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“Sure.” He was glad Bill wanted him to help. He was afraid he had hurt Bill by running away this morning. He wanted, too, to know that Bill didn’t blame him for anything. But it was not the kind of question he could put into words.
He held P.T. and waved as the dusty little Italian car turned into the main road. He thought he saw them wave back, but it was too far away to be sure.
His mother had never allowed him to have a dog, but she made no objection to P.T. being in the house. P.T. jumped up on his bed, and he slept all night with P.T.’s body curled against his chest.
THIRTEEN
Building the Bridge
He woke up Saturday morning with a dull headache. It was still early, but he got up. He wanted to do the milking. His father had done it ever since Thursday night, but he wanted to go back to it, to somehow make things normal again. He shut P.T. in the shed, and the dog’s whimpering reminded him of May Belle and made his headache worse. But he couldn’t have P.T. yapping at Miss Bessie while he tried to milk.
No one was awake when he brought the milk in to put it away, so he poured a warm glass for himself and got a couple of pieces of light bread. He wanted his paints back, and he decided to go down and see if he could find them. He let P.T. out of the shed and gave the dog a half piece of bread.
It was a beautiful spring morning. Early wildflowers were dotting the deep green of the fields, and the sky was clean and blue. The creek had fallen well below the bank and seemed less terrifying than before. A large branch was washed up into the bank, and he hauled it up to the narrowest place and laid it bank to bank. He stepped on it, and it seemed firm, so he crossed on it, foot over foot, to the other side, grabbing the smaller branches which grew out from the main one toward the opposite bank to keep his balance. There was no sign of his paints.
He landed slightly upstream from Terabithia. If it was still Terabithia. If it could be entered across a branch instead of swung into. P.T. was left crying piteously on the other side. Then the dog took courage and paddled across the stream. The current carried him past Jess, but he made it safely to the bank and ran back, shaking great drops of cold water on Jess.
They went into the castle stronghold. It was dark and damp, but there was no evidence there to suggest that the queen had died. He felt the need to do something fitting. But Leslie was not here to tell him what it was. The anger which had possessed him yesterday flared up again. Leslie. I’m just a dumb dodo, and you know it! What am I supposed to do? The coldness inside of him had moved upward into his throat constricting it. He swallowed several times. It occurred to him that he probably had cancer of the throat. Wasn’t that one of the seven deadly signs? Difficulty in swallowing. He began to sweat. He didn’t want to die. Lord, he was just ten years old. He had hardly begun to live.
Leslie, were you scared? Did you know you were dying? Were you scared like me? A picture of Leslie being sucked into the cold water flashed across his brain.
“C’mon, Prince Terrien,” he said quite loudly. “We must make a funeral wreath for the queen.”
He sat in the clear space between the bank and the first line of trees and bent a pine bough into a circle, tying it with a piece of wet string from the castle. And because it looked cold and green, he picked spring beauties from the forest floor and wove them among the needles.
He put it down in front of him. A cardinal flew down to the bank, cocked its brilliant head, and seemed to stare at the wreath. P.T. let out a growl which sounded more like a purr. J
ess put his hand on the dog to quiet him.
The bird hopped about a moment more, then flew leisurely away.
“It’s a sign from the Spirits,” Jess said quietly. “We made a worthy offering.”
He walked slowly, as part of a great procession, though only the puppy could be seen, slowly forward carrying the queen’s wreath to the sacred grove. He forced himself deep into the dark center of the grove and, kneeling, laid the wreath upon the thick carpet of golden needles.
“Father, into Thy hands I commend her spirit.” He knew Leslie would have liked these words. They had the ring of the sacred grove in them.
The solemn procession wound its way through the sacred grove homeward to the castle. Like a single bird across a storm-cloud sky, a tiny peace winged its way through the chaos inside his body.
“Help! Jesse! Help me!” A scream shattered the quietness. Jess raced to the sound of May Belle’s cry. She had gotten halfway across on the tree bridge and now stood there grabbing the upper branches, terrified to move either forward or backward.
“OK, May Belle.” The words came out more steadily than he felt. “Just hold still. I’ll get you.” He was not sure the branch would hold the weight of them both. He looked down at the water. It was low enough for him to walk across, but still swift. Suppose it swept him off his feet. He decided for the branch. He inched out on it until he was close enough to touch her. He’d have to get her back to the home side of the creek. “OK,” he said. “Now, back up.”
“I can’t!”
“I’m right here, May Belle. You think I’m gonna let you fall? Here.” He put out his right hand. “Hold on to me and slide sideways on the thing.”
She let go with her left hand for a moment and then grabbed the branch again.
“I’m scared, Jesse. I’m too scared.”
“’Course you’re scared. Anybody’d be scared. You just gotta trust me, OK? I’m not gonna let you fall, May Belle. I promise you.”
She nodded, her eyes still wide with fear, but she let go the branch and took his hand, straightening a little and swaying. He gripped her tightly.
“OK, now. It ain’t far—just slide your right foot a little way, then bring your left foot up close.”
“I forgot which is right.”
