Was I going in the right direction? Now I could not stop to check. In the low, rolling fog it was difficult to tell. But I had no other option. Imustcontinue.
Surely I should be there by now! Had I passed the Rock in my haste?
Hooves echoed behind me, Gideon's harsh voice yelling out commands, directions.
Had I somehow taken a wrong turn?
My fingers felt absolutely frozen as I looked down at the compass and to my horror as I slogged up a hill it slipped from my fingers and fell into a drift of snow.
Desperately, I dug my fingers deep into the slushy wet.
Nothing—nowhere!
It must—it MUST—be the right way!
"DELIVERANCE!" My husband called out, his voice echoing through the trees. "You will not escape me!"
Had he truly seen me?
I felt horribly exposed between the bare branches, but I did not, could not stop. And I left the compass and started up the hill.
"Deliverance!" Gideon snarled, and suddenly he was upon me, his horse foam-flecked and slick with sweat.
As I froze in horror, my husband grabbed the back of my cloak and hoisted me aloft.
"How dare you!" he snarled. "I should chain you to the bed for this!"
Raw pulse-pounding panic shot through me, and my fingers fumbled madly for the clasps on my cloak, ripping desperately until they tore and I was able to wriggle free.
Gideon was forced to pull his horse's head to the side to keep the stamping hooves away, but even then one massive iron-shod foot stomped hard on my dress, coming perilously close to my back and ripping the delicate fabric to shreds.
I dug my hands into the dirt and slush and pulled myself up the hill.
But where was my compass? What if I was hopelessly lost?
And just then, I saw it.The Rock.
Eagerly, I stumbled over and ran my hands across the slick, gray granite.
But what had Bartholomew meant? What was here to save me?
There was nothing. Nothing at all! In desperation, I felt all over the stone, searched the ground. But I saw nothing.
Had there ever been anything here for me in the first place?
"Stop!" Gideon roared, but just then the heavy fog parted, and I could see a little barn in the shadow of the outcropping. If nothing else, I could hide in here and hope desperately that my husband would ride on by?
But inside the barn was–a donkey. And a little cart. And a little, very old monk sitting in a chair and napping.
Was this how Bartholomew intended to help me? And what if I didn’t know how to put the donkey and cart together?
“Please–I beg–” was all I could get out, but just then the man popped up, cozy as could be, as the barn was well-made and there was a little fire in the corner.
Without another word, he hitched the cart to the donkey and helped me up.
“Godspeed, my child,” he said in a kindly voice.
“But, I don’t know which way–” I whispered in agony. My boots were crusty and slimy with moor-bogs, my nose like a frozen icicle.
