They came to the river in the unreal half-light that comes as night is beginning to yield to day. First it was only a line of deeper darkness against lighter, but as they approached they saw it broaden even as its noise grew to thunderous proportions—not a roaring anymore, but a crunching and grinding. Coming closer, they stared in disbelief, for they saw a jumbled stream of rocks of all sizes, from boulders to pebbles, ail turning against one another, over and over as they rolled on like a river swollen with springtime rain.
Anthony stared at it, aghast. “If there is any water in there, it would be death to dip for it!”
“Very true,” Panyat said, “but there is moisture trapped beneath the stones, and if you dig a hole in the bank, it will fill with enough for a mouthful now and then. I saw the traders drink thus while they waited to cross.”
“Waited to cross?” Balkis asked. “Did they not see a ford or a bridge?”
“There is none, for shallow or deep, the turning rocks would grind you to meal,” Panyat said, “and none could build a bridge, for the pilings that hold it up would be swept away in minutes. For three days in the week it flows, casting up stones both great and small, and carries with it also wood to the sandy sea—but on the fourth day the river slows, then stills. Then we may cross it.”
Balkis gazed out over the turning stones. “So we must wait three days?”
Panyat shrugged. “Perhaps three, perhaps one—perhaps even tomorrow the river will stop. Who knows on which of those three days we have come?”
As the day brightened, Balkis saw how the grinding rocks could carry wood—whole tree trunks slid along on its surface, the stones rolling beneath them. Following their course with her gaze, she saw the end of the river—the place where the huge stream of rocks and wood poured into the sandy sea, the stones and wood disappearing into the sand.
“Yonder is its ending!” Balkis pointed. “Can we not simply walk around itV
“Nay, Balkis. You can see how the stones sink into the sand, how it swallows them up. It is a quicksand, and no one knows how far it extends.”
“Do we have to cross the river at all?”
“Yes, for the land of Prester John is on the other side—far on the other side. This side leads only into more wasteland.”
“A drink!” Anthony rose from kneeling beside a foot-wide hole, flourishing his waterskin triumphantly; it bulged very slightly at the bottom. He presented it to Balkis as though it were a treasure, which indeed it was.
“Many thanks, sweet fellow,” she said, and upended the skin, letting a mouthful trickle past her lips. Then, with a supreme effort of will, she handed it back to Anthony.
He took and drank, too, afterward pushing the skin back into the hole he had dug. Looking out over the river, clear now in dawn's light, he said, “Can it be that all the sand of this sea has come from these rocks grinding themselves to powder as they flow?”
“Perhaps,” Panyat said, “though I should think it would take a great many such rivers, and this is the only one of its kind in all the world—or so say the traders.”
As the day brightened, Anthony's little well slaked their thirst a mouthful at a time; then he set himself to filling both waterskins. As he waited, Anthony scouted along the river-bank and gathered small branches and other bits of wood that had broken off the rolling trunks and been carried to the sides. As he stacked kindling and small sticks to build a fire, Balkis set out the baskets one last time. As Panyat had said, it was too shallow for good fishing, but they did catch several small sandfish and made one last meal of the savory creatures. Then Balkis and Anthony buried the butts of their branches in the sand and stretched their cloaks over the improvised frame to give them shelter from the sun.
They napped in the afternoon, sleeping peacefully in spite of the noise of the river—they had grown so used to it that it troubled them not at all.
The ant was faint with hunger; even for an ant, there was little to eat amidst the sand dunes. It had slowed to half its normal speed but kept plodding on as long as daylight lasted. Its thirst was raging; it had lost the humans' scent, but doggedly pushed ahead, sure it would find them. Poor insect, it could not know that it had strayed, that its path had curved amidst the shifting dunes, that it was far from their route of march.
Its antennae quivered; ahead, it detected moisture. Energy flowed, and it moved toward the source, if not with its old speed, at least faster than it had been going.
