The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘Exactly,’ Steven said, ‘and that’s also why we don’t want to disturb them. Anything fluid left inside those skin cases will stink to high heaven, and we’ll have all kinds of company in our little camp this evening.’

  ‘I get your point,’ Gilmour said, and crossed to the sailboat, which was also right where they had left it. He brushed a covering of fallen leaves off the bow and started to scoop more out from beneath the gunwales. There were a handful of empty beer cans inside as well; he tossed these into the brush beside the Seron corpses.

  ‘And now you’re a litterbug,’ Steven joked wryly. ‘Still, it looks seaworthy enough, doesn’t it?’ he added, peering at the hull. ‘It’s the sail I’m worried about. If we stowed it wet, it might have rotted a bit in the past Twinmoon.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’ Gilmour grabbed hold of the transom and began pulling. The wooden hull had frozen to the ground in several places, but a mumbled incantation melted the ice and soon Mark’s little catboat was crunching and sliding over the smooth rocks and into the fjord, making Steven wince every time the hull grated over a stone.

  ‘We never thought about tar or patch lumber,’ he muttered. ‘What if the damned thing leaks?’

  ‘Then we will have a significantly more damp and chilly journey than we expected, I imagine.’

  They reached the water’s edge and Steven untied the bits of twine keeping the sail reefed and the dropped mast secure.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gilmour asked. ‘We still have two days.’

  ‘We’re going to take her out, just to see if she’ll stay afloat.’

  ‘Ah, excellent idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Funny, but no.’

  Later, with the sailboat running west along the fjord, Steven fixed the main sheet, checked and re-checked the tiller, then moved forward on his hands and knees, inspecting every inch of the hull for cracks, leaks or patches of rot. Gilmour huddled in the stern, swaddled in his cloak, smoking, content to watch as the grey and black granite walls rolled by.

  ‘Tell me about the archipelago,’ Steven said at last. ‘Do we stand any chance at all of reaching Pellia intact?’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Gilmour said, ‘With a northern Twinmoon, the high tides will give us ample depth. The main route through the islands will be busy; a few days either side of this Twinmoon is the only time a heavy ship with a deep draft can reach Pellia, so there’ll be plenty of traffic, merchant and navy. The rest of the time merchants make the long and more dangerous journey from Westport or Port Denis – when there was a Port Denis – and Northport, the closest major shipping centre to the Malakasian capital. Lots of small vessels move in and out of the archipelago any time they choose, but I do mean small – a tall person who knows the channels could just about walk from Pellia to Gorsk when the tides are low. Getting a big ship through there is dangerous, but luckily we’re going at just the right time.’

  ‘Assuming Garec and Kellin manage to hire us a boat,’ Steven said, still on his knees.

  ‘If they didn’t, then as this little boat has almost no draft at all we’d sail through without a scrape.’

  ‘Sure, if we don’t freeze to death or capsize on the way. Mark and I were in Estrad for the southern Twinmoon. It was our first day in Eldarn and I remember the winds vividly. If the northern Twinmoon is anything like that, I really don’t want to be out on the water in this bit of kindling.’

  ‘I do understand,’ Gilmour said, ‘but given the circumstances, we might not have a choice.’

  Steven sighed. ‘So what’s the main passage like?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that tricky,’ Gilmour said nonchalantly. ‘The only captains who lose their ships in the archipelago are those in a great hurry to reach Pellia. They spot what they believe to be a deep passage west and run aground a few avens later. It’s a maze of twists and turns in there, and many wrecks litter the shallows. There’s no place for them to sink, so they break apart, leaving bits jutting up above the water. It’s quite unnerving to see if you haven’t been through before. They look like skeletons, some wearing sheets, all crippled by the wind and the rocks.’

  A waft of pipe smoke drifted past Steven; it smelled sweet, familiar. Gilmour said, ‘A safe, deep-water channel runs northeast during this Twinmoon, and if you know it, or you have a good chart, you can make it through, but it feels wrong because you have to run far east before you turn southwest and run downwind into Pellia.’

