by Hugh Cook
'Yes,' she said.
Then pushed him off the rock.
Suggesting that sometimes, when a woman says yes, she actually means no.
'Hey!' shouted Drake, thrashing in the river. 'Hey! Help! Help!'
'You gave me no choice!' yelled Zanya, explaining herself.
But he was not interested in explanations, only in help. But of course there was no help. He saw another rock. Grabbed for it. But it was too slippery to hang on to.
The waters pulled him loose in a trice, rolled him over, ducked him under, thrashed him through some rapids, then bustled him away in a hurry, taking him south down the Valley of Forgotten Dreams.
37
Valley of Forgotten Dreams: river valley in Penvash in far north-west of Argan, shunned and avoided by Melski of Penvash; Old City (dating back to Technic Renaissance) lies in its northern reaches; steep, heavily-forested terrain features wide range of fauna including bush rats, bears and foddens.
Dawn.
Dreldragon Drakedon Douay huddled on the banks of a small river running through the Valley of Forgotten Dreams in Penvash. Upstream lay the Old City, a place he remembered, by now, only as a chaotic hell of ravening jaws and screaming blood. There was no sun-sign, but strengthening light at last convinced him it was indeed morning. With the greatest of reluctance, he groped down to the river.
Everything hurt.
There was no part of him which had not been jarred, banged or knocked, scraped, grazed, shaken, bruised, bitten or stung, gored, burnt by fire or by ice, sprained, strained, cracked, blistered, bloodied, dislocated, incised, punctured, lacerated or pounded by rolling pins and knapping hammers.
He had not heeded the damage as he dared the Circle of the Door, plunging recklessly from Here to Elsewhere, from the Old City to a burning forest, an ocean cay, to Drangsturm south, to a frozen mountainside, a plain of battle, a tropical jungle, a foreign arena, to a cannibal
beach, then back to the Old City again. Adventuring thus, he had been oblivious to trauma because of the shock, excitement and bewilderment of the moment - and the adrenalin seething through his system. But he felt it now.
Probably, he had damaged himself the worst while bumping down the river after finally fleeing the Old City. But the pains in his back, neck and shoulder were mostly from muscles wrenched by reckless sword-swinging, his earache was the aftermath of violent pressure changes from sea-level to mountain heights, and the agony of his feet was from the cumulative damage of many days of journey. Feet, yes. He durst not take off his boots. If he did, his feet might fall off entirely.
He reached the water at last, after a journey short in space but memorable for the amount of pain, caution and endeavour it had entailed. The river purled along swiftly, slick as fish scales, cold as yesterday's rats' piss, surface sheening and shining with the greys of lead, steel, thundercloud, ash, charcoal, failed phoenix, dead mushrooms, basilisk blood, quelaquire, mosquito wings, wormskin wine and threadneedle mould.
Drake stuck a hand into the water, but caught no colours, only a chill clarity that swirled into turbulence as it snagged his fingers, kicked up tiny jags of foam, rippled, queried, tested, spun into miniature whirlpools then moulded itself back into the onflow which sped, talking in hustling-bustling accents of nonsense, down toward the distant (imaginary?) sea.
Slowly, Drake lifted a handful of water, sought his face, saw only the sword-blisters on his palm. Dirt and old blood lining his life-line. A rippling shimmer of daylight, mostly at the edges of this puddle, where water bordered skin. Why did it ripple? Because his hand was shaking.
In the river, too, he saw not his face - only the ever-shift of twenty million greys, and, beyond and below, rock, clean shingle, a wavering trail of waterweed, then a confusion of inscrutable darkness in which lay rocks or rotten logs or monsters. He sucked water from his hand.
Cold. It hurt his teeth. He swilled it round then spat it out, seeing a thread of blood give contrast, for a moment, to the clears and greys of the ever-rush.
Slowly, he reached into the river, let his fingers crayfish toward waterweed, lobstered it, vultured it back, sucked it down, and wondered why it had no taste to speak of, and why his flesh had bones in it, and why he was crying. His tears were hot, the hottest thing in the world. And their taste was salt. Yes. Salt like the sea.
The sea which was not, then - perhaps - entirely imaginary. So if - just supposing, now - he was to take one step south then another, then . . . why, with enough steps he might (no promises, mind) one day (a year distant, perhaps) maybe just possibly arrive at a brisk shore of sails.