It came to an oasis and sped toward the water, ignoring the palm trees, the birds, the lizards that fled as the ant's acrid scent reached them, ignoring everything but the scent of water. It was a brackish pond, but it was wet, and the ant drank deeply. Finally, its thirst assuaged, it became aware of the pang of hunger again, and turned to seek the scent of living things.
They were all around it, six times as tall as it was, and all of them carried clubs.
Among the things the ant had ignored was the skin tents that circled the oasis, for it was home to a clan of humans— but rather strange humans, for their shoulders were level and uninterrupted by necks or heads. Instead, faces looked out of their chests, huge eyes just beneath the collarbones, mouths just beneath their rib cages. The women with babies in their arms stayed back by the tents, waiting curiously for the rest of the clan to deal with the little intruder. All the rest, men and women alike, gathered about the creature, raising clubs.
The ant ignored the clubs; all it knew was the scent of flesh. It charged the nearest of the men, then swerved at the last second to attack the woman beside him. Three clubs smashed into the earth behind it. The woman screamed in anger and swung; the ant shied in the nick of time, and the club pounded sand right in front of it. It leaped onto the wood and ran its length, then up the arm that held it, knowing how to deal with these soft creatures, for had it not killed the anteater-man and the uniped with a single clash of its huge mandibles? It scurried to the shoulder and reached out to bite…
But there was no neck.
Shouts rang in its ears as something struck its abdomen, knocking it from the woman's shoulders and sending it spinning through the air. It landed on its feet, though, and turned to charge back.
A dozen clubs pounded at it.
The ant danced, managing to avoid all the blows except the one that crushed the tip of one antenna. Even for a live eating machine like itself, the danger was obvious, and it turned and ran. The people ran after it, shouting and slamming clubs every time they came near. Having been revived by the water, however, the ant outstripped them and shot out into the desert.
Something struck it, and it fell to the side, then rolled and came to its feet again, not even stopping to look but running and running from these horrible creatures that did not die when they should. At last the clan's shouting diminished behind it.
The companions woke in late afternoon, drank, ate the last of the sandfish, and sat about trading tales again, then fell asleep for the night.
Balkis woke suddenly and looked about, wondering what had wakened her. She saw Anthony and Panyat likewise sitting up, blinking in puzzlement. The rosy hues of dawn made even the river of stones lovely, the rocks seeming to glow.
“What wakened us?” Anthony asked.
His voice seemed unnaturally loud, and Balkis suddenly knew the answer. “Silence woke us! The river has stopped!”
They turned to look, and sure enough, the stones had stopped turning. All three shouted with delight. They made a quick breakfast, tied their branches to their packs, left their sand-skis for anyone who might want to travel southward, and set out to cross the river of stones.
“Step carefully,” Panyat warned. “One or two might turn beneath your feet, and even those that hold still may be uncertain footing.”
Uncertain indeed, as Balkis discovered—she had thought it would be like crossing a brook on stepping-stones, but such stones had been flattened by long use, and these were all rounded from their grinding. They pressed painfully against the soles of her slippers, all
the more because the long journey had worn those soles thin. She tried one large step, skipping a rock in between, and cried out with alarm, arms windmilling. Anthony instantly turned back and caught her wrist, steadying her enough so that she caught her balance— but he threw himself off and tumbled gracelessly to the stones. Balkis cried out and stooped to help him up.
He cast a rueful glance at her, then brushed himself off, avoiding her gaze. “It is not as easy as it seems.”
“Not at all,” Balkis agreed. “Pardon me for slowness, but I think I shall mince my way across.”
So she did, stopping on only one stone at a time and making sure both feet were secure before she stepped to the next—or as secure as they could be on a rounded surface; she teetered each time, but caught her balance, then stepped on. Finally, though, one stone turned beneath her foot, and she cried out as she slipped and fell.
Again Anthony was beside her in an instant, lifting her to her feet—but pain stabbed through her ankle, and she caught her breath to stifle a scream.
“Carefully, then,” Anthony said. “Lean on me, and hop with the good foot. Hold the other high.”
