No, that was wrong. The Old Man didn't look like the desert. The Old Man would have nothing in common with such a large accumulation of dirt. He was a fisherman, a creature of the sea and as much a part of the sea as one of those weathered rocks that punctuated the harbor.
The old man looked up at his son's approach then let his attention settle back on the whittling.
"I'm here," Hort announced unnecessarily, adding, "sorry I'm late."
He cursed himself silently when that remark slipped out. He had been determined not to apologize, no matter what the Old Man said, but when the Old Man said nothing . . .
His father rose to his feet unhurriedly, replacing his knife in its sheath with a gesture made smooth and unconscious by years of repetition.
"Give me a hand with this," he said, bending to grasp one end of the boat.
Just that. No acceptance of the apology. No angry reproach. It was as if he had expected his reluctant assistant would be late.
Hort fumed about this as he grunted and heaved, helping to right the small boat and set it safely in the water. His annoyance with the whole situation was such that he was seated in the boat, accepting the oars as they were passed down from the dock, before he remembered that his father had been launching this craft for years without assistance. His son's inexpert hands could not have been a help, only a hindrance.
Spurred by this new irritation, Hort let the stern of the boat drift away from the dock as his father prepared to board. The petty gesture was in vain. The Old Man stepped into the boat, stretching his leg across the water with no more thought than a merchant gave his keys in their locks.
"Row that way," came the order to his son.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Hort bent to the task.
The old rhythms returned to him in mercifully few strokes. Once he had been glad to row his father's boat. He had been proud when he had grown enough to handle the oars himself. No longer a young child to be guarded by his mother, he had basked in the status of the Old Man's boy. His playmates had envied his association with the only fisherman on the dock who could consistently trap the elusive nya—the small schooling fish whose sweet flesh brought top price each afternoon after the catch was brought in.
Of course, that had been a long time ago. He'd wanted to learn about the Nya then—he knew less now; his memories had faded.
As Hort had grown, so had his world. He learned that away from the docks no one knew of the Old Man, nor did they care. To the normal citizens of Sanctuary he was just another fisherman and fishermen did not stand high in the social structure of the town. Fishermen weren't rich, nor did they have the ear of the local aristocrats. Their clothes weren't colorful like the S'danzo's. They weren't feared like the soldiers or mercenaries.
And they smelled.
Hort had often disputed this latter point with the street urchins away from the docks until bloody noses, black eyes and bruises taught him that fishermen weren't good fighters, either. Besides, they did smell.
Retreating to the safety of the dock community Hort found that he viewed the culture which had raised him with a blend of scorn and bitterness. The only people who respected fishermen were other fishermen. Many of his old friends were drifting away—finding new lives in the crowds and excitement of the city-proper. Those that remained were dull youths who found reassurance in the unchanging traditions of the fish-craft and who were already beginning to look like their fathers.
As his loneliness grew, it was natural that Hort used his money to buy new clothes which he bundled and hid away from the fish-tainted cottage they called home. He scrubbed himself vigorously with sand, dressed and tried to blend with the townsfolk.
He found the citizens remarkably pleasant once he had removed the mark of the fishing community. They were most helpful in teaching him what to do with his money. He acquired a circle of friends and spent more and more time away from home until . . .
"Your mother tells me you're leaving."
The Old Man's sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mental wanderings. In a flash he realized he had been caught in the trap his friends had warned him about. Alone in the boat with his father he would be a captive audience until the tide changed. Now he'd hear the anger, the accusations and finally the pleading.
Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in the past, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew would die if the Old Man were reducing to whining and begging.
"You've said it yourself a hundred times, Old Man," Hort pointed out with a shrug, "not everyone was meant to be a fisherman."
It came out harsher than he had intended, but Hort let it go without more explanations. Perhaps his father's anger would be stirred to a point where the conversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to his family and tradition.
"Do you think you can earn a living in Sanctuary?" the Old Man asked, ignoring his son's baiting.
"We . . . I won't be in Sanctuary," Hort announced carefully. Even his mother hadn't possessed this last bit of knowledge. "There's a caravan forming in town. In four days it leaves for the capital. My friends and I have been invited to travel with it."
"The capital?" Panit nodded slowly. "And what will you do in Ranke?"
"I don't know yet," his son admitted, "but there are ten jobs in Ranke for every one in Sanctuary."
The Old Man digested this in silence. "What will you use for money on this trip?" he asked finally.
