The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,100
bow line, and he jumps down knee-deep in mud and water without hesitation. I do the same with the line at the stern, and together we haul back against the weight of the barge.
Slowly, it begins to shift, carving deep troughs in the mud of the bank until it hits firmer ground and will move no more. I gesture with one shaking arm for North to tie off his line at the trees, and when I can manage it, I do the same.
Panting, North stumbles back over toward me and then bends forward, bracing his arms on his knees. It’s a few moments before he has breath enough to speak, but when he does, his voice is amused. “Next time maybe arrange for a more pleasant wake-up call.”
I’m still breathing hard myself, and I lean an arm against the tree at my side. “Wake-up call?”
“It’s when—you know what? Never mind.” North grins, taking any possible sting out of the words, and then straightens up again. He inspects his clothes, plucking at the wet fabric and grimacing. We’re both soaked to the shoulder by our efforts, but he’s still wearing the heavier black fabric of the outfit he wore to the feast.
After a hopeless attempt to squeeze the water out of the hem of the shirt, he gives up and hauls it off over his head, baring a lean, brown torso and wide shoulders, and an inked tattoo along one of his ribs. For a moment, watching him wring out his shirt in his hands, I forget about my exhaustion; I forget about the rushing river and the fact that we’ve been swept into unknown territory; I even forget, for a blissful handful of seconds, about what happened last night at the feast.
Then my hand slips against the wet bark of the tree, and I go sprawling in the mud with an undignified yelp.
North swears and comes sloshing over toward me, slinging his wet shirt over one shoulder. “You okay?” I blink water from my eyelashes and look up. His brow is furrowed as he inspects me, his arms crossed tightly as he stops himself from offering me a hand up. “Did you trip?”
“I—yes. Tree roots.” I blink at him, careful to keep my eyes on his face. My own cheeks are heating uncomfortably, and I have to do something before they are hot enough to be visible. “There were more clothes on the barge,” I blurt. “Dry ones, I mean. Men’s clothes too.”
North nods. “Probably more comfortable in riverstrider fashion anyway. I guess we’re walking now? Where to?”
That sobers me quickly enough, for I have no way of knowing how far the river took us before we snagged on that bank. I have no idea where we are—and even if I did, what kind of place could I lead us to that would be safe?
“Go change,” I tell him. “I will see if I can figure out how far we traveled.”
By the time North clambers back down off the grounded barge, our two packs slung over his shoulder and his arms full of cloth, I’m at the top of a tree, gazing around at a hauntingly familiar landscape.
Below me, North looks so much like a riverstrider lad that I stop and stare. He’s chosen a shirt of dark green, open at the throat and rolled up over his forearms, and a pair of pants that fit rather more snugly than they’re meant to. He must not have realized that the pants are made of leather, for I feel certain he’d have the same reaction to the idea of wearing something made from an animal as he did to the idea of eating meat.
North’s sloshing steps stop abruptly as he realizes I’m nowhere in sight. “Nimh?” His head swings quickly side to side, and then he bellows, “Nimh!”
“Hush! Do you want to tell the whole forest-sea where we are?” But my voice sounds more amused than annoyed. It sounds almost fond. I clear my throat. “Look up!”
It takes him a moment to find me, turning in a slow circle as he inspects the canopy—then he mutters something under his breath, eyes widening. “Be careful, will you?”
“Do you not have trees in the clouds?” I call back, smiling.
“Not ones you can climb.”
I try to imagine that—a world where none of the trees are sturdy or tall enough to bear a person’s weight—and my mind refuses to oblige me. “I would teach you how, if we had time.”