The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Anthony groaned. “So much wealth, and I cannot reach it!”

  “It is well I have hold of your feet, then,” Balkis said tartly. “I would not put it past you to dive in and drown yourself trying to wrest a stone from its matrix!”

  “I am not so great a fool as that,” Anthony protested, “but I am a hill farmer born and bred who has watched his father struggle and sweat to wrest a meager living from a barren hillside. I have heard him say again and again that we must never let anything of value pass us by, for we will need it when the hard times come—and I am the one passing by all this wealth with no way to stop the raft!”

  “Indeed there is not.” Panyat's voice was sympathetic. “The current is too strong.”

  “It whirls us along through this tunnel,” Anthony agreed, “and here I ride surrounded by ransoms for ten kings! Fortunes pass me every second, enough to keep my father and brothers in luxury the rest of their lives, and I cannot even touch the wealth I see!”

  Just as well, Balkis thought—his father and brothers certainly deserved no such reward for their abuse.

  Suddenly, a huge dark lump rose from the middle of the river. Glowing eyes the size of platters opened, and a huge hand with writhing, snakelike fingers slapped down to grip the edge of the raft as a glutinous voice asked, “Did you wish to stop your ride, mortal?”

  “Not that badly!” Balkis slapped a hand over Anthony's mouth, for his eyes lit even as he shrank away. “What creature are you who rises from lightless depths?” At the back of her mind, she readied a banishing spell.

  “I am Negation, the emptiness that hungers for everything that exists.” The monster smiled, opening a lipless, toothless maw that stretched across the whole of its head as it drew the raft in.

  “You are Greed,” Balkis snapped, “and you mean to drag us down with you!”

  “Feed, then!” Anthony cried, and threw something into the monster's mouth.

  It swallowed automatically; then its eyes filmed over and its fingers slipped from the raft. “What exshellent flavor!” it said, speech slurred. “More!”

  “I have no more, and be glad—it is very potent, and more would kill you.”

  “I cannot die. I feed on ev … everyshing, I shupershede Deaph, I…” The monster's eyes rolled up as it fell back into the river.

  “What did you feed it?” Balkis asked, staring.

  “The brandywine the king of Piconye gave us,” Anthony said. “He spoke truly—it purified this water.” Then he sighed with regret. “Still, if I had let him hold the raft, I could have swum to the wall and gathered a fortune in jewels!”

  “Then you would have come back to an empty raft,” Balkis told him, “for Panyat and I would have been in his belly, and you would have followed us—then the raft for dessert, like as not!”

  Anthony shuddered and admitted, “Free jewels come at too high a price—this time, at least.”

  Balkis wished he hadn't said “This time.”

  Suddenly the raft sped faster.

  “Seize hold of the ropes!” Anthony cried, and followed his own advice. “Has the monster wakened already and come to pull us to him?”

  “No,” Panyat said, his voice faltering. “Can you not hear?”

  They listened and heard a roaring, faint but swelling quickly.

  “I know that sound!” Anthony cried. “I have heard it many times in my mountains! There are rapids ahead!”

  “I did not know,” Panyat wailed. “The traders told me that people had sailed this river before, but they said nothing about rapids—or monsters!”

  “Balkis, your staff, quickly!” Antfiohy jammed his feet back into his boots. “Use it to push us free from rocks on your side! I shall fend us off on this! Panyat, hold that torch high!”

  Then the current turned and tossed the raft. Balkis saw a boulder looming out of the darkness and aimed the pole at it. A second later the pole lurched in her hands. It was all she could do to hold onto it, but the rock slid past them safely. Water dashed off its sides, splashing her from toe to collarbone, and she prayed Panyat's torch wouldn't be drowned. The raft jolted under her, and she knew Anthony had fended off a boulder on his side. Another huge stone came tearing at her, and again she pointed her staff like a knight tilting. Her aim was accurate, and the pole met the rock with a shock that seemed to vibrate through her, but she held fast to the pole, and the raft swung around the stone. A second later it shuddered from a blow to her left, and she cast an anxious glance at Anthony, but he was still whole, though his face was taut and pale with strain, and over the roar of the water she heard his wail: “That boulder was alabaster!”