“Be wary,” she told him. “I do not wish you to be hurt, too”
But he wasn't, not until they were within ten feet of the northern bank. Then he stepped over a small pile of rocks, a sort of granite wave, and as he put both feet past it, one stone fell, crashing down at his heel. To escape it, Anthony stepped more quickly than he should have and fell with a cry of surprise. Balkis hauled back on his arm, almost upsetting herself, and cried with pain as her injured foot touched rock.
“Can you rise?” she asked.
“I think so.” But Anthony spoke through stiff lips, his face white and strained. He shoved himself to his feet—then cried out and fell to his knees.
Panyat was there, though, shoving a shoulder under Anthony's and keeping his fall from having too rough a landing. “You must both lean on me now,” he told them. “Come, it is only a few yards more.”
That was how they finished the crossing, bracing themselves on Panyat's shoulders, which turned out to be just the right height. As they stepped onto the hard ground of the northern bank, they sank down with sighs of relief.
“I had not thought it would be so hard to cross a waterless river when it v/as still,” Anthony admitted.
“Thank Heaven we did not have to try when it moved!” Balkis said.
They rested a little while, then pushed themselves to their feet and turned to look northward—and stared in dismay.
There were no dunes here, nor even very much sand—only hardpacked ground, bright here and there with salt-pans. There was actually plant life, but only outcrops of thorny brush, dry now but ready to bloom if rain came.
It had been a very long time since that happened.
The river of stones twisted across that wasteland, miles and miles to a distant range of mountains from which it flowed.
Anthony shuddered. “How could there ever have been life here?”
“There is water,” Panyat told him, “but it flows deep under the ground.”
“We cannot drink it when it is hidden,” Balkis said in despair.
Anthony, scanning the landscape with narrowed eyes, remarked, “Perhaps there is a way to climb down to it—how else would people know it is there?”
Balkis searched, too, hope resurgent, before shaking her head sadly. “I see no cave, nor any other way to journey downward.”
“Nonetheless, there is such,” Panyat told them. “Let us each gather a few pieces of driftwood, for if we can find that stream, we may be able to ride it.”
Balkis shuddered. “I have no wish to climb out among those stones again—nor will my ankle stand it!”
“Nor shall it have to,” Panyat returned. “The smaller branches are torn off the trees and cast up on the banks.” He proved his point by bringing each of them a driftwood staff. Leaning on them, they each managed to find a few good-sized branches about five feet long lying by the banks. They dragged them as Panyat led the way along a winding track, barely discernible in the hard-packed earth, to the lee of a huge boulder—and there, to their surprise, they saw a cave, a scooped-out declivity whose bottom lay below the ground.
Panyat took the sticks and tossed them in. They fell with a clatter that seemed to go on a long time, and Balkis paled. “How are we to descend so far?”
“Very carefully,” Panyat answered, “especially with those turned ankles. But the way is easy enough, though rough.”
They followed him into the cave, stepping down gingerly— and discovered a sort of staircase probing deep into the earth, made of slabs of rock and shelves of shale. The height of the steps was uneven, their depth varied from a few inches to several feet, and Balkis asked, as she sat down to descend a particularly high step, “Did people build this?”
“I think not,” said Panyat. “Even the ancients would have made it more even. I would guess that the gods made this staircase and cared little about human convenience—but it will take us down to the stream. Be glad we will not have to climb back up laden with waterskins, as did the traders who showed me this.”
Balkis shuddered at the thought, and was very glad indeed.
The stairs curved slowly in a great, uneven spiral, and the sunlight stayed with them almost to the bottom, though it became gray and dim. Finally Panyat encountered their driftwood and sent it clattering farther down—but before he did, he broke off a two-foot limb and asked Anthony, “Can you light this with your flint and steel?”
“Gladly.” Anthony took some tow from his pack, struck sparks into it, nursed the flame to life, then held the tip of the branch in until fire caught firmly. Stamping out the tow, he gave the branch to Panyat, who held it high as he led the way down.
