Maia

by Richard Adams

  "I'm sorry," she said, "but I got to rest for a bit: I'm tot'lly all in. Anda-Nokomis, try to keep her drifting gently close to the bank. And Zenka, you go up in the bow with that oar and just keep on feeling ahead for rocks or shoals an' that. There's anchors fore and aft: keep them ready to throw out. Give a shout if you want me. I won't be very long, honest."

  And with this poor Maia crawled into the cubby-hole and lay down, utterly spent. But the big, soft mattress, on which so many jolly jinks must have been enacted, afforded her little solace. Already the rain, blowing in from astern, had soaked it. Miserably, she crawled as far forward as she could and curled up, knees to chin. It made little difference. She could almost have wrung out her cloak, while her sopping tunic and shift clung round her like warm

  slime. She could feel the shape of her diamonds and of Randronoth's casket pressing against her body. After an unavailing wriggle or two she tugged off her tunic and, having felt carefully round the seams of the pockets to make sure they were still holding, dumped it beside her and drew up her wet cloak for a blanket.

  She had one consolation, however. They were moving smoothly, without listing or checking. Terebinthia had charged her somewhere between two and three times its value, but at least she had spoken no more than the truth when she had told her the boat was a good one.

  Now and then, without distinguishing what was said, she could catch Zenka's voice speaking to Anda-Nokomis and feel the boat slightly changing course. But there were no sudden thuds or alarms and after a while her tension-for she had been fully expecting them to hit something or other in the dark-gradually diminished. She had not meant to sleep, yet soon, lacking all power to resist, she was dead to the world; and for some three or four hours the exhausted girl remained unstirring.

  Meanwhile their progress was slow, for both Bayub-Otal and Zen-Kurel were only too well aware of their own lack of skill and experience. Offshore, to their right, the current was swifter-they could hear it and could just make out, too, the froth of broken water in midstream-but they were unwilling either to disturb Maia or to run any risks which they might not be able to handle themselves. The inshore water seemed blessedly free of obstacles and for this they were content to settle. The need for continuous vigilance was strain enough in itself.

  At some uncertain time during the long night Bayub-Otal dropped the stern anchor, went forward to Zen-Kurel and suggested a rest and a bite. Having lowered the bow anchor as well, they sat down side by side, legs stretched out, backs against the forward wall of the cubby-little shelter from the relentless rain-and ate a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

  "How long till morning, do you suppose?" asked Zen-Kurel in a whisper.

  "Three hours, perhaps."

  "Is Maia still asleep?"

  "I think so."

  "She deserves it: we ought to let her sleep as long as she can."

  For a time they were silent. Bayub-Otal pulled out his flask and they each took a mouthful of djebbah. At length he said, "She's saved us again and again since Bekla. Without her we'd have died in the forest."

  "That or been killed by the Ortelgans."

  "We wouldn't have this boat, either. And that brothel woman-Maia had to overpay her; I'm certain of that- they took so long over it. First and last, she's spared herself nothing whatever on our account, that's about what it comes to."

  "It's like Deparioth and the Silver Flower," said Zen-Kurel.

  "Oh, do they know that in Katria, too?"

  "Oh, yes, naturally. Well, it was in the Blue Forest that the traitors abandoned Deparioth, of course-left him to die-and the magic girl came to save him. I kept thinking about that while we were in Purn."

  "But Zenka, you said you hated her. You wanted to kill her."

  For some time Zen-Kurel made no reply. At last he replied, "What I know now is that I've never really stopped loving her: I only thought I had. Oh, yes, I wanted to stop loving her; of course I've hated her for what she did in Suba. I still don't understand it, but now I don't think any more that it was just deliberate, cold-hearted deceit and treachery. There was something-something behind it that I don't understand. O Cran, how I've hated her! But what I've discovered is that you can hate someone like poison and still not be able to stop being in love with them."

  Bayub-Otal said nothing and after a few moments Zen-Kurel went on, "Her beauty-her courage-what she is- they're too strong for my hatred, I suppose, if you like to put it that way. I've never known a girl like her-never dreamt there could be one. Whatever she thought she was doing that night in Suba, there must have been some good reason. It's like the gods, really: in my mind, I mean."