  On through the maze they sped, bouncing from side to side, never quite striking a rock. Now and again Panyat's torch hissed and Balkis' heart nearly stopped, but always the light blazed up again, and Balkis' pulse with it.

  Then, abruptly, with a last torrential roar, the stream tilted at a sharp angle. Balkis screamed, afraid she would slide off, that the raft would topple and spill her, and Anthony's arm closed around her waist—but the raft struck water with a huge splash, spray drenched them, and the raft leveled. It spun twice, and the brave, constant torch showed them a view of precious stones flowing above them, limestone pillars polished mirror-smooth by the passage of the waters—but no banks. As the raft stopped its spin, they were able to make out the sides of the channel by the winking of gems, but they seemed tiny with distance.

  “That was only a stream,” Panyat said, voice shaking with wonder. “It has carried us into a proper river—an underground river!”

  In spite of herself, Balkis looked about for Charon, the pale ferryman, then breathed a sigh of relief when she did not see him.

  “We are safe, sweet one, safe and still together.” Anthony pressed her against him. “Do not tremble. After that ride, what could affright you?”

  “Only my own silly imaginings,” Balkis told him, “only old wives' tales.” Of course, the wives in question were Greek, and very old indeed. “And I do not tremble, Anthony, I shiver.” Perhaps because of that, she did not try to pull away.

  “We are soaked to the skin,” he agreed, and shivered in a sudden breeze. But it did not pass, it kept blowing, chilling them to the bone.

  “What could make a wind in an underground tunnel?” Balkis moaned.

  “A door to the outer world!” Anthony sat straight up. “Our journey ends already!”

  “It has seemed quite long enough to me,” Balkis said, exhausted as well as chilled.

  “The torch is nearly consumed!” Panyat wailed.

  “Toss it into the river,” Anthony directed. “Do not take a chance on burning yourself.”

  “But the light… !”

  “Unless I am very wrong,” Anthony told him, “we will not be in darkness long.”

  “You have been wrong before,” Balkis reminded him. Then honesty impelled her, and she admitted, “So have I.”

  “We have no choice, unless we wish our friend to be burned. Cast the torch away with a blessing, Panyat—it has served us well.”

  The Pytanian tossed the butt of the torch into the river. It sizzled and went out. For a while the darkness seemed total, and Balkis said, “Panyat, take my hand and press against me! Only all our bodies together will survive the cold!”

  She felt the Pytanian press against her, his fingers clasping her arm, and she wished she had some light to see Anthony's face—would it show jealousy?

  Almost it seemed that her wish had come true, for the darkness became less opaque. Wondering, she said, “I see the glint of gems above us!”

  “I think there is light ahead,” Anthony said.

  The breeze strengthened and the current bore them shivering onward. The light grew stronger, and they heard another roaring.

  Panyat groaned. “Not more rapids!”

  “No, this is a stronger sound.” Anthony tensed. “I think we come to a waterfall, my friends.”

  “A waterfall!” Balkis cried. “How are we to sur
vive?”

  “Pole to the sides, if we can!” Anthony took his staff, probed, and cried, “I feel rock beneath! Pole, Balkis!”

  She went to his side of the raft and pushed as he did, straining with every fiber—and the raft moved to the side, slowly, by inches, as the roaring grew louder and the current strengthened. Suddenly, that current spun them about, then cast them aside into much calmer water.

  “Keep poling!” Anthony cried.

  The light was strong enough now for them to see the side of the tunnel. Balkis poled with her last ounce of strength, and the raft floated across what looked to be a still pool to bump the rock at the side of the tunnel.

  “It is a ledge!” Panyat cried, and threw the top half of his body onto the stone to hold the raft. “Quickly, my friends! Take your packs and step off!”

