He sighed. ‘She is pretty, though.’
‘That she is, my friend, but Pol’s got other things to do. The time might come when she’ll get married, but that’ll be her decision, and it’s still a long way off. How far is it up-river to Braca?’
‘A day or so. We have to go through the fens to get there.’ He tugged at his beard. ‘I’ve been thinking of draining the fens. That region might make good farmland if I could get rid of all the water.’
I shrugged. It’s your kingdom, but I think draining the fens might turn into quite a chore. Have you heard from your father lately?’
‘A month or so ago. His new wife’s going to have another baby. They’re hoping for a boy this time. I suppose my half-sister could take the throne after father dies, but Alorns aren’t comfortable with the idea of a queen. It seems unnatural to us.’
You have no idea of how long it took me to change that particular attitude. Porenn is probably one of the most gifted rulers in history, but back-country Drasnians still don’t take her seriously.
I slept a little late the next morning, and it was almost noon before we got under way.
The Mrin River is sluggish at its mouth, which accounts for the fens, I suppose. The fens are a vast marshland lying between the Mrin and the Aldur. It’s one of the least attractive areas in the north, if you want my personal opinion. I don’t like swamps, though, so that might account for my attitude. They smell, and the air’s always so humid that I can’t seem to get my breath. And then, of course, there are all those bugs that look upon people as a food source. I stayed in the cabin while we went up-river. Polgara, though, paced around the deck, trailing clouds of suitors. I know she was having fun, but I certainly wouldn’t have given every mosquito for ten miles in any direction a clear invitation to drink my blood, no matter how much fun I was having.
Bull-neck’s ship captain dropped anchor at sundown. The channel was clearly marked by buoys, but it’s still not a good idea to wander around in the fens in the dark. There are too many chances for things to go wrong.
Dras and I were sitting in the cabin after supper, and it wasn’t too long before Pol joined us. ‘Dras?’ she said as she entered, ‘why do your people wiggle their fingers at each other all the time?’
‘Oh, that’s just the secret language,’ he replied.
‘Secret language?’
‘The merchants came up with the notion. I guess there are times when you’re doing business that you need to talk privately with your partner. They’ve developed a kind of sign-language. It was fairly simple right at first, but it’s getting a little more complicated now.’
‘Do you know this language?’
He held out one huge hand. ‘With fingers like these? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It might be a useful thing to know. Don’t you think so, father?’
‘We have other ways to communicate, Pol.’
‘Perhaps, but I still think I’d like to learn this secret language. I don’t like having people whispering to each other behind my back - even if they’re doing it with their fingers. Do you happen to have someone on board ship who’s proficient at it, Dras?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t pay much attention to it, myself. I’ll ask around, though.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
We set out again the following morning and reached the village of Braca about noon. Dras and I stood at the rail as we approached it. ‘Not a very pretty place, is it?’ I observed, looking at the collection of run-down shanties huddled on the muddy riverbank.
‘It’s not Tol Honeth, by any stretch of the imagination,’ he agreed. ‘When we first found out about this crazy man, I was going to take him to Boktor, but he was born here, and he goes wild when you try to take him away from the place. We decided that it’d be better just to leave him here. The scribes don’t care much for the idea, but that’s what I’m paying them so much for. They’re here to write down what he says, not to enjoy the scenery.’
‘Are you sure they’re writing it down accurately?’
‘How would I know, Belgarath? I can’t read. You know that.’
‘Do you mean you still haven’t learned how?’
‘Why should I bother? That’s what scribes are for. If something’s all that important, they’ll read it to me. The ones here have worked out a sort of system. There are always three of them with the crazy man. Two of them write down what he says, and the third one listens to him. When he finishes, they compare the two written versions, and the one who does the listening decides which one’s accurate.’
‘It sounds a little complicated.’
‘You made quite an issue of how much you wanted accuracy. If you can think up an easier way, I’d be glad to hear it.’
Our ship coasted up to the rickety dock, the sailors moored her, and we went ashore to have a look at the Mrin prophet.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone quite so dirty. He wore only a crude canvas loincloth, and his hair and beard were long and matted. He was wearing an iron collar, and a stout chain ran from the collar to the thick post set in the ground in front of his kennel - I’m sorry, but that’s the only word I can use to describe the low hut where he apparently slept. He crouched on the ground near the post making animal noises and rhythmically jerking on the chain that bound him to the post. His eyes were deep-sunk under shaggy brows, and there was no hint of intelligence or even humanity in them.
‘Do you really have to chain him like that?’ Polgara asked Dras.
Bull-neck nodded. ‘He has spells,’ he replied. ‘He used to run off into the fens every so often. He’d be gone for a week or two, and then he’d come crawling back. When we found out just who and what he is, we decided we’d better chain him for his own safety. There are sink-holes and quicksand bogs out in the fens, and the poor devil doesn’t have sense enough to avoid them. He can’t recite prophecy if he’s twelve feet down in a quicksand bog.’
She looked at the low hut. ‘Do you really have to treat him like an animal?’