  Steven watched the sail fill as they moved towards the next bend in the fjord’s serpentine passage. ‘If Mark left Orindale for Pellia, and with that wave he sent for us, we have to assume he did, but if he’s travelling in a heavy ship with a deep draft, he’ll have to take the long way through.’

  ‘The only way through.’ Gilmour punctuated this point with his pipe stem.

  ‘The only way for a deep-drafting ship, a frigate or maybe a galleon, certainly. But what if we did make the run up there in this thing, could we take a short-cut?’

  ‘In this? We could, but we’d never catch him. I can see where you’re going, but a frigate or a galleon, they’ve enough sail on them to capture a typhoon. They might be bigger and heavier, but they’re much too fast for us, even with our magic. We’d probably survive the crossing; I’m not worried about that. We have enough power between us to get there in one piece. But even conjuring up a Larion tailwind, we’d never overtake Mark.’

  Steven looked downcast. ‘I guess you’re right. And if we use magic, we’re just inviting him to crush us with another surprise from the bowels of that spell table. It was just a thought. I’d have liked to get there before he does.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Steven crept aft, careful not to rock them; he didn’t feel up to bailing icy seawater. ‘I’ll give Mark credit: he did a good job patching this tub together. There’s not a leak or a bit of rot that I can find, and the sheet seems to be in good shape.’

  ‘It’ll be a shame to abandon it out there.’

  Steven took a bit of the old cloth between his fingers. ‘So you think they’ll be there?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Ever the optimist, Gilmour. That’s a good trait.’

  ‘I try.’ Gilmour shifted the tiller and released the sheet, crying out, ‘Jibing.’

  ‘Ducking,’ Steven replied, suiting actions to words.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ Gilmour set a course for their camp, re-fixed the sail and re-lit his pipe.

  ‘Not a blessed thing,’ Steven replied, ‘unless you’ve got more than an unending supply of tobacco hidden in that cloak. Let’s hope Garec and Kellin hired a ship with a five-star galley. We’re going to need it.’

  The Gloriette pool tilted, righted itself and then tilted the opposite way. Mark hung on to the marble column, expecting the ground beside the rectangular coping to do the same. It didn’t. He listened to the water slam into the far end of the marble tub, then slosh right and bounce back out of the darkness. It went on that way for a while, as if someone had balanced the whole lot on a see-saw.

  The screaming started as a faint wail in the distance and rose in volume and intensity, then broke. Mark knew it was human; the high-pitched cry was interrupted only by frantic gulping for breath, then the scream modulated from a piercing shriek to a staccato of noisy panting shouts.

  Ah, welcome, Redrick. Nice to have you with us.

  The lights came up, dim at first and then bright enough to see the remains of the coral snake coiled in the mud, the rectangular pool, still sloshing back and forth, the marble columns, the coping and the arched bridge leading up the marshy slope to freedom. Distracted by the light and the brief opportunity to take everything in, Mark ignored the familiar voice; he even ignored the screaming.

  ‘Hello, jerkweed,’ he said to the snake, ‘how’s your head, still crushed?’

  The serpent sentry lifted what was left of its head and attempted to hiss at him. It was decomposing in the humidity. Mark kicked the rotting snake i
nto the pool, though he knew the ghoulish creature would be back.

  Mark?

  He moved to the next column. The snake was swimming after him, though it was struggling; he had broken many of its bones. He listened out for anything approaching through the foliage, but all he could hear were the cries of another soul damned to Hell – what did he say, Roderick? Rhetoric? He tiptoed across the coping and dashed for the next column in line. The lights were still on, and the marble bridge was only three columns away. ‘Three left,’ he muttered, ‘and then I’m coming for you.’

  I’ve got you a present.

  He wiped sweat from his face and checked his snakebites. The one he could see, on his wrist, was oozing a thick, pasty substance. He squeezed at the inflamed area around the punctures and frowned when a tablespoon of milky foulness spilled over the back of his hand. It had the consistency of hardening glue and smelled of summer gangrene, but once rid of the tapioca pus, the punctures ran freely with blood, cleansing themselves. Though he couldn’t see as well, Mark endeavoured to repeat the procedure on his leg. He didn’t feel sick or woozy or about to puke, nor did he feel his temperature rising, although any change would have been difficult to sense in this swampy heat.