  They did as he bade, Anthony handing Balkis across the gap, then she steadying him as he stepped across to her, then both leaning down to take Panyat's arms and pull him up as he stepped off the raft. It shot away from his foot as he did, though, floating out toward the middle of the channel.

  “Go toward the roar,” Anthony called above the sound of the stream. “Go toward the light.” He turned to suit the action to the word, probing ahead with his staff—but Balkis noticed that he held to the wall and saw that hand go to his wallet. She realized he was taking any pebbles he could break loose. For his sake, she hoped they were gems and not limestone lumps.

  The light brightened, the wind freshened, and a bright oblong appeared in front of them. Anthony led them toward it; it grew until they saw it was thirty feet across. There, Anthony stopped, calling, “Let our eyes adjust!”

  “Spy out our route!” Balkis shouted over the roar of the water.

  Anthony squinted, then nodded and beckoned as he set off. Balkis followed, heart in her mouth, hoping he had indeed seen clearly whether or not the ledge continued.

  It did, and they came out into sunlight. She looked, and gasped, flattening herself back against the rock wall, for beneath her a cataract fell fifty feet into a churning, frothy pool. Panyat came up behind her, blinking, then stared with her as they watched their raft tilt over the edge and plunge down to lose itself in spray. Balkis shuddered, realizing that they could have been on it when it fell.

  Anthony must have thought the same, for his eyes were wide and round as he called, “There is no danger, really. The ledge is six feet wide, and I feel no wind.” He turned and walked away.

  Feeling foolish, Balkis sidled after him, keeping her back to the rock; she somehow felt as though, if she kept her eyes on the sheer drop before her, it could not claim her. It crossed her mind that this trip would be much safer as a cat, but she did not want to startle Panyat.

  Anthony had spied his route well, though, and led them from one ledge to another, switching back and forth across the face of the cliff but always going farther and farther downward until at last they stepped onto level ground beside the pool into which the water thundered. Balkis stared upward for a long while, awed by the sight. Finally she looked down to ask Anthony if it was not indeed wonderful—and found him sitting on his heels by the bank, picking pebbles out of the gravel at the edge. Balkis sighed, not needing to ask—she knew the “pebbles” were uncut gems. She felt a touch of exasperation—did he not know that life and beauty were more important than wealth? Then she realized that she had lived in luxury for months, and tried to remember how she had felt as a peasant in the Dark Forest, newly orphaned and alone, and acknowledged that she would have been every bit as hungry for jewelry as he.

  When Anthony rose, his belt-pouch bulged with gems. He turned to her with a grin and gestured toward the bank away from the cliffside. Balkis smiled and nodded—there was no point in trying to talk amidst this thundering. She walked with him away from the waterfall. Panyat fell in beside her.

  Looking about her, Balkis saw high hills to either side, trees lining the edges of the valley floor, but broad meadows before them. The banks of the river were bright with glinting pebbles, many uncut gems and semiprecious stones. Anthony gazed at them with huge and hungry eyes, his face gaunt, but did not stop to gather any more. Balkis took his hand and pressed it for comfort, and as soon as the noise of the waterfall had faded enough to be heard, she said, “You are strong to resist the temptation to load yourself down with jewels.”

  “That would be foolish indeed,” Anthony sighed. “If I could scarcely walk for their weight, I would never manage to bring them to market, and what worth would they be then?”

  Balkis nodded, eyes bright with sympathy and pride. “They would be only gravel to harden a path against the rain.”

  Anthony gave a bark of humorless laughter. “Imagine walking on a path strewn with jewels!” Then he frowned. “But that is what we did as we walked away from the waterfall, did we not?”

  “We did,” Panyat told him, “so your gems could not be worth much here. This river is called the Physon, friends, and it is the broadest river that flows through Prester John's lands.”

  Balkis looked at him in astonishment; she had heard people mention the Physon at court, had seen it from her window, for it was indeed the most important river in the land, carrying passengers and cargo from the borderland all the way to Maracanda—and rumored to have its origin in the fabled Garden of Eden. If it did, most of its course had to be underground, for as far as the waking world knew, it began in this valley.

