Bauma left the fur that he had given Jodrhik to sleep on, but any further skins he also kept to himself. He didn’t try to convince Jodhrik to hunt anymore.
Facing starvation with no further support from the beast-man, Jodhrik was forced to spend half his days foraging. He had seen the roots the beast-man had brought him, but had to figure out which plants they came from, which only came after extensive fruitless digging in the dirt near the camp. Fruit was easier, being readily available from trees near the beach, but Jodhrik did not eat well; despite being able to catch the occasional fish in the shallows, in the days following the incident Jodhrik had already begun to lose weight noticeably. It didn’t help that Bauma helped himself to any fruit or roots that Jodhrik had spent so much time foraging for. The beast-man seemed to lose all respect for the Proselyte thereafter, taking what he wanted from him, giving him nothing, and throwing him down or striking him with those huge, meaty fists whenever Jodhrik did anything that offended him, which was usually beyond the Proselyte’s comprehension.
Jodhrik’s work on the boat continued, grudgingly tolerated by the brutal dictator under whose rule he now dwelled. One day, when he had nearly completed tying together the last sticks of the main hull, Bauma walked slowly past him and his handiwork, examining the craft as if to determine if he wished to destroy it or not. Jodhrik held his breath, then, wondering if the beast-man would burn it or smash it, forcing them both to remain on the island until they died, with the beast-man as the perennial master and the Proselyte the eternal, private slave. But Bauma lost interest after a few moments and walked off, leaving Jodhrik to continue his work. It was going to be a long, difficult process to finish the craft, especially with poor food and no chance of help from the beast-man, and he didn’t even know if the craft would float, but he had no hope but to continue his work.
・
The other was acting strange and foolish. They had shared basic communication—how to call each other, how to tell when food is ready, and other such simple concepts—but it couldn’t understand anything else, and only yapped endlessly with its strange nonsense. No matter how he tried, the one he called with “Jarak” couldn’t seem to grasp other ideas, such as when to wake or when to go hunting.
He tried to drag the other hunting with him, but it wouldn’t follow. The other seemed recovered, but didn’t want to hunt, or even look for ground food; why not? Was it sick?
Maybe the other thought itself the leader, and expected him to hunt for it? The other was not very strong, and very quiet, except for its yipping sounds. He decided to show it that he was the leader, and it had to hunt if it wanted to eat. He wasn’t going to feed it forever, when it wasn’t even a young-bearer.
He went hunting that night; when he found one of the stupid horned ones, he broke its leg so it couldn’t run, then wrapped a skin around its head to quiet it down. It stopped screaming after he carried it for a time. When he got back to the camp, he let it go and woke up the other, handing him a spear. It was normally how to train young, but the other was stupid and weak like a young one.
The other didn’t kill it; he ran away. Bauma was angry—what good was the other if it didn’t hunt? He knocked the other down and made fighting noises to scare it, then motioned for it to get up and fight, but it curled into a ball like a very young one.
The other was sick; it couldn’t do anything. It was useless.
He killed the horned one and ate it. He didn’t let the other have any more meat; it was a waste.
He was sad and disappointed; he had believed that he and the other could be a pack, and maybe even find a female to make many young. But the other was sick, and all it had the strength for was to scratch for ground food, pick fruit, and play with sticks. He would have to let it die.
・ ・
The Spiral lit up the sky, a vast spread of stars and threads of light, with ominous clouds of darkness partially obscuring them. Jodhrik sat on a crag of rock that protruded above the tall, naked trees; the surf pounded the beach below him, and a cool breeze swept up from the water, rustled the treetops, and tickled the short hairs that had grown on his scalp. He didn’t know how long he had been marooned on the island with the beast-man; for that matter, he had no way of knowing how long he had been adrift at sea, rescued from drowning only at the whim of the “bungman” who had been so harshly treated by men before him. Why save him? He couldn’t have guessed.
The growth of his hair, at least, suggested that it had been tendays at least since he had scraped it. Which meant that autumn was well under way, and winter approaching; how cold would it get on the island? Would they be in danger of freezing on the sea, even if the boat did not break apart and drown them?
