Maia

  But now, for the first time, he was speaking to her not merely as though he respected her but as though he liked her too. He wanted to help her and to lessen her anxiety and distress. Yet she wasn't just one of his soldiers any more, to be looked after as a responsibility. Whether or not he was aware of it, he was showing that he regarded her as an equal and a friend.

  These thoughts, however, passed only very vaguely and indistinctly through her mind, for as the afternoon--it must surely be afternoon now--wore on and the rain continued to beat down until it was difficult to remember what things had been like before it began, before being wet through from head to foot had become the natural condition of life, she began to feel more and more despondent. As everyone knows, a continuous, unrelenting pain--toothache or earache--is hard to endure. So with this peril and instability. It was as though a carpenter's plane were gradually and steadily shaving away her courage and self-con-trol. Always coming nearer was the inevitable moment when she would no longer be able to endure, would break down and become worse than useless. "O Lespa," she prayed, "let me drown before that happens! Then at least they'll remember me kindly."

  By degrees there came stealing upon her that heightened yet distracted sensitivity which often accompanies the early stage of a feverish illness. While her touch and hearing seemed to have become more acute--so that, for example, the bailer in her hand felt grainy and rain-smooth with a palpability more intense than she had hitherto been aware of--her perception of their surroundings and her relationship to them had also changed, growing blurred and indistinct. It appeared now almost dreamlike, this watery wasteland, not subject to normal laws of hature and caus-ation. She would not have been altogether surprised to see it break up and crumble in the rain, start revolving like a wheel or simply vanish before her eyes.

  She had not been expecting the trees. Although when she first saw them approaching she did not suppose she was imagining them, yet at the same time they did not seem entirely real. As a matter of fact, in her situation and her slightly delirious condition this was a perfectly reasonable--or at any rate understandable--reaction, for the trees--acres of them--seemed growing up through two lakes of brown water extending one on each side of the river. As they drew nearer, she could see this water actually winding among them, through and over the undergrowth, curling round the thicker trunks like streamers of fog round the towers of the Barons' Palace. She'd no sense of danger, though--not yet. It was like an illusion, a kind of cosmic dance of the trees and water; like the Thlela's dance of the Telthearna which had so much delighted her at the Rains banquet.

  She caught his arm, pointing, "Look, Zenka, look! The trees--the trees are dancing!"

  He stared at them and seemed to be turning it over in his mind, as though she had said something requiring serious consideration. It was she, not he, who first grasped that she had spoken foolishly. With a sense half of pride and half of shame, she understood that he had become so much accustomed to her talking sense--or at any rate not talking nonsense--that he had been wondering what she might have meant by her metaphor.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Silly fancy. Afraid I'm feeling a bit light-headed. Only the trees--they just don't look real, somehow."

  "They're real enough," he answered. "I only hope we can get through them, that's all. Well, in one way it's all to the good, I suppose."

  "What is?"

  "The forest."

  "Forest?" Muzzily, she was trying to remember what a forest was. "Is it the Blue Forest?"

  "No: that's up north of Keril. This can only be what they call the Border Forest, between Katria and Belishba. We got quite near the other side of it once, about three years ago, when I was first with the king. At the time he was thinking of attacking Belishba, but nothing came of that."

  "Are we in Katria, then, once we're in the forest?"

  " 'Fraid not. Katria's not far to the north of the forest, though."

  "Then why did you--" She screwed up her eyes, blinking in the rain. Whatever had she been going to say? "Why did you--oh, yes: why did you say it was good, then?"

  "Well, we've come so fast--faster than ever I thought we would. It can't be all that much further to Katria now. We must make quite certain we're across the border, though, before we take the boat in to shore."

  "How can we?"

  "I don't know. But most Belishbans hate Katrians, naturally, and the frontier's guarded even in the rains--or it always used to be."

  "You'd better go and tell Anda-Nokomis: I'll take the helm back."

