Walk With Me (13 page)

With that encouragement, Peter began to plot out the route they would take through the gloomy place. The trees that had once given shade and shelter were now reduced to drowned skeletons with bare branch stubs, sometimes draped in gray moss that looked like giant spider webs. Flies and mosquitoes swarmed over the murky water, and a dank odor reminded Celeste of Peter’s dirty socks. But in places, the swamp gave way to tracts of firmer marsh grass and Peter thought if they paid close attention, they might get across without too much difficulty.

As they started through the swamp, they found guidebooks, walking sticks, and sheepskins that had been thrown aside. They couldn’t understand why travelers would discard their kingly gifts. Then they stepped into the first quagmire and quickly began to sink into the foul mud. “Now I understand why the travelers tried to lighten their loads,” Peter said.

“Do you think we should take something out of our packs too?”

“No. Whatever we do, we’ll keep everything we’ve been given, because the King’s gifts aren’t heavy. But I wonder if we should
turn back and try to find a firmer way. The King will show us a way out so we don’t give in to the temptation to take an easy path that leads nowhere.”

Celeste pointed out that there were many travelers in the swamp ahead of them. “This must be a good way to go, and if we get into trouble, we have the King’s gifts to help us.” With that, Peter was persuaded and they set off through the swamp.

However, they had to concentrate so hard on making their way and gathering whatever meager food they could find, they soon forgot their gifts. As night fell, they searched for solid ground where they could set up camp. They finally settled for a soggy patch of dirt where they rolled out their sleeping bags. As soon as they lay down, the water soaked through and they spent a miserable night, damp and cold. Celeste minded it most of all, but because she had convinced Peter to take the swamp route, she kept quiet, afraid that he might become angry with her. In the morning, they surveyed the swamp. It looked much wider and longer than it had the day before. They were so discouraged at the thought of going through it, they didn’t start off until noon.

The days that followed brought no change. Their progress was tedious as they tried to avoid the quagmires and find the driest sections of marsh grass. The sky became pasted with dark clouds that never moved.

“We haven’t seen the sun in such a long time.” Celeste thought of all the sunlit scenes in her postcards. “I never thought we would have to go through such a dismal place on our journey to the King’s City.”

“Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault.”

“Oh, no? You were so keen on being the leader,” Celeste said, “but you’re doing a pretty bad job if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you.”

“Of course not. That’s just like you, to go off without bothering to ask what I think.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like it.”

“No, you love to talk; that’s for sure.”

“If you would say something once in awhile, I wouldn’t have to listen to the sound of my voice all the time. We could actually have a conversation—you know, the kind where I say something and then you say something to respond.”

“If we did that, you would be even slower than you are now. Talking distracts you.”

“Unlike you, I can do two things at once. And talking makes the time go faster.”

“Not to me,” Peter said. To prove his point he began to walk faster through the marsh grass.

“I think you would rather go your own way than go together with me,” Celeste shouted ahead to him. “I don’t think you love me.”

Peter stopped. “Don’t be stupid. All right, we’ll stay together. But if you fall behind again, I’m not going to wait.”

They continued to struggle through the swamp. They hardly had energy to talk and when they did, it was usually to quarrel over their dwindling provisions. After their experience of running out of food and water in the Sand Dunes of Foolishness, Peter wanted
to limit what they used each day. Celeste thought it was better to eat what they had, because the extra weight in their packs made walking harder. Besides, she was positive there was plenty ahead for Peter to find.

He said she didn’t know what she was talking about. It wasn’t that easy to look for provisions. Celeste said it had never been difficult when she had walked alone. The real problem was that Peter wanted to save more than they needed.

One day when they stopped for lunch, they again began to fight over how much they would eat. They squabbled back and forth, their voices becoming louder and more angry.

Another couple came over and they warned them to be careful. “We heard you arguing,” the husband said, “and we want you to know that we used to argue like that until we were attacked by an army of snapping turtles.”

“An army?” Celeste imagined thousands of snapping turtles on the path. “How horrible!”

“Where do they live?” Peter asked. Maybe they could avoid them.

“Generally you find them in wet places, watered by stormy arguments—though some have been seen in the dry washes nipping at travelers’ heels. They came after us when we had been walking together so long, we thought we knew exactly what our partner was going to say. We gave up being patient with each other. One of us would snap, and then the other would snap back.”

“It was the most frightful time of our journey,” the woman said. “I suppose we were more tired than usual because we had
spent the night in a particularly swampy area. There were so many mosquitoes buzzing around us all night, we couldn’t sleep. Then my husband decided we just had to get to a certain spot for lunch, and he set the fastest pace we had taken so far, even though we had gotten no sleep.”

Celeste felt a little comforted to hear that Peter wasn’t the only one who sometimes walked too fast for his partner.

“But after that night in the swamp,” the man said, “I just wanted to get to firm, dry land.”

“When we finally stopped … oh I don’t know.” The woman looked embarrassed. “He was tired and lay down to rest before lunch. But I was hungry after walking so fast. ‘There you go again,’ I said.”

The husband broke in. “The tone had much more of a bite than that—”

“Yes, maybe it did, but then he snapped back, ‘What’s wrong?’ I told him I knew he was going to fall asleep and leave all the cooking to me. He said he was just going to rest for five minutes. But I told him, ‘Hah! I bet.’ And then he yelled, ‘Will you stop it?’ ‘Stop what?’ I asked him. ‘You just harp on me all the time,’ he said. I started to tell him I wouldn’t if he would do what he was supposed to, but he interrupted and told me to relax. ‘Stop interrupting me,’ I told him. And he said, ‘It takes you forever to think of what you’re going to say.’”

