“He’ll survive?” Packer asked.
“I believe so.”
The man did not look Vast. His hair was long and dark, and where his skin was unpainted, his arms and legs, it was dark, too, browned like the Achawuk.
And then the man spoke. “Who’s there?” he asked, his head lolling. His eyes blinked, and he opened them.
The image hung before Dayton Throme’s eyes. It swam, as though he looked at a reflection in rippled waters. The face turned, spinning. But there could be no doubt. This was Packer. He was a grown man. The image was much like those Dayton had cherished in his memory. But this…this was more, somehow. It was not a memory. It was a vision. The face was concerned. It wanted something from him. There was joy there. The face spoke. It was a dream, it had to be a dream. And yet it would not go away. He reached out his hand as though, perhaps, just perhaps it was real. Perhaps he could touch that face, that blond hair. But the image reeled, careening into darkness.
The recognition came to Packer like a horse at full gallop. It wasn’t a perception through the eyes and ears, but through every pore. He recognized this man with every fiber, top to bottom, soul and spirit. But then his father closed his eyes again. Packer feared he would never open them, that this brief moment was all he would be given.
“Father?” Packer fell to his knees by the man’s side, a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Father, it’s me; it’s Packer.” A door that Packer had closed and sealed had suddenly been opened, and not just opened but kicked in, shattered. All his sense of past and present seemed to slip away. Time, memory, hope, the reality of the moment, it was all jumbled now. He was riding on this man’s shoulders. This man, huge and strong, was carrying him up out of the water. He was throwing Packer high in the air, and Packer was light as a feather in those big hands, laughing and laughing, wanting it never to end. And Packer was lying on the deck of his father’s fishing boat, his father right beside him, looking down into the crystal waters, seeing his reflection as that big soft voice described every fish, and every plant, and every bit of coral below.
“Father. Father, it’s me!”
And Dayton opened his eyes again, reached out his hand. Packer grabbed it.
“Son.” The voice was thin, but it was sure. It was gentle, deep, and full of the light that was Dayton Throme.
“Yes. It’s me.”
Dayton closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the dream. But when he did, the image was gone. He opened them again. He looked at Packer, unsure now whether he was dreaming. He looked around. Zhintah-Hoak was watching.
“Packer is my son,” Dayton said in Achawuk. “My only son.”
The warrior nodded. “Your son is the master-knowing,” Zhintah replied solemnly.
“Tannan-thoh-ah?”
“Atchah. He rode the Firefish. They rose as one from the waters. He is the glory of the beast. He is the master-knowing.”
Dayton felt now he surely must be dreaming. That man, the captain, the Vast commander lauded by the Achawuk. It was Packer.
“And you are the one who comes before,” Zhintah told him.
The one who comes before. Dayton understood now. Not the foreteller, but the forebear. He shook his head. “But seminary…”
“I was expelled, father. I learned the sword instead. And I went in search of Firefish.”
Dayton looked at his son again, his heart welling up. It all made sense now. All the stray pieces, the threads of his life that had been cut short. Like Nessa’s needlepoint viewed from the back. It was a mess, but now it had all turned around, and he saw the picture. It was beautiful. “And you’ve tamed the Firefish.”
Packer shook his head. “I did nothing. God did everything.”
“I’m glad, then. I know now that God will take care of these people. And you…you will lead them?”
“Lead them?”
“They have no king. But they will accept your leadership.”
Packer didn’t know what to say. How could he tell his father what had happened, all the events since he had disappeared?
“I’ll try,” he said. “With God’s help…” And Packer put his forehead on his father’s shoulder. His father, his own flesh and blood. He felt the warmth, the breath. Alive here on the earth, where Packer had no right to hope for such a thing. And God had done this. All the trials, all the sacrifice. All the troubles, all the pain. All the fears and all the failures. Through it all, God had been bringing him, inexorably, unstoppably, inevitably, here. To this place high atop a cliff. Overlooking the Vast sea. The infinite expanse, perfect in every detail. Everything made right.