  A minute later they were among the trees: but this was as different from their water-journey through Purn as a leopard from a cat. That, for Maia at all events, had been-- or so it seemed now--a straightforward affair, in slack water and high summer heat. She had felt so strong and capable then, and the water, just as in old days on Serrelind, had been her friend. This flooded forest, with the river swirling among the trees, and the bushes struggling like drowning animals--oh, gods! and there was a real drowned animal, look, a wretched fox floating on the current--seemed not only malevolent but unnatural, too. Many a rainy season had she seen, yet never a land grotesquely awash as a courtyard where a fountain-basin has given way.

  Still concentrating the shreds of her energy and vigilance on keeping the boat in midstream, she saw, as they were swept further into the forest, the water thick with debris--leaves, sticks, branches, lengths of creeper, fragments of roots and sodden tangles of grass. They were approaching a bend: on its edge, just where the point must once have been before the flood submerged it, the trunk of an ash-tree rose out of the river. It was like her own dear ash-tree on the shore of Serrelind, where she used to go to escape from Morca and the housework; from whose branches she had so often dropped down into the lake. Looking at it, she felt for a moment cheered and encouraged.

  Ah! she thought, but her fever must be coming on worse, for before her rain-blurred eyes the tree seemed slowly moving. Now be sensible! It's just another stupid fancy; you're frightened and tired out!

  Just keep the boat pointing downstream.

  But no; the tree really was leaning; listing, slowly tilting, for now she could see another tree behind it remaining upright and still. Then suddenly, shockingly, the tree was keeling over, first quicker and then all in a moment very fast, its tilt become a toppling downfall, as though it had been felled with an axe. The whole ramous structure of branches and drenched leaves was rushing downward. Fifty yards ahead, the surface of the river foamed and whelmed as the trunk hit it and disappeared. Waves tossed the boat, knocking and jouncing under the timbers, then abating, diminishing. Only a tangle of earth-covered roots remained sticking up out of the shallower water along the submerged bank.

  Maia, putting the helm hard over and feeling the sluggish response of the bilge-heavy boat, knew with fear that they were already too close. They were not going to be able to round the fallen tree. The boat was turning to port, certainly, but not fast enough: they were going to be caught and enmeshed in the tangle of sunken branches.

  Then, before her eyes, the tree began to move again. Just as a minute ago it had begun to move through the vertical, now it was slowly moving through a horizontal plane. Slowly at first and then faster, the topmost branches pivoted downstream with the current, while at the same time the tangle of roots twisted to face her. The boat, itself seeming to drift faster as it approached, came all in an instant abeam of the tree, scraping against one or two of the topmost branches even as the current drew them away to starboard. Before she had time to think, they were past: the tree was gone. Collecting herself as though awakening, she realized confusedly that they were now too close to the left bank, and brought the boat back into midstream.

  Zenka had returned to her side. He was smiling--though largely for her benefit, she rather thought.

  "I hope there aren't any more like that, don't you?"

  Returning his smile, she took his hand for a moment in her own.

  "Just as well you came along with us, isn't
it?" he said. "Otherwise we certainly shouldn't have got as far as this. Anda-Nokomis thinks there may be no more than three or four miles to go now."

  "He'd best be right," she answered. "Light's going, I reckon."

  It was hard to be sure among the trees, under the press of low cloud and heavy rain, but certainly the recesses of the forest seemed dimmer, evanescent in a distant twilight. Some distance behind them another root-dislodged tree subsided into the river. It was not at once dragged clear of the bank, but was still hanging in the current as they floated on and lost sight of it.

  "Oh, we mustn't, we mustn't go wrong now!" she cried suddenly. "Not now, not right at the end! Dear Lespa--"

  She raised her arms and tried to stand up, but he, laying a finger on her lips, drew her down beside him.

  "Steady, Serrelinda! Why don't you go and take over from Anda-Nokomis for a bit? He's been up there long enough now. I'll carry on here."

  Anda-Nokomis was hanging intently over the bow, the oar gripped in his good hand, from time to time reaching out to push away logs or floating branches as they drifted alongside. When she touched his shoulder he looked round and gave her one of his rare smiles.