They followed into a darkness lit only by the torch. It gleamed on the stone walls about them—there wasn't much space to light, really. After a few minutes, they heard a gurgling sound, which grew louder as the daylight faded. Then, suddenly, the walls fell away and the torchlight glowed alone in the darkness—but at their feet, it showed them a shelf of rock and the winking turbulent mass of a flowing river.
Panyat stepped forward and the torch lit the curve of a tunnel overhead—only ten feet high at the midpoint, no doubt gnawed out by the stream itself. Stone icicles hung from it here and there, glittering in the torchlight. They could see that it was more of a brook than a river, perhaps twelve feet wide but flowing quickly.
“So this is an underground stream.” Anthony's voice was hushed, awed.
Balkis knew how he felt. There was something of the feel of a church in the solitude of the place, but something more of the awe of the underworld; she half expected to see Charon poling his boat toward them to take them into Hades. She shuddered at the thought and spoke briskly. “Well, we shall not lack for drink—but I thirst.” She knelt by the bank—with difficulty, leaning on her staff—dipped up a handful of water and drank. The water was icy cold and tasted of the rocks through which it ran, but it was infinitely refreshing. “Shall we bother filling our waterskins?”
“Let us wait until we have come to the end of the river.” Anthony turned to Panyat. “The ledge runs the whole course of the stream, does it not?”
“I know not,” the Pytanian said, “for I have not yet followed it.”
“Yet?” Balkis echoed him.
“It seems a more pleasant way to travel than slogging through the wasteland,” Panyat offered, “at least, as long as our torches last.”
“Well, we have brought enough wood to last us several days,” Anthony said judiciously. “I presume, though, that we are going to make a boat of most of it.”
“That was my thought, yes,” Panyat said.
“I mislike journeying into darkness when I know not what awaits me,” Balkis said, her voice hollow.
“Oh, the river rises past the mountains,” Panyat told her. “We know where it goes—but we also know it is the only water between the sa
ndy sea and the foothills. If we had camels to carry bags and bags of water, why, we might manage—but since we have only our own legs …”
“And two of them are injured,” Anthony finished for him. “I see your wisdom, Panyat. Well, let us set about lashing these sticks together.” He took the coil of rope out of his pack.
Anthony was clever with his knots, and had clearly done this often. Bound together, the driftwood made a raft that was just big enough to carry them all safely. Anthony crouched, holding onto the raft, and said, “Climb aboard now, and we will be on our way.”
Balkis bridled. “Why should you be the one to hold it?”
“Because the last one aboard may fall in,” Anthony said, “and cats do not like wetting.”
Balkis smothered a laugh and took a playful swipe at his head as she stepped aboard. The raft teetered under her alarmingly, and she quickly sat down. She loved a bath in her human form, but not when the water was icy cold.
Panyat came after her, puzzled. “Why should you care if a cat does not like to be dampened?”
“I have a deep affection for them,” Balkis explained, and wondered if she should tell Panyat about her other life. He might run in fright, though, so she decided not.
Sure enough, when Anthony made to climb aboard, the raft, no longer anchored to the shelf, moved faster than he did, and in he went with a splash.
“Anthony!” Balkis cried, but he clambered aboard, grinning, while the echoes repeated his name as they faded. “Only wet to the knees,” he assured her. “The water is shallow here.”
“Thank Heaven for that!” Balkis pulled his feet into her lap. “Come, off with those wet boots!”
“I can fend for myself,” Anthony protested.
“But would not!” She peeled his boots off and wrapped his lower legs in her cloak. “I prefer a traveling companion who has not lost his feet to frostbite, thank you!”
Panyat gasped, and the two of them turned to look ahead— then caught their breaths in wonder.
The torchlight waked a thousand points of light in the roof and walls of the tunnel, the glitter of mica flakes, the glint of sapphire and emerald, the glow of ruby. They sailed through a multihued world surrounded by garnets, opals, carbuncles, topazes, chrysolites, onyxes, beryls, sardonyxes, and even, here and there, the pure white gleam of diamonds.
The Feline Wizard Page 23