After a brief respite, they descended into the mud once again. Despite traveling along high ground whenever they could, much of their time was spent knee-deep in the quagmire. Near dusk, they reached a broad river that was swelled beyond its banks and clogged with debris. It was there that the flood had reached its end, and Catrin could only hope the banks would hold, for beyond lay perfect rectangles of farmland, though few crops grew in the fields, and not a single soul could be seen.
Following the mighty river south, they looked for a place to cross but found none before darkness surrounded them, and they spent another night huddled in each other's arms. Catrin did not remember falling asleep, but she woke to Benjin's deep snores, and she let him sleep. Leaning her head against him, she enjoyed a few moments of peace.
When Benjin woke, they moved farther south, and not long after, a stonework bridge appeared in the distance. As they drew closer, it became apparent that the bridge was an engineering marvel. The river was not much more narrow there than anywhere else they had passed, and huge supports disappeared into the muddy waters. Catrin could not imagine how such a bridge had been constructed, and she stared at in wonder. The water was only a few hand widths below the arched bridge in places, and she wondered if the swelled river would simply carry it away.
A crowd of people was gathered near the bridge, and when they saw Catrin and Benjin, they came to help. Fear clutched Catrin and she looked at Benjin, who seemed to be torn, but then he leaned close and took the staff from her hands.
"They've already seen us," he said. "If we flee, they'll most likely alert the local militia… that is, if any militia still remains. It's too great a risk, I think. Let me do the talking."
Catrin wanted to argue, every sense told her to flee, but the lure of warmth and food was too great, and her fatigue was too intense for flight. Thus, they moved slowly toward the approaching crowd. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the group was made up of the aged and the very young. Benjin leaned heavily on the staff as they walked, and his affected limp was quite convincing.
Covered in mud and ash, they must have been a remarkable sight. When they arrived, two men helped support Benjin as he walked. A girl of maybe four summers brought Catrin a flask of water that she accepted eagerly if not to quench her great thirst, then to wash the filth from her face.
"Yer lucky to've survived," an elderly man said as he approached. "From where d'ya come?" he asked, and Catrin immediately sensed his distrust. Her clean face made her age easy to guess, and that alone made her suspicious in their eyes. Catrin regretted washing her face, but there was nothing to be done about it now, and she held her tongue.
"We hail from northern Astor, but the fires drove us from our home, and the flood washed us here," Benjin replied in a trembling voice, his accent thick with northern, rural qualities.
"Pardon my insolence, stranger, but why's this one not been conscripted?" the man asked, pointing to Catrin.
"My five sons and two oldest daughters are in the Northern Wastes, and I fear I'll never see them again," Benjin said, his voice cracking and tears welling in his eyes. Catrin would have been impressed by his dramatics, but she knew he had an abundance of real pain to draw upon, and his tears need not be forced. The sight of his tears filled her own eyes, and her lip quivered as he continued. "This's my youngest daughter, and since my lady-wife passed to the grave, she's all I have. Even the armies could not part her from me." He said the words with conviction and stood with his chin high. He did not back down from the stares, and his fierce pride seemed to endear him to them.
"Many pardons, friend. I'm sorry fer yer losses, and yer welcome to join us, though we've little to offer. The armies have taken all we could give, and then they took more. We may be poor hosts, but we welcome you. I'm Rolph Tillerman," he said as he extended his hand to Benjin.
"Well met. I'm Cannergy Axewielder, and my daughter is named Elma," he said, and Catrin did her best not to appear surprised. She hadn't even thought about the danger of using their real names, and she chastised herself for her foolishness.
"Ah, a woodsmen, eh? That'd explain a great deal. Let us be gone from this place, the smell offends me, and ya look like ya could use a warm fire and some food."
Benjin allowed the men to aid him as he walked. The steady flow of water beneath the bridge was unnerving, and Catrin feared the bridge would collapse under their weight. The thought of falling into the frigid water nearly drove her to a run, but she restrained herself and matched the pace set by Benjin and his escorts.
Beyond the fields stood a cluster of homes and barns that seemed like the hub of a great wheel. It seemed odd to Catrin, who was accustomed to each farm existing as an island, whereas these huddled together, and their lands extended like spokes. Despite the strangeness of the configuration, there were many things that reminded her of home, which brought a sharp pain to her chest. The smell of a cook fire, a whiff of horse manure, and the hearty folks who surrounded her all invoked vivid memories, and she failed to hide her anguish.
"Don't cry, dear'n," an elderly lady said as she took Catrin's hand. "You're safe now."
Catrin wished she could believe it.
Chapter 18
Kindness, unlike most things, becomes greater when it is given away.
Rolph led them to his home, which was painfully similar to the one Catrin had grown up in, and his wife, Collette, pulled her aside.
"Come with me, Elma. Let's get you cleaned up. Shall we?"
"Thank you, Lady Tillerman. You're very kind," Catrin replied, trying to match Benjin's accent and fearing it came out sounding contrived.
Collette laughed a light, tinkling sort of laugh. Lines spread from the corners of her eyes when she smiled, but the sparkle in her eyes spoke of inner youth. "I'm no lady, that's a'certain. Call me Collette," she said, and Catrin was struck by her kindness and by the similarity between these people and her own. These were good people. They were not filled with malice or spite. They led simple, wholesome lives, and she felt a kinship to them. The realizations made the entire conflict seem even more ludicrous. She had no quarrel with these good folk, and they harbored no ill toward her. Yet it was their blood that was being shed, that of their children. Catrin began to think of these people not as the Zjhon, but as the people of the Greatland. The Zjhon were the ones who desired war, and all others were simply their victims.
Collette led her to a private room that held a large iron tub.
"Take off those filthy clothes, and I'll bring you some bathwater," she said, but Catrin drew a sharp intake of breath when saw a pair of deep-brown eyes peering through a crack in the wall, and Collette turned. "Jessub, you scoundrel, shame on you! That's no way to treat a guest. Off with you! Straight to yer grandpa you go, and tell 'im what you've done. And don't think I won't check with him either," she said, and then she turned to Catrin. "Forgive him, m'dear. He's young and naturally curious, and you're a fetching lass."
Catrin flushed crimson. She certainly didn't consider herself fetching, and she eyed the crack in the wall with trepidation. Collette smiled kindly and covered the crack with a towel.