  "Like the gods? What do you mean?"

  "Well, the gods often inflict terrible, even shameful suffering on us, don't they? And there's no accounting for it. But people still go on worshipping them because of things like sunsets and music. She's like that: or I am, whichever way you like to put it. I couldn't stop loving her-I mean, admiring and longing for her-not if she were to cut my throat."

  "She still-she still loves you, you know," said Bayub-Otal rather falteringly, after a pause.

  "Why, did she say so? I can't believe that."

  "No, but the night you took those men back to Elleroth I thought she was going to go out of her mind; and it was entirely on your account. In fact I told you as much when you got back; you remember?"

  "But that might not necessarily-" He stopped. "Well, but even if-I mean, how can I-after all that's happened-"

  Suddenly they both sprang to their feet, Zen-Kurel nearly falling his length on the drenched, slippery planking. The boat was swinging round in the current, rotating by the bow.

  For the next few moments they were at a total loss, with no idea what could have happened or what to do. Then the boat, having turned stem to stern, fetched up with a jerk in the running flood as the bow anchor rope went taut and held.

  Maia woke instantly. The first thing of which she was conscious was the wet. She was wet through from head to foot-hair, ears, eyelids, hands, sandals. She was lying in a soaking wet hollow the shape of her body. For some reason, however, the rain no longer seemed to be blowing in upon her, though she could hear it beating on the planking above her head.

  Something was wrong. That jerk; she'd felt that all right- that was what had woken her. But they were not aground; they were at the full extent of a rope, as she could feel by the wavering of the boat. What in Cran's name was going on?

  Without stopping to put on her tunic or cloak, she elbowed her way out into the little well astern and stood up, facing forward. Immediately she felt the rain full in her face. So they must be pointing upstream.

  "Anda-Nokomis, what's happened?"

  "We'd stopped for a rest, Maia. We had both anchors down, and I think the stern one must have pulled out."

  Quickly she turned, found the stern anchor rope in the dark and pulled on it. At least the anchor had not carried away. It was still on the other end, though not touching bottom.

  "How long have I been asleep?"

  "I can't say: three or four hours, perhaps."

  "And the river's been rising all the time," she said.

  "That's why the anchor came adrift: likely it never had a proper grip of the bottom to start with. We must raise the other one and then turn her downstream again."

  Yet try as they would, they could not pull up the bow anchor. All three of them hauled until they had actually dragged the heavy boat two or three feet upstream against the current, but still the anchor would not budge.

  At length Zen-Kurel stood back, panting, and at once the boat drifted back downstream and fetched up at the full extent of the rope.

  "We'll have to cut it, Maia."

  "No!" she said. "Not till I've been down to have a go at freeing it."

  Zen-Kurel took her by the wrist. "Maia, I won't allow it."

  She turned on him with icy anger. "Will you please let me go?" He did so. "Thank you. Now listen. If I know anything about it, it's probably
hooked itself under a log or something o' that. If I do manage to clear it, you'll feel the jerk as the boat lifts, 'cos she's down by the bow now: that's on account of the river rising. Then she'll start to drift, and you'll have to pull me back. Not too sharp, though, or you'll catch me with the anchor like a fish on a hook."

  "Shouldn't we drop the other anchor first?" asked Anda-Nokomis.

  "No," answered Maia decisively. "We're not risking this happening twice. You shouldn't have anchored at all, Anda-Nokomis: not in this current, with the river rising. You should've tied up to the bank."

  Without another word she slipped off her sandals, leaned well out over the bow, gripped the taut rope with both hands, took a deep breath and went overside.

  At once she felt the strength of the current. It fairly jerked at her arms. Her hair streamed backwards and she could feel the flow over her shoulders and along the length of her back. Lose the rope and you're done for! Hand over hand, down and down. Eyes shut, free hand feeling ahead. Pain across the forehead and under the eyes. I'll get the basting thing up if it kills me! She found the shank of the anchor and felt soft, water-soaked twigs brushing against her face and shoulders like a swarm of long-legged insects. Then-ah! just as she'd supposed-a thick branch; absolutely unyielding, yes, and therefore sticking out from a sunken tree-trunk, probably,

  but no need to find out about that. One fluke of the anchor neatly under it, snug as fingers round the handle of a basket. Hadn't even pierced the wood. O Cran, I can't hold my breath any longer! I can't! Push it down by the shank, turn it away from you-I'm drowning, drowning, I can't hold my breath: let it out then, girl, but once you do there's no more-it's clear, it'sfree!

