She was neither a skilled nor a strong swimmer, nor experienced at staying under water more than briefly. She stroked as hard she could, feeling increasingly the need for air, and fighting it. Her water-soaked breeches and tunic were like weights, hampering her movements more than she’d expected, while the water was too muddy to see in. She became desperate for breath, and realizing she didn’t know how deep she was, fought to the surface, gasping, gulping air.
For just a moment she glanced back. She’d left the bridge farther behind than she’d hoped—perhaps eighty yards, thanks to the tremendous bridge surge—and was almost cut off from view by a curve. Men on horseback lined its railing, but she heard no shouts. Perhaps they hadn’t spotted her!
Now she gave her attention to the banks. On the Mustoka River, in Washington County, there’d be rowboats and skiffs now and again, tied or chained to trees along the bank. But this wasn’t the Mustoka in any universe, and the water was eight feet above normal. If there were any boats tied there, they’d be swamped. She kept swimming, the current carrying her swiftly. Another hundred yards and she was tiring badly. Some distance ahead and to her left, she saw an oak being swept along, its trunk submerged so that its top resembled a great floating thicket. If she could reach it— But it was traveling nearly as fast as she was. Some distance behind her and near the west shore, she saw a larger tree riding the current, a big silver maple floating higher in the water than the oak, and it seemed to her she could intercept it if she swam hard.
She struck out for it, raising her arms out of the water now in a clumsy crawl stroke, breathing hard. I’m going to make it! she thought. But when she’d almost reached it, a submerged branch struck her, snatching her under. She panicked, struggling, swallowed water, somehow pulled free and popped to the surface, strangling and splashing. And went under again, this time because she wasn’t swimming anymore but simply flailing. Her natural buoyancy popped her up again, still strangling on water—and a hand grasped her tunic. Once more she went under—someone was pulling on her—and twisting, grabbed whoever it was, pulling him under, too. Then somehow, through her panic, she realized that she might drown him, might drown them both, and stopped struggling, letting herself be towed. Again her head broke the surface.
Through her choking and coughing, she recognized Cyncaidh. A bank eddy carried them into the floodplain backwater, and his feet touched bottom. Woofing for air, he towed her heavily toward the high bank behind it. A few yards farther, he reached the submerged slope of a natural levee formed by the sediments and back currents of past floods. Varia felt her own feet touch then, and the two of them crawled onto its top, to kneel half out of the water.
Lungs heaving, eyes wide, they stared at each other, tunics stuck to them, Cyncaidh’s hair plastered to his skull. After a minute he spoke: “God, Varia! What a terrible thing to do! What a terrible terrible thing to do! Never do anything like that again!”
Shortly they got to their feet and waded staggering toward high ground. A few steps took them off the back of the levee, where they found she could still wade, the water to her armpits. Soon they were at the high bank, sprawling on its slope, Cyncaidh still wearing his boots. A voice reached them now. Above the highbank was a pasture, and a soldier trotted his horse along its edge, calling for his commander.
“Here!” Cyncaidh shouted hoarsely, then helped Varia to her feet and up the bank. As they stumbled out of the woods, the soldier saw them and trotted his horse over. “Thank God, General!” he said dismounting. Cyncaidh leaned on the horse for a long moment, clinging to the saddle, while Varia sank to the ground. Finally he put a foot in the stirrup and raised himself heavily onto the horse, then beckoned. “Help her,” he said. The half-ylf helped Varia to her feet, then laced his fingers, making a step for her, and boosted her up behind Cyncaidh.