Restoree (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

S
LEEP THAT NIGHT WAS NOT
restful. It was peopled with formless obscenities and charged with fear and anger, frustration and hopelessness. I was alone in the bed when I awoke. Startled I turned in panic and saw with relief that Harlan was up and pacing, his face black with worry and fatigue.

At breakfast there were none of the pleasant pantomimes we affected about the division and consumption of our scanty ration. Harlan ate quickly, glowering.

The walk in the garden that morning was sheer relief. The four bare walls of the cottage had grown smaller with every passing minute. Harlan had draped his jacket loosely on him so that a strong outward pressure would free him. We had agreed to delay returning to our cottage until the guard was forced to round us up. This assured us of a chance of overcoming him once we got to the cottage. So we dawdled at the far end of the grounds on the outside paths following the line of the force screen. We were at the high end, midway between two posts when it happened.

One of the patients went berserk. He threw himself at the screen, dragging his unwilling companion with him. Together they went up into a torch of blue flame, burning fast and hotly with only the echo of screams of unutterable agony to mark their death.

Even as I stared with paralyzed horror at these human torches, Harlan had reacted to the opportunity. Flinging off the jacket, he grabbed me by the shoulder and together we hurtled into the faltering screen. I thought I, too, would be consumed in flame. The pain and shock that coursed through my body was too intense for me even to scream a protest. Then, once past the weakened barrier, only an endurable ache and burning sensation remained. The burning was quite legitimate because our clothing had been reduced in an instant to scorched tatters. Even the heavily padded jacket was singed brown. Harlan, however, gave me no time to pause and take stock. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me through the land moat around the force screen and into the grain field with its high waving grasses.

“Have you no idea, Sara, where this asylum is?”

“None,” I cried, feeling the pull of the sharp grass tendrils against my sensitized flesh. The fence had always blotted out the environs of the asylum.

“Farm, farm, farm,” Harlan panted. He was tall enough to see over the rolling fields that stretched out in all directions from the institution. He glanced up at the sun, squinting, but it was too near the zenith to be much help. He halted briefly, sniffing the slight breeze.

“Sea!” he declared and abruptly turned off to the right, guiding me with a firm hand under my elbow.

“Can’t we just find a road? It would lead us somewhere,” I gasped, struggling to keep my feet under me at the pace he set.

“Road!” he flung at me contemptuously and trotted up the rise in front of us. He kept glancing back over his shoulder. I didn’t dare look back. It was all I could do to keep up with him.

We ran through the fields until I had such a grabbing in my side, I could not run farther. He sensed, rather than inquired, about my condition and let me collapse in the shelter of the tall grain at the next rise. Keeping himself sheltered by the grain, he looked out in all directions, again sniffing the breeze.

“We may have a little time before we’ll be turned up missing, Sara,” he said, dropping down beside me. “They’ll have their hands full, rounding up the patients. They may not even take a head count right away. They’ve gotten lax and overconfident. However, the situation of the asylum itself located right in the middle of farmlands, makes an air search ridiculously easy.” He stopped and grabbed up a handful of straw. “Of course. We’ve got part of our camouflage right here.” He laughed and started stuffing straw into his tunic so that the stalks stuck straight up behind his back and out across his shoulders. I followed his lead and, when my tunic parted over one shoulder, plastered myself hastily with the soft moist earth.

“Good girl,” Harlan said and smeared his own skin with dirt where it showed whitely through. We looked like scarecrows after a week’s rain when we had finished.

“Now, we will make for the sea. The moment you hear any noise at all, drop flat in the furrows,” and he pointed out the cultivation ridges. “The grain is tall enough and thick enough that we may not be visible when they’re going to look for running figures. And, they won’t expect me to make for the sea,” he added cryptically.

He held out his hand to me and, taking a deep breath, I rose and we started out again.

We had scarcely gone the length of that field when I heard something other than our laboring breath. Before I could react on my own, my face was in the dirt, Harlan’s body overlapping mine.

Had the searchers been on foot, passing near us, I’m certain the sound of my heart would have given us away. The chirrop, chirrrop of a plane car neared, passed over us, retreated and cautiously we rose, checking to make sure another was not hovering. Running low we made it to the top of the next field. Even I could see that the land was sloping down gradually. The smell of the sea, tart and crisp, was strong enough for me to scent as I held my sweating face up to cool in the wind.

I’m not sure I was grateful for the times we had to lie face down in the moist black soil, waiting till the searchers passed over us. I got my wind back each time, true, but the terror of waiting, unable to risk a glance above, was more breath-snatching than the exertion of flight. Six times we dropped, each time a little nearer to where the land dropped off to the sea. And then, there was the sea before us, a hundred feet down the high straight precipice on which we stood.

My courage sank, for here, at the cliff edge, which seemed to curve for miles in each direction, the fields of tall grain ended. Fifty yards between sea and field was covered with only low straggling bush, inadequate cover for us walking strawstacks.

Harlan caught my despairing appraisal and squeezed my hand reassuringly.

“There are ways down to the beaches.”

“And then what?” I gasped, indicating the pounding surf.

“The tide will be going out soon and we can go swiftly on the sand, taking cover under the cliffs if necessary. Much better for us. Come, now we strike northeast. These cliffs tell me exactly where we are.”

But he didn’t bother to tell me, either because he knew it wouldn’t matter or because he forgot I wouldn’t know. As it happened, we were in South Cant.

He had held on to the padded jacket all through our flight in the fields. Now, as he removed the straw from his own clothes, he realized my nakedness. Ripping off two of the dangling tapes with which to secure his tattered tunic round his waist, he gave me the jacket. Quickly I threw it on, tying the remains of my dress around my waist.