  She almost lost hold of the rope as the anchor leapt upward, jerked by the buoyancy of the released boat above. With the last remnant of her consciousness she got both hands to it and felt them pulling her up. Give me air, O Cran, just give me some air and I'll never ask for any least thing else, ever again!

  Her head and shoulders came clear of the surface and she drew in her breath. It was over. She could breathe.

  They gripped her under the arms and dragged her aboard. For a good half minute she lay prone on the planking, vomiting water and drawing one breath after another.

  At length she stood up.

  "What's happening? Who's got the tiller?"

  "I have," answered Bayub-Otal from the stern. "I've turned us downstream and I'm keeping as near in to the bank as I can."

  "You're too brave for your own good, Maia," said Zen-Kurel. "Please don't try anything else like that."

  She was about to answer when she became unthinkingly aware that something was still amiss. The boat, though now free, was lower in the water and moving very sluggishly. She made her way aft. She could hear the bilge slopping in the dark. Gods! she thought. No wonder the damned mattress was sodden to pulp!

  The well of the boat, astern of the cubby-hole, was awash with the rain. She put one foot into it. It was over her ankle and half-way up her shin.

  "Zenka!" she called. "Come and help me bail!"

  He was beside her in moments. She felt so angry and harassed by all that had been allowed to go wrong that she simply put one of the wooden bailers into his hand and herself took up the other without a word.

  Can't take your eye off them for a minute. Silly bastards sit there for hours in this rain and never even think of bailing! Why the hell did I ever come? They deserve to drown.

  The rain was falling yet more heavily now, pouring over

  them, rattling on the boat and hissing on the water. Every time she turned to empty the bailer overside it stung her ear and cheek, so that at length she could stand it no longer and asked Zen-Kurel to change places: but soon it felt as bad on the other cheek.

  There seemed no end to the bailing. In all seriousness- for there was still very little to be seen-she began to wonder whether the rain could actually be gaining on them and filling the boat. Her right arm grew so tired that she had to change the bailer to her left hand and work that much more clumsily. She knew her pace was slackening, but there was no pause in the steady rhythm with which Zen-Kurel bent and flung. '

  "Here, let me take over, Maia," said Bayub-Otal from behind her. "You go and steer for a bit."

  At that moment the bow struck full tilt against something hard and unyielding. There was a shuddering thump of wood against wood,.

  Zen-Kurel, first to collect himself, stood up and went forward.

  "We've hit the bank!"

  "But that's impossible! The bank's here on my left," called back Bayub-Otal.

  "I can't help it. It can only be the bank. It's revetted with wooden stakes."

  Maia felt herself giving way to bewilderment and near-desperation. The darkness and rain were like a curse, destroying whatever they tried to do. The bilge water was inexhaustible. She was aching in every muscle. Now, to crown it all, the bank had apparently become bewitched and altered its position in the dark. Another knock like that would probably stave in the bow. I must keep my head and think straight, else we're going to drown and that bitch Terebinthia'U have been proved right.

  "Zenka!" she called. "Is there soft ground behind the stakes?"

  "Too soft! It's all mud."

  "Hook the anchor in behind the stakes, then, and hitch the rope as short as you can. We'll just have to wait for daylight. We can't risk another bang like that."

  Zen-Kurel did as she had said. Once more the boat pivoted, the stern swung over to fetch up against the bank and sure enough Maia found at her left hand a line of thick, wooden stakes, driven side by side into the bed of

  the river. Their tops were only an inch or two clear of the surface. She plumbed again with the oar, but this time could find no bottom. So the stakes-which were stout and firm-must be something like ten or twelve feet long at least. Each one was nearly as broad across the top as the width of her hand: a stout structure, whatever it might be.

