Well, maybe it would work.

So she told him all about Daystar, how old she was, how Delia had helped with the foaling, how she was getting the filly used to being handled, and what steps would be next. And when she was done, he nodded.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “Sounds like that there Fetchin’ Gift be right handy. Why, I c’n think of a mort’o ways it’ll be useful out here. Like—well, ain’t jest horses what hez trouble birthin’. Cattle, sheep, hooman wimmin—reckon yer gonna be right popular with Healer Alberdina. An’—well, they’s one good way o’ makin’ a big shelter, an’ thet’s ter bend down a bendy tree, like a birch, stake ’er down, and throw canvas over ’er. Ye c’n bring thet top right down, aye? An’ what if a barge breaks loose an’ floats out inter a lake? Ye c’n Fetch her up t’ th’ bank wi’out nobody hevin’ ter go arter ’er.”

He continued at some length, with great enthusiasm, until after a moment, she realized that not only was he right about some of that, she might very well be so busy that she would never have time to do all the hard labor she’d envisaged herself doing.

He glanced over at the men setting up more shelters in the ruins. “Ain’t lookin’ for’erd ter sleepin’ on ground,” he said with distaste. “Be glad when th’ livin’ barges start a-comin’ over.”

“What are living barges?” she asked.

“Barges fixed up as housen,” he said. “Cozy, they is. Live in one m’self, what with bein’ a fishin’ man.” And he began to describe what sounded to her like something that was every bit as comfortable as a little cottage, if nothing near as spacious.

“But how do you keep it warm in the winter?” she asked.

“Leetle stove. I’d show ye how big, but I reckon ye don’t want me t’ turn loose of this coracle,” he said with a chuckle. “It ain’t no manor, but it ain’t no tent, neither. Wust thin’ come winter’s gonna be gettin’ bored, I reckon. We ain’t a-gonna be able ter move in winter, gonna be plenty idle hands ter take care of the stock an’ all. Reckon come fall, we’ll pick a good place, make stockades fer th’ critters, an’ stretch oursel’s along the river all th’ way ter this here lake. We’ll be like a long, skinny town. Then come spring, oncet th’ stock’s done birthin’, we’ll move agin.”

She could even see it in her mind’s eye: the “town” of living barges along the shore, the animals in their pens ashore, maybe some people (hardier than her!) living on shore in something that gave more shelter than just a mere tent—

“Thet there tower’ll be a fine shelter oncet a good roof’s on ’er,” Kristoff said cheerfully, jerking his head at the tower ruins. “An’ thet there Ivar, he’s seed people up north what make winter housen outa sod. All right and tight they be, too. We’ll do. We’ll do. An’ when we finds a new place ter set up ferever, like, it’ll be a home in no time. Jest wait an’ see.”