Beside that shore (presuming, which is not necessarily the case, that the world of bread and ale and clinking coins exists, that there are taverns warm with beer and laughter where cheers are raised), yes, there will be bread, and . . .
And. . . ?
He stared blankly at the water. He had been thinking of something. What? Bread? But bread was, surely, if anything, imaginary. . . or at least a world away from the ever-last river-run where the clears danced, yes, danced upon greys. . .
Drake, thought and hope abandoned, sat staring into the running water, knees drawn up to chest, arms wrapped around knees, chin knobbled down hard between the thin-skinned bones of his kneecaps, his body rocking a little this way and that as a thin seedy rain began to fall, dull as famine, grey as weariness, persistent as a year-nagging voice of senility.
Drake was still sitting there, much later, when a noise made him look up. And look north. Something was coming downstream. A monster. Huge. It had two heads, one set above the other. A baby monster walked beside it. Drake looked away. Probably it was just a hallucination. And if it was real? If it was real, he was in no state to run. . .
The monster came on. And began to sing a happy song.
Drake looked again, and saw it was Whale Mike, with Zanya Kliedervaust riding on his shoulders. Walking beside Mike was Jon Arabin. Slowly, Drake stood.
Whale Mike finished his happy song as he drew level with Drake. Whereupon he halted, and waited for someone to take the lead. But, for the moment, nobody did. Zanya looked down on Drake, saying nothing. And Jon Arabin also said nothing.
All four said nothing as the querulous rain nagged without reason and the river-rush quibbled away between branch and stone and the hollow muscles of their hearts worked their way with what blood remained to them. Then Drake and Arabin embraced.
Both wept.
'Well, man,' said Jori Arabin, shaking his head. 'Well, man, who would have thought it. . .'
But he said nothing more and nothing more cogent.
'You better get down,' said Mike to Zanya, kneeling. 'These two not good for much. I think we make fire.'
Zanya dismounted, and searched out kindling. Mike mutilated some defenceless trees and heaped up branches for firewood.
'Jon,' said Mike. 'You better make fire. I can, but I not so good at that. You better.'
Today, Jon Arabin was not much good with the tinder box himself. As flint and steel stumbled between his fingers, he started weeping, helplessly. He was too old for this.
'Drake,' he said. 'Help me out.'
But Drake was in no better condition. He sat waiting for Zanya to ask why her ardent lover had been addressed as 'Drake'. Once she discovered he was Drake Douay, son of the Demon Hagon, there would be hell to pay. But she appeared not to notice.
'Let me,' she said firmly.
And took steel and flint, and did what was necessary.
Once the fire was burning bright, Whale Mike dipped into his leather apron pocket and hauled out a huge chunk of bloody meat.
'This from monster,' he said cheerfully. 'Maybe good eating, eh? We cook. We find out.'
He spiked bits of it onto branches. In the fierce quick heat, it burnt instead of cooking. But when chunks were handed around - half blood, half char - there were no complaints. Warmth, meat and companionship began to make Drake feel better. He looked at Zanya.
'Don't even think abo
ut it!' she said, with danger in her voice.
'Have you two met, then?' said Jon Arabin, puzzled at the way Zanya reacted to Drake.
'Met!' said Zanya. 'He tried to rape me once!'
'I'm . . . I'm sorry,' said Drake.
Which was an unusual thing for him to say. But today he was utterly shagged out, and in no state to tell witchcraft lies, or to insist on the right of men to the bodies of women.
Jon Arabin looked on the pair with speculative eyes. Was this his chance? He had killed several times while venturing round the Circle of the Door. His death-debt was heavy indeed. It was more important than ever that he breed more children, thus winning himself life-credits and appeasing his gods. Or . . .
Again, Arabin thought of converting Drake to the Creed of Anthus, setting him up with a harem then buying life-credits from him. Unfortunately, Arabin's gods only allowed him to buy life-credits from a fellow-believer . . .
Two problems, then:
to convert Drake to the Creed of Anthus;
to get Drake breeding.
Whale Mike shared out a second helping of meat. They ate in silence, while Jon Arabin thought hard. Then he said to Drake:
'You know this lady, do you?'
