by Lionel Fenn
The trouble was the current.
It sailed him along like a newly hatched leaf, and dog paddling, which was the extent of his swimming stroke knowledge, was not going to break its hold and permit him to land, not without a vast amount of difficulty. The alternative, however, spurred him sufficiently, and he managed to angle himself to the right while swallowing only the occasional mouthful of water until, as luck would have it, he came up against a half-submerged rock and was able to cling to it on the downstream side. He was still an imposing twenty feet from the bank; his arms were filled with lead, and his side was threatening to split open without warning; and every time he tried to focus on something that might help him, he saw double.
The river sped and boiled around him, but after a moment's fumbling he found purchase on the underside of the boulder, a tiny ledge that permitted him to raise himself up until he was waist clear and slumped over the rock's top. A roll to one side, and his mouth begged for more air, spat water he could not hold down, and gasped again. His arms were stiff, both from exertion and the water's temperature, and he felt his teeth chattering, his lips hardening and most likely turning blue, and aches in both ears like the continuous sting of a sadistic wasp. He rolled to the other side; one foot slipped off. A frantic scrambling saved him, some kicking found the ledge, and with a grunt he clambered up until he was sitting high if not dry above the surface.
"Great," he said in short-lived self-congratulation. "Now what?"
The sun warmed him, dried his clothes, made his skin feel as if it were layered in thin mud.
He looked upriver and was astonished at how far he had been carried, and how miraculous it was that he had not drowned in the process. The mountains that ringed his meadow were now behind, and the course of the water had taken so many bends and turns that he had no idea where he had left Red, or even if the lorra had escaped the plain-beast.
The possibility that he hadn't depressed him.
Twice now he had managed to make friends of a sort, and twice they had been wrenched violently from him. It was enough, he thought gloomily, to make a man look deeper into the definition of a walking jinx.
Another ten minutes passed before he decided that he'd have to find the nerve somewhere to get off the rock. The river on its western flow was unbroken though uncommonly swift, and he didn't think he'd have to worry about having his knees bashed in if he tried to swim for it; the question was how long it would take before he could grab for one of the large tubular roots poking out and down from the earth exposed above the water—too long, and he'd drown, if he wasn't first slammed into a boulder not as friendly as this one.
On the other hand, if he stayed here and waited for help from people he had never seen, much less met, he would probably weaken from exposure, slip off the rock, and drown, if he wasn't battered to death by another boulder farther downstream.
Decisions, he thought bitterly, and before he could taunt himself with any more combinations, he drew his legs under him and dove into the water, broke the surface farther from the bank than he'd prayed for, and pumped arms and legs to force himself over.
There were no shallows.
The river at its banks was just as deep as in the middle, and each time he thrust up a hand to grab for a root, he sank, took in water, and surfaced a bit lower than the last time. Once, he actually had one, but the current was unrelenting and he was dragged away, cursing; a second time, a barb where his palm folded made him yank his hand back; and a third time, he simply slid off as if the root had been greased.
A submerged rock cracked against his leg then, and he yowled in pain, sank, surfaced, and flailed desperately at the earth speeding past him. It was hard, however, and the few depressions he felt his fingers meet were too shallow for a grip.
He was going to die.
What the hell, he thought when he found his arms too weak to do anything but drift, and he went limp, let himself sink, waited for the end, and found himself a few seconds later floating on his back, feet aimed downriver. It was comforting, but he didn't like the way the water rose in glassine humps just ahead, or the way it suddenly gouted into white boiling foam when it fell on the other side. The number of rocks was increasing. If he kept on this way, he was going to ram one sole first and end up with his knees behind his ears.
"Hey, are you crazy?"
Of course I am, he answered silently; it was the euphoria one feels when one knows he's going to die, a calm resignation that attends the end of a man's life.
"For god's sake, give me your hand!"
It wasn't God, then, but an angel, and when he shifted his gaze slowly to his right, he saw her. Him. A young angel racing along the riverbank ahead of him, stopping, reaching over with extended hand, then glaring and racing on again. He was dressed in furless hides and in high boots wrapped around with red thongs. A curious angel.
Not, he thought, an angel.
And he sank.
Jesus Christ, not now! he ordered when his legs refused to drive him back up; and he kicked, expelled the last of the air in his lungs, and shot out of the water, his arms high and his voice keening. A hand snared a wrist, the other wrist, and though he felt as if his shoulders were going to part company with the rest of him, he managed to cling to his rescuer until he was dragged onto the bank and flopped on his back.
He closed his eyes.
He doubled over suddenly and retched until his stomach had rid itself of all the water he had swallowed and a few inches of its lining.
Then he lay back again, not caring about the aches, or the cramps, or the shadow that had covered the sun.
When his eyes opened, a young man was staring intently at him, a young man who reminded him unpleasantly of Glorian.
—|—
"Are you all right?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Were you trying to swim?"
Again.
"Fell in?"
"Knocked," he said weakly. "I was riding Red, and—"
"Who's Red? Are you cold?"
