“I simply hope you appreciate the danger involved; you might end up with a wooden foot – or worse.”
“Well, even if I do, I think I can learn how to live with it. Who knows? It might serve me better than the real one. And it’s not as if I could be more conspicuous.”
“But what if this – milk cloth doesn’t stop the spreading of the wood? What then? Aren’t you the least bit afraid?”
“It will. Stranger things have already happened. I threw up seven stones spelling ‘nowhere’, for pity’s sake! I trust this is part of the reason why; that it has all led up to this moment. So no, I’m not afraid.”
Gallan’s plan went thus: first Wixelor would step on the centre on the raft and stand on one foot; then Raddia would wrap his milcloth robe around Wixelor’s calf, while he, gloves off, would place one hand on the Dreamer’s bare foot and the other on the logs of the raft; and if all went well – and he saw no reason why they shouldn’t – Wixelor’s foot would become one with the raft, allowing him to hold the sail up without slipping or losing his balance, while he could use his other foot to partly swivel about, acoording to the changes of the wind’s direction. And hopefully, once they reached the shores of No Place, he and Raddia could reverse the effect by joining hands in order to absorb the wood’s Substance without sustaining any damage to their own.
Wixelor had agreed at once, almost as eager to set the plan in motion as Yonfi, but Yodren had serious misgivings, which he hastened to express, his main concern being that if Wixelor turned into a wooden statue and perished, they would lose their greatest asset – a rather heartless, hasty remark, which sent Yonfi in a tantrum, for how could his own brother say such a thing? Did he forget that he had Royen’s ability to raise the dead? Why, Wixelor could be transformed into a turnip and he’d still be able to turn him back into his normal self! To put an end to the argument, Gallan tried to explain, as calmly as he could, the great power inherent in milcloth, that it was pure and eternal like the River whose Substance it shared – but Yodren was still hesitant, which made Gallan quite cross with Raddia who’d chosen this of all moments to wander off.
However, since the decision ultimately lay with Wixelor himself, there was nothing Yodren could do. And when Raddia returned, and felt Gallan’s resentment like a slap across her mysteriously dreamy face, she took his side immediately, exhibiting her own garments, gloves and shoes – which, despite the hardship they had undergone, remained free of the slightest wear or tear – as proof of milcloth’s durability. (Though deep inside, no matter how hard she tried to hide it from him, Gallan could sense a trace of doubt. Yes, they’d been taught early on by their Makers that the red stuff covering their bodies was indestructible, and that it should never be removed, for it was the only thing separating their Substance from the world – the greedy, lifeless world that craved to seep in. But ever since they’d left Lurien they’d seen so much of what they held as the absolute truth being the product of wild exaggeration and downright deceit, that part of her was swayed by Yodren’s reluctance. And there was something more, Gallan was sure of it, a secret, tangible thing obtained during her absence and concealed on her person, yet for all his probing Raddia’s mind wouldn’t yield its identity).
“Shall we begin?” Wixelor said, balanced upon the raft on his right foot with his arms outstretched. “I just hope it won’t take too long, for I’m not sure I can maintain this pose indefinitely – and two wooden feet would be overdoing it.”
In the event it all went smoothly, though Gallan’s resolve had wavered once or twice. For one thing, he clearly didn’t relish the prospect of baring himself in front of everybody, and he was very slow to do so, which only made the cold wind seem harsher; and when he’d finally decided to take the plunge and peel the robe off, Wixelor had lost his footing and collapsed face-down in the sand, causing Yonfi to explode with laughter and reaffirming Yodren’s apprehension. But even after they had all turned decorously around (even Raddia, kneeling in front of Wixelor to wrap the robe around the trunk of his leg, had averted her gaze) Gallan felt his nudity acutely, almost more sharply than the chill, and for some inexplicable reason this surge of discomfort was focused on, and seemingly reciprocated by, Yodren’s stiff shoulders, as if he could still see him through an eerie set of eyes, eyes which roamed across Gallan’s body with a strange, powerful intent. So, crouching at once, he took a deep breath and proceeded with his plan.
It was only after the whole ordeal was over, and Wixelor was turning this way and that on his dark brown wooden foot while the children cheered on and clapped their hands, and after Gallan had pulled on his clothes, looking away from Yodren’s tensely bowed head, that they became aware of an unanticipated setback – that with Wixelor fixed on it, the raft was far too heavy to drag to the sea. And when he tried to move on his own, Wixelor found that his leg of flesh wasn’t long enough to reach beyond the raft and take a step. They were all looking about for some means to solve this new problem, when suddenly the raft seemed to move by itself across the sand; for once more they had forgotten Yonfi’s legendary strength, which allowed him to drag the raft by a dangling piece of rope as if it were no heftier than the wheeled wooden ducks and horses Yern used to carve out of red cedar for him when he was little.
“He’s not all that heavy, you know,” he said over his shoulder.