The ferry runs.

Loads that make sense. Bram’s rope sings a wet note. East bank arrives like a sentence with a full stop. The Painted Staff exhales cooking. The ridge lifts.

Behind you, west, the packhorse bridge may still be a wounded animal. You can feel it in your feet. A way-warden’s helper is a person who can cross and still be responsible for the crossing.

Pilgrims want Holmewell. Osric wants a cutwater. Both are the job, which is annoying of the job.

You stand on east mud with the ridge in your teeth. Going on is pilgrimage. Going back is the job that makes pilgrimage possible. Both can be right. Only one can be this hour, unless you split yourself, which you cannot, not even for Saint Elswith.