River Runs Deep (15 page)

“We don't give it out straight,” Stephen explained. “The taste is too recognizable for that. But we cook with it, make the tea with it, even do the baths with it sometimes when we can get away with it.”

“Everyone?” Elias asked again.

Stephen sighed. “Even Pennyrile. Nedra, too. And Sarneybrook and the widow Patton . . . and . . . well . . .”

Elias didn't need him to finish. None of the rest were better. Only him.

Hughes took over. “We don't know if it only works for some or doesn't work at all. But selling it has kept this place alive, and the hope it gives people doesn't hurt none.”

Elias knew that hope, no matter how dearly paid for,
was
precious. And he wasn't quite ready to surrender it now. If the air of the cave was special like Croghan thought, then it only stood to reason that the water could be too, right?

Then again, even the air didn't seem to work for everyone. The widow Patton had died. Pennyrile and Nedra were both sicker. Old Sarneybrook was slipping. “But why am I better?” He felt almost guilty about it.

“You're younger and stronger,” Stephen suggested. “But we don't know. Like I said, some down here will swear by the stuff. And others out there do too. But we've tried, Elias. We don't know why it seems to work for some and not others, or if it works at all.”

“If you told Croghan, maybe then he could try it out. See if there's something to it—”

“He'd have to see the spring for himself. And you can't find the spring without finding Haven.”

“But he's smart,” Elias argued. “He could maybe figure out why—”

“We can't risk the lives of all my people on
maybe
.” Hughes drew himself up to his feet, using all his impressive height to underscore his point. “The doctor having the spring wouldn't accomplish anything more. And it would mean the end for all of us.”

It was quiet a second before Stephen spoke. “You see that, don't you, Elias?”

The question shook something loose in him. Were the lives of these runaways more important than the possibility that Croghan could make something of the tonic water?

The boy who'd left Virginia, the boy he was when he arrived . . . that boy might have said no.

But now Elias had explored the cave with Stephen Bishop. Caught blind fish with Nick. Been so impressed by Mat on those tours. Made friends with Jonah.

He wasn't the same boy who'd left Virginia. He wasn't the same boy who would have said no.

“I see,” Elias said.

“We don't take it light,” Hughes said simply. “But sometimes the hard decisions are the right ones.” Elias knew it was true. Knew because it sounded like something his daddy would have said to him.

“But if we don't do something about Pennyrile—and that boat downriver—it's all going to be over one way or another anyway,” Stephen said.

“Why?”

Hughes laced his fingers over the knob of the walking stick. “When we first got the idea to sell the water as a cure, it wasn't hardly worth the trouble. Money was slow to come back to us, and them what sold it for us cheated us half blind, but as word got out and folks started wanting it, we figured out which people we could trust to bring the money that was owed us back to us.”

“But how do you do it? Without Croghan and everybody catching on?” Elias asked.

“Spring's clear away from anything on the tours or Croghan's paths, so bottling it up's the easy part. Getting it out's a sight trickier,” Hughes said.

Stephen took a stick and began drawing in the sand around the fire pit. “The river runs outside, then goes underground and into the cave. It comes up way down here.” He made a small mark near the edge of his drawing. “We used to cobble together rafts or baskets and pack the jars in. Then we'd launch them into the river to be carried downstream and out of the cave. Outside, we had men who know where to look. They picked up the shipments, took the lot to those that sold it for us, along with lists of supplies we needed. The seller kept some of the money and used the rest to buy our provisions. Then he'd send the supplies—along with whatever money was left over—to another friend who knew the spot where the river flowed back into the cave.” He tapped the first mark he'd made on the diagram.

“But we ain't had anything coming in for too long,” someone in the crowd said.

“What's that mean?”

“It means,” Hughes began, “that since that boat come—since Pennyrile come—the river's been more crowded than is strictly heathful for running business.”

“Pennyrile's crew found the water y'all sent out?”

