In Which I Accidentally Drown Tate
The next morning, Tate, Albert, and I left Fair Oaks.
All of Tate’s family, and most of the village, came out to send us off. The women embraced us. The girls kissed our cheeks. Boys shook our hands. Men gave us last bits of advice:
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t trust any man dressed in silk.”
“Look after your horse. You don’t want to have to walk home.”
Not a single person in the whole village laughed or said that we would be home by dinner. Most of them probably figured that they would never see us again, but at least they had the good manners not to say so.
Albert was glowing, and not just because Tate’s brothers had given him a good brushing. The horse had an audience, and he was enjoying every minute of it. He pranced his way down the main street of Fair Oaks, tossing his head to make his bridle jingle. I finally gave up on the reins, since he was clearly going to do what he wanted.
Tate rode behind me again. He held on with one arm and waved to his village with the other.
“I’ll bring back dragon gold!” he yelled.
I wasn’t sure that was the wisest promise, but the crowd cheered. Small children ran along beside us, waving.
Tate’s mother had to yell to be heard over the noise. “Take care of each other.”
“Such brave boys,” an elderly woman said as we passed her.
We reached the edge of the small village, and I glanced back once, just to see the waving crowd, before the road turned to the left and Fair Oaks disappeared from sight.
Tate talked almost constantly that first morning, all about the adventures we were going to have and the stories he would get to carry home. But I didn’t hear much of what he said. That old woman’s words kept bouncing around inside my mind, and I had to wonder: Am I really brave? I had tried more than a few foolish things in my attempts to become a hero; but I wasn’t sure that any of them counted as acts of bravery. I wasn’t sure that I even knew what brave really meant.
When the sun reached the center of the sky, we stopped to eat and then rode all afternoon. By nightfall, we were so tired that we just ate some of the food Tate’s mother had sent, lay down beside a small stream, and went to sleep. The next morning, I was stiff and sore. Tate laughed as I hobbled around like an old man.
“I’m guessing you haven’t slept on the ground much,” he said.
“N-no,” I said.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I highly doubted that.
No one had told me that becoming a hero was so uncomfortable or frustrating. That night we tried to build a fire. Since neither of us had a flint, we tried the “spinning stick” method. If anyone ever tries to tell you that this means of starting a fire is easy, know that person is a liar.
The way it works is you make a little notch in one stick; then you stand another stick up in the notch. You spin the standing stick back and forth between your hands until you develop blisters, begin thinking dark thoughts about the inventor of the spinning stick method, or actually create a spark. Tate got blisters. I thought dark thoughts. We never did make fire.
After two days of riding, spending hours attempting to make sparks, and falling onto the ground exhausted each night, we ran out of the food Tate’s mother had given us. So we turned to the magic turnip satchel. I half expected the thing to stay empty, considering our recent luck, but it filled itself up, just as Mildred had promised. We didn’t have any spices or even a way to cook the things, but when you’re hungry enough, anything tastes good, for a while.
On our third day past Fair Oaks, we came to a river. On the opposite side, I could make out a faint continuation of our road, but there was also a track worn into the dirt that turned to the north, avoiding the water. We had crossed a few creeks, but this river was wide, and the waters were moving swiftly. Spanning the river was a rickety-looking bridge. A sign in front of the bridge read:
It is hereby decreed that this bridge is from now on and forevermore closed to all traffic, by order of the Lord of Greenville.
Good sense would have suggested that we turn north and follow the path made by hundreds of feet. But I was tired and hungry and admittedly grumpy. And all I really wanted to do was get to Rona and either kill a dragon or be eaten by one and be done with this whole miserable trip. I turned Albert toward the bridge.
“That structure does not look sound,” Albert said.
“I-It’s fine,” I told him.
“I will most likely slip and sprain a hoof or tumble into the river to my death,” he moaned.
“N-No one is g-going to die.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” This was Tate now. He had at least proven to not be a complainer, but he did sound concerned, and, looking back, I had to admit he had good reason. The bridge seemed to sag, and the wood looked old and brittle.
But I wasn’t in a mood to be reasonable. “The b-bridge is fine. We’re g-going over it.”
Tate and Albert exchanged glances, but neither said anything more, and we started forward.
Albert moaned a little as the bridge groaned under the weight of his front hooves, but when nothing happened, he gingerly continued across. The structure made a symphony of creaks and small snapping noises, but it held stable until we reached the middle of the river. When we had come to nearly the exact center of the bridge, the wood started to move.
“G-get down,” I told Tate and then swung down off Albert’s back.
