FlOoD--Part Twenty

Flight to the Ford

TwEnTy

   Peterson once again lowered the sampler in front of him and asked the boat in general if anyone else noticed any difference in their travelling speed. He had been sitting behind the sampler, listening to the murmur of voices from the other side of his barrier, when he found that it was harder to hear them for the rushing of the wind. He placed his forefinger in his mouth, wet it and held it up so as to discover in which direction the wind was blowing. Then he realized that he had no reference point by which to take a compass reading. He looked at the full moon. It had come up over to his right and was now high up in the heavens (Hallelujah!) but he didn't know where the moon was rising at this season, so that gave him no assistance. By this time he had noticed that the wind was sounding louder and louder and yet his finger told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was no wind blowing at this moment in time, although he could feel a slight breeze that was actually the result of moving through the air at a rather rapid rate. (Nice touch of alliteration, eh?) He took a glance over his shoulder. Sitting in the bow of the boat as he was, this meant that, although lacking eyes in the back of his head, he was now looking both behind himself and in front of himself at the same time. What he saw in the moonlight was a vast expanse of water that seemed to be dipping down slightly in the center, as though the earth over which the water was passing was becoming lower in that area, traversing a gulf or, possibly, a valley. And so the small craft which was bearing himself and his companions was picking up speed and the quickening of the waters (Hallelujah!) was accounting for the rushing noise currently assailing his ears. And so, by way of offering a note of warning to his fellows, he lowered his self-erected barrier and made his gentle inquiry.

   His first response came from Wilkerson, who asked him if he was entirely finished with his home. Peterson blinked a couple of times and then murmured, "I beg your pardon?"

   "I said, in the plainest English imaginable, are you entirely finished with my home?"

   "Hallelujah! I thought that's what you said. And now I count two crazy men in this boat. I hope you don't think this here boat is your home and the rest of us is just visitin'. 'Cause I ain't got no plans to be leavin' any time soon."

   And now it became Wilkerson's turn to suspect one of the men travelling with him of insanity. He didn't make a catalog as Smith so creatively had, but simply sat and looked at Peterson with eyes and mouth wide open.

   Smith also looked over at Peterson, calculating whether any of his apparel would be appropriate for sheltering Davis. Peterson was wearing a long sleeved shirt on which the buttons down the front and at the cuffs were all undone. He also had a t-shirt on underneath. The clothing looked relatively dry after its earlier submergization. And Smith thought that the overshirt looked to be a good candidate to offer Davis protection from the night air. And so his campaign began.

   "Excuse me?" he commenced, in an attempt to wean Peterson's somewhat amused attention away from Wilkerson.

   Peterson turned his head to Smith.

   "Please, please, don't tell me this here boat is yourn.We ain't got time for such foolishness."

   Smith gave him a placating smile.

   "No. No. Of course not. I was just wondering..." And then a thought struck him. "Well, actually. This does happen to be my boat. I keep it in the back yard and on occasion - well, the occasions have been getting much rarer of late - of course that doesn't matter. You see, sometimes I take him fishing. And there were occasions when my son used to come along. Those were grand old times..." And Smith stopped talking, lost in his dreams of yesteryear.

   Peterson was thinking that maybe everyone in the boat was crazy, himself excluded, of course. (Of course. Hallelujah!) At this point he noticed a sound picking up over the roar of the water, or maybe it was under the roar of the water (though not under the water, of course. Hallelujah!). Peering through the corridor separating Smith and Jones, Davis and Wilkerson, and Murphy and Brown, he began to perceive movement in the stern of the boat. The gentleman clanging on the anvil (Johnson to us but, remember, none of these gentlemen have been properly introduced yet...although in the interest of accuracy, we must say that Smith and Brown, being next door neighbors, knew each other quite well, though perhaps not as intimately as they were about to ((know each other, that is)). And yet, still speaking in terms of accuracy, who is to say if they were ever properly introduced? Acquaintanceship often grows without introduction. And where were we? Oh, yes...in ellipsis.) seemed to have accelerated his tempo and this, in turn, was increasing his volume. Perhaps he was hammering out a sort of soundtrack to the voyage of the boat, he certainly wasn't hammering out justice or freedom or the love between his brothers and his sisters all over this land (Hallelujah!). Well, perhaps the music maker was going crazy along with everyone else in this boat, Peterson sighed to himself. He turned to face forward and watched intently as the boat continued to pick up speed.