'Aye,' said Drake, in a dull voice. 'She won't agree to it, but I've . . . man, I've been in love with her these many years. It was for her I named that bay on Island Tor.'
'What?' said Jon Arabin. 'That was Zanya Bay, wasn't it? Then this must be Zanya herself.'
'Zanya Kliedervaust,' she said, coldly.
They had not previously introduced themselves.
'Ah,' said Jon Arabin. 'Lucky woman, to be so loved. A bay of beauty named for her. Aye. Pale sands and water beautiful as her eyes.'
'Nice eyes,' agreed Drake.
'It was for her you named that flower, too, wasn't it?' said Arabin. Drake took the hint.
'Two flowers, actually,' he said. 'One was Zanya's Beauty. That was the great red trumpet-shaped flower which hung in clusters from those trees with pink leaves. The other flower was Zanya's Delight. That was fragile, aye, a splendorous thing growing in waterfalls from the headland rocks, smooth as gold and as yellow, fragrant as peaches by sunset.'
His voice was dreamy.
'Aye,' said Arabin, 'I remember now.'
'You named flowers after me?' said Zanya, wondering at this.
'I told you,' said Drake. 'I've been in love with you for years.'
'Aye,' said Jon Arabin. 'He'd talk of you in his sleep, and charm the silence with poems of your tender beauty. Which I thought strange at the time. But now I see you, I think it strange no longer. You're worthy of all his devotion.'
'I... I don't know what to say,' said Zanya. 'You are beautiful,' said Drake. 'And I do . . . I do love you.'
'But why did you - why did you jump on top of me like that? Was it really because of witchcraft?'
'Sometimes,' said Drake, 'sometimes it's hard for a man to control himself. Men . . . men need women.'
'Yes,' said Whale Mike cheerfully. 'Good for man to have woman. Woman nice. This one nice, eh? She got soft arse. She make good screw, eh? Good meat.'
And he smacked his lips and laughed.
Whereupon Zanya's temper flared instantly. With the energy of fire and meat inside her, she raged at them:
'You filthy dirty animals! I am not meat!'
Drake, desperately trying to salvage the situation, said:
'My dearest darling—'
'Don't you dearest darling me!'
'But I love you! Zanya, I love you!'
'You like. You want. You need. Perhaps. But not me. Oh no, not me. Just meat, heat, lips, breast, thigh, crotch, nipple, arse. What is this?'
And she cupped one of her convexities, which was visible beneath sheepskin jacket and purple robe.
'It's a breast,' said Drake. 'And, I venture, a very pretty one. The prettiness of your curves, darling—'
'It's meat, that's what it is! Meat, not me!'
'But are your breasts not part of you?' said Drake.
'They're not me! Not the - the person inside this - oh grief - you! - it's meat, isn't it? That's what I am to you! Meat! Offal! Wet liver! You're all the same, you men. Just one thing, that's all it is.'
And anger gave way to grief.
The whole sorry history of her terrible time as a priestess of the Orgy God came rushing back to her. Year upon year of nightmare. Sweat, heat, weight, panting flesh. Bruising laughter. Disease, misery, exhaustion, contempt. And—
It was too much.
She broke down in tears.
'Well, bugger you then!' said Drake. 'I'm buggered if I know what I did wrong!' And he got to his feet and stalked away into the forest. 'Where are you going?' called Jon Arabin. 'Hunting!' shouted Drake. 'You come back here!' 'Go nalsh yourself!' yelled Drake. And was soon lost from sight in the forest. 'You not cry,' said Whale Mike to Zanya. 'You not
make self pretty when cry. You nice. Want marry me? I like woman with soft arse.'
Zanya screamed, and hit him with all her strength. Which made very little impression on him.
'Mike,' said Jon Arabin, 'I've decided we're going to camp here. We'll wait. See if any of the others come downstream. So we'll need a shelter. Start getting branches together so we can build something.'
'That good thinking,'- said Whale Mike. 'You smart man, Jon. I do that.'
And he got to work.
Then Jon Arabin took his time. He let the fire die down then cooked a small bit of meat on the red embers. Carefully.
'You don't have to eat this,' he said to Zanya. 'But you might feel better if you did.'
As she ate, he built up the fire again.