  Are you ignoring me?

  Yup.’

  But I’ve brought you something.

  ‘You mentioned that. It’s not a cheeseburger and a couple of cold beers, is it? Because that’s tops on my Christmas list these days. Otherwise, blow me.’

  I’ll show you.

  A black man, stripped to the waist and screaming in unholy terror, floated by in the pool. It sounded like all his nightmares were being realised, everything that had ever frightened him: the dark, the creature that haunted the woods outside town, the rainbow-coloured snake in the grass, it was all here. Mark had no idea if their new resident was seeing and feeling the same things, but he didn’t doubt that whatever held the sorry sod in its grip was unpleasant. He held fast to the third column from the bridge and watched the newcomer slip into the darkness of the other place. It was worse in there, like being trapped inside a stone.

  So what do you think?

  ‘I think you’re a sick bastard,’ he said, checking the brush in hopes of catching sight of whatever might be waiting for him. ‘What did that guy ever do to you? Did he bang your wife? Steal your lunch money? What?’

  I told you, Mark. He’s a present.

  ‘What do I want with him?’

  Come on. I’ll show you.

  A feeling of mild vertigo set him spinning as Mark felt the cool marble become insubstantial and waxy. Worried he might get trapped by the wrists, he backed away, checking for the snake and feeling the world upend. He tumbled backwards into the damp mire, watching as the giant tumorous tadpoles swam hurriedly after the newcomer.

  ‘Christ Almighty, they’re going to eat him,’ he shouted, and tried to roll into the pool, hoping to grab a few of the tadpoles and toss them into the swamp, where maybe they’d be eaten. But before he could move, the lights came up, brilliant yellow, and the air cooled.

  He was lying on his bed. Steven was in the kitchen and the aroma of fresh coffee was snaking its way up the stairs. It was morning in the Rockies; the winter sun, unbearably bright at this time of day, had broken through the window to blind him. He revelled in the familiarity of things he knew by touch: the cool side of the pillow, the flannel blanket, the clean woollen socks, dry on his feet. Mark rolled over and pulled a bit of blanket between his knees; he didn’t know how anyone slept with their knees knocking together. Outside the wind brushed the ponderosas, singing a song unmistakable to anyone who had ever been in the mountains. There was no more perfect place on Earth than the Colorado hills.

  He tried to go back to sleep; his department chair could find someone to cover first period. What was it? The Stamp Act? Anyone could fake that – hell, the kids could read the chapter and talk about it on their own. No one would begrudge him a few extra minutes of sleep. Didn’t they know what he’d been through, following Steven Taylor on a doomed quest to save a foreign world? Didn’t that merit an extra two or three minutes of snooze?

  But there were things out of place, even in the shambled disarray of his bedroom. He knew when something wasn’t right. On the far wall, between the closet and his old poster of Roger Clemens, was a shelf. The clock, the paperbacks, the old baseball and the pocketknife all belonged up there, but that snake did not. It was slithering through the one-size-fits-all strap on the back of a Denver Broncos hat, its tiny orange rings matching the Bronco hue exactly. Its head had been crushed and its slippery skin was rotting away: it looked as though it had been run over by a car.

  And the green sweatshirt on the wall, that might have been there before; Mark had gone to college in Fort Collins, but this looked too large for him – and it had been shot full of arrows. He tried to think of anyone from Fort Collins who might have been shot to death by an archer. A voice, thick with beer and stupidity, clamoured in his head and then was gone. She’s the one with the nigger coach from Idaho Springs. Oh, yeah, I hear great things about him too. He was tough in his day.

  ‘Who said that?’ Mark sat up, wanting to be angry but still too groggy, a little behind the beat.

  I told you I had a present for you.

  ‘What? Do I get to stay here at home? Great, thank you. I’ll remember you on your next birthday – do you wear sweaters, or should I get you a DVD?’ He kicked back the covers, put his feet on the floor.

  Alas, this is all temporary, but necessary for me to show you your gift.

  ‘I can’t have it back in the swamp?’

  You can’t see it in the swamp. You have it already.

