I WAS ON MY WAY TO THE FOOD-BARGE THIS AFTERNOON when I noticed a knot of people much farther along the shore. Then I heard distant shouting.
As I ran along the ridge towards them, I made out a little rowing boat halfway over to the marshy islet that lies right opposite Milon’s camp. There was no one in it, though. Then I spotted two people splashing in the water.
I ran down to the shore and saw Pagan, Milon’s priest, standing on a slimy rock.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Bertie!” said Pagan. “Again!”
“What?”
“Trying to swim out to the little islet.”
“He can’t swim. Not that far.”
“Exactly! I told him not to.”
“Look!” I exclaimed. “That man’s almost reached him!”
“A fisherman,” said Pagan. “Saving Bertie and losing his boat.”
Pagan and I and a group of Milon’s men all watched as the fisherman grabbed Bertie and then, swimming on his back like an upsidedown frog with Bertie in his arms, propelled himself towards us.
I went down to the water’s edge. I waded into the water up to my waist, and as soon as I could, grabbed Bertie and helped to haul him out of the water.
Bertie collapsed onto his hands and knees, and choked and coughed; he vomited; and then he lay on a heap of seaweed with his eyes closed. He looked like a stranded starfish.
“What were you doing?” I asked him.
Bertie didn’t reply.
“Bertie!”
“Sir Laurent challenged me.”
“You can’t even swim. Not properly.”
Bertie opened one eye. “He said I wouldn’t dare.”
“You’re mad!” I said. “You almost drowned.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do.”
Bertie tried to sit up, then flopped back onto the seaweed again. “You know what I told you,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.
“But that doesn’t mean you have to…You don’t want to die, do you?”
“Of course not!” said Bertie indignantly, and he propped himself up on his elbows. “Of course I don’t. I was being alive. You’d be the same if you were me. You’d want to be fierce and alive the whole time.”