9 Stranded

It continued to pour for another three days. The ground was submerged most of the time, occasionally surfacing for air. Whitlow's health fluctuated over those days. He would be mostly fine when he woke, but would get worse towards the evening. At night, his coughing would get so bad it prevented him from sleeping.

They had no choice except to share the bed at night. Vardimann kept his word and slept in his clothes, facing the other way. They would start the night back-to-back, but after Whitlow finally managed to stop coughing, he would unconsciously roll over. The morning gloom would find them curled together like dogs, blankets pulled up to Whitlow's shoulders and Vardimann's chin. The doctor was always embarrassed in the mornings, but Vardimann obviously enjoyed having another person's warmth at his back.

On the fifth day, the rain finally stopped. The men cleaned the wheels and horses, excited to get moving again. They left the clearing, only to find the river had burst its banks. The road was completely gone.

They looked at each other. "Go through the fields?"

Whitlow shook his head. "We'd have to break down the fence to get the cart through. Let's wait a bit and see if the water goes down." He sighed. "But we'll have to leave today, or our food will run out."

"Um…"

"What is it?"

Vardimann scratched his stubbly chin. Whitlow didn't like it when he shaved with cold water. "I haven't eaten since two days ago. We've still got some food left."

Whitlow smacked Vardi's head. It was a habit he'd developed over the last couple of days. "What are you doing? Even if you're giving it to me because I'm sick, you still need to eat!"

"That one actually hurt." Vardimann rubbed his head. "A day or two of fasting won't harm me. Besides, now you can get through a long sentence without pausing for breath or coughing. And the food will last us longer."

Whitlow ground his teeth. He couldn't refute that logic. "Fine. I can't do anything about the past, but you will eat. Now." He glared at his assistant until he reluctantly ate some food. "Good. I'm going to look for the owner of these fields. They should be willing to sell us some supplies."

"No!" Vardimann caught his arm. "You're still sick, what if you get a fever again and collapse?"

Whitlow jerked himself free. "I'm going."

"At least let me go with you."

"Piss off!"

Vardimann grabbed the back of his shirt. "What's going on with you? You've been getting more and more unpleasant."

Whitlow saw his expression. Confused, like that of a child. He looked away. "I haven't spent so much time cooped up with another person in years, it's making me grumpy. I need to spend some time alone."

Vardimann relaxed. "All right. Then I'll go, and you can stay with the wagon. Walk around if you need to, just don't go too far and collapse. Okay?"

He hesitated. "Okay."

Vardi released his shirt. "Good. I'm going now." He checked he had enough money and walked off. If he was completely honest with himself, he wanted some time out as well. It wasn't the company so much as the feeling of being trapped, unable to leave the wagon except to feed the horses.

Using the half-submerged fence as a guide, Vardimann walked parallel to the road. After a couple of hours, he came across a path that led to a farmhouse. It was a large, two-storey building with lace on all the windows. He knocked loudly on the front door. "Anybody home?"

The door creaked, and a large, grizzled man peered cautiously through the gap. "Who're you?"

"My name is Vardimann. My friend and I were stranded when the road flooded, and we're nearly out of supplies. Would you be willing to sell some to me?"

The man frowned suspiciously. "Why not travel across the paddocks?"

"He didn't want to break down the fence to get the wagon through."

Inside the house, a young girl's voice sounded. "Papa, who is it?"

"It's nothing. Stay inside." The man stepped outside and closed the door. "All right. Take what you need and go." He glared at Vardimann. "You're not coming inside."

"I wouldn't with these shoes." Vardimann looked down at his boots. They were so obscured by the mud that he had to check he was even wearing them. The farmer just grunted.

The two men walked around the house to the barn, where Vardimann did his shopping. "Food for the horses, food for the people, and food for the fire." He filled his pack with as much as he could carry. "Now, how much should I pay you?" Vardimann looked in his money pouch. At the moment, it was half-full with coins of various sizes. "Ah, screw it." He tipped it all out into his hand, dropping a few, and held it out to the farmer. "Here you go."

The man stared. "What are you doing?"

"Paying you." Seeing that he wasn't taking the money, Vardimann left it on a crate. "I'm taking so much, I can't be bothered to calculate how much to give you. I can always make some more." He lifted the pack, swaying a bit under the weight. "Hopefully, the river will go down tomorrow. If it doesn't, we might have to go through your land, so…" Vardimann waved. "Sorry in advance for trespassing." He left.

Back at the river, Lukin Whitlow was sitting on a tree stump. The muddy grey water still churned, though not as violently as the days before. Branches would occasionally be swept downstream. Some tumbled in the water, others passed by more gracefully.

Whitlow watched a gnarled branch float by. It still held an empty nest upright. At first, he had thought the river reflected his own troubled mood. But for some reason, the rhythmic surging of the river calmed him down. It was strangely meditative.

He leaned back and looked at the sky. It was well past noon and mostly clear, with a few dull clouds. The face Vardimann had made came to mind.

Whitlow closed his eyes. "Sorry Vardi." He couldn't quite describe that expression as 'puppy eyes'. His face was too mature for that. A strong jaw, without any of the baby fat that some young men would have left over. Vardi's skin was nicely tanned too, with no visible pimples or scars. Except, Whitlow remembered, the ones on his waist. From a bear cub. He wondered what that bear had been doing away from it's mother, and how Vardi had avoided meeting her.

"Oooooi!" Whitlow turned towards the shout and saw Vardimann in the distance, waving. He acknowledged the wave and stood.

Vardimann panted closer. "Hey! How are you feeling?"

"A lot better now that I've had some fresh air." Whitlow reached for the pack. "I'll take that for you."

"Thanks, can you take the kindling on top? I can handle the rest."

The doctor knew Vardi wouldn't relinquish a heavy load to a sick person, even if he was almost completely recovered. He untied the kindling and hoisted it onto his own back. "When we get back, lets make a big fire and have hot food."

Vardimann groaned in ecstasy. "I want hot food. I want soup. Not the watery, end-of-winter bone soup, but a hearty soup so thick the liquid is almost food." He grinned. "The farmer gave us lamb. We could have mutton stew. Meat!"

The other man laughed. "Then let's make that." His strides unconsciously grew longer.

Vardimann looked at something he shouldn't have. "Oh dear, Witty Whitlow, your pants are wet."

Whitlow paused to smack his head. "Don't call me that. I know it's wet, it can't be helped."

"That's what you get for wearing fabric pants. Real men wear leather."

Whitlow objected. "Leather is so stiff. I honestly don't know you're comfortable with three out of four pieces of clothing made out of leather."

"I'll let you in on a not-so-secret secret." Vardimann slung an arm around his shoulders. "The softness and flexibility depends on which animal it's from and the tanning process. You're thinking of pig leather, which is very thick and durable. Mine is from deer, which is thinner and softer. Also, after a week or so of wearing the same pants, they mould to your body shape and stride. If someone else tried to wear mine they would find them quite uncomfortable."

"I see."

Vardimann raised his arms towards the sky. "I don't need to worry about the rain. The only thing that would get wet is my undershirt, and I can just take that off. Sometimes it's nice to take a walk a drizzle." The pack was digging into his shoulders, so he lowered his arms. "Mind you, if it got submerged in the river or something, it's ruined. Leather is only water resistant, not water proof."

They had reached the clearing. Vardimann dumped his load in the caravan, while Whitlow started up a fire. Their largest pot was brought out for a mutton stew. They were so eager for a hot meal that they nearly ate it half-raw.

And for once, Whitlow didn't grumble about sharing the bed that night. Vardimann wriggled deeper into his warm embrace and smiled.