  "You got us out of that all right, then? I confess I never thought you would. I should have known you better, Maia."

  "If you don't know me by now, Anda-Nokomis--Put the wind up you, did it?"

  Still smiling, he shrugged. "Possibly."

  "Well, it did me," she said, "tell you that much. Here's your flask: better have some, 'fore I drink the lot."

  He shook his head. "We may be glad of it later."

  "We'll be in Katria tonight, Anda-Nokomis: think of that! Somebody'll take us in for sure: we've still got a bit of money left. Hot food, dry beds, a fire--oh, a fire, Anda-Nokomis!"

  As she spoke they suddenly felt a heavy blow aft. There was a sound of splintering wood and a cry of alarm from Zen-Kurel. The boat turned sideways on to the stream and checked. During the few moments that it took Maia to hasten back astern, it turned yet further and then began drifting stern forward, wavering with every fluctuation of the current.

  "Zenka, what's happened?"

  Zen-Kurel was standing up, facing the stern and holding the tiller-bar in both hands.

  "Rudder's smashed, Maia."

  "Smashed? How?"

  "I was looking out ahead--I never thought of looking astern as well. We'd just come through that last fast patch into this pool when a log overtook the boat and rammed us from behind. It's still out there, look--see it?"

  "Oh, Shakkarn!" she said. "Here, get out of the way! Let's have a look, see how bad it is."

  It was as bad as could well have been feared. The log had split the rudder along a jagged line from top to bottom. Almost the whole blade had carried away. The stern-post, though splintered, was still in position, as were the rudder-head and tiller, but naturally, with the rudder-blade gone, these were useless.

  Of course, she thought, it would not have occurred to Zenka (as it would unthinkingly to herself) that, having just come down a length of swift water full of heavy flotsam into a relatively still reach, he was in danger of being rammed astern. It was her own fault for having left him alone: she should have known better. One of Zenka's strongest characteristics, she had come to realize, was his unfailing assumption of confidence, which made people implicitly believe in and go along with him, usually without reflecting just how wise it might be to do so. Zenka--and this was no small part of why she had fallen in love with him, why she still loved him and could never love anyone else--believed in all honesty that any gap between what he knew to be possible and what he wanted to achieve could be bridged by sheer courage and determination. It was this buoyant, indomitable serenity in adversity which made him so attractive; ah! and so dangerously easy not to doubt, an' all. By implication he'd convinced her, at a time when she'd been too overwrought not to swallow it, that valor and resolution were enough to steer a boat in a timber-strewn flood-race. Well, it had probably done for them; there were still plenty of other things to hit, and now the boat was out of control.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Couldn't be helped," she answered rather absently. She was trying to think what, if anything, could be done. "Much my fault as yours."

  The boat was turning all ways at once now; sometimes stern foremost, then spinning in a cross-current only to veer away again on the instant. She felt more horribly in danger than at any time since they had set out.

  "Zenka," she said, trying to speak calmly, "bring me an oar, quick, as you can."

  There was no time to go looking for a length of rope. She hadn't seen any on board and wouldn't know where to start looking. The stern anchor rope would have to do. At least it was long enough and about the right thickness; and they'd still have the bow anchor.

  As Zenka came back with the oar she drew her knife, cut the anchor rope and hitched it round the rudder-head.

  "Now lash the oar to the rudder-head, Zenka," she said. "Like this, look; over and under and round and round. Only you'd do it better'n me, 'cos it's got to be real tight, see. I'll support the oar while you lash it; mustn't lower it into the water till you're done."

  Despite the continual lurching of the boat he was deft and swift, pulling the lashing tight with his full strength at each turn, trapping it closely and finishing, as she showed him, with another hitch to hold all firm. She had never before used a stern oar for steering and was surprised, when they were done, to find how well it answered. She had not foreseen that oar and lashing together would pivot easily about the rudder-head without working loose: the oar could be turned as far as a right angle to the boat, to check and turn it almost instantly. Its only disadvantage was that its length, together with the force of the current, made the sheer effort of working it for any time more than she could manage.