The sun was low in the gray sky by the time the Tannan-thoh-ah returned with the Rek-tahk-ent. Four men carrying the fifth. Packer passed through the stone doorway, and the Achawuk murmured his new name. As they saw him, they sat, giving him honor.
The Drammune, on orders from Huk Tuth, put one knee and both hands on the ground, then touched their foreheads to the sand, honoring their Hezzan.
The Vast looked at the sight and shrugged at one another. Not to be outdone, they knelt before their king. The Achawuk bowed their heads in honor.
Packer shook his head. Then he looked back at his father. Dayton Throme blnked. “You’ve been busy, son.”
Packer looked up to the heavens, then back down at the three nations now gathered under his leadership. He had only one thought now.
Panna is never going to believe this.
CHAPTER 23
Rewards
The moon shone down on the mayak-aloh, rippling its waters silver. Two fires burned on the beach. One of them had been built on the rocky outcropping where Packer Throme had held his first council with Zhintah-Hoak. Captain Andrew Haas sat here now with Smith Delaney, Mutter Cabe, Father Mooring, and a handful of others, talking quietly about the trip here, the trip back, the Drammune, the Achawuk.
The Drammune were camped nearby, gathered around their own fire.
The Achawuk had departed at dusk, disappearing into the woods like a receding tide, headed back to their villages. Packer had gone with Dayton, whose strength had returned in some measure, though the Rek-tahk-ent was nevertheless carried back to his little village and up the hill to the small lean-to at its peak. There the elder Throme hosted his son, wanting him to share his home. The younger was happy to accompany him absolutely anywhere.
Left on the beach with their stores of provisions, the Vast did what the Vast generally do with free time and free drink. They had managed to salvage the equivalent of two month’s worth of ale and a month-and-a-half’s supply of rum each, for all the men and women who would sail the two ships home. Their captain had opened the taps and bottles in order to bring the stores of drink more in line with the length of the trip ahead, for all those so inclined. Most of them were in fact so inclined, and these were now reclined, or supine, or recumbent, or prone, or simply splayed out face down in the sand. Most of them were snoring loudly.
But a few quiet souls were left, those less disposed to drown the day’s grim memories or gin up a sense of celebration, talking, sipping a bit of ale here, puffing a pipe of tobacco there. And so, with the practical discussions having dwindled, Bran Mooring took the opportunity to relate a few tales most of these men had heard, but not in detail, and not from an eyewitness. He told of the Battle of the Green, and the Escape from Hollow Forest, and of Varlotsville. He was in his element, storyteller and teacher in one, thankful to be the chronicler of true tales from which deep meaning could be drawn, and without the usual forcing or stretching. At least such was his view. Morals and principles generally applicable to these fine and receptive students here gathered, were abundant.
Bran finished up the tale of Packer’s negotiations with Huk Tuth at Varlotsville, demonstrating with a flourish how Packer had held the agreement in his hand, saying, “If you do not sign this, then you will learn all that we know about Firefish, and we will teach you out at sea, as enemies!” There were appreciative comments, and a low whistle.
“Perhaps he did, deep down,” Father Mooring answered.
They all thought silently, as the snores rose around them in a comforting cacophony. A suddenly sleepy Delaney yawned. “Makes a feller want to join right in, don’t it?”
“Yes. And that’s the hallmark of leadership.”
Delaney was befuddled. “I meant the snorin’.”
“Oh.” But Bran shrugged. Delaney wasn’t the first student to grow drowsy in his presence.
“Been a long, hard day,” Andrew Haas agreed. He tapped out his pipe.
“Aye to that.” Delaney rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Then he stared distantly at Father Mooring. “I don’t suppose I should stay awake worried about Packer wanderin’ these woods without so much as a swordsman by his side?”
Father Mooring looked back at him. “No, I don’t suppose you should.”
Delaney sniffed. “Thought not. Then off to the land a’ milk and honey for me.” He rose, slightly unsteady, and took his leave. He glanced over at the other campfire. A few Drammune sat around it while others slept nearby.
