Before you ask: yes, they did just sleep. Sorry about the lack of action in this one.

Chapter 37: Escape

He awoke feeling exceedingly better than he had the night before. Of course he was still trying to get used to not knowing if he was really awake or not. He waited a minute, keeping still in order to regain his bearings. With surprise he realized he hadn't had any nightmares. No torture, frustration, reproaches for the stupidity that lost him his eyes. No getting sucked down deep dark holes (he could still see in his sleep).

Another minute and he was surprised further upon thee discovery that the thing beside him was breathing.

He smirked and must have made some sort of brief laugh because she stirred and lifted her head.

….

"It's kind of late," Annamaria observed as she looked up at their patch of blue sky. Remembering were she was and what was going on, she sat up and spotted the rope that her fellow prisoner had so miraculously thrown into place a few hours before. Standing up, she took hold of one end of it and laughed. "Give me Liberty or give me Death," she quoted.

"Liberty, preferably," he added. "I'd like to get a few more… centuries in."

She watched him hard as he slowly got up. The physical resistance to the movement was almost painful to watch, but his face showed grim determination under a thin smile. He caught himself twice before successfully balancing on his feet.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked.

"The plan? Quite simple." He pulled the white renaissance shirt up and over his head gently. "This, as comfortable as it is, is going to be sacrificed for the greater good." He tied a knot at the bottom of the torso and the ends of the sleeves. Then, he passed it to her with the command "fill 'er up."

"With what?"

"Rocks. Sand. All things heavy."

She cursed under her breath at the destruction of one of her favorite possessions.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Try to keep from dieing of dehydration," he replied honestly.

….

A little salt wouldn't hurt, in fact it would be a good thing. Just enough water to make it up the rope. Then, if they were lucky, they could find a fresh water stream.

After so long of planning five steps ahead that being restricted to one by one was aggravating.

….

Annamaria finished filling the shirt. She sat it on the rock/boulder they'd used as a seat when they first arrived, and he instructed her to loop the rope under the sand-filled arms, which he then bound to the sides.

"Now," he said, "Help me lift it."

They both heaved on the rope until the shirt, looking like a bloated torso, was a good 25 feet in the air.

"Okay, not, let go on three."

"What?" Maybe he was still nutty.

"Trust me."

She snorted a laugh. "Yeah. Okay."

And they let go on three. But he grabbed on again, and jumped. The shirt probably weighted a 100 pounds, and its momentum lifted him about 15 feet. Annamaria, thinking fast, turned and grabbed the shirt were it hung, keeping it from going back up.

"Beautiful! Smart Woman! You've undoubtedly caught on," he called down. "Now," he added, more to himself. "This would be a terribly idiotic way to die after coming so far." But his arms were already killing him and he could feel the muscles in his hands quivering. As he had done so many times before -- at the Farm and in the rigging—he wrapped his legs around the rope and began to climb.

"It's only fifteen feet. It's only fifteen feet," he repeated to himself again and again. I've gone a hundred before on a rope, what the hell's fifteen feet? Distract yourself.

….

A short break. He really only had one good arm and it was getting weak. He estimated he had about seven feet left to go. How long had it been? Seven feet. Only a foot taller than so many men he knew. He could remember an age when he was considered tall. Now he was on the lower end of average. "Hector," he muttered to himself, "You were a bloody colossus." He started to inch toward the sky again, every inch of him in revolt.

It took him near a half hour to make the branch, including two short breaks. When healthy, he could make that distance in under a minute, easy. Good-for-nothing bodily limitations. When he felt the rough branch under his hand he sighed. Then took a deep breath and using what was left of his strength, hauled himself onto it sideways to lay on it like a spirit bow.

He panted for a minute while Annamaria stared up at him in mixed fear and relief.

"Okay." He'd evidently caught his breath. "If you'd like, cut down our sandy friend, and I'll lower the rope and tie it off."

It only took a minute to empty the sand from the shirt, the seams were already close to bursting. She frowned as she watched it pour out like a broken hourglass spilling its guts on the ground. She turned her attention back to the branch and saw him, weakly, tying a perfect sailor's knot.

"A sailor's hands never forget," she said to herself as she hopped up on the braded vine.

"And I'll just lay here…until you get up here," He said.

Truth was, he wasn't sure he could move. Every muscle felt tight around his bones and chances were if he made a mistake his reflexes wouldn't be able to catch him before he fell back into that sand ring of hell. And a second escape would never come.

But Annamaria was beside him in no time.

"Hey there, Speedy Gonzalez," he said as she hung from the top of the rope.

"Racist," she replied, but he could tell by her tone that she was smiling.

"Speedy Gonzalez is an integral part of American society," he rambled, buying rest.

"Yeah? Well, you're British, Senor Gringo."

"200 years say otherwise. I can't help it you never chose a country to ally."

Suddenly, her face was a lot closer. "Pirate," she said simply. She wasn't smiling anymore.