The sky above them was no longer the even velvet blackness they had first seen on coming out of the eternal mists. It was turning grey and brown, and legions of blue-black boiling clouds were massing there. The red flames which had drifted in the air not far above them were ragged now, as if a dark, wayward wind was tearing at them, plucking them apart. Their light was fading now, but darkness did not come, because of the colour that was gathering in the sky. The last fragments of the black were slowly being banished, reduced to tattered banners which fluttered between the clouds and fell, flickering as they descended and looking for all the world like the ragged flames that were dying beneath them. It was as if the whole substance of the world was burning: red fire, black fire, blue fire… all struggling to render the old reality into smoke and ashes.
Still Ewan and Helen were stranded in their nightmare, falling… falling… falling–-
Then came the sound.
It was as if all the sounds that no one on Earth had ever heard were gathered together and joined into one immense sound which had no purpose other than to make itself heard, so that all the lost sounds of all the lost ages might make themselves meaningful at last, bursting upon human ears, to batter and scream and live, for a few fleeting moments, in human minds as a force… a terrible force… that mind could not resist….
Ewan, twisting in the air, found the source of the sound far out where there should have been a horizon but somehow wasn’t—where chaos curved to meet the dome of the black sky and somehow didn’t. From out of that horizonless void, out of nowhere and nothing, a torrent of pale water was spewing. In moments, as his head turned and his eye saw, the water grew from a splash to a flood to a vast wall, already breaking into white surf at its crown, rushing out of nowhere towards the disintegrating land at incalculable speed.
Ewan spun then, so that he was no longer facing the onrushing tidal wave, but Helen saw it crash and tumble over the awesome face of chaos. She saw the incredible happen as the water was not absorbed into the chaos but the chaos into the water, so that the great grey ocean became an ocean in fact, in reality.
That frightful sound tearing at her ears was the triumphant cry of the flood and anguished dying scream of chaos.
Still they fell… but no longer into a limitless abyss where their bodies would evaporate and disintegrate. Now they fell toward the water, and they fell so slowly… so very slowly….
Ewan felt the power of movement return to his limbs, and with one last glance at the burning sky he turned in his fall, stretched out his arms, and managed to hit the grey water almost vertically. It was no worse than diving from a ten-foot board.
Helen was not quite so fortunate—she twisted too hard and her limbs were still flailing as she hit the water. The impact knocked all the breath out of her, and while Ewan turned gracefully under water to bring himself back to the surface she floundered helplessly, unable to fight her way through the raging water to the air above.
As soon as Ewan’s head was above the surface he gulped air and looked desperately around for Helen, but he could see nothing. A wave lifted him upon its crest, and he tried to look all around in the moment before it flung him down again, but still he saw nothing. Then he was submerged again, and fighting the water once more.
Helen, robbed of sight and feeling, with the water crushing her as she sank through it, got control of herself at last. She reached out with her arms and kicked with her legs, not upwards but sideways, until she was moving through the water like a fish. Only then, with her movements measured and definite, and her lungs desperate for air, did she turn in the water and go up like an arrow. It seemed to take a long, long time… and for a moment her mind—which seemed oddly remote from her body— contemplated the possibility that she might not make it in time. But then her head was free, and she sucked air into her lungs.
She tried hard to stay afloat, and looked for Ewan. But there was too much wetness oozing into her flesh. Released from the invisible hand which had cushioned her fall she was dropped into a world of brutal forces which still raged in conflict although the spell was now complete and the judgement of Jeahawn Kambalba brought to its conclusions. No magic could harm her now … but no magic could save her, and she was lost in a tempestuous sea….
Somewhere there was a voice, calling her name. She knew it was Ewan, somewhere nearby, but she could not see him. The voice sounded fearful and forlorn. She tried to shout back, but salt water splashed in her mouth as she opened it, and she had to cough violently to get rid of it again. She tried to raise her arm as high as it would go, in case he couId see.
The sea threw them together. It was pure chance, unaided by any guiding hand, but Helen felt her extended hand gripped suddenly, clasped tight and squeezed, and then Ewan was beside her in the trough of a great wave which immediately burst above their heads.
When they came up for air again, Ewan tried hard to speak.
“It’s no use…” he began, and was stopped by the sea, which slapped him hard in the face. He had meant to say more, much more, but the waves would not give him the chance.
How far is the land? asked Helen, silently, of herself. What hope have we… if we have any hope at all?
She could not voice these questions, and so she let them die in her mind, concentrating all her effort in hanging on to Ewan. She looked up at the sky, which seemed no longer to be burning, but full of grey smoke and rain which fell all around them. Steep dark waves rose like hills on either side and she ducked her head before they could descend upon her, and did not lift it again until the impact was past.
Then, in a momentary calm, she saw something else in the water—something pale, more solid than the surf, that moved toward them. She tugged Ewan’s arm, but he had seen it, too, and was already striking out in that direction.
“It’s the horse!” yelled Ewan, close to her ear. “It’s the mare!”
