by R Magnusholm
He hurled the heavy thrusting spear at the nearest enemy and launched himself at the stern, pushing with all his might. The impetus he’d given the boat carried it past the grasping black paws. The sludgy silt gripped his feet. He could have held on and tried to clamber aboard, but that would have slowed the boat and doomed them all.
“Endure!” he thought-spoke to Liz, letting go of the stern.
As he fell, the muddy water closed over his head. For a heartbeat, a flicker of hope lingered that he might swim underwater and escape. But the river was too shallow, and he was badly out of breath.
Die well, a small still voice whispered somewhere deep within. Die well.
When he came up to the surface, the Ra was drifting down the channel, beyond the reach of the enemy. His family was safe. Liz’s mouth was open in a shout, but he could hear her voice faintly, as if from miles away. Well, she was in the land of the living. Whereas he . . .
In the river up to his waist, surrounded on all sides, he pulled out his trusty axe. A low sound bubbled in his throat, savage and defiant, and he realized he was laughing.
By God, Jove, and Odin, he would die well. His axe held low, he charged. Clubs rose and fell, missing him somehow, slamming into the water and throwing up gouts of muddy spray.
John’s first swing slammed into an enemy’s shoulder with bone-juddering force. His second chop drove the flint blade into a snarling maw. Broken fangs, bone, and blood flew in an arc.
He whirled like a dervish, slashing at the press of enemies, sidestepping and dodging their clumsy club swings.
Seven-foot-tall, they towered over him, surrounding him in a loose, shifting ring several ursines deep. Their clubs rose and fell, and yet he was always a step ahead. His axe hacked at their paws, their shoulders, their detestable snarling snouts. The wounded ursines reeled away, replaced by fresh fighters.
John seemed indefatigable, as if it wasn’t himself who wielded the axe, but some indomitable and ancient deity. He chopped them down. For himself. For Liz. For George. And for God, because such ursine abominations had no right to exist.
His foot stuck in the silt, slowing him down. A club struck a glancing blow on his left shoulder, numbing it. He ducked just in time to dodge a side swing that would have stove in his skull and turned his brain into a bloody pulp.
Die well, flashed through his mind again.
Suddenly, a roaring gurgle swelled behind him—a sound an enraged water dragon might make. The ursines facing him turned away and fled in utter terror. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Ra bearing down on him on the crest of a foaming wave. And in that moment of blinding clarity, he felt a fiercely proud certainty that he would survive.
Chapter 92
The River Flows Wide
Facing away from the incoming tide, he dove into the shallow water, the surging river gripping his body, the bottom of the reed boat scraping his back. Without thinking, he thrust his axe under his belt. He came up for air just in time to be bashed over the head by the rudder. And there was Liz’s horrified face peering at him over the stern.
He gripped the rudder in both hands as the speeding boat dragged him behind the first incoming wave of the tide—the famous tidal bore—past the cove and up the channel, and past the angry ursines climbing ashore. Their large salt-and-pepper chief let out a frustrated roar, threw down his club, and stomped his feet.
Somehow, John found the strength to pull himself up, hand-over-hand, up the rudder. He had a last glimpse of the cove before it disappeared behind a stand of willows. From this distance, the ursine chief appeared to be strangling one of his warriors.
Liz grabbed him by the collar and helped him aboard. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and no words were necessary between them, but her gleaming eyes seemed to say: Did you think I’d leave you to die?
He shook his head, grinning. The boat had left Oat Island behind, heading west toward Pimlico Peninsula where they had first arrived a year ago. The Ra was flying at breakneck speed on the crest of the wave, as if it were a giant surfboard.
A submerged tree loomed ahead—a snag—and they were hurtling directly at it. Liz threw the tiller to port, and they passed within inches of the gnarly black boughs. A smaller snag appeared out of nowhere and they plowed right over it, the Ra juddering beneath them.
He spoke rapidly, “Always wanted to try surfing, but we’d better get off the leading wave, before it smashes us into something. Besides, we’re going the wrong way.”