He hadn’t seen Bauma since nightfall; that was typical. Sometimes the beast-man would sit by the fire, poking at it and grunting to himself, occasionally laughing, then stopping suddenly and glancing at Jodhrik self-consciously. Once or twice he followed that up with a slap at the Proselyte’s head or shoulder, as if to punish him for mocking the beast-man, though he had done no such thing. The beast-man had become like an abusive parent, and it became Jodhrik’s daily goal to avoid his gaze in the hopes of being ignored.
A few times he caught himself wondering if he should leave Bauma on the island, and sail off into the unknown alone. The beast-man, however, was a much better fisherman, and that could become vital to survival once they left their safe refuge behind. Besides, Bauma had saved him and he could hardly not return the gesture.
He only hoped the fishing would be good—if they had no catch for days, might the beast-man begin to see him as potential food? He shuddered and chose not to think about it.
Jodhrik closed his eyes again, with the entirety of the universe hanging over him, and he opened himself to the Great Link. Always he called out to it, reached out through it, sought to touch those he knew and those he didn’t within its fabric. The Proselytes taught that the worthy ones would be accepted by the Great Link, and allowed to learn the secrets of existence, all questions answered as quickly as they were asked. It was taught that once, long past, the Proselytes had spoken across vast distances, knowing all that their companions knew, as the Great Link connected all together into one vast and supreme consciousness. And that this spirit, being of all people and things, revealed the deepest secrets to each who accessed it, allowing them to rise to glory and truth.
Now, on this remote island, cut off from all civilization and the support of his colleagues and teachers, Jodhrik reached out as fervently as he ever had, seeking the Link hopefully that he might touch his fellows through it.
As always, for Jodhrik and all who dwelled within the Sanctuary or followed its teachings, his search came up fruitless. The Great Link remained an enigma, hovering seemingly just out of reach. In his most desperate of times, he failed as he always did.
But this time, as he sighed with familiar frustration, what passed through his mind was more than stolid resolution to try even harder next time. He also wondered, in that moment before he stood to make his way back down to the beach, if the Lower Valley girl would possess the capacity to do more. With her focus, with her extraordinary ability to channel, could she do it? Could she, with enough training, do as no others had done in known history—could she reach the Great Link?
The thought filled him with resolve, and a new sense of urgency. He needed to ride his ramshackle boat across the sea and reach Somria. He needed to find the girl. He needed to instruct her in the ways of the Sanctuary. The future of his faith could very well hang in the balance. The future of the world could be defined by it!
Jodhrik didn’t sleep that night. Bauma returned, as he mostly did, well before sunrise with a dead animal, which he cooked on the fire and consumed himself without offering Jodhrik anything. The Proselyte, for once, didn’t find himself hungering for the meat; he had other things on his mind, and was satisfied with some of the fruit and dried fish he had stockpiled for the journey ahead. Bauma had eyed the stack of food Jodrh
ik had built up over the last two days since completing the boat, and had helped himself to some of it, to Jodhrik’s dismay, but most he left there on the Proselyte’s skins, for reasons unknown.
Could he know that they were leaving? Jodhrik doubted it.
When the sun came up, he saw that the day was perfect for departure, though there was little chance it wouldn’t be. The island was blessed with an ideal climate, most days sunny, breezy, and warm. Only occasionally, deep in the night, did a storm blow in, and those were mostly sudden, violent, and then over. He only hoped that they could avoid the storms at sea, or if hit by one, that they were less violent away from the island.
Bauma was sleeping, as expected, when Jodhrik went to his boat. It was a long, narrow, flat-bottomed skiff, with a pair of outriggers for stability; he didn’t expect those to withstand much, being made of simply long, thin sticks lashed together, but they should prevent the boat from overturning. He hadn’t managed a rudder of any sort either, so he hoped the outrigger would help to keep the boat straight; the rest would be done by paddling. He also didn’t expect Bauma to paddle, though the beast-man was often full of surprises.
Jodhrik had abandoned the idea of a sail. Skins were just too heavy, and he had no way to secure a standing mast. They would paddle to safety, relying on the wind and waves to help or at least not hinder them, or not at all.