'Now,' he said. 'You don't have to talk to me. You don't have to tell me anything. But if you want to, I'm here to listen.'
'Who are you?' she said.
For when Whale Mike and Jon Arabin had found her by the riverside, they had not explained themselves. Mike had just ordered her to ride, and she, faced with such threatening bulk, had hardly been in a position to resist.
'I am Jon Arabin,' said Jon Arabin. T was born on Ashmolea. Aye. That's east of Argan.'
T know that,' said she.
'Of course you would, you being from Ebrell. Anyway. My mother was a calligrapher, my father a paper-maker. I was raised to be a scholar.'
'And now?'
'Now I'm an adventurer.'
'A pirate, perhaps,' said Zanya.
'That's a hard word,' said Jon Arabin. 'Often I've made an honest living. Aye, trading pearls and timber. Young Drake has helped me with that.'
'Drake?'
'Has he told you another name, perhaps? It's our angry young hunter I'm talking about.'
'Oh, him,' said Zanya. 'He told me he was Arabin lol Arabin.'
'Well,' said Arabin, proceeding cautiously because he was not sure what was afoot. 'He gives that name because he acknowledges me as a father. I'm Arabin, and, well, Arabin lol Arabin, that means I'm his father. Do you understand? I ask because you sound a stranger to the Galish.'
'I still have my problems with the Trading Tongue,' admitted Zanya. 'But you've explained the name all right. But how can - how can you be his father? I mean, the skins . . . '
'His mother was a gold-skinned woman from Ling,' said Arabin solemnly, 'and the mixing of black and gold gives bis cockroach colour.'
'Oh,' said Zanya. 'Now . . . tell me of these other names he calls himself. How many does he have?'
'Many,' said Arabin, sliding away from the unknown danger which he sensed within the question. 'Why, he's such a wild one I scarcely know myself what name he'll be playing from one day to the next. Wild, aye. No doubting it. Why, once he cooked me a meal of rats and cockroaches. To this day, he doesn't think I realize. But I know a rat from a rabbit, even if the Walrus doesn't!'
And he told Zanya the story of Drake's shipboard cookery, or as much as he knew of it. She had to laugh.
'But,' she said. 'Why did he play such an ugly trick on
you?'
'Because he's wild, as I said,' declared Jon Arabin. 'Part of it comes with being less tall than he'd want to be. Short men must set themselves on stilts of some sort. That's the way of it. So I make allowances.'
'But why did you . . . why did you eat that meal?'
'Well, rat's okay, and cockroach isn't too bad. If it's cooked right, and if you can get your mind off what you're eating. Anyway, it was either eat it or betray him to the wrath of the Walrus. Would I betray my own son?'
'The thought of discipline must at least have tempted you,' said Zanya.
'But I love him,' said Jon Arabin.
'You love?' said Zanya, shocked. 'Your own son? You love him?'
'Woman!' said Arabin. 'What a mind you've got! A man can love his son without lusting for his arsehole. And this boy of mine . . . well, he saved my ship once.'
'In truth?' said Zanya.
'In truth,' said Arabin.
And told of Drake's part in a shipboard battle against a Neversh.
'Well . . .' said Zanya, T can see . . . yes, why a man would like a - a son like that. But for a woman . . .'
T know,' said Arabin, with sympathy which was not entirely pretended. 'He's rough. But there's a reason.'
'What reason?'
'Ah. He doesn't know that I know. So you must swear never to betray me to him.'
'I swear,' said Zanya, for curiosity had got the better of her.
'In truth,' said Jon Arabin. 'A truth I swear to on my mother's honour, young Drake is a virgin. He's never been had by a man. And he's never taken boy. or woman in lust. Ah, he'll boast with a swagger, but it's bluster talking. That's a sore hurt to his pride, that he's still a virgin. That's why he . . . why. . .'
'He doesn't really know how to talk to a woman,' said Zanya.
'Right,' said Arabin. 'He's scared, aye, shy and scared. Hence he talks tough and acts rough. To conceal his tenderness, which shames him. To hide his fear. In truth . . . you're a woman, and, though he'll not admit it, he's scared of you.'
T see . . .' said Zanya.
Not sure whether to believe all this.
Jon Arabin and Zanya thereafter sat side by side in silence until Whale Mike had finished his work. He sat down by the fire with a sigh.