“So we snapped back and forth at each other,” the husband said, “each of us being quick to speak but not quick to listen. We never gave each other the benefit of the doubt—or any grace. Then the turtles came up out of the water—on the left and on the
right, from behind, and coming straight toward us—chomping their huge jaws.”

“I got bitten in three places.” The woman lifted her pant leg to show Peter and Celeste three unsightly bites the color of plums. “But I’m more fortunate than others. We heard about one couple whose Cords of Commitment were almost ripped apart by the turtles.” She shook her head. “It is sad because I’m much more civil with people I hardly know or care about. With my husband I let my irritation spring to anger at the smallest spark. We can tame a tiger, but we can’t tame the tongue. Out of the same mouth comes blessing for the King and curses for our partner, the most precious person to us.”

“Since then,” the man said, “we’ve been working on listening rather than getting angry first. We are trying to be patient with each other and put aside the little irritations and grievances. It isn’t easy, but it’s better than getting to the King’s City without any arms or legs.”

Peter and Celeste thanked them for the advice and went on their way. But they didn’t take the warning to heart. For all their arguing in the swamp, they had never seen a single turtle. They assumed the couple had made up the story to shock them, so they kept quarreling. The next afternoon while they were arguing about where to set up camp, three large turtles lumbered up out of the water and began snapping at them. At first Peter and Celeste did nothing, thinking they could outpace the turtles. But the turtles were surprisingly nimble and caught up to the travelers in a flash. Peter picked up a stick to club them away, without bothering to get one for Celeste. Although he managed to fend
off two of the turtles, the third saw that Celeste had nothing to protect herself with and bit her in the leg.

Peter wasn’t very sympathetic to her ugly wound or to her crying. “There’s no need to carry on like that. It’s just a flesh wound.”

“But it hurts!” Celeste wailed. When Peter said it was time for them to start walking again, she insisted that they wait until her bite was healed before they went on.

Peter fumed for two days. Then in exasperation, he went off and found a stick that Celeste could use as a crutch. “Here, now you can walk,” he said, throwing it down at her feet. However, Celeste refused to go until he showed her how to club the turtles. It was a good thing he did, for they were plagued by the snapping turtles for several days, and without their clubs, they might have been eaten alive.

If this was not enough—oh, how I wished it was another dream—Peter was becoming more distant from Celeste. He was usually so wrapped up in his own thoughts that when Celeste talked, he didn’t hear a word she said. And Celeste became more inconsiderate of Peter. She would often go off and talk with other travelers, then get back to camp so late that she slept in, always too tired to make breakfast or pack the bags, leaving all the work to Peter. Then she decided they should have a party to celebrate the first anniversary of their weaving day.

Peter said they were still working hard to find enough food; it would be irresponsible to waste their provisions.

“Who said anything about wasting?” Celeste said. “I just want to have a little party.”

“Frivolous.” Peter harrumphed. “I’m not going to let you use up all our food for that. And I suppose you’ll want a new outfit for the party—”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You have plenty of clothes.”

“Do you expect me to travel in rags? Let me remind you that when I met you, there were holes in the knees of your pants.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. It gave good air circulation.”

“Peter, you are being impossible.”

“Me? If I let you get everything you wanted, we’d starve.”

“Well, what about your new boots?”

“I needed to get them so I could walk properly. But a new outfit is just an extravagance. Peter turned and started off without Celeste. I’m not going to talk about it anymore.”

“Come back here; we’re not finished discussing this.”

Peter kept on walking.

Celeste ran after him. “You are a miserable miser!”

“You are an irresponsible child,” he said, without turning around.

“Stop!” she screamed. Then, just as Lady Sophia had warned, Celeste took out her turtle club to hit Peter. She only meant to give him a little tap to make him slow down. But she was stronger than she thought and she smacked him on the leg.

Peter whirled around. When he saw the club in her hand, he took out his to strike back. Celeste managed to block his first blow, but the second one grazed her arm.

In my dream, I feared for the worst. Fortunately, Celeste lost her grip on her club, and it dropped to the ground. At that, Peter put his club away too—but he refused to speak to Celeste for the rest of the day.

Their cords began to chafe their wrists, and the swamp became so spongy it could not support them both. Each thought it would be easier if they began to choose separate paths. Peter, with his long legs, could jump across a large tract of mud to reach a section of beach grass, while Celeste could walk on slender fallen logs that couldn’t support Peter’s weight. So they decided to go their own way for a while and meet up again.

Once Celeste tripped and landed in the muck. “Don’t you care about me?” she shouted to Peter. “I’ve fallen, and it’s all your fault. You’re going too fast for me.” Peter just kept on going and when Celeste came to a small island of firm ground, she decided to rest awhile.

Celeste watched Peter labor across the swamp until other travelers came to the island. Soon she was having so much fun talking and playing games, she didn’t miss Peter at all. Late in the afternoon, she finally looked to see how far he had gotten. In the distance she saw he had become stuck in the Quagmire of Self-Pity, but she stayed on the island. Why should she do anything nice for him after he had been so mean and uncaring to her? If he was so determined to go his own way, he could figure out how to get out of the quagmire himself. Besides, he had enough of his dull rations and his guidebook to keep him happy.