The Waterstone

by Rebecca Rupp

  “You have broken the Law, Azabel!” the Kobold said sternly. It was the hammer voice, Tad realized, harsh with anger. The Kobold’s image rippled as if little waves were sweeping through it.

  “The Stone is mine!” the Nixie cried, her voice rising. “You have your Stone, Beziel! This one is mine! Mine!“

  “It is not yours!” the Kobold bellowed.

  Tad’s pouch thumped insistently against his side. He reached inside again and pulled out Treeglyn’s oak stick, with its faint tracing of a wild-haired little face. The stick trembled and shivered, and then suddenly jerked itself out of his hand and hovered in the water. Above it formed the translucent image of a woman, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest, her eyes brilliantly blue.

  The Nixie smiled nastily. “Beziel,” she said, “and now Treeglyn. I thought your kind were long gone.”

  “Not yet,” Treeglyn’s image snapped.

  “Not hardly,” the Kobold rapped out.

  “But you are both alone,” the Nixie said. “You are the last.” Her voice began to croon. “As I am alone. My sisters are gone, gone, into the deep sleep, taken from me forever, gone, gone.” The croon sharpened into a silvery hiss. “Taken from me, Sagamore! And I will have my revenge! You are no longer what you were, Sagamore. Your world will die. And I will have my Stone.“

  She undulated forward, rearing up in the water, swelling until she was twice — three times — her former size. She bared her pointed teeth, and her silver-green hair flared out around her shoulders as if blown by an invisible wind.

  “You should have bargained when I offered,” the silver voice said. “For now there is no turning back. I will destroy you, Sagamore!”

  A triumphant ripple of music echoed through the chamber.

  “I have made a pact with Ohd!”

  The Dryad and the Kobold recoiled. They wobbled queasily in the water, staring at the Nixie in horror. Watching them made Tad’s eyes go out of focus.

  The Nixie reached out her claw-tipped fingers and beckoned, and the Waterstone shot across the chamber like a slippery fish. The Nixie caught it in both hands and raised it high above her head. The Stone’s soft glow grew brighter, and it began to pulse — dim, bright, dim, bright — in rhythm. Dim, bright, dim, bright. Tad could hear it. It sounded like a beating heart. His heart. The Stone and his heart were beating together. He felt a terrible tugging in his chest.

  “Your body will die, Fisher boy,” the Nixie belled. “Your body will die and the Sagamore will be caught in the Stone. The Mind and the Magic will belong to Ohd.”

  The Dryad and the Kobold turned their wavery faces toward Tad. The world burst into unbearable brilliance and went dark.

  He was hanging in the middle of nothing. There was nothing to see but dark, a dark so deep that Tad could almost feel it. Blackness was all around him. He was as blind as a mole. Then a voice from somewhere out of the darkness spoke directly in his ear. Whose voice?

  Use the Gift, Tad.

  The Gift. But how? What to do with it? Tad felt nothing but anguish and confusion. If only he were older, bigger, stronger. If only he had a sword.

  Use the Gift.

  An idea flickered. It had something to do with rocks rolling, one of Pondleweed’s sayings. “If enough push all together, the largest rock will roll.” The flicker steadied and grew stronger.

  Your Talent, said Witherwood, is speaking mind to mind.

  “I would have liked,” said Willem weakly, the Greller arrow in his shoulder, “to have seen a true rally of the Tribes.”

  Pull free, a weasel said.

  “Brother,” said the hawk.

  Your Talent, said Witherwood . . .

  It was as if all the pieces of a complicated puzzle had finally fitted together. The idea became an understanding, and then a certainty.

  Then he was back — or had he ever left? — in the Nixie’s blue-lit chamber. The Nixie swayed before him in the water, the Waterstone clutched in her claw-tipped fingers. Her lips curled in a mocking smile. Tad took a deep breath — it made a glubbing sound in the water — and deliberately reached out with his Mind.

  I stand for the Fishers! he cried into the silence and emptiness. Who stands with me?

  The Kobold and the Dryad spun around in the water. Their images heaved and shuddered. Tad reached — and felt their minds joining with him, strange and unfamiliar minds, but deep and old and strong.

