“Been a good afternoon,” Krysty commented. “Makes me think that there could be worse ways of passing your life than on a boat on a good, safe river.”
“Thought you wanted a small farm with fresh grass and a spring and a few cattle.” Ryan reached and squeezed her hand. “We’ll get what we want one of these days, lover.”
She stared at him, her emerald eyes intent on his face, looking as if she was about to say something, then Jak called out from the bow.
“Good mooring place to left.”
Ryan was still holding Krysty’s hand. “You going to say something, lover?”
“I was, but let it pass. Nothing we haven’t both heard plenty of times before.”
J.B. threw his weight against the steering oar, bringing the clumsy craft toward the riverbank. “Best get into the cabin for a while, bro,” he said to Ryan. “In case there’s any trouble.”
But there wasn’t.
It was an idyllic scene, with an inlet where they could moor the raft to a tall, solitary live oak. A fast-flowing stream bubbled into the main river with the freshest, coolest water, and there were bushes of all kinds of berries, along with the overgrown remnants of an ancient orchard, the bent trees still bearing succulent pears and apples.
Jak borrowed Ryan’s panga and vanished into the surrounding countryside, returning a half hour later with a brilliantly whittled walking stick.
“Thanks a lot. Make me mobile.” Ryan took the stick and walked up and down the sloping shore, limping heavily and finding it hard going on the soft earth. But gradually it became easier, until Mildred made him stop.
“Look, you stupe! You’ve started to bleed again. Got to rest it as much as you can. Or I’ll take your nice new stick and break it over my knee.”
“Oh, I love it when you get angry,” Doc teased with a faked shudder of excitement.
“Maybe I’ll break it over your bony ass instead.”
“Promises, promises.”
J.B. HAD GONE HUNTING with the Steyr, and they heard the booming sound of the powerful rifle, sending a flight of wood pigeons susurrating into the evening stillness.
By the time the Armorer returned with a dead hare slung over his shoulder, Krysty had a fire going and a pot of water bubbling over it.
Mildred had gone scouting for herbs and vegetables, returning with a large handful of mixed greens that she now tossed into the steaming stew.
“I feel sure that I could set my mind to some verses about the pleasures of life on the open highway,” Doc said, seeing the looks on everyone’s faces. “But perhaps it can wait for a subsequent occasion.”
The sun had set by the time the hare was cooked. Krysty pulled it out and dismembered the carcass, laying it on a large leaf for everyone to help themselves, digging into the pile of boiled greens, as well.
“Good,” J.B. said, licking his fingers. The steam had condensed on his glasses, and he took them off, putting them safely into one of the deep pockets of his coat.
“Only good, John?” Mildred queried.
“Better than good. Delicious.”
“See any other game?” asked Ryan, who had found that a half sitting, half lying position was least uncomfortable for his wounded leg.
“Deer, but I couldn’t carry a body back on my own. And it would have taken longer to cook. There’s tracks all over the place. Horses, unshod. Some cattle. Wild pigs. Man could live here for a long time and not go hungered.”
Everyone lay back, relaxing in the warm gloaming, feeling the deep satisfaction of having shared a good meal among the best of friends.
“Get some more wood for fire,” Jak offered, getting up and walking away into the quiet darkness surrounding the camp, his magnesium hair visible a long while after the rest of him had completely vanished.
“No sign of men or muties?” Ryan asked.
J.B. had his head in Mildred’s lap, his glasses perched again on the bridge of his narrow nose. “Nothing. Apart from that solitary crazie we saw fishing, we haven’t seen a soul. No smoke. No buildings.” He hesitated. “Though it looks like this might once have been part of a large estate. The orchard and the stuff that Mildred found could’ve come from a kitchen garden.”