  Panyat stumbled, bumping into Balkis' thigh. She reached out to catch him instinctively, then noticed his paleness and the unsteadiness of his gait. “What ails you, Panyat?”

  “Merely hunger,” the Pytanian said, his face gaunt. “I regret that I must leave you and go home, for I have only one apple left, and am feeling faint.”

  “One?” Anthony's gaze went immediately to the Pytanian 's loincloth. “Balkis! His pouch is flat!”

  “Nothing to trouble you,” Panyat insisted. “One apple will suffice…”

  “One apple? You have lost all your apples in the rapids!” Balkis cried.

  “Even so, that was only today.” Anthony knelt before his little friend with a frown. “You have been hiding this weakness for some time, have you not, Panyat?”

  The Pytanian looked away.

  “When did you lose the apple?” Balkis cried.

  “In the rapids, as Anthony guessed,” Panyat protested.

  “How long since you smelled of its aroma?” Anthony demanded.

  “Since the desert,” Panyat admitted. “I feared we would not find food for you, and…” his voice trailed off.

  “And you saved the apples, thinking to feed us if we found nothing!” Balkis cried, and hugged him. “Oh, bless you, best of friends! But we did find food, and now it is you who are like to die of hunger! Anthony, how can we feed him?”

  “Leave me.” Panyat sank down to sit by the bank, his face gray. “There is no hope, for there are no apples. I do not wish you to see me die.”

  “We cannot let a friend die alone,” Anthony said, tight-lipped.

  “We cannot let a friend die at all!” Balkis cried. “Anthony, carry him! This river is still too turbulent to drink, but if we can take him to a spring, mayhap its moisture will revive him at least a little.”

  “I… do not drink,” Panyat protested as Anthony picked him up.

  The farmer glanced at Balkis and told Panyat, “Nevertheless, we shall do as Balkis recommends. If any can find you nourishment, it is she.” He gave her a severe look that as much as told her to work magic.

  What spell could she do? Balkis wondered. Could she conjure up an apple tree? Well, she might at that—but surely Panyat would die before it could bud, flower, then bear fruit, even with magical speed.

  “It can do no good,” Panyat protested, and his voice grew more and more feeble. “Save your strength… it is useless…”

  “We have strength to spare, now that you have brought us to water, and a fruitful land where we may find food,” Anthony told him. “Be still and
save your own vitality, Panyat. Trust our Balkis.”

  Theirs? When had she become theirs? But Balkis silently acknowledged the truth of his words—she might not have belonged to them, but certainly belonged with them. She strode ahead, searching for some sign, some hint of a way to feed Panyat, trying to ignore the despair growing within her.

  To make it worse, the sunlight was fading. They were at the bottom of a valley, after all, and the sun had fallen behind the ridge to the west. If Balkis was going to find an apple tree, she would have to do it quickly.

  Did apples even grow in this country?

  Apples grow everywhere, she told herself, and shrugged off tendrils of despair. She cast about her, found a forked stick and picked it up by the branching twigs. It was four feet long, and she held the stem of the Y straight out before her.

  “We seek apples, not water,” Anthony said with a frown.

  “So you have heard of divining rods in your mountains,” Balkis said with absent interest, her mind on Panyat. “Know, then, that a wizard can make a rod seek whatever he asks, not water alone.” She stroked the branch with her right hand, crooning,

  “Wooden fork with barky suit,

  Sprung from seed and grown by earth,

  Seek your own kind, trunk and root.

  Show me trees of apples' birth. Take us… Find—”

  She broke off in frustration and cried, “Anthony, finish it!”

  “Take us to the rosy fruit!” Anthony called.

  The rod jerked sharply to the right.

  “Well done, my lad!” Balkis cried. “Follow fast!”

  Speed was needed, and fortunately speed they found. The forked stick guided Balkis by pressure first against one palm, then against the other—and in the last rays of sunset, brought them to an old, gnarled, withered tree with a few last wrinkled fruits still hanging on its boughs.