“Good, the dirt is still useful,” he grinned and, taking my hand, we set off again.

Harlan was too good a leader to tire us both to the point where we would be unable to make a final dash. We rested at intervals and a bit longer when we chanced on a stream not far from where we made our descent to the sea beach. As he had predicted, by the time we did find a way down, the tide was retreating from the bronze sands. The cool strand was refreshing to our weary feet.

My flimsy sandals, adequate for treading garden paths, gave way all too quickly on the abrasive surface of the beach. Walking on the damp coarse sands turned into torture for me once the sandals gave out and the soft skin on my feet was abraded with each step. I was wondering how long I could continue this way when I was brought up sharply against Harlan’s rigid body. There was no need for him to caution me to silence. I could see the boat as it stood out from the cove we faced. I could see the men as they clustered around their fire, hear their voices as they argued. Worst of all, I could smell the food they were cooking for their supper. Now hunger overruled the other discomforts and the fact that I had missed what lunch there was to eat made the lack of dinner torture.

Harlan pulled me back into the sheltering shadows of the cliff. Had we continued on much farther, even the gathering darkness would not have hidden us from a chance look by the fishermen.

“Can you swim?” and when I nodded, “To that?” he asked, pointing to the boat.

“Yes,” I agreed although I was not the least bit confident. I was so tired and my feet hurt and my stomach ached and I was very annoyed with everything for going so wrong so long. I didn’t consider how extremely lucky we had been so far. At least not with the smell of food in my nostrils after a prolonged fast. I comforted myself with the thought that I wouldn’t have to
walk
to the boat.

I didn’t count on the icy water nor the sting of salt in the multitude of scratches and abrasions that scored my body. Nor did Harlan allow me time to ease into the water as I preferred doing on family outings at Rehoboth. Harlan pulled me inexorably deeper.

“Don’t swim overarm yet,” he hissed at me and a wave caught me full face. His arms supported me while I coughed the water out. “You can swim?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” I assured him, stung by his skepticism and I struck out toward the boat with a vigorous breaststroke.

As if he still doubted my ability, Harlan matched his pace to mine, only he guided me out to sea, rather than on an oblique line toward the boat from the shore. I caught his purpose, to approach the boat from the seaside, although it added many yards to the original distance.

If the sea stung my cuts, its coldness supplied me with a false feeling of exhilaration. I tried to speed up, to prove to Harlan I was competent, but he warned me not to extend myself. He was right, of course, because as we turned toward the boat finally, my weariness returned doubled. It was so difficult to get my arms out of the water, hard to keep my legs moving.

“Sara, not far now,” Harlan’s voice said encouragingly. His face was a white blob over my right shoulder as I swam and ahead of us the boat was a solid blackness, its single mast silhouetted against the dying light of the twilight sky. Thrashing frantically, I lunged at the stern line, missing, going under, writhing upward, grabbing out in panic. Harlan’s hand found mine and guided it to the security of the rope.

“Rest,” he whispered and cautiously swam round the boat. I could hear him, a barely discernible rippling, as I gulped for breath.

“No one aboard,” he confirmed. “But they took the smallboat ashore.” For some reason this disappointed him. “Oh, well, in that case it’ll take them a long time to spread the alarm.”

“Maybe they’d be friendly,” I hazarded, looking up at the sheer slippery side of the ship and wondering how I was ever going to make it into the cockpit.

Harlan answered my suggestion with a snort. He lunged up out of the water, caught at the gunwale, his body a whiteness against the dark boat. He got both hands secured and then I heard him inhale as he gathered his strength to pull himself up.

How selfish can you get, I derided myself, he’s just as hungry, just as tired, just as sore as you are and worried to boot.

I heard him swear softly, a note of pain in his voice. I could hear him padding somewhere on board and then his face appeared above me.

“Grab this,” he whispered and a heavy soft rope dangled in my face.

I looped it around my wrists, thankful I shouldn’t have to make the climb unaided. Kicking myself out of the water, I felt Harlan pull me. As soon as I could reach the side, I grabbed for it, resolved to use as little of Harlan’s energy as possible. Once safely on board, I felt drained of any power to move and I was numb with the chill of the cool evening.

“Here, get this on,” he urged and pressed a handful of clothing on me. The garments smelled of sweat, stale and sour, and were sticky with salt. But I struggled into an old sweater and found it covered me halfway to the knees. I rolled up the sleeves and wished it covered me to the ankles.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask if you’ve sailed a boat,” Harlan said in a low voice.

“Yes, but only as a crew member, long ago.”

He gripped my shoulder with rough gratitude. “You never cease to supply my need.”

I struggled to a sitting position, wondering what he meant exactly, and looked around. As nearly as I could gauge in the light, the boat was about thirty-five feet long, sloop-rigged, the sail now neatly furled on the boom, the jibsail not even out. The boat was obviously a workship; I could see piles of nets and woven baskets. There seemed to be a small cabin and it was here that Harlan had found sweaters.

“It’s a shame but I’ve got to cut the anchor. Too much time and noise to lift it out of the water,” Harlan told me. I could see the gleam of a knife blade in his hand.

“It’ll save time if I cut and you hoist the sail,” I told him and taking the knife, crept forward. My hands seemed strengthless as I sawed away at the heavy anchor line, thankful it wasn’t chain. I heard Harlan heaving at the sail and it seemed like noise enough to rouse the dead. It did rouse the men on the beach. I sawed faster.

“Hurry, Sara,” I heard Harlan call and wondered why he still kept his voice low if the men had heard the creak of the sail.