by Angus Wells
Death did not answer, and the man slumped afresh, his breath a ragged panting that seared his lungs until the sun once more touched the water, a great ball of burning gold that lanced flame over the soft undulations of waves, the sky darkening to the east, as if the descending orb drew behind it a curtain. It disappeared, and for a little while the sky was a glory of crimson, of salmon, of coral. Then blue velvet pricked with stars and the slender crescent of the moon. The air cooled, and he sighed, luxuriating in that benison, heaving unsteadily to his feet, that he might feel the faint breeze that briefly wafted the air over all his tortured body. He felt his sweat dry and become cold; something splashed, unseen in the darkness. He groaned, lowering himself, and curled upon the rock, closing eyes that still saw the sun, reminding him that so long as he clung to life, he must face it again.
Finally, he slept.
The next day, he woke as the first rays spread like molten metal over the sea.
His lids were heavy, the orbs beneath hot, itching as though their moisture were leached out and drawn into the sun. He thought of rising, but the effort seemed too much and he lay watching the water grow brighter, until it became too bright, driving pinpricks of pain into his skull. His skin, too, felt it, crawling with the heat, and that galvanized him to action: he husked a curse and tottered to his feet. Perhaps there would be crabs again in the pool. Slowly, delicate as a dancer or a drunken man, he moved toward the farther end of the rock. The fifty paces had become eighty now, and the incline steeper. His muscles felt drained of moisture, knotting, movement painful. He halted at the rim, closing his eyes against the nausea that gripped him, fighting the dizziness that roiled his senses as he lowered himself cautiously to his knees.
The pool remained empty, as if the taking of the two crustaceans had rendered it forbidden territory to their fellows, the clear water shimmering, pricked with myriad points of brilliance that stabbed his vision, inflaming the dull ache inside his skull so that it pounded against the confining bone.
This is quite pointless, said Death. You will find neither food nor water. There is only suffering here.
“And you,” the man answered, curling up on the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms encircling his spinning head.
And me, Death agreed affably. Your true companion. “You name yourself my friend?” he demanded. Of course, Death said. Do I not offer you release from this pain?
“Then tell me who I am,” he challenged. “Tell me that, and then perhaps I will come to you.”
Do you not know? asked Death.
“No!” he croaked. “I cannot remember. Tell me!”
I could, Death said. I know it as I know all men’s names. Come to me, and I shall tell you.
The man thought on that awhile, still huddled, his eyes closed. It seemed to him, not knowing himself, that he was not afraid of dying but loved life more. “Not yet,” he said.
Death’s laughter was soft: the lap of undulant water on stone. Why delay it? Why suffer? You have no hope—come to me.
“I live,” he said.
But you do not know who you are, Death said.
“But still I live.”
Crouched, curled, his arms wrapped about his head, he could not see, but he thought Death shrugged, negligently. “Tell me who I am,” he repeated, “and then perhaps I shall agree.”
There was a shadow on the featureless sea, a blur of darkness that flickered in and out of his sight on the swell. Perhaps it was some trick of Death’s, to convince him of the futility of clinging so obstinately to the frayed thread of his life. But as he squinted, willing the vision to be real, it coalesced into solidity: a boat, blue painted, propelled toward him by four sweeps, the shapes of men at prow and stern. He fell to his knees, careless of the abrading rock, bracing himself on trembling hands, and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. He did not know if there was a god or gods; or if there were, whether or not he believed in any deity, but still he gave up thanks, and said to Death, “You see? You shall not have me yet. I have beaten you.”
Death gave back no answer: the boat came closer. He thought it a fishing boat, though why he could not say, nor how he should know one vessel from another. He knew only that it offered salvation: he raised his arms, waving.
None on the craft returned his wave, and rather than coming straight on, to where its passengers might find landing, it turned aside. The man’s mouth, already open, gaped wider at that, and he croaked a hoarse denial, forcing himself to rise, tottering ungainly as he turned to stare in horror, hands outthrust, as if he would draw the boat to him. Almost, he plunged into the sea, to swim to the vessel, but for all his fear it should abandon him, he knew the effort of traversing that distance would be too great, that he must drown before he could reach his goal.
He peered through narrowed lids as it swept down the brief length of the rock, its outline shimmering in the heat haze, vague through the curtain of sweat that coursed his face. Four burly men manned the oars, he thought, and another the tiller. A man and a woman stood at the prow, their faces mere blurs, though he felt they studied him.
As if they fear me, he thought. And then, Why? What am I, that anyone should fear me? Who am I?