"I had hoped . . . There's supposed to be a tradition in our family, isn't there? When a son leaves home his father gives him a parting gift. I know you don't have much, but . . ." Hort stopped; the Old Man was shaking his head in slow negation.
"We have less than you think," he said sadly. "I said nothing before, but your fine clothes, there, have tapped our savings; the fishing's been bad."
"If you won't give me anything, just say so!" Hort exploded angrily. "You don't have to rationalize it with a long tale of woe."
"I'll give you a gift," the Old Man assured him. "I only wanted to warn you that it probably would not be money. More to the left."
"I don't need your money," the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. "My friends have offered to loan me the necessary funds. I just thought it would be better not to start my new life in debt."
"That's wise," Panit agreed. "Slow now."
Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise. His oars trailed loose in the water.
"There's only one float!" he announced in dumb surprise.
"That's right," the Old Man nodded. "It's nice to know you haven't forgotten your numbers."
"But one float means . . ."
"One trap," Panit agreed. "Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still, having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap."
The Old Man's dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort's mind was racing as he reflexively maneuvered the boat into position by the float.
One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact number always varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hort known him to set less than ten traps. Of course the nya were an unpredictable fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is—they came readily to the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their random wanderings.
One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happened with any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catch until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and reputation he could do the same . . .
"Old Man!" The exclamation burst from Hort's lips involuntarily as he scanned the horizon.
"What is it?" Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.
"Where are the other boats?"
The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. "On the dock," he said brusquely. "You walked past them this morning."
"All of them?" he asked, bewildered. "You mean we're the only boat out today?"
"That's right."
"But why?"
"Just a minute . . . here!" Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it onto the boat. "Here's why."
The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were caved in and those that weren't dangled loose. If Hort hadn't been expecting to see a nya trap he wouldn't have recognized this as something other than a tangle of scrap wood.
"It's been like this for over a week!" the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity. "Traps smashed, nets torn. That's why those who call themselves fishermen cower on the land instead of manning their boats!" He spat noisily over the side of the boat.
Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?
"Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it's safe! Bah!"
Awed by the Old Man's anger, Hort turned the boat toward the shore. "What's doing it?" he asked.
There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought his question had gone unheard and was about to repeat it. Then he saw how deep the wrinkles on his father's face had become.
"I don't know," the Old Man murmured finally. "Two weeks ago I would have said I knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today . . . I just don't know."
"Have you reported this to the soldiers?"
"Soldiers? Is that what you've learned from your fancy friends? Run to the soldiers?" Panit fairly trembled with rage. "What do soldiers know of the sea? Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the water? Order the monster to go away? Collect a tax from it? Yes! That's it! If the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it'll swim away to keep from being bled dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!"
The Old Man spat again and lapsed into a silence that Hort was loath to break. Instead he spent the balance of the return journey mentally speculating about the trap-crushing monster. In a way he knew it was futile; sharper minds than his, the Old Man's for example, had tried and failed to come up with an explanation. There wasn't much chance he'd stumble upon it. Still, it occupied his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.
"Are we through for the day?" he asked. "Can I go now?"
"You can," the Old Man replied, turning a blank expression to his son. "Of course, if you do it might cause problems. The way it is now, if your mother asks me: ‘Did you take the boat out today?' I can say yes. If you stay with me and she asks: ‘Did you spend the day with the Old Man?' you can say yes. If, on the other hand, you wander off on your own, you'll have to say no when she asks and we'll both have to explain ourselves to her."
This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in the fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man was capable of hiding his activities from his wife with such a calculated web of half-truths, Close on the heels of his shock came a wave of intense curiosity regarding his father's plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his wife.
"I'll stay," Hort said with forced casualness. "What do we do now?"
"First," the Old Man announced as he headed off down the dock, "we visit the Wine Barrel."
The Wine Barrel was a rickety wharf-side tavern favored by the fishermen and therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker, Hort doubted the Old Man had ever before been inside the place, yet he led the way into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.
They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since childhood plus many he did not recognize. Even Haron, the only woman ever accepted by the fishermen, was there, though her round, fleshy and weathered face was scarcely different from the men's.
"Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?"
"There's an extra seat here."
"Some wine for the Old Man!"
"One more trap-wrecked fisherman!"
Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at his entrance. He held his stride until he reached the large table custom reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.
"I told you, you'd be here eventually," Omat greeted him, pushing the extra bench out with his long, thin leg. "Now, who's a coward?"