Unlike the Vast, who felt no danger now from any party, now that their king was king of all, these warriors were vigilant. They had set a perimeter and they guarded it, walking it as though protecting a fortress. All the Drammune survivors were gathered within its few dozen square feet. Delaney counted fifteen, half of them wounded. Not one was face down in the sand with weapons and clothing and other belongings strewn about carelessly. They were not like the Vast, he concluded.
He was looking at their ship’s boat, wondering how something quite so round could sail any particular direction, when he heard the flap of wings, and then saw a great bird rise up from it in darkness, moonlight painting its wings with silver. It settled on the tip of the mast, looking down from where it came. This was a falcon, fine and noble, and Delaney could see something tethered to its talons. And then it flapped its wings again, and hovered around in low, slow circles. The sailor wondered if this was that same bird, the one Father Mooring told about, that had brought a message from the Hezzan to Huk Tuth on the hostile plain outside Varlotsville. And then he figured, yes, it probably was. That was Huk Tuth’s own bird.
It rose higher, then higher, and then under the moonlight flew off over the ocean.
Delaney padded down to the seashore, watching the feathered thing soar against the stars as it shrank away. Another message to…someone. But not to the Hezzan. The Hezzan was here. The Hezzan was Packer Throme. Delaney glanced again at the Drammune boat, and saw a lamp go out within it. He took off his hat. Then he watched the bird until it disappeared, a speck too small for his eyes to follow.
“I’ve spent so many hours here,” Dayton Throme said, “looking out over that sea, into the setting sun. Praying for you and your mother.”
He spoke slowly, Packer noted. He moved slowly, but his eyes were ablaze. He was the same man, and yet he had changed. “I wish you could know…” his voice trailed off.
“Know what?” Packer asked.
Dayton looked at him, surprised by the interruption. The Vast prized speed, he now remembered. He had been simply searching his mind for the right Vast word, the ripe berry ready for the plucking. “I wish you could know the peace of this place. I wish that Nearing Vast could absorb it. It would do you good.”
“Maybe we can bring some of it back home with us.”
Dayton thought for a long while. Then he shook his head. “No. The slow will always be overrun by the fast. That is the nature of things everywhere. Everywhere but here in these islands.” He thought again, then said, “You must protect this place, Packer. These people will live on, but their way of life is already gone.”
“But why should it change? They still have the Firefish.”
Dayton looked at the foot of his hill, where there had always been a ring of spears. Now, there was nothing. No barrier. No protection. He looked at his son, sadness in his eyes. “The Firefish will not return. The Achawuk planned to take all the Firefish with them, into the next life.”
“How…would they do that?”
Dayton nodded, seeing the knowledge as it entered his son. “The Firefish have been poisoned. The Achawuk have destroyed them.”
Packer was aghast. “Surely not all of them?”
“The Achawuk,” he said it as the people themselves did, “Hah-chah-WUK-ah,” “they have developed many ways to control the beasts. This scent attracts them. That one repels. Mostly, it is blood that attracts, and mostly soot and ash that repel. The remnants of burning sickens them. But the ash of a certain tree, the bum-bay-lah, the one with the roots that overgrow the trails—it is deadly poison to the beasts. It kills Firefish.”
“And that’s what they used today.”
“Today was the end of all things.”
Packer shook his head, trying to understand the implications. His own Firefish then, was gone. It was a deep stab. “Surely there are other Firefish. Somewhere.”
“Would you like to go search for them?”
Packer shook his head again. “No, sir. Not me.”
“Nor I.”
But Packer thought about this. He thought long and hard. The Firefish, gone. Their healing power, never to be known on earth again. Talon’s quest for power, over. No more impenetrable armor, ever, in all the world. The Firefish trade, ended. The Trophy Chase had stirred the pot, but the pot itself, and the potion, that was Firefish. The Firefish venture, the war, the truce, all of it had led here. And now, all of it was over. When their world was discovered, when their knowledge became desirable by kingdoms of the earth, the Achawuk had simply taken the beasts away. The objects of Scat’s dream of wealth, Mather’s dream of power, Talon’s dream of dominance. Gone. The Achawuk were wise. Wiser than perhaps even they knew.
