Yet I had not reckoned with having Thick with me. At first he followed me cheerfully down the beach, investigating tide pools and bits of driftwood and feathers and seaweed as we went. He wet his feet, of course, and grumbled about that, and was soon hungry. I'd thought of that, and had travelers' bread and some salt fish in a pouch. It was not what he had hoped for, but when I made it clear that I was going to continue hiking regardless of what he did, he took it and chewed as we walked.
We did not lack for fresh water. Rivulets of it cut the beach or dampened the stony cliff faces. I kept an eye on the rising tide, for I had no wish to be caught by it on a section of beach where we could not escape it. But the tide did not come up far, and I was even rewarded by footprints above the tideline. These traces of Riddle's passage cheered me, and we trudged on.
As night came closer, we picked up the sparse bits of driftwood that the beach yielded to us, set up our tent well above the high water line, and built our fire. If I had not had such a heavy heart, it would have been a pleasant evening, for we had a bit of moon and Thick was inspired to take out his whistle and play. It was the first time I'd ever been able to give myself over completely to both his musics, for I was as aware of his Skill-music as I was of the whistle's piping. His Skill-music was made of the ever-present wind and the keening of the seabirds and the shush of waves on the shore. His whistle wove in and out of it like a bright thread in a tapestry. Because I had access to his mind, it was a comprehensible music. Without the Skill, I am sure it would have been annoying, random notes.
We ate a simple meal, a soup made from dried fish with some fresh seaweed added from the beach and travelers' bread. It was filling; that was possibly the kindest thing that could be said for it. Thick ate it, mainly because he was hungry. “Wish we had cakes from the kitchen,” he said wistfully while I scrubbed out the pot with sand.
“Well, we won't have anything like that until we travel back to Buck. On the boat.”
“No. No boat.”
“Thick, there is no other way for us to get there.”
“If we just kept walking, we might get there.”
“No, Thick. Aslevjal is an island. It has water all around it. We can't get back home by walking. Sooner or later, we have to get on a ship.”
“No.”
And there it was again. He seemed to grasp so many things, but then we would come to the one that he either refused or could not accept. I gave it up for the night and we went to our blankets. Again, I watched him slip into sleep as effortlessly as a swimmer enters water. I had not had the courage to speak to him about Nettle. I wondered what she thought of my absence, or if she noticed it at all. Then I closed my eyes and sank.
By that second day of hiking, Thick was bored with the routine. Twice he let me get so far ahead of him that I was nearly out of his sight. Each time, he came huffing and hurrying over the wet sand to catch up with me. Each time, he demanded to know why we had to go so fast. I could not think of an answer that satisfied him. In truth, I knew only my own urgency. That this was a thing that must be finished, and that I would know no peace until I did. If I thought of the Fool as dead, if I thought of his body discarded in that icy place, the pain of such an image brought me close to fainting. I knew that I would not truly realize his death until I saw it. It was like looking down at a festering foot and knowing it must come off before the body could begin to heal. I hurried to face the agony.
That night caught us on a narrow beach along a cliff face hung with icicles. Sheeting water ran down the rock face. I judged there was just room to pitch the tent and that we would be fine, as long as no storm rose to drive the tide higher. We set up our tent, using rocks to hold it in the sand, and made our fire and ate our plain provender.
The moon was a little stronger, and we sat for a time under the stars looking out over the water. I found time to wonder how Hap was doing, and if my boy had overcome his dangerous affection for Svanja or succumbed to it completely. I could only hope he had kept his head and his judgment. I sighed as I worried about that and Thick asked sympathetically, “You got a gut ache?”
“No. Not exactly. Worrying about Hap. My son back in Buckkeep Town.”
“Oh.” He did not sound very interested. Then, as if this was a thing he had pondered for a long time, he added, “You're always somewhere else. You never do the music where you are.”
I looked at him for a moment, and then lowered my perpetual guard against his music. Letting it in was like letting the night into my eyes when twilight came over the land and it was a good time to hunt. I relaxed into the moment, letting the wolf's enjoyment of the now come into me, as I had not for far too long. I had been aware of the water and the light wind. Now I heard the whispering of blowing sand and snow, and deep behind it, the slow groaning creak of the glacier across the land. I could suddenly smell the salt of the ocean and the iodine of the kelp on the beach and the icy breath of old snow.