  "You'll have to help me, Zenka," she panted, having righted the boat and recovered the midstream channel. "This'll do fine as long as we're careful, only I just haven't got the strength. See if you can get us round this bend that's coming up."

  He could. Hedid. Or rather, she provided the judgment, leaning this way and that on the handle of the oar, but relying on his greater physical strength to reciprocate and carry out what she wanted. As the boat rounded the bend without mishap, they broke into simultaneous cries of excitement. The trees were less dense and no more than five hundred yards ahead, as near as she could judge in the failing light, lay open water--the further edge of the forest.

  "Anda-Nokoniis!" she called. "We're through!"

  102: THE FRONTIER

  Anda-Nokomis, turning in the bow, raised his hand in the traditional Beklan gesture of acknowledgment to the win-ner of a contest. At this same moment, as they still stood side by side with the oar between them, Zen-Kurel, as naturally as a bird might alight on a branch, put his free arm round Maia, drew her to him and kissed her.

  She clung to him, both arms round his neck, now laying her face against his soaking wet hair, now returning his kiss again and yet once more as the rain ran down their faces and mingled between their lips.

  At last, releasing him, she gasped, "The boat, my darling! We've still got to get to Katria."

  "I know. But at least tell me one thing now. I want us to be as we were in Melvda-Rain. I want you to marry me. Will you?"

  "Yes, of course! Further to starboard; hard over, quick!"

  The river, as it emerged from the forest, was broader, though flowing no less swiftly, for here, as far as they could make out in the falling dusk, it had not yet burst the distant, stony dykes on either side. They were in less danger now, for the trees had gone, there seemed to be no obstacles ahead and for the moment at all events little or no heavy debris in the main channel. The boat, however, had filled with so much rain and grown so heavy that it was actually hanging in the current--moving, certainly, but Maia, looking overside, could see sticks and leaves passing them at twice their speed. They had very little freeboard, too.

  "Darling,
yes will have to do for now."

  "It'll do very well," he answered. "You'd better bail again, I suppose."

  "Anda-Nokomis," she called. "Come and help me!"

  "Do you think it's safe to leave the bow?"

  "Yes: we're moving so slow. Only we got to bail this water out, else we'll never get there 'fore dark."

  They both set about bailing, while Zen-Kurel remained at the steering-oar. Maia, in spite of the great flood of joy filling her heart, knew now that she was undoubtedly ill-- ill enough to need to go to bed as soon as she could. Her head ached, her throat and ears were horribly painful and she was feeling even more light-headed than when they had entered the forest.

  "D'you mind if I have a go at the djebbah, Anda-Nokomis?" she asked, shivering. " 'Fraid I'm took bad: it's the wet and bein' s' tired out. I'll be better once we c'n get warm and dry."

  He nodded and passed her the flask, and she took a good, long pull. She could feel the fumes rising consolingly to dull her pain. Leaning forward, she kissed Anda-No-komis on both cheeks. "You've been the best of friends to me, Anda-Nokomis, that you have! When you're back in Melvda-Rain--when you really are Ban of Suba--can we come and be your guests, Zenka and me?"

  "Yes," he answered, "you shall. And no one shall speak a word against you."

  Yet as he spoke he looked so downcast and low that she felt ashamed, and very sorry that in her happiness she had spoken with so little consideration for his feelings.

  "Dear, dear Anda-Nokomis, I'm so sorry about--you know; honest I am! Oh, sometimes, I just about wish I could split myself in two!"

  "It would have to be a thousand and two, I think, Serrelinda," he answered with a smile. It was the only joke she ever heard him make.

  "Anda-Nokomis," she said (bail and fling, bail and fling, oh Cran! don't I feel bad?), "do you know there was one time when I cursed you, and swore that if ever I could harm you I would? Doesn't seem possible now, does it? Live and learn, that's about it. Fools don't know who their friends are, I reckon."

  "When was that?"

  "After you'd made me dance the senguela at Sarget's party in the Barons' Palace; that was when."