  I stand for the Kobolds! the hammer voice thundered. I stand for the rock of the Earth! Who stands with me?

  I stand for the Dryads! Even Treeglyn’s mind voice was a screech. Who stands with me?

  Ditani’s eyes flashed through her buglike goggles. I stand for the Hunters!

  The Nixie laughed. Her cat’s pupils had dilated until nothing was left around them but a thin silver rim of iris. Her eyes looked like black pools.

  “It is not enough,” the Nixie said. A strain of music crept into her voice. “Your bond is not strong.” The music grew louder and sweeter. “You cannot win, Sagamore.”

  I can, said Tad.

  His Mind reached farther, calling, and he felt other minds — first startled, then listening, then rushing to join with him. Fisher minds. Hunter minds. Digger minds, sturdy as the stone of the mountains. A flurry of small green minds. Pippit? Tad thought. Frogs? Or are those the leafy voices of trees? The soft twining minds of weasels — Not slaves! — the chittering minds of squirrels, the proud wind-clean minds of hawks. Minds that barked and yelped in a defiant chorus. Foxes. Foxes, red and gray, calling to him from the hills and the dark of the forest. The Dens stand for Rune! Long cool minds, striped with danger, but now joining with him, sharp with purpose. Snakes, Tad realized, with a thrill of wonder. We ssstand with you, Sssagamore!

  Then, from a great distance, a new mind turned toward him.

  I am Gorma, Sachem of the Mogs. What need have you, Sagamore?

  In his mind’s eye, Tad saw the great black bear heaving herself erect, shaggy paws lifted to the sky. She wore a collar of gold nuggets around her neck, beaten into the shape of curved claws.

  Join us, Tad answered.

  The Nixie had gone silent and watchful. Suddenly she looked afraid. She held the Waterstone high over her head and cried out, “Ooo-hd!”

  Tad felt as if he were at the center of a whirlwind. He was malawissa — a tree in a storm, standing firm against thunder and lightning. He was the rock in the mountain’s heart; he was the water that fed the ponds. He was the wind that held the hawk. He was the Sagamore.

  Like an angler reeling in a fish, he pulled the minds together, all of them, large and small, young and old, weak and strong — but even the weakest of them was strong when all stood like this, together.

  I defy you, Ohd, Tad’s thought whispered. I stand for Rune.

  I, too, a mind voice said beside him.

  I stand for the green. For the mountains. For the forest.

  I stand for Rune.

  I stand.

  I defy.

  Tad gathered the minds together, stronger, brighter, a blaze of belief and determination. Pictures flashed through his Mind. The empty bowl of a pond, fish rotting on its banks. A shriveled grove of dead trees. A fallen nest filled with the stiffening bodies of baby birds. The pictures crowded upon one another. A broken wagon wheel, half buried in black mud. A child crying with thirst. Pondleweed, imprisoned, drowned.

  We defy.

  The Nixie was wailing, her cry rising higher and higher, until it sounded like one of the Diggers’ screaming engines. Then the water began to swirl tightly in circles around her. Her hair coiled upward over her head like gleaming smoke.

  The water swirled faster. She looked as if she were wrapped in whirling mirrors. Her features began to blur. It was hard to see her now. She was encased in a silver funnel of water. The funnel spun faster and faster, dizzyingly fast, tossing out a frothing spray of foam.

  A despairing silver voice touched Tad’s mind.

  Ooohd . . .

  A
nd then in an instant the roiling whirlpool vanished, taking the Nixie with it. The wailing stopped abruptly as if an immense stone door had slammed shut upon it. The Waterstone dropped to the shell-tiled floor and rolled to rest against Tad’s feet.

  The minds were gone. Or rather not gone altogether but dispersed again, gone their separate ways. For a moment, all was silent except for the teakettle sound of Ditani’s breathing tubes.

  Then the water trembled and a Presence entered the chamber. The Mind that touched Tad’s now was infinitely immense and terrifyingly alien. It made him think suddenly of the huge uncanniness of space and stars — but at the same time, there was something comfortably familiar about it. There were green edges to it, and little glints of merriment that reminded him of sunbeams dancing on pond water. He was filled, all at once, with fear and welcome and gladness and awe.