Then he realized that the Vast were now essentially helpless. No Navy, and hardly more than a sprig of an Army. The Vast were powerless. But for the power of God.
After a long, thoughtful pause, Packer said, “Let’s not tell the Drammune about this.”
At dawn, Huk Tuth’s body was burned on the beach in a great pyre. The new Hezzan praised the Supreme Commander, citing his honor, his courage, and his Worthiness. His audience was appreciative, focused, and prepared to embrace Packer as their new leader.
Then he prayed.
Father Mooring translated to a deeply puzzled audience.
By noon, a dozen more Drammune stragglers had arrived, survivors who had made it to shore on one island or another, and had now finally made their way to the campfires here. Preparations were already underway to sail their single ship back to Drammun. A few more stray soldiers would wander in, and one day later, when the Kaza Fahn set off for home, more than two dozen Drammune would man it.
The Vast prepared to leave as well. But Packer could not be convinced to depart until he was sure that the Achawuk were ready, and would not decide to follow their fallen brethren and their Firefish to a better place, completing the tannan-thoh-ah. This was a real consideration, duly deliberated at their high council. Packer participated, and Dayton and son did their best to assure Zhintah-Hoak and company that they were all alive for a very good reason, that the great river of life, which in fact was the One True God, had spared them, had sent the Tannan-thoh-ah, for just this purpose. But the Achawuk were unconvinced. If Packer, the Tannan-thoh-ah, planned to leave them…how then could he usher in a new era, a new world?
It was an impasse without an easy solution, and it was not to be resolved in one council. It would take many thoughts, many words, many days. Understanding the issue, and the importance of self-sufficiency, and the need to make the best use of all their free time, the Vast crew took it upon themselves to teach their new Achawuk friends all they knew about fishing. Fish were abundant, and easy enough to spear, but there were other ways. The Achawuk took very quickly to the highly agreeable technique of taking an entire day in a small boat
with a jug of ale and a fishing pole, matching wits with the creatures. This method was particularly attractive to the Achawuk males.
But the women were quite adept at rope-making, and they were not nearly so keen on the new approach. So with Dayton Throme’s guidance they began to learn the net-making art as well, leading to an entire fishing school that taught a more industrious method. The Achawuk were good students and natural fishermen, so Packer quickly decided that the jolly, the shallop, and the longboats from the Chase would be left behind to aid the island natives in their new fishing ventures.
But the stalemate continued. How could their Tannan-thoh-ah come, and then just go away again?
Finally, at a council meeting, a solution was found.
“I shall stay,” Father Mooring suggested to Packer, “and speak on your behalf.”
The validity of this was debated, but ultimately the day was won by Zhintah-Hoak, who made one crucial observation. “The spirit of the waters, of the air, of the soil, moves within the Tannan-thoh-ah. And this same spirit we have seen within his servant, the one called Brahn-Moh-Reen. That the words of the Tannan-thoh-ah shall come through his servant we know to be possible. We shall speak of this among ourselves, and we shall decide.”
“Father Mooring,” Packer said to his counselor, mentor, teacher, and friend, “I would never ask you to stay behind. Nearing Vast is in desperate need of your wisdom. And so is its king.”
Bran saw the very real sorrow, and took Packer’s hand in both of his. “From the moment these people laid down their spears, I knew I wouldn’t leave them. I’ve simply been unable to break the news to you. My dear boy, look at it through my eyes. The Church has sent missionaries here for centuries, to no avail. Now, here is the Church, in the poor but very present form of me, and here are these people looking for a new life, a new world. Waiting to be ushered into truth. That, dear Packer, is an opening any man of the cloth would find hard to pass up.”
But the Achawuk had terms of their own. There was one way that Tannan-thoh-ah would not leave the Achawuk, one way that Packer himself would not part company with them, even though he left the islands.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 123