“Let’s see if this works,” she said, pulling the tiller hard to starboard.
The boat slewed left, the prow facing the opposite shore. The tidal surge dragged them sideways for some hundred yards, but eventually the Ra slid off the wave’s crest and wallowed in its wake.
They sat in silence for a while, the tide still carrying them upriver, but at a much slower pace. George chose this moment to resume crying.
Liz sighed. “I’d better take care of him.”
The wind blew from the southwest. John lowered the retractable keels, hoisted the sail, set the course south, and then turned east, downriver. The steep and heavily wooded south bank began sliding past them. With the tide still flowing in, they made exceedingly slow progress. Far across the water, he could distinguish Oat Island, and beyond it the woods burning on the mainland. Would the ursines spot the Ra at this distance through the smokescreen? He’d seen on TV that most woodland creatures were shortsighted, so probably not.
He watched the near shore. If ursines lived there too, the boat was close enough to land to be seen. But then again, why’d they be looking for it?
In an hour, the tide stabilized at its highest level, and they began sailing at what John estimated to be a fair walking pace.
“I guess we’re making two or three knots,” he said.
“Good. When the tide starts running out at midday, we’ll sail even faster.”
With the estuary only twenty miles away, there was a good chance of reaching it in the afternoon. The plume of acrid smoke drifted across the water, burning their eyes even at this distance. In another hour, they left it behind.
Liz pulled out the plastic container from the backpack. “I saved some tea from yesterday. That’s all we have to drink. Although, I think the river water is perfectly drinkable.”
“Liz, there are lots of ursine corpses upstream. I can’t drink that.”
She rolled her eyes, rummaged in her leather sack, and pulled out two ripe tomatoes. “Lots of juice here. Save the pips, okay?”
“We should have taken some oat grains, too.”
Silently, she produced a small deerskin pouch, untied the strings, and held it in her palm. Golden-brown seeds gleamed in the sun.
He sipped the cold tea in silence. With the chill of fall in the air, he wasn’t too thirsty.
She said, “Funny, how we’ve come full circle. A year ago, we were homeless and stuck in the middle of the river with nothing to drink.”
He smiled at the memory—the last time they’d been clueless, but now they had a boat, a baby, and a destination.
Gradually, the river widened from one mile to two, its color changing from muddy-brown to blue. Liz kept feeding the firepot with bits of dried tree fungi and broken reed stalks.
They were sailing down the middle of a broad reach, and this far from shore it was hard to estimate their speed. The monotonous susurration of water against the hull and the singing of wind in the rigging were soporific, and they kept yawning. George slept in his basket.
Liz glanced at the sun, high above the south bank. “Time for a midday nap. Who sleeps first?”
“You.”
She nodded, stretched out in the shade of the sail, and wrapped herself in a bearskin.
John sat in silence, steering toward a faraway headland. Was it their island? Unlikely. The river grew ever wider, and the north bank became lost in a bluish haze. The tide should be running out now, boosting their speed. They might be making five knots or better.
>
As the headland drew nearer, he saw that it wasn’t their isle but a peninsula jutting from the southern bank. An even broader reach of the estuary opened up beyond.
Liz stirred and took the tiller from him, sending him to rest.
He sprawled amidships and fell asleep. When he awoke, the deck was rising and falling beneath him, as if they were sailing in open sea. A jolt of terror surged like a dark current through his cramped limbs. Had Liz fallen asleep at the tiller? Had the outflowing tide carried them out to sea? Dazed, he sat up and looked about. Hazy outlines of distant land loomed on all four sides, and he let out a pent-up breath.
Liz smiled and pointed ahead. The island they’d spotted last winter lay three miles away. At least a four-mile-wide stretch of water separated it from the north shore, while a somewhat narrower channel cut it off from the south bank.
Liz said, “Another hour and we’re home.”