‘Polgara, he is an animal. He stays in that kennel because he wants to. He gets hysterical if you take him inside a house.’
‘You said he was born here,’ I noted.
Dras nodded. ‘About thirty or forty years ago. This was all part of father’s kingdom before we went to Mallorea. The village has been here for about seventy years, I guess. Most of the villagers are fishermen.’
I went over to where the three scribes on duty were sitting in the shade of a scrubby willow tree and introduced myself. ‘Has he said anything lately?’ I asked.
‘Not for the past week,’ one of them replied. ‘I think maybe it’s the moon that sets him off. He’ll talk at various other times, but he always does when the moon’s full.’
‘I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn’t there some way you can clean him up a little?’
The scribe shook his head. ‘We’ve tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty.’
‘Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to make much sense out of what he’s saying, Belgarath,’ one of the other scribes told me.
‘That’ll come later. I’ve got the feeling that I’m going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things? The weather or maybe how hungry he is?’
‘No,’ the first scribe replied. ‘As closely as we’re able to determine, he can’t talk - at least that’s what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don’t have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important.’
We stayed on board Bull-neck’s ship that night. We needed the cooperation of the villagers, and I didn’t want to stir up any resentments by commandeering their houses while we were in Braca.
About noon the following day one of the scribes came down to the do
ck. ‘Belgarath,’ he called to me, ‘you’d better come now. He’s talking.’
One of the young Drasnians had been teaching Pol that sign-language, and he didn’t look too happy when she suspended the lesson to accompany Dras and me to the prophet’s hovel.
The crazy man was crouched by that post again, and he was still jerking on his chain. I don’t think he was actually trying to get loose. The clinking of the chain seemed to soothe him for some reason. Then again, aside from the wooden bowl they fed him from, that chain was his only possession. It was his, so he had a right to play with it, I guess. He was making animal noises when we approached.
‘Has he stopped?’ I asked the scribe who’d come to fetch us.
‘He’ll start up again,’ the scribe assured me. ‘He breaks off and moans and grunts for a while every so often. Then he goes back to talking. Once he starts, he’s usually good for the rest of the day. He stops when the sun goes down.’
Then the crazy man let go of his chain and looked me directly in the face. His eyes were alert and very penetrating. ‘Behold!’ he said to me in a booming, hollow voice, a voice that sounded almost exactly the same as Bormik’s. ‘The Child of Light shall be accompanied on his quest by the Bear and by the Guide and by the Man with Two Lives. Thou, too, Ancient and Beloved, shall be at his side. And the Horse-Lord shall also go with ye, and the Blind Man, and the Queen of the World. Others also will join with ye - the Knight Protector and the Archer and the Huntress and the Mother of the Race that Died and the Woman Who Watches, whom thou hast known before.’
He broke off and began to moan and drool and yank on his chain again.
‘That should do it,’ I told Dras. ‘That’s what I needed to know. He’s authentic.’
‘How were you able to tell so quickly?’
‘Because he talked about the Child of Light, Dras. Bormik did the same thing back in Darine. You might want to pass that on to your father and brothers. That’s the key that identifies the prophets. As soon as someone mentions the Child of Light, you’d better put some scribes nearby, because what he’s saying is going to be important.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘The Necessity and I spent some time together when we were on the way to Mallorea, remember? He talked about the Child of Light extensively.’ Then I remembered something else. ‘It might be a little far-fetched, and I don’t know if it’ll ever happen in our part of the world, but we might come across somebody who talks about the Child of Dark as well. Have people take down what he says, too.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The ones who talk about the Child of Light are giving us instructions. The ones who mention the Child of Dark are telling Torak what to do. It might be useful if we can intercept some of those messages.’
‘Are you going to stay here and listen?’
‘There’s no need of that. I’ve found out what I wanted to. Have your scribes make me a copy of everything they’ve set down so far and send it to me in the Vale.’
‘I’ll see to it. Do you want to go back to Kotu now?’
‘No, I don’t think so. See if you can find somebody here with a boat who knows the way through the fens. Pol and I’ll go on down to Algaria and then on home from there. There’s not much point in backtracking.’
‘Is there anything you want me to do?’
‘Go back to Boktor and get married. You’ll need a son to pass your crown to.’
‘I don’t have a crown, Belgarath.’
‘Get one. A crown doesn’t really mean anything, but people like to have visible symbols around.’
Polgara was scowling at me.
‘What?’ I asked her.
‘The fens, father? You’re going to make me go through the fens?’
‘Look upon it as an educational experience, Pol. Let’s go gather up our things. I want to get back to the Vale.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Let’s just say I’m homesick.’
She rolled her eyes upward with that long-suffering look she’s so fond of.
The fellow with the boat was named Gannik, and he was a talkative, good-natured fellow. His boat was long and slender - more like a canoe than a row-boat. He occasionally paddled us down through the fens, but most of the time he poled us along. I didn’t care much for the idea of having someone standing up in that narrow craft, but he seemed to know what he was doing, so I didn’t make an issue of it.
