The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  'It's not that bad, is it? Surely? Dreldragon Drakedon Douay. A good name, and common on Stokos - why, as common as two-headed seagulls and bird-eating rocks.'

  'Common as what?' said Zanya.

  'Common as kisses,' said Drake, trying to give her one.

  She pushed him away.

  T hate the Demon-son,' she said.

  'And so do I,' said Drake. 'Why, if I had him in front of me, I'd suck out his eyes then twist on his gizzard till his teeth popped out. He deserves to die. Why, just for stealing Muck's mastersword, he should die.'

  'Dearest,' said Zanya, who could not follow Drake's quick-weaving pirate cant when it got into swing. 'Talk Galish slow and proper if you wish my understanding. Now - seriously. Why call yourself by that evil name when others are so much nicer? So much nicer, yet free for the taking.'

  'Very well,' said Drake. 'By muckle or huckle I'll girth me loins with sunlight, eat two raw eggs then be Arabin lol Arabin forever.'

  'Say what?' said Zanya, who had not understood.

  So Drake said, slowly, enunciating his words carefully in his best formal Galish, the true Trading Tongue of the Salt Road instead of the pirate-garbled snatch-talk which ruled in the Greater Teeth:

  'E'parg Arabin lol Arabin.'

  Meaning, literally, 'I bear (carry) Arabin lol Arabin' - or, in translation, 'I am called Arabin lol Arabin.'

  'I will henceforth be Arabin lol Arabin single and only,' said Drake. 'I formally keelhaul the name Drake. I execute it. With Dreldragon with it. Aye. And Drake Douay. And all those other things so close to swearing.'

  'P'tosh, Arabin lol Arabin,' said Zanya, greeting him with what she was happy to think of as his true and proper name, the one his father had given him at birth.

  'Yes,' said Drake. 'It's only Arabin lol Arabin I'll be, from now unto death. In other words, as long as we're married for.'

  'I never said I'd marry you!' said Zanya.

  'But you will, darling,' said Drake, imperiously.

  And that led to some more high-spirited wrestling.

  Dour men watched jealously from evening shadows, and, that night, as Drake and Zanya slept (chastely enough) in each other's arms, some of those men had muttering conversations about the joy of rape.

  Early the next morning, they all set off downstream again.

  'Today,' said Drake to Zanya. 'You must marry me. I can't wait much longer.'

  'You're not serious, are you?' she said. 'Of course I am.'

  'But Gouda Muck wants us all to be celibate: he told me so himself.'

  'Did he?'said Drake. 'Yes!'

  'In his own words?' 'Of course!'

  'Well,' said Drake. 'What difference does it make?

  You've told me yourself you have strong doubts about the Flame.'

  'About the Flame being the High God of All Gods, yes,' said Zanya. 'About Gouda Muck being the Flame in the flesh, yes. But not about the preachings of Gouda Muck.'

  'How so?'

  'Even if Muck isn't a god,' said Zanya, 'his doctrine still holds many truths.' 'Such as what?'

  'Such as truths about physical relationships,' said Zanya.'They're evil!'

  'Are they?' said Drake. 'How can we know that unless we try? It's an interesting theory, to be sure, but we have to investigate it before we can truth it.'

  His inspiration for this declaration was the Inner Principles of the Old Science which he had been taught as an apprentice on Stokos. An unusual implement of seduction, to be sure - but Drake was willing to try anything.

  T have tried it,' said Zanya.

  'What? Physical relationships? I bet there's things you haven't tried.'

  'I bet there aren't,' she said.

  So, in that competitive spirit, they had a long - very long - discussion.

  Zanya remembered what Jon Arabin had told her in confidence: that Drake Douay was in truth a virgin. So she discounted his wild tales about being seduced by his sister at age thirteen, about selling his body and buying the flesh of others, about his seduction of the eldest daughter of Baron Farouk of Hexagon, and about a great many other adventures he claimed to have had. He was just a boy, a poor shy innocent boy, too timid for her to possibly be afraid of.

  In reply to Drake's stories, Zanya told about her life as a priestess of the Orgy God. The details made his eyes bug.

  'I've seen it all,' said Zanya. 'And I've seen the evil of it.'

  Then she told him about her family, destroyed by the horrors of venereal disease and alcoholism.