The moments it took for the craft to go by were an eternity in which hope died; then flared anew as the boat turned, circling the rock. He stood, turning with it, his head spinning with the motion, so that boat and sea and sky merged in a whirling of brilliance. He did not know he fell, did not feel his wasted body strike the stone. He no longer cared: in that instant Death might have claimed him and he gone un-protesting; that should have been preferable to this rise and fall of hope, this torment. He closed his eyes, teeth grinding, hands knotting into fists. Had his body been capable of producing such moisture, he would have wept, for despair consumed him then. And then through despair came anger: did these folk toy with him, he would not grant them the satisfaction of his suffering. He would face them and curse them as a man, on his feet. He did not know why that was so important, but he forced his eyes open and his body upright. He could barely stand, and the sun was fire on his skin, and for a while he could see nothing save the molten light of the water and the sky.
Then shapes formed, six, standing in a semicircle before him, between him and the boat, that held to the rock by a seventh figure who clutched the painter and eyed him warily. No less the others: six men in loose shirts and breeks of linen, short-swords in their hands, their expressions guarded. The woman wore a shift of the same plain linen, hair the color of polished copper shining in the sun drawn back from the oval of her face in a loose tail. She was lovely, he realized, and at the same time that she was blind: her eyes were large and green and fixed intently on him, but she studied him with something that was more than sight.
He thought, Magic, she wields magic, and did not know how he knew it.
He looked from their faces to the blades, and into his mind unbidden came the thought that he could not defeat them all, not so weak, not unarmed. He straightened, realizing he had dropped to a crouch, his hands extended, the fingers held rigid, ready to strike.
Almost, he laughed at himself, barely able to stand like a man, but preparing to fight. What am I? he wondered, and said as best he could past swollen tongue, from dry throat, “I am …” and fell silent, shaking his head. But not so much he should lose sight of them. “Who are you? Do you come to save me or to slay me?”
They frowned at that and exchanged sidelong glances, one to the other, and a tall broad-shouldered man in whose big hand the short-sword seemed no more than a knife said something he could not comprehend.
He decided they were not intending to kill him: was that their intent, they should surely have struck by now. He said, “Water,” and when the tall man’s face furrowed afresh, he gestured at his mouth, aping the act of drinking. The tall man spoke again, but still the words remained incomprehensible.
He waited, thinking that he could not stand much longer, that whatever innate discipline had set h
im on his feet must soon give sway to weakness and he fall down. He did not know why that thought was so distasteful; he wondered why he could not understand these people, or they him. He said, “Water, for the love of …”
He could not think whose love should merit that gift, but he heard the woman speak and saw the tall man nod, then turn to another, smaller, and murmur something that sent the slighter figure stepping backward to the boat.
A canteen was passed him, cautiously, as if the donor feared he might strike out.
He mumbled, “My thanks,” and brought the flask to his lips.
As he raised it, the tall man spoke warningly and touched swordpoint to flesh. The others moved a little way apart, muttering low. Again, he could not say how he knew they voiced cantrips, but it seemed the air crackled with the power they summoned. Do they slay me now, he thought, at least I shall die with my thirst slaked. He essayed a smile, ignoring the touch of steel against his throat as he began to drink.
At first there was no taste, only an easing of a pain become so familiar, he had not known he felt it. He let the blessed moisture trickle over his tongue, into his throat, and moaned at the pleasure. He began to swallow, the water tepid, but to him like some mountain spring, cool and achingly desirable.
When the tall man took the canteen from him, he snarled, trying to retain it, to gulp down more. He was too weak to resist, but from the corners of his eyes he saw the others tense. He thought, Like warriors. Like warriors who fight with magic. He raised his hands, licking off the droplets spilled there, and saw the woman draw closer.
She touched the canteen, and then pointed at his mouth and at his belly, clutching her own midriff in parody of sickness. He guessed she told him that to drink too much should harm him, and he nodded. She smiled and touched her breast, uttering a single word. At first he did not understand, and she repeated it, indicating herself again. He wondered what she meant, but then she touched the tall man and said a word, and he surmised she spoke their names.
Their names were unfamiliar, as if his tongue were not shaped to utter them, but he did his best, encouraged by the woman, and finally managed: “Rwyan,” and “Gwyllym.”
The woman nodded confirmation, smiling, which he found reassuring, and stabbed a finger at his chest. He said, “I do not remember,” and shrugged. She pointed again, pantomiming her failure to understand: he shrugged again and shook his head helplessly.