  “Well done, Sagamore,” a deep green voice said.

  The images of the Kobold and the Dryad rippled joyfully. Ditani was looking around confusedly in all directions.

  “And you, Witches,” the green voice said. “You, too, have done well. You have kept your trust, wielding your Stones wisely through the ages.” It paused, then a note of amused admiration crept into it. “Hummingbirds,” it said. “Very clever. And those striped rocks — excellent. What are you calling them?”

  “Agates,” the Kobold mumbled. He sounded pleased, but embarrassed.

  “But it has been a long and heavy trust,” the voice continued, “and you must be tired. Should you wish to do so, when you find worthy successors, I give you permission to pass on the Stones. There are many among the newer peoples who are wise and deserving with whom the Stones would be safe.”

  The Kobold nodded slowly. “I have such a one in mind,” he said.

  The Dryad gave an assenting squawk.

  “And you, little Hunter,” the deep voice continued. “It was a brave thing you did, to accompany the Sagamore.”

  Ditani shook her head, as if to say that she hadn’t done anything brave at all. The breathing tubes bobbled.

  “The heart is more important than the hand,” the voice said, “and your heart, little Hunter, is loyal and valiant. You will have bright days and fine hunting and smooth ground beneath your wagon wheels.”

  The water trembled again and, for an instant, Tad saw the Kobold and the Dryad bending their heads in reverence, and Ditani looking buggily surprised. Then, between one breath and another, they were gone.

  “And as for you, Sagamore” — the green voice sounded regretful —“I would like to tell you the same, that all will go well with you, that your days will be filled with sunlight, fat fish, and clear water. But you are the Sagamore, the guardian, and your path is hard and lonely. Your loss is already great. Now you will watch from the shadows and they will forget you. Not all that you have done, but much, and that is for the best. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tad whispered.

  The deep voice gave a ghost of a chuckle.

  “Oh, you’ll be a hero for a bit,” it said kindly. “But they won’t get your story right. At least most of them won’t. It’s too much for them, if you see what I mean. It’s like your young friend told you. People believe best what they’ve always believed.

  “It’s not always easy, the Gift,” the voice went on. “But you’ll grow into it. You’ll see. And in the meantime . . .”

  There was a flash of light from the white crystal on the floor of the Nixie’s chamber, and the Waterstone floated upward into Tad’s hand.

  “Take it,” the deep voice said. “Take it home to your pond. It’s yours now. Guard it carefully.”

  Suddenly the voice changed, sliding into a husky whisper. Tad’s eyes widened in amazement. It was a voice he recognized — the voice of an ancient turtle resting on white rocks beside a still blue pool. The embroidered tapestries billowed, and the jeweled chamber began to blur and fade. He felt as if he were falling into a long, long tunnel. There was a light at the end of it; first a pinprick in the distance, then steadily growing bigger, closer, and brighter. He rushed toward it.

  Great Rune’s last words whispered in his ear: “Use the Gift wisely, Tadpole of the Fisher Tribe. “

  Tad was lying on the lakeshore. All around him was a buzz of activity. Feet pounded past him, and there was a confusion of shouting.

  “It’s gone blue, I tell you! Blue as a blooming blueberry!”

  Tad sat up.

  The black lake had changed color. Shore to shore, as far as the eye could see, it was now a cool clear blue. A handful of ex-fighters, wet to the skin, were splashing in it. As Tad watched, a Fisher, attacking from the rear, pulled an unwary Hunter under the water. The Hunter emerged spluttering, water dripping from his braids. He gave a mock roar and pounced on his assailant. The Fisher fell over backward, web feet flailing, shouting with laughter.

  Tad looked behind him. The walls of the Greller fortress had fallen. Rows of Greller soldiers were sitting on the ground in front of the broken gate, their hands tied behind their backs and their legs stretched straight out in front of them. They looked hot and angry. Between the fortress and the beach, a great fire was blazing, tended by a scattering of Fishers, Hunters, and Diggers — Diggers! — armed with long poles. Grellers, under guard, dragged sledges toward the fire, laden with debris and dead branches.