I did want to get back to the Vale, but my main reason for leaving Braca so abruptly had been a desire to get Pol away from the young Drasnian who’d been teaching her the secret language. I could retain my equanimity so long as Pol’s suitors gathered around her in groups, but seeing her sitting off to one side alone with one of those young men made me nervous. Pol had uncommon good sense, but -
I’m sure you get my drift.
I brooded about that as Gannik poled us on south through that soggy marshland. Polgara was eighteen years old now, and it was definitely time for me to have that little talk with her. She and Beldaran had grown up without a mother, so there’d been no one around to explain certain things to her. Beldaran quite obviously did know about those things, but I wasn’t entirely certain that Pol did. Grandchildren are very nice, but unanticipated ones might be just a little embarrassing.
The border between Drasnia and Algaria wasn’t really very well defined when it passed through the fens. The Drasnians called that vast swamp Mrin-Marsh, and the Algars referred to it as Aldurfens. It was all the same bog, though. We were about three days south of Braca when Pol saw one of those aquatic creatures that live in such places. ‘Is that an otter or a beaver?’ she asked Gannik when a small, round, sleek head popped above the water ahead of us.
‘That’s a fenling,’ he replied. ‘They’re like otters, but a little bigger. They’re playful little rascals. Some people trap them for their fur, but I don’t think I’d care to do that. It just doesn’t seem right to me for some reason. I like to watch them play.’
The fenling had very large eyes, and he watched us curiously as Gannik poled his boat through the large pond that appeared to be the creature’s home. Then it made that peculiar chittering sound that the fenlings make. It sounded almost as if he were scolding us.
Gannik laughed. ‘We’re scaring the fish,’ he said, ‘and he’s telling us about it. Sometimes it seems they can almost talk.’
Vordai, the witch of the fens, came to that self-same conclusion some years later, and she dragooned me into doing something about it.
We finally reached that part of the swamp that was fed by the channels at the mouth of the Aldur river, and Gannik poled us to the higher ground lying to the east of the swamp. Pol and I thanked him and went ashore.
It was good to get my feet on dry ground again.
‘Are we going to change form again?’ Pol asked me.
‘In a bit. We’ve got something to talk about first, though.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘You’re growing up, Pol.’
‘Why, do you know, I believe you’re right.’
‘Do you mind? There are some things you need to know.’
‘Such as?’
That’s where I started floundering. Pol stood there with a vapid, wide-eyed expression on her face, letting me dig myself in deeper and deeper. Polgara can be very cruel when she puts her mind to it. Finally I stopped. Her expression was just a little too vacant. ‘You already know about all this, don’t you?’ I accused her.
‘About what, father?’
‘Stop that. You know where babies come from. Why are you letting me embarrass the both of us?’
‘You mean they don’t hatch out under cabbage leaves?’ She reached out and patted me on the cheek. ‘I know all about it, father. I helped to deliver Beldaran’s baby, remember? The midwives explained the whole procedure to me. It did sort of stir my curiosity, I’ll admit.’
‘Don’t get too curious, Pol. There are certain customary formalities befo
re you start experimenting.’
‘Oh? Did you go through those formalities in Mar Amon - every single time?’
I muttered a few swear-words under my breath and then slipped into the form of a wolf. At least a wolf can’t blush, and my face had been getting redder and redder as I’d gone along.
Polgara laughed that deep rich laugh I hadn’t heard very often and blurred into the shape of the tufted owl.
Chapter 27
Beldin had returned from his visit to Mallorea when Pol and I reached the Vale. I was a bit surprised that he’d made it back so soon. He’s normally good for a couple centuries when he goes there. He was his usual gracious self when he came stumping up the stairs to my tower on the morning after the night Pol and I got home. ‘Where have you two been?’ he snapped at us.
‘Be nice, uncle,’ Pol replied calmly. ‘We had some things to take care of.’
‘You’re back early,’ I said. ‘Is there some sort of emergency?’
‘Stop trying to be clever, Belgarath. You don’t have the gift for it. The Mallorean Angaraks are just milling around over there. Nothing’s going to happen until Torak comes out of seclusion at Ashaba.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Zedar’s there with him now, and it’s making that piebald Urvon crazy.’
‘Oh?’
‘Urvon’s a born today, and the fact that Zedar’s closer to Torak than he is right now is more than he can bear. To make it worse, he can’t go to Ashaba to protect his interests because he’s afraid to come out of Mal Yaska.’
‘What’s he so afraid of?’
‘Me. I guess he has nightmares about that hook I showed him.’
‘Still? That was over five hundred years ago, Beldin.’
‘Evidently it made a lasting impression. At least it keeps one of Torak’s disciples pinned down. What’s for breakfast, Pol?’
She gave him a long, steady look.
‘You seem to be filling out a bit,’ he noted, brazenly running his eyes over her. ‘You might want to try to keep that under control. You’re getting a little hippy.’
Belgarath the Sorcerer Page 40