He couldn't answer. A series of violently painful tremors doubled him again, and he could not stop them, and could not stop weeping until he felt a blanket of fur wrap around him, felt the young man hold him until the reaction passed.
When control returned, he managed to sit up.
And laughed when he saw the lorra coming toward him through the trees.
"That," he said, pointing, "is Red."
The young man looked, went pale, and hurriedly positioned himself behind Gideon. "You rode that lorra?"
"Sure."
"But—"
Red bounded out of the trees and only barely stopped in time to nudge Gideon's legs playfully, snorting softly and purring. Then he looked up and saw the young man, and the purring became a growl.
"Knock it off, Red," Gideon ordered. "The kid here saved me from the river."
Red eyed him doubtfully, then lowered himself to the ground and began munching the grass between his ankles.
"That's amazing," his rescuer said. "The only one I ever knew who could do that was... Hey, who are you?"
"Gideon Sunday," he said. "Who are you?"
"Tag."
"Tag? Do you have a last name?"
Tag frowned. "What's a last name? I have Tag, and I have a place, Kori." He pointed at the mountain. "Over there."
It was Gideon's turn to frown. "Over there? Eight houses by a forest? Grey houses?"
Tag sat facing him, his legs crossed. "You were there?"
He nodded.
"And you didn't die?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Who are you?"
"I already told you."
Tag shook his head; that wasn't the question. And he shook his head even more when Gideon, glad for a chance to talk to something that could talk back, explained how he had come to be in the river, how he had crossed the mountain, how he had nearly killed himself getting to what the young man called Kori. He said nothing about Glorian; he didn't want the kid dying
just when they were getting to know each other.
"And you ate the... berries."
"Sure. I didn't want to starve. It wasn't much, but they've kept me going this long."
"And you got away from the pacch."
He shrugged. "If you mean that thing that lives underground over there, yes." He paused. "Well, Red helped."
The lorra lifted its head just long enough to give him a stare, then returned to its lounging graze.
Tag pushed away from him on his buttocks, propped an elbow on one knee and put his palm to his cheek. He clearly doubted the story, but the evidence of his eyes was difficult to discount.
"Where," he asked at last, "are you from?"
Gideon fell into a spate of coughing he claimed was a result of his dunking in the river, but he could not stop Tag from repeating the question or demanding an answer when he tried to stall by asking if the country they were in had a name. He considered a simple refusal and reminded himself that he owed his life to the young man, and probably owed him a more complete explanation.
"Bridge," he said at last. "I came across, or through, or under, or whatever, a Bridge."
Tag's doubt turned to outright scorn. "And what do you know about Bridges, huh?"
"I don't know anything about them except they exist."
"And how did you know that?"
"Are you a lawyer?"
"What's a lawyer?"
"Like a pacch, only they walk on two legs and have more teeth."
"You haven't answered my question."
He almost said he had no intention of answering it unless he was treated with a little more respect, but Tag's left hand moved against his hip then, and a section of his hide vest fell away to reveal a rather large-looking dagger with a hilt made of spiraled horn. Red stirred uncomfortably, and his eyes turned a momentary shade of grey.
"The Bridge."
"Right," said Tag.
"Well, like I said, I didn't even know they existed. Then I found one in my house and came across it."
"You don't just find one," he was told.
"Well, you're right, I didn't exactly just find it. In fact, Glorian showed it to me."
Tag's large brown eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet. "Glorian? Glorian brought you over?" He ran to the edge of the bank and searched the opposite shore. "Where is she?" He whirled, and the dagger was in his hand. "Where is she?"
"I don't know," he said truthfully, and managed not to cringe when he saw the look in Tag's eyes. "I swear I don't know." He explained quickly what had happened the night she had disappeared, how he had searched for her as best he could and had found evidence that something had taken her up into the trees and away. His regret was genuine when he finished by saying he hadn't seen her or a clue of her since.
Tag glared, but he was prevented from precipitous murder by the steady look Red gave him; instead, he stalked angrily along the riverbank, angrily back, and began pitching rocks furiously into the water. With each rock he threw, he uttered what Gideon imagined was an oath, and he kept it up until he could no longer lift his arm. By that time, Red had grown bored, had lurched to his feet, and was browsing for snacks under the trees.
"You knew her," Gideon said when Tag finally dropped and began murdering the ground instead.
"She was Kori."
"Your sister?"
"We shared the mother, if that's what you mean."
Damn, he thought.
Then, suddenly brightening: "Tag, do you have any idea why she brought me here across the Bridge?"
"Don't you know?"
"All I know is, she said something about me finding a white duck before she brought me back."
Tag leaned away front him, his eyes wide again and his lips beginning to quiver. "The duck," he said softly, in a tone near to reverence.
"Right. The duck."
Then Tag smiled. "You're going to get it!"
"That was the plan, I think."
