The Ground on the Far Side

The rain stopped on the fourth morning, but the creek kept running hard enough to shake the little bridge stones in my mind.

I asked Clara to open the road map before breakfast. She put it on the table beside my tea and weighted its corners with two jars of jam. My ankle was still in its splint, and I kept it propped on a chair while I worked. The map had begun to curl where I’d marked the northern track.

“Has the water come down?” I asked.

Clara tested the kettle with the back of her fingers. “Miller will know when he checks it.”

She didn’t say yes. I rubbed the edge of the paper flat. I’d been asking since the rain eased, and she’d answered the same way each time. It was fair. Still, the creek felt nearer when I didn’t know what it was doing.

Clara set toast beside me, close enough to reach without leaning. “You don’t have to keep the map out all morning.”

“I know.”

I kept it out.

The bakery filled and emptied around me. People came for rolls and flour, their coats damp from the woods. Most spoke to Clara, who knew their steps and voices, and then left with their parcels. A squirrel in a green scarf asked whether I was drawing the roads again. When I said I was waiting for news, she said, “I hope it’s good,” and bought two loaves. She didn’t ask what kind of news. I was glad she didn’t.

Miller came in after noon with the mill driver behind him. They had left their muddy boots by the door. Miller’s coat was wet at the hem, and he carried a folded sheet of paper under one paw.

“I said I’d tell you first,” he said.

I moved my cup away from the map. “Did you cross?”

“We tested it this morning. The water had dropped enough to try.” He sat across from me, leaving the paper folded. “The driver crossed and came back. I stayed on this bank and kept the rope taut.”

The creek was no longer only a line and a blank space. Someone had stood in it and returned. I looked at the mill driver’s boots. Mud had dried in a pale band above the soles.

“How deep?”

“Just below the knee at the deepest point,” Miller said. “The bottom was gravel. It held his weight. The current pushed, but the rope gave him a steady line.”

“Would it hold you?”

“If I crossed the same way, with the rope. We didn’t try it without one.” He rested his thick paws on the table. “For a person on foot, the upper crossing is usable at today’s water level. We won’t take a cart there.”

The answer was plain enough that I could put it on the map. I reached for my pencil, then stopped. “What’s on the other side?”