I thought that if we spread out our weight, things might go better. But as soon as our shoes touched the wooden planks, the entire structure collapsed.
We fell through the air, surrounded by boards broken into jagged shapes, and then plunged into the river. It felt like I fell forever. But finally, my feet touched the bottom. I pushed off, pulling with my arms and kicking with my feet, trying to reach the sunlight. The light seemed to keep moving farther and farther away, but finally my head broke through the surface.
I spent half a minute doing nothing but gasping for air. My lungs couldn’t seem to get enough. But then my mind started working again. My feet kicked out, turning me in a sharp half circle as I searched the water. I saw Albert lying on the opposite bank, his large side heaving. I could faintly hear him moaning. He was fine. But where was Tate? I spun all the way around, but there was no shock of yellow hair.
I yelled his name. No one answered. The water was carrying me downstream, and I still saw no sign of Tate.
I dove down, searching for any glimpse of him, but there was nothing. I had to go up for air. With my lungs full again, I started swimming, trying to climb back up the river, closer to where we fell in. The waters fought me, but I was desperate. I struggled back up the river, ducking my head as often as I could to look for any sign of him. I knew a person couldn’t survive underwater for more than a few minutes.
We were almost out of time when I saw a limp shape just under the surface. I took off I had always been a good swimmer. It’s a skill you develop when you are likely to be thrown into any body of water you pass. But that day I swam faster than I ever had in my life. When I reached Tate, I took one last huge breath of air and dove.
Tate’s head was slumped forward, his eyes closed. I grabbed hold of his arms and pulled, but he didn’t come up with me. I pulled harder, but he was tethered, his foot trapped in a cluster of rocks. I dove down, tugging at stones and throwing them aside until Tate came loose. Immediately he started floating down the river with the current. I grabbed him, my lungs screaming, and strained to pull us both toward the surface.
Finally, we broke through. The current carried us along as I struggled to keep Tate’s unconscious head out of the water. I didn’t know how I was going to get us to shore. But then a hand grabbed me and started to pull. I dragged Tate along. More hands caught hold of us and hauled us up out of the water. Soon I was gasping in the bottom of a fishing boat under the watchful eyes of two strangers.
One of the men started rowing us back toward shore. The other was busy pressing on Tate’s chest. A few good pushes and Tate was turning, waves of water flowing out of his mouth, before he started to cough. By the time we reached the bank, Tate’s eyes were open. I laughed. I had never been so glad to see anything in my entire life.
When I was finally convinced that he was going to live, I left Tate sitting on the riverbank with the fishermen and walked upstream to retrieve my horse. Albert was in the mood for theatrics, and for once, I didn’t mind. I was so relieved to know Tate was breathing that I didn’t say a word as Albert told me all about his life flashing in front of his eyes.
When Albert had finished, we walked back down to Tate and the boatmen.
“You saved my life again,” Tate said when Albert and I reached him.
I felt suddenly very uncomfortable in my sopping wet clothes. “I-I also almost g-got you drowned in the f-first place,” I told the dirt.
“But Dan said that you kept diving back under, looking for me. He said that you could have died trying to save me.”
I shrugged, not really sure what to say about that.
“We’re glad you boys are all right,” one of the men said. I didn’t know if he was Dan or not. “And maybe now Lord Fancy Pants will finally replace that old bridge.”
His friend scoffed. “You know he won’t spend a coin on anything that doesn’t go into his own stomach.”
Tate looked over at me. “We could build them a new bridge.”
“H-how?”
“With the unbreakable thread,” he said. His eyes were bright, the way they always were when he mentioned anything magical.
I started to say, “No,” but he looked at me with that eager face, and I knew that I owed him this much. I nodded. Tate beamed.
We spent most of the day building a bridge. The two fishermen, who it turned out were both named Dan, ferried us back and forth across the river while we unwound the unbreakable thread, securing it on the stone posts that were the only part of the old bridge still standing. We wove thread back and forth between those first lines and then set the boards, securing each one with more thread. We even made handrails before finally burying the spool, which still seemed full.
Albert refused to try the new bridge, but Dan the Stout brought his own horse, which was thankfully silent, and walked across the bridge without incident. The whole village came out to thank us and shake our hands, and perhaps best of all, they fed us. They offered us a place to stay, but I was eager to keep going. So Tate and I climbed onto Albert’s back and continued on our way.
Dan the Slight had given us a flint in thanks for the unbreakable thread, so we actually had a fire that night. We ate the food the villagers had given us and sat around the fire telling stories and laughing.
For the first time I could remember, I went to bed happy.
I woke up with a sword pointed at my face.