Hughes crossed his arms. “Probably. Can't know for sure. We took care to have it sold away from the cave and the river, but he might have worked it out somehow. What we know is, no more runaways have come up the river since that boat arrived. We can't get our water out, and our friends outside are too scared of being seen to send the supplies in the usual way.”

“But if you can't get supplies and you can't send people out . . .” Elias did the hard math in his head, afraid to say it out loud.

“Haven's dying,” Hughes said, adding, “We're not going to last much longer.”

That heavy silence fell again before Stephen spoke. “The last few months, most of what we've been able to get inside has had to be carried down from the main entrance, snuck in by me and Nick.”

“But it's not enough,” Hughes said.

Stephen swiped his hand through the sand, erasing the map.

“Why don't you just start emptying folk out?” Elias asked.

“We can't, not until we know Pennyrile's crew has cleared off. We're trapped.”

Elias thought it over. It was like a siege back in Arthur times—a whole village of people shut up inside a castle's walls, slowly getting starved out. The folk down here in Haven were as desperate as everybody up in Croghan's hospital.

“If anybody tries to get out now, those pirates would just snatch them and make them tell where to get the water themselves,” Stephen added.

“Or worse,” Hughes said. “He might be after more'n water. He might be after us.”

“But he said ‘fount,' ” Elias pointed out. “That has to be your spring. And he's sick, that's for sure, so I'd bet he'd do all this to get his hands on that spring, even if it's only a chance that it'd work.”

Some of the people gathered around murmured in agreement. But others looked to one another and Elias nervously. Elias saw Nick was there, smiling gently at him. the sight of a friend made Elias feel better.

“ ‘Fount' could also mean source,” Stephen reasoned. “We don't know what he means for sure. It could be source of the water, or the source of the runaways. Either way, it's . . . Whether he finds the spring and us by mistake, or he's looking for us in the first place . . .”

“Bounty on all of us put together more'n he could ever hope to earn off that spring.” Hughes's voice was bitter.

Elias bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't let that happen to Jonah, not to mention what would happen to Stephen and Nick and Mat when Croghan or the others found out that they had been helping runaways.

“We got to suss out what this Pennyrile knows first,” Hughes said.

Finally Nick spoke. “Only way to know which bait the fish'll bite on is to thow a hook in the water.” Nick was, as usual, perfectly right. And the murmur of agreement that rippled out confirmed it.

Still, Elias knew how hard it would be. He knew tangling with Pennyrile was trickier than the most complicated of knots.

And then he noticed nearly everyone was watching him, waiting.

He was the only one Pennyrile talked to.

He was the only one Pennyrile trusted.

“Elias?” Hughes asked.

Elias looked at Stephen; his expression was unreadable. Elias took a breath and felt his lungs stretch out farther than they had a few weeks ago. Maybe it was because of the water. Probably it wasn't. But it didn't matter.

Sometimes the hard decision was the right one.

And sometimes it was easy.

“What do you want me to do?”

D
ear Mother,

I got your letter four days back. Thank you. I'm sorry I did not write sooner—

Elias stopped. He had not written since he'd learned of Haven. But he couldn't tell his mother why. He could not tell her much of anything, really.

But I have made some new friends and seen a little of the cave.

True enough, he supposed.

I am glad Tillie caught a fish, and even more pleased she took it off the hook like I taught her. Tell her I am proud. Did I tell you yet about the fish in the cave? They are something else altogether. They've got no eyes and don't need them on account of it being dark. They are sort of pretty once you have got used to them, and Nick says—

Nick. And just like that the page seemed filled up with all the things he couldn't tell his mother. About the runaways, about Nick's plan, about how much he hoped Nick succeeded. Elias groaned in frustration and tossed the letter and pencil onto the quilt.

Before, he'd thought that time couldn't go any slower, but the last three days had seemed the longest of his time so far. It wasn't the boredom that wore away at him now so much as it was the worry. All those people down in Haven, the knowing something had to be done, that he'd be called on to help.

