Even in the brilliant midsummer sun, he could see her through the thickets as if she were a light of her own. Though his voice was so hoarse it was no longer audible, he’d cry out if she’d move closer to the river; subdue his worry whenever he caught a glimpse of her light deep within the shadows of the woods. He moved with her as best he could, blundering to the east, pausing, and then staggering west down river as she wandered blindly in her misery.
Denis had fought to accept the truth. She could not see or hear anymore; and that was a truth he could no longer deny. But why had her mental capacities collapsed? He was fine. He was torn to shreds from a dozen lashings against the river’s bed, but he was fine. Did she drink something the night before that sent her mind adrift? She made them tea, from milkweed. He was fine.
Denis pulled himself up, took foot to find another clearing in the thickets.