James Murthwell looked to the side, then got over the fence. The air was humid and the foliage below was thick. He did not think of the time.
The hillside was almost a wilderness from where Murthwell stood. As it did not lead anywhere other than the river, people did not try to go down its face.
Murthwell found an opening. Thorns scratched and stung him as he went down. But he was able to keep his footing. After a few moments he smelled the water; cool air wafted upwards. He held on to the roots that stuck out of the earth. He began to feel far away.
He went down steadily. The surroundings had become dark in the shade. The only sound was the shrill rustling of the leaves and the steady, distant roar of the current. He panted and labored to find a way to balance himself.
He did not think of how he would climb back up. It would be difficult. It would be awkward explaining where he had been. He would not think of that.
He was about four feet above the water's level when the ground gave way and he landed heavily on the narrow river bank. When he righted himself he noticed the air was cooler; a steady breeze blew over him.
From this place the city could not be heard or seen. He could have gone unnoticed here. He watched the muddy water flow past. Then he looked up at the green bluff.
The thought of returning caused him to hesitate. He would have to raise himself from the bank back on to solid ground. He was not used to surmounting such obstacles, so he began to think. If assistance found him, it would be because he had failed in his attempt to return. It would be an embarrassment to him.
He grabbed hold of a sapling and pulled himself up the embankment. He lay for a moment on the ground. He had had to use all his strength.
He did not consider how he would explain himself. He stood up and found his footing, and began to pull himself upwards. Once he had found a sort of rhythm it was not difficult to climb the slope.
He thought of jaunts similar to this one he had taken when he was small: he would not have been burdened with the what-had-come and the what-is-to-come. A warm sensation ran through his limbs, and he felt a kind of freedom.
He emerged and climbed back over the fence. The sky was cloudless and the sun had receded; it was late. A light shone in the front room of the house. His wife's guest had not left. Murthwell entered through the front door.
His wife smiled. The guest -- a woman -- glanced at him. Murthwell became reserved.
His wife did not speak of the time he had been gone. He went into the kitchen and looked out the window for a few moments. He came back to the front room and sat opposite his wife and their visitor. They conversed a short time.
The guest moved to depart. She stood up and exchanged words of parting with Murthwell's wife; with nicety the guest also said good-bye to Murthwell. The women left the room together. Murthwell heard warm, indistinct words. The front door closed; there was a hush. His wife came back and addressed him, then went into the kitchen.
Murthwell did not follow her. He went upstairs and sat at the end of the bed; he recalled standing on the river's sandy edge, gazing across the hazy water, unseen.