He clambered to the bow and peered at the hazy landmass ahead. At this distance, the island remained largely featureless, apart from the southern end being lower-lying. He knelt by the side and scooped some water. As he splashed it on his face, he tasted a trace of salt.
After a half hour passed, they approached close enough to see reed beds lining the island’s coast. John smiled. Where reeds grew, there’d be flood meadows and good landing spots. The tide hadn’t yet fully ebbed when they sailed down a wide passage between the whispering fields of rushes. And there, just ahead, lay a crescent of wet sand where the water had recently receded.
Liz pulled in the keels. “Shall we drop the sail?”
“No, let her run up the beach.”
He moved to the stern to lift the bow. The prow bumped the gently sloping shore, and the Ra slid three feet out of the water, grinding to a stop.
John and Liz jumped to the sand and pulled the boat up the beach to where the lush meadow grass grew. They unloaded the cargo, removed the oars to lighten the boat, and then dragged it all the way up the meadow to the trees. After they collected the cargo and the oars, they sat on deck, breathing heavily.
Chapter 93
The Kingdom of Pines
A herd of deer browsed on undergrowth ten yards away, eyeing John and Liz curiously, and a horde of rabbits dotted the meadow. Pheasants pecked at grass seeds an arm’s length away. He sensed no malevolent presence nearby.
“Let’s explore,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual, as if landing on mysterious islands were an everyday occurrence.
“Fire first, or the coals will die. Or do you fancy spending an hour working the bow-drill?”
“All right.”
There was enough driftwood on the beach, much of it bleached by the sun and bone-dry. The forest was full of deadwood. After they had a good campfire going, Liz refilled the firepot with hot embers. John put George into a sling and hung a leather bucket from his belt in case they found fresh water. He pulled his axe out, and they proceeded deeper into the woods. She held her bow at the ready as they followed a winding animal trail that headed in a general easterly direction.
A grove of alders appeared ahead. On closer inspection, it turned out that hazel bushes grew there, too. Liz ran her fingertips over the ripening nuts and gave John a broad smile.
He nodded. “Food security.”
The ground rose steadily, and they came upon three parallel chains of ancient dunes stretching north to south, like the spines of slumbering dinosaurs. Fragrant pines covered the arid dune tops, while birches, aspens, and firs grew in low-lying places. And everywhere there were mushrooms: brown- and orange-headed boletes, slippery jacks, even the prized, brown-headed porcini.
Camouflage-green squirrels scampered along overhanging pine boughs. Blueberry shrubs, full of ripe berries, brushed against their ankles.
Such wealth of mushrooms and berries meant there were no ursines on the island. Liz beamed, and John felt the tension draining out of him, leaving him slightly lightheaded. They gathered a dozen stout porcini.
As they climbed to the top of the final ridge, a steady pounding of surf came from somewhere ahead.
“It’s the sea,” she cried, her eyes gleaming in the stippled light under the swaying pine branches. “Salt at last!”
John held a finger to his lips.
Liz pointed to the firepot in her canvas bag slung over her shoulder. “Any animal worth fearing would’ve smelled the smoke well before they heard me.”
They descended the seaward slope overgrown with scrub pine and came to a broad beach of golden sand. Wiry grass, bluish and waxy, rippled at their feet, and cobalt-tinted rollers with foamy crests broke upon the shore.
“Nice view,” John said. “But we need to find fresh water, pronto.”
“Bah-humbug! I thought you were romantic.”
“I’m a practical romantic.”
She glanced at him, then consulted the time on her phone. “It took us an hour to cross the island, so I’d say it’s three miles wide.”
“A fair size.”
“I guess it’s at least twice as long.” Liz put the phone away. “We’ll measure it some other time.” She filled the plastic container with seawater. “To season our cooking.”
They headed back into the woods. So far, they saw no trees scratched by tigers and no auroch or ursine droppings. A herd of deer grazed on sparse grass under the pines. A fox watched them from a stand of junipers, and a moose with huge antlers was resting in a gulch between two dunes.