Suddenly, the young man was on his feet and pulling at Gideon's arm. He jabbered about not wasting any time, and Gideon reminded him curtly that drowning was not, in his opinion, a waste of anyone's time, including the person under the water. But Tag was not to be sidetracked. He said they had to be on the road before nightfall, to put as many miles between them and the Scarred Mountains as they could before they would be able to rest again. It was, Tag said impatiently when Gideon balked, a long walk.
"Walk? What for, when we have Red?"
"Red?" Tag looked fearfully at the lorra, who had turned his great head at the sound of his name.
"I am not walking, young man, when I can ride."
He called Red over, asked him if he wouldn't mind, please, taking on two passengers for the rest of their journey, and the lorra promptly lowered himself to the ground. Gideon climbed aboard and scowled when Tag held back.
"C'mon, boy, he's not going to bite."
"He does."
"Maybe he does, but he isn't."
"He won't?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Jesus Christ," Gideon yelled, "will you get the hell on the goddamned animal before we die of old age?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At Tag's quavering suggestion, they stayed on the bank of the river for nearly four miles before they swerved back through the trees and onto the road again. The brown-grass plain was still there but intermixed now with struggling green and swatches of wildflowers. When he was assured they were no longer in danger of ambushes by the myopic pacch, Gideon relaxed enough to ask that Tag give him a guided tour of the country they were traveling. It wasn't because he didn't know what he was looking at, but he hoped it would keep the young man's mind off riding the lorra, an event he had decided must be of some import in people's lives around here.
Tag was more than happy to comply.
The Scarred Mountains, he was told in tones generally reserved for angelic women and cathedrals of note, was the only circular range anyone was aware of, and only the Kori had bothered to settle there. The river he had nearly drowned in was called the Rush, the plain the Blades. There was no general land designation comparable to a country; people lived primarily with their families and took place names in order to distinguish one family from another. Some families were very large, some consisted only of parents and immediate children, and movement between the various enclaves was unhindered and encouraged. Tag had no idea why two or three families didn't join together in one large group; it wasn't done, that's all, though he admitted that in some places the communities were almost close enough together to make boundaries virtually meaningless. That didn't happen often. Families like the Kori were jealous of their land, and of their privacies, and though they were cordial enough to visitors and the odd traveler or two, they examined any potential joiner exceedingly carefully before granting them the highest honor of permitting them to build a house and take a spouse and merge their lives with those who had accepted them.
But when he proclaimed rather proudly that war did not exist and was never contemplated by even the meanest-spirited of people, Gideon touched his dagger and suggested that the existence of weapons such as that did not easily lead one to believe they were used solely as defense against something as large and unpleasant as a pacch, or a flock of ekklers, or even a single one of the mountain's winged predators he learned were called deshes.
Tag allowed as how that was a point to be considered.
Gideon dropped the subject and asked him instead where they were heading.
The road had swung off to the southwest while the river had contorted itself southeastward, and they were moving now across another plain, one emerald green and so abundantly filled with flowers of considerable size and coloration that looking at them too long made his vision blur. This, he was informed proudly, was the Sallamin, a land area of considerable size and natural wealth that was controlled, not by any one family, but by a group of them, each using the various resources as their personal economic base. It stretched, he said,
from the Rush to the east all the way to the Chey in the south and west.
"The Chey?"
"Of course."
"And what is the Chey?"
"The end of the world; didn't Glorian tell you that?"
He reminded the lad that they'd scarcely had time to learn to get on each other's nerves, much less become part of a roving geography lesson, then wondered aloud if the Chey was what caused the haze on the horizon. Tag said it was, and they would begin to notice the difference in the air the closer they got.
"Closer? Why? Surely we're not going there."
Tag, who was riding behind and had spoken mostly into his right ear, nodded quickly enough to put a painful dent in his shoulder.
"I don't understand."
"That's where Glorian was probably taking you."
"Probably? You don't know?"
"Who knows anything about what Glorian does anymore?" he said with a faint whine of disgust and, Gideon thought, what might have been envy. "She was always doing what she wanted, she never told anyone where she was or where she was going, and when she was finished she just showed up and expected everyone to treat her like she was somebody important."
"Did they?"
"Of course they did. She was."
Red snorted, tossed his head, and slowed down as he moved away from the road's center toward the less worn cobbles along the verge. Gideon suspected the lorra was hungry and realized with a start that he was, too, but all that had happened since their descent down the mountain had more than driven the thought of eating from his mind. When he mentioned it to Tag, the young man groaned at his forgetfulness and guided them to a cleared area a half mile ahead. It was a crescent of red-clay earth that reached thirty feet into the Sallamin and had scattered about it flat-topped rocks, where he bid Gideon sit. Then he proceeded to wade into the grass, snatching at a blossom here, a stem there, until he returned with a vegetarian bouquet in his arms. Gideon eyed the offering dubiously, but his stomach was the master, and after Tag showed him which parts would fill him and which would put him off his feed, he was forced to admit that while none of it tasted like chicken, neither did it remind him of eating hay.