Knowing exactly which way to head would be a blessing as well, but guesswork would have to do.
He checked the boat over one final time; it seemed seaworthy enough, though he had only tested it in brief paddles around the shallows. Lashing together sticks was no way to waterproof a hull; for that, he had smeared tree sap all over it, then covered it with strips of tree bark from a flakey tree that he found in a swampy area of the island. He had ended up lashing the craft again in the hopes of holding the bark tightly in place. He had originally planned to use animal skins to seal the hull, but Bauma had quickly eliminated the option, leaving Jodhrik nursing several bruises when he tried to take a few.
The boat seemed ready; as best as he could make it, anyway. He gathered up the food stockpile in his sleeping skin and carried it to the boat, placing it carefully in the bow, firmly wrapped. Then he dug his feet in, seizing the boat by the bow, and dragged it forward. It slid easily across the beach and into the water and floated promisingly, stable on its two outriggers in the waves. Then he went back to the campsite and squatted by the smoking embers of the fire.
“Bauma,” he said.
The beast-man didn’t react, sleeping soundly.
“Bauma,” he said again, loudly.
The beast-man sighed, then rolled over away from him, grumbling and waving a hand at him.
“Bauma, wake up,” he said firmly. “Wake up.”
The beast-man took in a deep breath, and sighed, then rolled back over and into a half-sitting position, with one leg tucked under him. He stared at Jodhrik with bleary eyes under his deep, shadowed brow.
Jodhrik pointed at the boat, floating on the water. The beast-man looked at it, then back at Jodhrik, then grunted.
Jodhrik pointed at himself, and at Bauma, then at the boat.
The beast-man frowned at him, shaking his head, and grunted.
Jodhrik repeated the gesture; Bauma shook his head again, expressing irritation, then growled at him and lay back down, rolling to face away from the Proselyte.
Jodhrik sighed; he had hoped the beast-man would understand, but he had half expected this. He stood and walked down to the water, wading out into the warm surf, then grabbed on to the boat and rolled in over the rail. The craft creaked and twisted, then stabilized. He sat up and looked back at Bauma where he lay.
“Bauma!” he called out. When the beast-man looked up, he waved from his seated position on the floor of the boat. There was, he noted, a bit of water leaking in at the bottom of the hull. Hopefully it would not get worse; at its current rate, he could easily bail it out with his hands.
Bauma stood and walked to the water, standing in the sand two paces from the waves. He had his head cocked to the side and was frowning, obviously considering what the Proselyte had done.
Jodhrik produced a paddle—he had created a pair, after much deliberation and experimentation, from a bundle of sticks lashed together with part of a boar’s skull—and stroked at the water, moving the craft forward. He waved at Bauma and beckoned him towards the boat. “Bauma! Bauma!”
The beast-man shook his head slowly, and squatted down in the sand, watching Jodhrik paddle across in front of him. Waves tilted the craft side to side as the outriggers twisted it back and forth, and Jodhrik worried that they might snap with the pressure, but he didn’t show his concern to Bauma. He smiled and laughed, as if he had found the most wonderful game imaginable, then dragged the paddle in the water to slow and turn the boat, and paddled back the other way.
Still Bauma sat on the beach, frowning at him. Jodhrik beckoned him to get in the boat again, but received no response other than the deep-furrowed stare.
After he paddled back and forth several times, with no response at all from Bauma, Jodhrik decided it was time to try something more ambitious. He turned the boat away from the mountain at the island’s heart, and paddled in the direction of the open sea, using the shadow of the great conical mountain to point the way he hoped led to Somria; west by northwest.
When he had paddled about a hundred paces, he looked back at Bauma; the beast-man was standing again now, by the looks of it in ankle-deep water. Jodhrik shaded his eyes looking back at him, and waved again, then beckoned him. Bauma didn’t respond for a moment, then he waved back, and returned the gesture, beckoning the Proselyte to return to the beach.
Jodhrik turned the skiff and paddled slowly back in the direction of the beach—he hoped the wait would make Bauma more eager. He noted the beast-man watching him through the entire long approach; he didn’t go all the way in, though, but stopped just outside where the waves began to break.