  ‘All right, I’ll bite. At least it isn’t hot in here.’ Mark stood and stretched. His legs felt strange, as if he had spent two months on crutches. ‘What do I have to do?’

  Come over here to the mirror.

  ‘Over here?’ The idea that whoever was holding him hostage might be near the mirror intrigued him. He had to move a wooden longbow out of the way; he didn’t remember owning one, but perhaps it was Steven’s. He closed the closet door to see the mirror and noticed a quiver of homemade arrows stacked behind his fishing waders, next to an old pair of skis. He expected to see his captor in the mirror, protected behind some sort of Lewis Carroll force-field, and wondered what would happen if he just shattered the thing into a pile of jagged shards. ‘Take that, Alice,’ he said aloud.

  What’s that?

  ‘Nothing. Now, what is it that you’re so-’

  It was him, but at the same time, not him. He was there, seeing his own eyes as they rolled up and down, checking the length and breadth of the mirror, searching for any sign of Mark Jenkins. When he looked up, his eyes – the eyes, those eyes – looked up. When he looked down, they followed suit. He raised a hand to his face and ran a finger across his cheek; the young, muscular black figure in the mirror did the same. ‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘Where am I? What did you do with me?’

  With you? Your body, Mark, had a nasty, purulent sore. Major Tavon ordered it burned.

  Mark fell forward and gripped the sides of the mirror. Bracing himself, he stared into the unfamiliar face. It was the man from the pool, the sorry bastard who had drifted past the row of marble columns and into the dark place. The tadpoles were snacking on him right now. ‘So who is this? Who am I?’

  His name was Redrick Shen. He was a sailor from Rona, a South-Coaster. I thought you might like to know that I had found a likely replacement: young, of dark skin, strong and healthy, and with no open sores on his hands.

  It was true; Redrick Shen had been killed before being taken. Except for some painful-looking bruising on his neck and a swollen jaw, Mark could find nothing amiss. ‘But why?’ he asked, bemused.

  Why what?

  ‘What difference does it make? Did you think I wanted to be a black man? That being a black man would somehow make this easier for me than being a white woman? Are you fucking nuts? It isn’t e
nough that you made me a black man, you dope – you want to make me happy, go find me and put me back inside my body.’

  I can’t do that, Mark. Major Tavon -

  ‘I know. She had it burned.’

  I hoped you’d be pleased.

  Mark shook his head, the stranger’s head. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Why? What difference does it make what skin colour I wear now?’

  Mark, you disappoint me. I thought you had it all worked out: Vienna, the Gloriette, that patch of sunshine you’re trying so hard to reach.

  He turned away from the mirror, checked the snake on the shelf and watched as his room began to change. The floor bowed and creaked, warping into the irregular rise and fall of a swampy riverbank. The walls cracked, the sheetrock popping and bursting as thick lengths of coiled, snakelike vine writhed into the room, covering the walls. Ferns crept up around his feet and he heard the sound of mud slurping and sloshing through the floorboards.

  They were going back.

  ‘Why did you bring me here? Why did I need to see this?’ His feet were wet; he searched the room for whatever might transmogrify into the stone bridge or one of the last three columns.

  I have plans for you, Mark Jenkins, big plans. I just thought you’d be more comfortable in something familiar.

  The air was all at once heavy and dank with decay. As if welcoming him home, a deer-fly bit him on the neck and Mark slapped it dead, wiping the broken wings and gore on Redrick Shen’s leggings. The lights were fading and he had not yet seen the coral snake. Maybe it was stuck in Colorado – it would freeze to death there at this time of year. Before being plunged into darkness, he made a cursory check of the ground cover, mud and ferns.

  ‘Nothing there?’ he said, and dived for the next column.

  ‘Two to go, shithead,’ Mark said as darkness fell.

  A FOLLOWING SEA

  Jacrys lifted his head, blew hard enough to clear a lock of hair from his face and considered the stairway. It might have gone on for ever. He had been up and down these same stairs countless times over the Twinmoons but had never before realised how steep and precarious the crooked slats nailed into sloping cross beams were. They could not be more than a breath or two away from collapse.