Jonah had made himself scarce, probably assigned extra watch duties since Elias had stumbled into Haven. And Stephen and Nick hadn't been around much either. Nick had passed word that they were all right below and assured Elias they'd fetch him down as soon as it was safe, as soon as Hughes was ready to talk to him again.

But three days? It was torture, the waiting. If Hughes and the others had wanted to punish Elias for nosing about and following Stephen, they couldn't have picked a better means.

Elias glared at his unfinished letter. Then he picked up his tying rope and the piece of twine he'd robbed from the doorframe—the piece that was meant to be used to hold back the quilt. He resumed working on the complicated series of French Prusiks and sheepshanks he'd started earlier.

After Elias had pulled it apart and redone it all three times, the doctor finally looked in for his morning rounds. Immediately, Elias could tell something was wrong.

“Hey, Doc.” Elias dropped the twine. Croghan smiled but sank heavily in the chair by the bed. He wore a version of the same stiff suit he always appeared in, but today had a bright blue scarf wrapped around his neck. The stitches were the same smart ones in Elias's own green scarf, and he was sure Nedra had made this one as well.

“Good morning, Elias,” he murmured. But he didn't open his bag. He didn't even look at Elias. He just stared at the flame glowing blue at the tip of the wick of the lantern.

“Doctor Croghan?” Elias said, leaning forward.

“Mr. Sarneybrook died in the night.” Dr. Croghan rubbed a hand across his temple. Elias hung his head. Though Elias had met the man only once, the news landed square enough. He was more than sorry for Sarneybrook, and whoever he'd left behind, but he was sad, too. Sad that Sarneybrook's hopes hadn't materialized. Sad that he'd spent all this time underground, given up so much, only to have the rest of it taken away.

“He was so faithful regarding my prescriptions,” the doctor said, almost to himself. “He was an active man before he fell ill. Remember how he told us of scurrying up and down Black Mountain one morning before breakfast? Remarkable fellow. But he told me every day that the hardest thing he ever did was remain so immobile.” Elias thought of how he himself used to fidget in church, the looks Granny used to toss at him to make him settle down. He couldn't imagine what Sarneybrook endured.

“No one even knew he'd passed until I arrived. Even the night nurse who checked on him didn't notice, so accustomed was she to seeing him so silent and still.”

“I'm sorry,” Elias said.

“As am I,” Croghan said with a sigh. “As am I. And nearly as puzzled. It should have worked, his treatment. But his lungs never improved, no matter what modifications I made.” His tone shifted from somebody shocked to somebody trying to work out a mystery. “Really, it should have worked.” Croghan paused and looked at Elias directly for the first time. “Perhaps I should have prescribed more of your methods for Old Sarneybrook. Or the other residents.”

Elias couldn't meet the doctor's eyes, feeling strangely guilty.

“I should like you to continue your exercise,” Croghan said, shaking off his gloom. “And I think we should reintroduce some other foods into your diet. Some bread and greens—just to gauge the effect. If you continue to improve, then I believe we might begin encouraging some of the others to take more activity as well.” He drummed his fingers across the handle of his bag.

He didn't seem happy, necessarily, not the way Elias would have thought at the notion that his doctoring had finally made someone better. He seemed concerned, almost, or distrustful.

“You've eaten already?” Doctor Croghan asked.

“Four,” Elias reported, “soft-boiled.” They'd been awful—goopy and cold.

“Then away with you,” Croghan said. “Stephen will be by in a moment with a tour.” Croghan started out the door, then turned back. “I almost forgot!” He searched his breast pocket and produced a letter. “Your mother wrote.”

His mother had written again! And so quickly! Elias was too eager to feel badly about having taken so long to reply. He vowed to fill up at least four—no, five!—sheets of paper when he finally wrote back. He'd get the part about Nick's fish just right. Maybe even try to draw a picture of one. He grabbed the letter with a hearty thanks and had already torn it open before the doctor's footfalls faded.