  'Lust and drink,' said Zanya. 'That's what does the damage.'

  'Well,' said Drake. 'Well . . . maybe you can have too much of a good thing.'

  This concession represented, for him, a major intellectual advance.

  'No,' said Zanya, 'they're not good things at all. Sex is poison. So is alcohol. I just told you I'd seen the proof of it.'

  'Ah,' said Drake, 'but you're living proof that one can taste yet not necessarily be poisoned. Therefore it must be a matter of quantity. And . . . quality, perhaps.'

  'But—'

  'Nay, woman. The cities of the world are peopled with heads as numerous as seashore sands. For each of those heads, one act of fornication, minimum. There's a world of tasting there. But is the whole world poxed? No! Is the whole world poisoned? No!'

  'Drake,' said Yot, coming over to them, 'can I ask you if you could—'

  'You can't and I couldn't!' said Drake. 'Piss off before I knife you!' Yot vanished himself.

  'Where were we?' asked Drake, his chain of thought broken.

  'Oh, deep in the toils of the higher philosophy,' said Zanya. 'But you'll never persuade me that lust is good. As I'vetoldyou, I've tried everything. And what I tried I didn't like.'

  Drake found that believable, since most of the things Zanya had tried as a priestess of the Orgy God seemed less than pleasant - for instance, being roughed over by twenty drunken men while wallowing in the guts of a whale.

  'So we must be chaste,' continued Zanya.

  'Ah,' said Drake, his voice sly. 'But it would be an error to condemn your flesh to chastity before you tried just one last thing.'

  'I tell you, I've tried everything!'

  'I listened very very carefully,' said Drake, cunning as a Korugatu philosopher trying to get extended credit at his favourite wine bar. 'And I'm sure, beyond all doubts, that you've never ever tried moderation.'

  Zanya thought hard.

  'Hmmm,' she said. 'You're right. I never have. But in any case, why would I want to practise moderation with you?'

  'Because I love you,' said Drake simply.

  'You mean, you'd rather have me than all the other women in the world put together? My charms would be sufficient for fifty lifetimes and the bright day after?'

  'Well... I wouldn't go that far,' said Drake. 'I mean, not yet. After I'd tried all the women in the world once, then I'd be in a better position to decide.'

  She slapped him, which he deserved for being so crass.

  'Hey!' he said. 'Can't you take a little joke? Of course I'd want you, just you, only you, dearest cony. I'm in love with you, yea, red skin, red hair, kisses and blisses. This is the real thing. True love!'

  'You mean,' said Zanya, 'you hear music when you look at me, smell spring behind my tender ears?'

  Drake sniffed.

  'On Investigation,' he reported, 'I smell, if anything, dead bear.'

  Whereupon she slapped him a second time, for impertinence.

  But he was a quick learner, and, twenty-three slaps later, was singing her praises as sweetly as any courtly swain in pursuit of a high-born damsel.

  Delicately he kissed her, and lightly traced the outlines of her cheekbones, and the hand which fondled its way between her thighs was so gentle, so skilled, so courteous, that she could scarcely resist its claim on her desires.

  She had not had a man for three years.

  Or a dog, or a woman, or a cucumber, or any other form of relief. Religion had even kept her from pleasuring her own flesh
. But propinquity was steadily eroding her religious faith.

  However, fear still kept her chaste.

  For the time being.

  For, if she took on Drake Douay, what then? She knew what men were like. She must stand staunch against all of them. For, if she gave in to one, the others would then be insulted by her refusal. She still had nightmares about serving lust en masse in the Ebrells. Even though that was years ago.

  Therefore she - gently - removed that skilled and courteous hand from between her thighs. When it replaced itself, she - not so gently - tried to break one of its fingers. The hand got the message.

  Thus Drake and Zanya, lying in each other's arms on the fur-side of a fresh-killed bearskin, practised not moderation but abstinence. And the art of the promise.

  But Drake's comrades - men wise in the ways of the world - believed what it was only natural for them to suspect. And this increased the jealousy of some of them beyond all reason.

  39

  Name: Arabin lol Arabin (formerly Dreldragon Drakedon Douay, or, more simply, 'Drake').

  Occupation: wilderness survivor, energetic creator of heresies, dedicated exponent of practical aspects of that congeries of delusions known as 'love'.