  From the opposite direction came what sounded like a series of thunderous explosions. Tad whirled around. A great bear, attended by a yapping train of foxes, was tearing down the dam. Rocks toppled, crashing alternately into the brimming lake (with volcanic splashes) and into the dried riverbed (with earsplitting bangs). Onlookers along the shore who had ventured too close squealed and retreated. Those who didn’t retreat fast enough became suddenly dripping wet. Nobody seemed to mind.

  The bear’s massive shoulders heaved as great chunks of the stone barrier fell. The bear roared in triumph. The water burst through, freed at last, fountaining over the parched rocks, rushing gloriously away southward. The watchers on the shore sent up a chorus of cheers. Fishers, Hunters, and Diggers jumped up and down, yelling, hugging, and pounding one another ecstatically on the back. In the midst of the excited crowd, Tad could see Eelgrass standing on a hummock, waving lanky arms in the air. He was shouting a dismal warning about mudslides and floods.

  The cascading water glittered in the sunlight like a leaping school of gold-and-silver fish. Somewhere far away, Tad knew, that foaming water would gentle and slow as it filled the streams and tributaries, bubbled over the little waterfalls, and swirled into the rock pools until finally, gratefully, it poured with a musical trickle into a green pond by an old willow tree. The bear roared again, a gleeful bellow.

  It is well, Sagamore?

  It is well, Tad answered.

  A pair of excited arms seized him from behind and pulled him into a rib-cracking hug. It was Voice, bruised and battered but glowing with delight. His orange hair looked incandescent.

  “You did it, Tad! It’s all thanks to you!”

  “And you and Witherwood,” Tad said. “And Blackberry.” Voice gave a sheepish grin. “It’s thanks to so many people.” Most of all to Pondleweed, he thought, but he found that a lump rose up in his throat at the memory of his father’s name. “To the Kobold — Beziel — and Treeglyn, and Kral, the hawk. And Ditani and Willem. You haven’t met them yet. Willem is a Digger and he has a bat of his own. . . .”

  The words trailed off as Tad remembered. Willem! He had left him on the shore, the battle raging around him, a Greller arrow in his shoulder. Had the healers found him? Was he all right? Pulling Voice behind him, he rushed toward the place where he had last seen his friend, lying on the dusty ground with Birdie standing guard. Fishers, Hunters, and Diggers fell back before him.

  Will was still there. His head was pillowed on a folded cloak. Birdie and Ditani crouched over him, faces filled with worry, while Pippit lolloped anxiously from one to the other. They leaped up joyfully at the sight of Tad — Pippi
t went into a frenzy of croaks and leaps — but all soon turned back to the young Digger. Will’s eyes were closed.

  “How is he?” Tad asked apprehensively. “Is he all right?”

  An elderly Hunter woman knelt at Will’s feet, packing clay jars into a small basket. She had removed the arrow from Will’s shoulder and smeared the wound with a pinkish salve. She looked up as Tad spoke and nodded briskly.

  “He will do, your strange friend,” she said. “He loses much lifeblood, but he will recover. Give him food, eh?”

  Tad took Will’s hand between his own. The fingers felt limp and cold.

  “Will?” Tad said.

  Will moved his head weakly and muttered something under his breath.

  “Will?” Tad said again.

  “Peaberry,” Birdie said suddenly. “That’s it. Peaberry.”

  She sprang to her feet and took off at a run, her bare feet pounding the ground. Over Willem’s silent body, Tad and Ditani exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Peaberry?” said Ditani. “What is peaberry? Where does she go?”

  Birdie was back, panting, her hands filled with aromatic herbs. There were long stems hung with tiny bellshaped blossoms — withered, but still smelling sweet — a scattering of round reddish leaves shaped like mouse ears, and some short stalks hung with fruits that looked like peas. Birdie crushed the fruits in her fingers, making a green paste that she patted gently over Willem’s wound. Then she broke a few leaves and held them under his nose.

  “This will make him feel better,” she said. “And the leaves are for making tea too. He should drink it when he’s feeling stronger.”

  She sounded calm and confident. Almost like an older, Tad thought. A real healer. And then the realization burst upon him. Birdie has the Talent. Just like Granny Thimbleberry. Or maybe it’s green blood, like Treeglyn said.