Free Patrick by Stephen R. Lawhead

there must be a port or fishing settlement somewhere within reach. I need only locate the port, and I would find a ship to take me home.
    All that remained was to choose the right time. It would have to be soon, I considered, before the winds of autumn brought an end to sea travel. I had no wish to spend a cold winter on the mountainside in the company of Madog and his sheep.
    While I waited, I readied myself as best I could. Obtaining a food ration proved no difficulty; I merely helped myself from Madog’s store of dried mutton and hid it where I could quickly recover it again. Water was more of a problem. I would need enough for two or three days, I reckoned, but had nothing in which to carry it. I set about devising a container from wood. I made a hand axe out of a piece of flint recovered from a streambed and tried hollowing out a chunk of half-rotten log, but gave up after several inept attempts.
    As it happened, Madog saw what I was doing and misunderstood my purpose. One evening as we were sitting outside the hut by the fire, he rose and went in, returning amoment later with a thin, white, misshapen leathery bag, which he gave to me, indicating with winks and pointing that I should hang it around my neck.
    I did so, and he cackled happily. “Da, da!” he said. “Da!” This outburst signified his approval. Then, winking and pointing, he began jigging around the water stoup—a large stone basin filled by the tiny trickle from a spring that welled up from an outcropping of rock beside the bothy. I could not make out what the old idiot intended until at last he pulled me up and, taking the bag, plunged it into the water. Then I understood: It was a waterskin. Made from the bladder of a sheep, it would hold, I imagined, three or four days’ scant ration of water.
    I filled the thing and was pleased to discover that it did indeed hold water admirably well. Grinning to signify my pleasure, I thanked Madog with a bow, which set the old addlepate chuckling and gurgling in delight all the rest of the night.
    The next day dawned clear and bright, and I decided that the time had come. As soon as Madog had gone to take the sheep to the meadow, I gathered my provisions and set off walking toward the coast, keeping to the sheep trails until I was out of sight of the valley, then made my way down to the river and followed it to the coast, reaching the shore a little after midday.
    Now came the difficult part of my plan, for I had no clear idea which way to go. I had hoped on reaching the coast to be able to see the port or some other settlement, but this was not to be. I looked long in either direction and saw only the rough, rocky shoreline and the towering headlands beyond, and no port in sight. So, lacking any better guide, I decided to take my chances and head north.
    Following the craggy coast, I walked quickly and steadily, pausing every now and then to look back in case I should be followed and laughing at the ignorance of my barbarian captors. That escape should be so easy showed how utterly unthinking they were.
    The day passed without my meeting anyone or encountering any settlements. With the gathering twilight, clouds sailed in on a keen northerly wind, and it seemed best to find shelter for the night. I chose a hollow in an outcropping of rock at the base of a cliff a short distance up from the shore. From my shallow cave I could see a fair distance down the beach in both directions and would have plenty of time to hide if anyone should come along.
    As darkness fell, so did the rain; in great, gushing torrents it fell. My hollow in the rocks kept out most of the water but none of the wind, which scoured the cave the whole night long. Sleep was all but impossible, and I did not wait for the dawn before setting off again as soon as the storm had ceased. I walked until sunrise, and then stopped and ate a bit of dried mutton and drank fresh rainwater from a pool in a rock.
    A great deal of seaweed