It was, indeed, the grey mare, helpless in the salt water and thrashing her forelegs in blind panic, but somehow coming ever nearer to them. Four or five strokes brought Ewan and Helen to her neck, and they released their grip on one another briefly as Ewan tangled his right hand in her mane and then tried to gain a similar grip for Helen.
“The neck,” he gasped. “Put your weight on her neck. Try to balance her.”
Somehow they got themselves into position, one on either side of the mare, each clinging tightly to her mane, forcing her forelegs down into the water lest her hooves tear at her own flesh. Thus stabilized, the mare could swim—and swim she did.
Together the three of them fought the waves, which were already beginning to lose their violence. Together, they survived.
Both Helen and Ewan knew, even if the mare did not, that their chances of survival were still very slim. If the tidal wave had inundated the magic lands and carried the flood to the borders of Caramorn—and both of them felt sure that it had—then they were a long, long way from any shore.
And what hope could there possibly be of rescue?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The pea-green boat cut through the waves like a knife, bobbing as it rode the swell and dipping down the backside of each wave. The wind ran the tiny sail this way and that, and the vessel swayed drunkenly from side to side. But the water that splashed the deck never threatened to turn her over.
Sirion Hilversun spun the wheel and chortled with delight.
“Look at that!” he called. “No magic—no magic at all! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Rufus Malagig IV, sprawled in the bows, had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at, and was far too sick to think anything was beautiful. He would have offered half his kingdom for just enough magic to keep the boat on an even keel. Not that half of his kingdom was worth a lot nowadays.
“It’s getting clearer!” shouted Sirion Hilversun, either not knowing or not caring how much his companion was suffering. “We’ve ridden out the worst of it. If only they haven’t drowned, we should be able to see them soon. The sky’s getting lighter
all the time. Look… it’s almost blue now!”
Rufus Malagig tried to look up at the sky but was seized by such a terrible attack of nausea that it would have made no impression upon him if the sky had been pale puce. He groaned hollowly—a groan that would have done credit to any ghost.
It was still raining, but it was hardly more than a drizzle now. The waves were rapidly becoming calm. When they had launched the boat from the south-east tower as the tidal wave had crashed against the walls of Moonmansion it had been touch and go as to whether they would survive ten minutes. Without Jeahawn Kambalba’s warning, they might have been trapped in one of the downstairs rooms, in which case they wouldn’t have stood any chance at all. Now they were almost certainly safe themselves and were mounting a desperate search for Ewan and Helen.
Sirion Hilversun half turned to look at his companion and was horrified to see him sprawled out on the deck, with his head propped up against the bow rail.
“Get up, man!” he yelled. “I can’t look every way at once. On your feet, damn you!”
Rufus Malagig IV felt that this was no way to speak to a king—especially not a seasick king—but he could not find sufficient strength to complain. He knew, though, that the situation was urgent, and that if he had any small reservoir of heroism left untapped, now was the time to tap it.
“Come on!” urged the enchanter, who was an enchanter no more.
The king forced his legs to move, and with great difficulty pulled himself up into a kneeling position. He put his hand up as if to shade his eyes (actually, he was holding his head, which felt as if it might drop off at any moment) and assumed an attitude of keen vigilance, looking out to starboard.
Satisfied, Sirion Hilversun directed his own gaze to port, although occasionally—not wishing to take too many chances—he sneaked a quick glance to starboard to make sure that Rufus Malagig wasn’t missing anything.
The king, though, really was trying his hardest, fighting down the seasickness and scanning the waves anxiously for the least sign of anything hopeful. And he it was, in fact, who first caught sight of the white head bobbing in the water. For a moment, he could not see what it was and almost rejected it as a folly of the foam— an illusion sent by the waves to distract him. Then he saw the pale arms clinging to the mane, and the smaller, darker heads. He yelled wordlessly to Sirion Hilversun, jabbing with his outstretched arm.
The enchanter spun the wheel to bring the little boat about.
“Get the rope!” he called.
The king of Caramorn, babbling incoherently, scrambled across the deck to the foot of the mast and began to uncoil the rope secured there. Sirion Hilversun almost came to help him, but the moment he released the wheel it spun back and the boat lurched horribly, so that he had to return to steady it.
Rufus Malagig crawled away from the mast, the rope in his arms, and tried to stand. He looked dazed.
“Give me one end to tie down,” said the enchanter desperately. “Throw the other end to them and haul them in.”
The king came to his feet at last, staggered drunkenly, and seemed about to fall overboard. Then he gained belated possession of himself and tossed several coils of the rope to the old man, who promptly began winding the slack around the stem of the wheel, tying a knot every three or four loops. The king threw the rest of the rope over the side. It fell far short of the target. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rufus Malagig IV dived over the side, grabbed the end of the rope, and began swimming hard towards the horse and the two clinging to its neck.
Ewan and Helen saw him coming and tried to reach out to help him. Ewan did not realize, at first, who it was, and was shocked when he heard the familiar voice gasping at him.