He beckoned and called to Bauma again, pointing at the stern, and held up the second paddle.
The beast-man stood there for a long moment, watching him. Then he strode out into the waves, splashed through the breakers, and began to clumsily swim in the direction of the boat.
Success! Jodhrik had been uncertain if he’d convince the beast-man to try the boat; he assumed Bauma could swim well enough, else he’d not have saved Jodhrik, but all land creatures had an innate fear of the water, and the deep sea was the most frightening and unknown.
Bauma swam strangely but with strength and purpose, and he reached the craft quickly, taking ahold of its rail and pulling himself up as soon as he made it. Jodhrik, prepared for the craft to shift, leaned the other way to take some of the pressure off the outriggers. The beast-man was terrifically strong, and easily pulled himself over the rail, which flexed dangerously. He tried to squat uncertainly on the floor of the boat’s hull, then noticed Jodhrik’s seated position and quickly emulated it.
Jodhrik handed him a paddle; Bauma laughed when he saw the skull lashed to its end, but took it. The Proselyte didn’t try to explain to Bauma, he just turned around and started paddling. After a while he glanced back and saw that the beast-man was paddling too.
Success number two, Jodhrik said to himself with a smile as he faced forward again. Now for the difficult part.
Their journey had begun.
25 GALLORD-SMIT
Rena was accustomed to having servants. She didn’t expect Gallord-Smit to do everything for her, and even made a noticeable effort to generously perform certain services for him, such as laying out his clothes, brushing his boots, shaving him, and rubbing his shoulders, but her survival skills were minimal at best. It was fortunate that the lush provinces along the coast were heavily populated, in an almost continuous band by wealthy agricultural landowners similar to her own family. If they hadn’t been, Gallord-Smit would have had to undergo the process of instructing her in the art of camping—a dubious undertaking at best. A
s it was, she swept into every tavern, inn, vineyard, and hostel expecting the proprietors to instantly cater to her every whim, which, of course, they did as soon as they saw her family crest. Lodging was, to Gallord-Smit’s surprise, always free, but Rena more than made up for that cost savings by generously spreading tips and gifts to servers, cooks, washer-women, guards, and everyone else she came into contact with.
Gallord-Smit had no doubt that she would run out of coin very quickly; he had seen the modest coin purse she brought with her, and it was not large enough to withstand her lavish generosity. He expressed his concerns to her, but she refused to listen, labeling his worries “base and provincial”. Despite his being sold to her as a slave, since he was a military officer she viewed him as a member of the elite class, and expected him to be accordingly unconcerned with monetary matters.
On the positive (and considerably more frugal) side, he was pleased to discover a tradition among the wealthy elite in Somria’s east; the palliate. This practice involved dropping in unannounced at any sizeable estate—they bypassed several that Rena described as “private estates”, and stopped in only at those she said were “landowners”; he didn’t understand the difference, other than the size of the property and apparent comparative wealth of the owner, though even that definition seemed vague.
Nearing the end of a day’s travel, if they came upon an estate she designated as belonging to a landowner, Rena would ride straight in through the gates and up to the guesthouse, where servants prostrated themselves in welcome and showered them in luxury. They would spend the night and the next morning being positively pampered, with hot baths and massages (Gallord-Smit politely refused the offer of young females—or males—for his pleasure, seeing Rena do the same), fine foods (and oh, the wines!), and full laundry and maintenance of their personal items and their horses. They would then ride out the next day at casual light—Rena would refuse in such circumstances to depart early, insisting it would appear “overly ambitious”—without having every met the landowners, to Gallord-Smit’s disappointment. He had considered, once he had half-grudgingly accepted Rena joining him in the journey, that she could well prove to be a great boon in achieving his goals of stopping the war and saving Lord Perrile. With her leading the way, he might be able to discreetly gain audience with powerful members of Somria’s elite and, with luck, convince some of them that Sherzi was out of control and stirring up a conflict that would hurt them all where they could least afford it—in their purses. Pressure from the nation’s wealthy might make the Overlord think twice about supporting Sherzi in his warmongering ways; after all, he who directs armies must pay them.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 28