  Status: in the eyes of his true love, his dearest kiss, the high-breasted red-skinned red-haired Zanya Kliedervaust (she who is sweeter then nectar, more tender than his foreskin, closer to his heart than his kidneys, and more valued than both of his great toes and the strength of his arches) his status is rising steadily.

  Description: a fair-haired smiling fellow who whistles, sings, laughs; wears rather odd mixture of torn wool, battered sealskin, pungent uncured bearskin; looks totally absurd but more spritely by the moment.

  There were thirteen in that downriver party. Guest Gulkan, the Pretender of Tameran whom they had met so briefly, was not amongst them, having failed to emerge from the Door by the time Jon Arabin finally snatched the star-globe from its golden cup, thus closing the Circle.

  Zanya Kliedervaust was there, of course. She was chaste, yet in love. Amongst so many men, she felt protected because of what she thought of as Drake's power. She longed for the day when they could begin to practise some moderation together. It would be marvellous to be

  cherished, soothed, gentled and adored. An antidote, perhaps, to her memories of Ebrell, where she used to finish an important ceremony feeling as bruised and abused as a pigskin which has just survived five games of ruck in succession.

  With them was the purple-skinned Oronoko, rescued from the Great Arena of Dalar ken Halvar when Zanya was. Language difficulties kept him largely silent; only Zanya spoke his native Frangoni, and she had scant time for anyone other than Drake.

  Drake was now universally known, to Jon Arabin's delight, as Arabin lol Arabin. While he had not yet tasted the delights of Zanya's flesh, he was already learning that the poets, while extravagant, are not entirely untruthful. Love does indeed have its pleasures - such as waking beside a woman in the morning and not having to ask her what her name is.

  In his world of rain and river and water, of mud and dirt and charred bear meat, Zanya was the brightest, most bubbling thing in the universe. And her smile was itself a flattery he had never had from any other woman.

  Warwolf and Walrus had of course survived, as had the wart-faced Sully Yot, who followed Drake like a bad smell until Drake threatened to lib him.

  'I just fancy some jungle oysters,' said Drake. 'So get out of here before I cut your goolies off.'

  'When you die,' said Yot, 'the Flame will burn you forever. You're living in sin.'

  'Aye,' said Drake, not caring to confess that he had yet to sin with Zanya, 'for that's the way I was born. And I'm proud of it.'

  'I'll tell Zanya you're the Demon-son!'

  'Do it!' said Drake. 'Go on, just do it! Then I'll shove your face in the fire and hold it there till your nose burns off. What's more, my father will tear you limb from limb once you're dead.'

  'You mean . . . ?'

  'I mean I am indeed the Demon-son,' said Drake, savagely, 'seed of Hagon, sent to bring evil to the world and destruction to prissy little spoil-sport shits like Sully Yot. So bugger off!'

  Yot was an unpredictable factor.

  He wanted, for a start, to survive. To get the hell out of Penvash - certainly the closest thing to hell he'd ever encountered. And he also wanted to renew Drake's faith in the Flame (if Drake was human, and not born of the Demon), or to kill Drake (if Drake was indeed, true to his boast, the Demon-son). During each day's march, Yot lagged far behind the others, having long, involved theological discussions with himself as he tried to sort truth from boast and right from wrong.

  Apart from the above, the Penvash party included three men who only wanted to stride on downstream as soon as possible: Rolf Thelemite, Jon Disaster and Whale Mike.

  Then there was the rape faction.

  It was small, for it consisted of three men only. Simp Fiche was its inspiring spirit, but Ika Thole thought of himself as its leader - and the dangerous Ish Ulpin was the one most likely to actually start the action. Ish Ulpin was busy persuading Bucks Cat to his faction.

  While Drake and Zanya slept together in all innocence, oblivious of the group dynamics which were rapidly developing a disaster for them, the members of the rape faction campaigned.

  'The vomit-haired scrab should share and share alike,' said Simp Fiche. 'It's not fair to keep her for himself.'

  'Aye,' said Ika Thole. 'She's a priestess of the Orgy God, that one. I tell you, on the Ebrells they don't hold themselves so special.'

  T haven't had my balls cut off,' said Ish Ulpin. 'How about the rest of you? How about it, Mike?'

  Whale Mike thought long and hard, then shook his head in a ponderous fashion and said:

  'This like eating my little klude. One too small for many. You so hard up, man? Then you grab sleepy bear, nice one, we help hold it down for you.'