  This was something altogether outside Maia's experience. She could only suppose that they must have run into some sort of mole or jetty projecting into the stream. But why would there be such a thing in this solitude, with no lights, no voices, no signs of a village or even a house? At a loss, she felt afraid. Yet she was still more' afraid of her own fear. Once I lose my head we're finished! Having dug in the stern anchor in the same way that she had told Zenka to secure the other, she went back to bailing, helped by Bayub-Otal.

  "Maia," said Zen-Kurel, "I'm going to find out what sort of place this is."

  "No, don't, Zenka!" she cried. "You'll never find your way back and anyway, what good can it do when all we want's to get away as soon as we can?"

  But as usual there was no stopping Zen-Kurel. Clambering over the side, he vanished into the dark. After a few minutes she shouted, "Zenka! Can you hear me?"

  "I'm here," he replied, so close that she jumped. The beating of the rain had prevented them from hearing him returning. A moment later he was back on board and had taken the bailer from her.

  "This is an island," he said, "and as far as I can make out, it's no more than eight or nine yards across. There's nothing on it at all, and yet it's revetted right the way round with these stakes."

  "I can't believe it!" she said. "We'll wake up in a minute and find ourselves back in-Anda-Nokomis, where would you like to find yourself back in?"

  "Melvda-Rain," he answered, still bailing.

  He'd never had any basting tact, she thought. Not that this was much of a time or place for it. She said no more.

  Little by little, half-light began to creep into the cloud-thick eastern sky, disclosing as dreary a prospect as could well have been found in all the world, and immediate surroundings as strange as any to be imagined.

  101: DOWN THE ZHAIRGEN

  At this relatively early period in its history, there were throughout the empire very few bridges; none of wide span and only one of any real solidity-that eighteen miles south of Bekla, which carried the Ikat highway. (This was the bridge w
hich the seceding Ta-Kominion had found too strongly held against him.) To transport the stone from Crandor and construct it, some seventy years before, had been an immense labor in which, needless to say, the great Fleitil had been instrumental. There were two wooden bridges across the Serrelind, a relatively small river; one south of Kabin and one north of Thettit; and a similar bridge across a narrow reach of the upper Here, between Ikat and Herl. The Herl-Dari highway, however (where Meris had been so active), was dependent upon a ferry across the Zhairgen.

  Had it not been for a most singular exception to this primitive absence of bridges, Belishba could not have formed part of the empire at all, for it could have had neither direct trade communication with Bekla nor any reliance on Beklan military protection against Terekenalt and Ka-tria. At the point equidistant between Bekla and Herl-Belishba, the River Zhairgen was a good hundred and fifty yards wide and all of twelve to fourteen feet deep, with a fairly strong midstream current even in summer. Here, however, lay the phenomenon known as the Narboi, a scattering of islets varying in diameter from a few feet to about ten yards, between which the river ran in channels differing in width to about the same extent.

  An irregular, zig-zag chain of these islets had been strengthened and made firm against erosion by stakes driven into the river bed round their circumference. The Renda-Narboi-the Bridge of Islands-consisted of horizontal, traversing lengths of beams and stout planking, some seven or eight feet wide, extending from one islet across to the next. There were thirteen of these in all, so solidly constructed that each could bear the weight of an ox-cart. They were kept in repair and renewed as often as necessary, but each year, before the onset of the rains, were raised by means of block and tackle-no light undertaking-and brought in to the banks, to prevent them being smashed or carried away by the flooded river.

  It was the staked side of one of the larger Narboi-that nearest to the left bank-which the boat had rammed in the dark. The slow coming of light revealed the bow dented and splintered, though not dangerously. All around lay a scene to strike dejection into the stoutest heart. The river, beneath the rain pouring from the mass of low cloud overhead, was turbulent and already very high. One or two of the islets had by this time vanished under the spate, while others were only partly visible, covered by a dirty, ochreous foam that lapped about their bushes and long grass. The central current, checked by the islets filling about a third of the total breadth of the river, funnelled at the gaps in midstream, gushing through with the speed of a mill-race. On either bank, as far as eye could see, extended a dismal, flat plain, across which wound the deserted stone-and-mud line of the highway. About a mile away on the southern, Belishban side, the huts of a village were just visible.