The Old Man acknowledged neither the jibe nor the bench, leaning on the table with both hands to address the veterans. "I only came to ask one question," he hissed. "Are all of you, or any of you, planning to do anything about whatever it is that's driven you from the sea?"
To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.
"What can we do?" Terci scowled. "We don't even know what's out there. Maybe it will move on . . ."
". . . And maybe it won't," the Old Man concluded angrily. "I should have known. Scared men don't think; they hide. Well, I've never been one to sit around waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now."
He kicked the empty bench away and turned toward the door only to find Hort blocking his way.
"What are you going to do?" Terci called after him.
"I'm going to find an answer!" the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his scorn. "And I'll find it where I've always found answers—in the sea; not at the bottom of a wine cup."
With that he strode out the door. Hort started to follow when someone called his name and he turned back.
"I thought that was you under those city clothes," Omat said without rancor. "Watch over him, boy. He's a little crazy and crazy people sometimes get killed before they get sane."
There was a low murmur of assent from those around the table. Hort nodded and hurried after his father. The Old Man was waiting for him outside the door.
"Fools!" he raged. "No money for a week and they sit drinking what little they have left. Pah!"
"What do we do now, Old Man?"
Panit looked around then snatched up a nya trap from a stack on the dock. "We'll need this," he said, almost to himself.
"Isn't that one of Terci's traps?" Hort asked cautiously.
"He isn't using it, is he?" the Old Man shot back. "And besides we're only borrowing it. Now, you're supposed to know this town, where's the nearest blacksmith?"
"The nearest? Well, there's a mender in the Bazaar, but the best ones are . . ."
The Old Man was off, striding purposefully down the street leaving Hort to hurry after him.
It wasn't a market-day; the bazaar was still sleepy with many stalls unopened. It was not necessary for Hort to lead the way as the sharp, ringing notes of hammer striking anvil were easily heard over the slow-moving shoppers. The dark giant plying the hammer glanced at them as they approached, but continued his work.
"Are you the smith?" Panit asked.
This earned them another, longer, look but no words. Hort realized the question had been ridiculous. A few more strikes and the giant set his hammer aside, turning his full attention to his new customers.
"I need a nya trap. One of these." The Old Man thrust the trap at the smith.
The smith glanced at the trap, then shook his head. "Smith; not carpenter," he proclaimed, already reaching for his hammer."I know that!" the Old Man barked. "I want this trap made out of metal."
The giant stopped and stared at his customers again, then he picked up the trap and examined it.
"And I'll need it today—by sundown."
The smithy set the trap down carefully. "Two silvers," he said firmly.
"Two!" the Old Man snorted. "Do you think you're dealing with the Kittycat himself? One."
"Two," the smithy insisted.
"Dubro!"
They all turned to face the small woman who had emerged from the enclosure behind the
forge.
"Do it for one," she said quietly. "He needs it."
She and the smithy locked eyes in a battle of wills, then the giant nodded and turned away from his wife.
"S'danzo?" the Old Man asked before the woman disappeared into the darkness from which she'd come.
"Half."
"You've got the sight?"
"A bit," she admitted. "I see your plan is unselfish but dangerous. I do not see the outcome—except that you must have Dubro's help to succeed."
"You'll bless the trap?"
The S'danzo shook her head. "I'm a seer, not a priest. I'll make you a symbol—the Lance of Ships from our cards—to put on the trap. It marks good fortune in sea-battles; it might help you."
"Could I see the card?" the Old Man asked.
The woman disappeared and returned a few moments later bearing the card which she held for Panit. Looking over his father's shoulder, Hort saw a crudely drawn picture of a whale with a metal-sheathed horn proceeding from its head.
"A good card," the Old Man nodded. "For what you offer—I'll pay the two silvers." She smiled and returned to the darkness, Dubro stepped forward with his palm extended. "When I pick up the trap," Panit insisted. "You needn't fear. I won't leave it to gather dust."
The giant frowned, nodded and turned back to his work.
"What are you planning?" Hort demanded as his father started off again. "What's this about a sea-battle?"
"All fishing is sea-battle," the Old Man shrugged.
"But, two silvers? Where are you going to get that kind of money after what you said in the boat this morning?"
"We'll see to that now."
Hort realized they weren't returning to town but heading westward to the Downwinder's hovels. The Downwinders or . . . "Jubal?" he exclaimed. "How're you going to get money from him? Are you going to sell him information about the monster?"
"I'm a fisherman, not a spy," the Old Man retorted, "and the problems of the fishermen are no concern of the land."
MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin Page 19