Animal trails wended around thickets, branching out and merging, but navigating by the sun they managed to reach the flood meadows only a hundred yards to the south of their boat. Their bonfire had burned low, but there’d be plenty of embers to restart it. Liz turned toward their camp.
“Wait,” John called.
She stopped and gazed at him questioningly.
“We might find fresh water along the southern shore,” he explained. “I won’t be surprised if there’s a little brook.”
She glanced at the sky. “We only have a couple hours of daylight left. It’s low tide now, so the river water should have very little salt.”
He squeezed her shoulder gently. “Liz, there is better water on the island. I feel it.”
Tiny George awoke and peered out of his sling, smiling. John stroked his golden locks.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined the sandy dunes of the higher-lying north half of the isle soaking up rainfall. This water percolated down to the clay layer and flowed south, following the slope of the land, until it broke out above ground. And if that breakout didn’t occur offshore, they’d have a nice spring. Or two. He closed his eyes and saw flickering glimpses of a small rivulet. The colors faded to monochrome, and he tasted cool water on his long, sharp tongue. Huh? A long, sharp tongue? Through whose eyes had he peeked just now? He sensed there were no wolves on the island. But in his vision, hadn’t he glimpsed a bushy white-tipped tail behind himself? Sure he had.
John grinned. “To find water, we’ll follow the fox.”
“What fox?”
“A bushy-tailed one. Let’s go.”
George gurgled happily, as if in agreement.
***
After walking south for a mile, they came to an expanse of reeds fringing a quagmire. Lily pads grew in stagnant pools surrounded by hoof prints.
“It’s water, all right,” Liz said uncertainly. “Safe to drink after boiling.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.”
“Certainly.”
“Let’s fill up the bucket,” she said.
“Patience, patience, Liz.” He pointed to the higher ground just beyond the quagmire. “Let’s see what’s there first.”
They skirted the swamp and climbed a low sandy ridge. A circular forest pool some ten yards wide glinted at the bottom of a dune amphitheater. Golden birch leaves floated on its surface. Along the north side, grains of sand were stirred continuously by bubbling springs. At the south side, a brook flowed out of the pool, snakin
g among blueberry shrubs and ferns. It headed south through a gap between two dunes.
As John and Liz headed down the gentle slope, a frisson of excitement ran up his spine. “Now this, I’m happy to drink!”
They knelt side-by-side, scooping water and slaking their thirst.
Afterward, they stood atop the amphitheater dune, looking down at the pond.
“That’s a good place for a camp,” Liz said. “Out of the wind and next to the water.”
“Yeah.”
The soft evening shadows thickened under the trees, and owls began to hoot. Even though they’d found no signs of the ursines, they decided to spend the first night guarding the Ra. After filling up the leather bucket with clean spring water, John and Liz returned to their boat. The fire had burned low, and he added more firewood. Rabbits and pheasants shied away from smoke, but wildlife still teemed on the flood meadow upwind from the camp.
“A rabbit or a pheasant for dinner?” Liz said, nocking an arrow to her bow.
“You’re spoiling me, love.”
“A pheasant it is.”
She headed out of the trees toward the open meadow over which they’d hauled the boat four hours earlier.
Out of habit, John hurried after her, axe in hand. Despite finding no signs of large predators, he thought it wise to guard her back. Awake in his sling, George was smiling and stretching his little hands to the rabbits. John and Liz didn’t have to go far. She let the arrow fly, and it stabbed into the tall grass. There came a brief strangled shriek and a flutter of feathers.
The rabbits munching on the grass looked up and hopped aside a few paces as Liz walked in among them to retrieve her kill.
An expression on her face was both serene and fierce. “It feels almost like sacrilege to shoot something so innocent and trusting.”
He closed his eyes. In the last couple of days, they had brutally slain dozens of sentient beings—out of over two hundred arrows only thirteen remained. Both of his spears were gone, and all the throwing rocks and darts had been put to proper use—but he still grieved when they killed merely for food.