  He slapped his knees and laughed, while Ish Ulpin scowled.

  But the rape lobby won over Bucks Cat. Then set to work on Slagger Mulps. Simp Fiche did most of the work, nagging away steadily:

  'Are you a pirate chief or what? . . . following after the Warwolf like a puppy behind a blue-tailed bitch . . . when did you last speak as a captain? . . . man, he's been laughing at you ever since we left the Teeth . . . changed the name of the ship on you, back at D'Waith, didn't he? And you took it like a dead fish takes the gutting knife. . .'

  Fiche was not surprised when, a day later, at noon, when they had halted for lunch (cold bear meat and water weed, with a couple of earthworms apiece to add variety) Walrus said to Warwolf:

  'Jon, I've been thinking. It's been a hard haul, Jon. Many leagues, much suffering. Yet no fun for the boys, Jon. Except for one.'

  And he glanced at Drake. Who got to his feet, his fingers fists.

  'You want to argue, man?' said Drake. 'Sit!' said Jon Arabin, curtly. Reluctantly, Drake sat.

  'Mulps me darling,' said Jon Arabin. 'We're through the worst, as you know as well as any. We'll make it to Estar for sure. There's whores there the same as anywhere, and beer to go with them.'

  'Aye,' said Mulps. 'But what good's pleasure elsewhere? Man, there's pleasures for real in Selzirk palaces - and what profit do we get of such?'

  'Man,' said Jon Arabin. 'One unwashed body with another on a stinking skin in the mud and the rain, I don't call that pleasure. That's children's games - and there's only the two children here, neither of them being you or me.'

  'Fussy, is it?' said Mulps. 'Aye, Jon, you always were the gentleman. But I'm a pirate true and for real, and I'll take what's due to me by worth and rank. Rolf - give me your sword. Give it!' Rolf Thelemite hesitated.

  'You're sworn to him,' said Jon Arabin. 'So give him your blade, if that's the way he wants to settle it.'

  And the Warwolf released his own blade from the bindings which kept the slender thing from rattling around in the big bulky sheath which had once held a falchion.

/>   'Give me that!' said Drake, reaching for it.

  Jon Arabin knocked him away with a back-handed blow. He had to win this one himself to save his leadership. He could not allow Drake to kill the Walrus - as well he might, for his shipboard training had shown him slick with a blade.

  'Keep back,' said Arabin. 'This kill is mine. Sit! And be silent!'

  Drake, wiping a little blood from his nose, obeyed.

  Rolf Thelemite yielded his sword to Slagger Mulps, but, seeking to buy a little time in which hot heads might still yet cool, said:

  'What about the tinder-box? A good cut might rend it open.'

  Jon Arabin shrugged, then detached his waterproof sea-pouch from his belt. He tossed it to Drake, who caught it neatly.

  'Take good care of that,' said Jon Arabin. 'We'll need a fire soon enough, to cook up Walrus kidneys.'

  Arabin tested his footwork, and, finding the star-globe was likely to interfere with his movements, took it from the deep thigh-pocket where it had been hiding. He looked at Drake, to throw it to him - but Drake had turned to kiss Zanya.

  'Here,' said Jon Arabin, tossing the star-globe to Sully Yot.

  Rolf Thelemite, standing by Yot, thought it was for him, and tried to field it. Thelemite and Yot collided - and the star-globe rolled down the bank to the river's edge. Yot slithered after it hastily, first because he was certain Thelemite was angry with him, second because he was afraid the beautiful thing would be eaten by the hungering waters. There it was.

  Yot grabbed for it. His fingers closed on the smooth cold stone. But it weighed more than he had expected, and slipped from his grasp. Fell into knee-deep water. The current rolled it downstream. Yot lunged for it, slipped, fell face-first into the water, saw the ball, grabbed it.

  For a moment he had the star-globe in his grasp. He struggled against the current, slipped, tried to stand up - and found himself floundering out of his depth in water suddenly deeper. As the river thrashed him away, the star-globe found freedom.

  Gasping and shouting, Yot thrashed around in the water. The others, watching from the top of the bank, still did not realize his difficulties. They thought he was just clowning it up a little, and would be wading back to the bank any moment now, star-globe in hand.