‘Take the rope!” said the king, thrusting forward the free end. “Hang on—both of you. I’ll swim back, pull you aboard.”
Ewan took the rope and wrapped it swiftly about his wrist. With his other hand he took Helen’s arm, and the two of them floated free of the mare. The king was already swimming back to the boat.
Sirion Hilversun looped the rest of the rope that was slack at his end through the spokes of the wheel, securing it firmly. Then he ran to the side in time to help Rufus Malagig back into the boat. As the king somehow contrived to ease his bulk up and over, sagging to the deck immediately, the enchanter heard him moan.
“Are you hurt?” asked Sirion Hilversun.
“No-o-o…” replied the king. “But I feel… terrible!”
Nevertheless, Rufus Malagig regained his feet, all his clothes clinging wetly to his body and his hair dripping salt water into his eyes. Both he and the enchanter grappled with the rope and began to haul upon it. Ewan and
Helen, quite exhausted, could do little enough to help them, but within minutes they were beside the boat, and arms were reaching down to help them over the side.
The moment they were in, and safe, everyone collapsed. All four of them lay in the scuppers, surprised and grateful that all they had to do, for a minute or two, was breathe.
The enchanter was the first to rouse himself, and he moved to take his daughter in his arms. He sat on the deck, cradling her head upon his lap for a long time. Rufus Malagig did nothing but pant and wonder why his nausea just wouldn’t go away. Ewan managed to kneel, and he looked over the side. For a moment he didn’t know what he was looking for, and when he remembered, he realized that it wasn’t there. There was no sign at all of the old grey mare. Her head had finally vanished beneath the waves, and she had lost the unequal struggle.
“She saved us,” murmured Ewan. “She saved us… and we couldn’t save her.”
Then he burst into tears and didn’t stop, even when he felt Helen’s hand upon his shoulder and heard a voice saying: “She was so old, there was no way… but we’re safe. Safe now.”
He just couldn’t stop at all.
Much later, the little boat reached the shores of Caramorn. The water lapped gently against the side of a shallow hill, and they stepped out on to springy green grass. They were all quite recovered by now. Even Rufus Malagig felt as if he could quite confidentiy step back aboard and face the waves again. His stomach was quite settled, although he did feel rather hungry.
Sirion Hilversun looked out over the expanse of blue water, which sparkled in the morning sun.
“Gone,” he murmured. “All gone. The lands where magic ruled. Moonmansion… everything. All under water. Finished. For ever.”
“You realize what this means?” said Rufus Malagig IV.
“Oh, yes,” said the enchanter. “I’ve lost everything.
Everything except….” He placed his arm protectively around Helen’s shoulder. She too was staring out to sea, thinking about all that was gone for ever.
“Caramorn has a coast!” said the king, who sounded far from unhappy. “We can build a fishing fleet! We can build ports. This is a new ocean—unfished, unexplored.
This will be the making of Caramorn–-The country’s future is safe. No more depending on getting good harvests out of bad farmland! Don’t you see… ?” He trailed off then, realizing that what had happened meant something very different to Sirion Hilversun and Helen. “Look,” he said, quietly. “Don’t take it so hard. Caramorn is your home, now. We still need you there.”
“What for?” said Sirion Hilversun, bitterly. “I’ve no magic now. I can’t remember tomorrow any more. Everything I had is drowned with Moonmansion. I’m just a useless old man.”
“No,” said the king, thinking quickly for once. “Not everything is gone. It’s not all lost. You may not remember tomorrow, but you remember yesterday… a great many yesterdays. You’ve lived a long time—you know more than any other living man. And you have more than knowledge… you have wisdom. We need you at Jessamy. I want you to be one of my ministers. And there’s something else, too. If you’ll agree, I want you to become Damian’s tutor. He’s growing up, now—I and someone has to help turn him into something resembling a king. There’s a great deal he has to learn—and it won’t
be easy teaching him. I can’t do it, and neither can the other ministers—they’re just a bunch of petty politicians. Coronado will save the country all right, now that things are different, but someone has to save Damian. How about it?”
The ex-enchanter looked long and hard at the king. Finally, he said: “What about Helen?”
“I’ve already decided what I want to do,” said Helen, quickly, just in case the king, carried away by his magnanimity, suggested that she marry Damian.
“What’s that?” asked Sirion Hilversun.
“I’m going to Heliopolis,” she said. “To the university. With Ewan.”
Ewan looked up when he heard this declaration, and for the first time since Rufus Malagig had hauled him out of the sea, he smiled. It was a long, long smile.
The enchanter looked at the king again, dubiously.
“It’s a good idea,” said Rufus Malagig.
“Will the Treasury be able to stretch to two grants?” asked Ewan.
“We’ll manage,” said the king. “Somehow, we’ll manage.”
Sirion Hilversun shrugged his aged shoulders. “In that case,” he said, “I suppose we’ll all manage.”
Then, with the sun on their backs, they all began the long walk home.
THE END
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