Free Crooked Vows by John Watt

dunes dips lower, there are slivers of blue. The sea. He stands at the top of the hill scanning the scene fruitlessly for any sign of human presence. To left and right the low scrub is unbroken by cleared land or fences or buildings or roads as far as he can see. Wilderness. He shivers in spite of the warmth of the early summer afternoon.
    Thomas picks his way back down the slope to where the young woman is still sitting on the log, rubbing her leg. She looks up at him, asks, with the same tense, sharp edge in her voice, what he found. Could he see any houses?
    He shakes his head. No sign of people at all. But he could see through the trees to the sand dunes and the sea. At least they know they’re near the coast.
    He picks a slightly more distant place to sit on the log again, and stares for a few minutes into the cloud of smoke still escaping from the fuselage. Finally he turns towards her. Speaks hesitantly. He points out how little water they have. It will last them till, well, the next morning. No longer than midday. And they have to expect a warm day, maybe quite hot. There might be water on the low-lying land on the other side of the hill; there’s certainly none here. If no help comes by the morning they’ll have to move. Walk towards the sea. It’s their best chance of finding more water. And finding other people too, if they follow the coast. At least it will give them a direction and save them from walking around in circles in this forest.
    She looks away from him into the trees for a few moments, then turns back to face him. Thomas notices a couple of small wrinkles between her eyebrows. He wonders what they mean. She hesitates before responding. Walk to where? How far would they have to go?
    He doesn’t know how far. Has no idea. But they will have to try if help doesn’t arrive soon. Either that or stay here and die of thirst.
    She turns away, staring into the dimness between the trees. Speaks after a short silence. ‘I suppose you’re right. There’s really nothing else to do. But I’m not sure how far I’ll be able to walk.’ She touches her leg cautiously, and winces. He glances at her leg and thinks he can see a bruise beginning to form, quickly looking away again, nervous in case she might think he was staring.
    *
    Thomas is sitting on the same log. The afternoon has dragged on towards evening. The sun, out of sight behind the treetops, must be low in the sky. The indistinct spaces between the trunks are fading gradually towards darkness, but there is still light in the clearing. The young woman is also there. They are both sorting through their belongings, deciding what to shift into the rucksacks. She has pointed out that they should be ready to move off early in the morning, before the heat of the day builds up.
    The ground before each of them is strewn with clothing: his spare black trousers, white shirts and underwear, black shoes and socks, her skirts, blouses and dresses in clear, bright colours. He surreptitiously snatches an opportunity to glance across to where she has consolidated her underwear into a small heap, but it is hard to make out the forms of individual items. He looks quickly away as she begins to turn towards him to speak. There is not a great deal of room in her pack; she will have to leave a lot behind. And he will too, she supposes.
    Thomas notices her eyes scanning the belongings spread out in front of him, focussing on a couple of spare clerical collars that he has put to one side, then moving up to the collar around his neck.
    She pauses for a moment before speaking. ‘I’ve been meaning to say—to ask. You’re a clergyman of some sort.’ Her rising inflection turns the statement into a question, calls for a response of some sort from him.
    He stumbles over a reply. It’s difficult to know how to explain. And embarrassing. A priest—a Catholic priest. No, that’s not quite