She turned away then and spoke with the one whose name sounded like Gwyllym, which seemed as odd a name as hers, though why that should be, he could not say, and the tall man nodded and called to the others. They drew closer, surrounding him, and one went to the boat, returning with shackles. Proximate, he felt their magic on his skin, like the sting of salt, and the prick of their swords, and offered no protest as they fettered him, his wrists and ankles cuffed, connected by a chain. He wondered why they were so afraid of him.
They walked him to the boat then, and though he did his best to tread out the length of the rock, his knees buckled and he would have fallen had the tall man not given him the support of a brawny arm. He felt ashamed when he could not climb unaided on board but must be lifted, babe-like, and set down in the prow, huddling there, the man and the woman watchful to either side as the others settled to tiller and sweeps.
He watched the rock recede as the oarsmen backed the boat, thinking that Death might appear to admit defeat, to acknowledge his victory, but there was nothing, only a length of bleached white stone that seemed to float on the blue expanse of sea, and he turned away. He did not know if he was rescued or brought to some other fate, but they had given him water and so, he assumed, intended him to live at least a while longer. Did they mean to slay him, he hoped he might die fittingly.
He struggled to focus his eyes on their course, to see where they went, but he was consumed with a tremendous lassitude, as if rescue drained him of the last reserves of his energy; as if, his fate now placed in the hands of others, he might for a little while let go his hold. The motion of the boat was gentle, a pleasant rocking that lulled him, for all he could not understand why he was chained or why he provoked such fear in his rescuers. I live, he thought. For now that must be enough, though I’d dearly know my name. Lethargy crept over him, and he closed his eyes, letting the weariness take him.
When next he woke, shadows told him dusk had fallen. He saw that he was in a room plastered white, beams of dark wood spanning the ceiling, a glassed lantern suspended from the centermost, a single window, shuttered against the heat, set in one wall. Two men, brawny and with swords belted to their waists, settled on chairs. There was little furniture besides the bed: a small table, the two chairs, pegs on which clothing might be hung. There seemed no more to learn for now, and he lay back; his fetters were not uncomfortable, and the bed was very soft. He felt stronger, enough that he might test his bonds. They remained in place, affixed to head and foot of the bed, but soft cloth now warded his wrists and ankles against chafing, and his body was slick with some unguent that soothed and cooled his sunburned skin. He slowly turned his head and saw a man, a stranger, and the woman called Rwyan, seated across the room. He opened his mouth, feeling more ointment on his lips, and said, “Please, water.”
They turned to him at that and spoke, and the man quit the room with a nervous backward glance. The woman rose, filling a pannikin that she brought to the bed. He was not so much recovered as he had thought, and she slid an arm about his shoulders to raise him that he might drink. He would have gulped, but she allowed him only a sip, and then another, doling the water slowly into his parched mouth, speaking all the while in a soft, calm voice. When the pannikin was emptied, he smiled his gratitude, and she lowered him gently back.
As she returned the cup, the door opened to reveal an angular, round-shouldered man carrying a bulky satchel, moonlight glinting on a hairless pate. The prisoner watched as the bald man spoke with the woman, then snapped his fingers, the action producing a flame that he touched to the lantern. As light filled the room, the prisoner saw that the woman now wore a loose gown of green and that her hair was unbound. He thought again how lovely she was, but then his view was blocked by the bald man, who touched his chest and said, “Marthyn,” which seemed to be his name.
He said no more but set down his satchel and began to rummage through the contents. When he produced a phial and measured out some drops of a pale yellow liquid, the prisoner hesitated only an instant before swallowing the decoction: for reasons he could not define, he felt safer in Rwyan’s presence, and when she saw him hesitate, she smiled and nodded encouragement.
The liquid was tasteless; it filled him with a pleasant languor, so that he drifted midway between sleep and waking as the man called Marthyn examined his body and applied a fresh coating of the unguent. He was only dimly aware of the men who entered, on Marthyn’s call, to remove his fetters and turn him gently over. He was asleep when the manacles were replaced.
Light filtering through the shutters woke him next, though whether one night, or several, had passed, he could not guess. Rwyan was gone, and the man who had sat with her, in their places two men who might have been twins. They turned toward him as he stirred, and in their eyes he saw suspicion. Not fear, he thought, but wariness. As if they were confident, but yet cautious. He said, “Rwyan?” and one of them shook his head, pointing at the door, then touched his chest and said, “Darys.” The other stabbed a thumb and said, “Valryn.” The prisoner repeated their names and said, “I’m hungry.”
Darys shrugged and brought him water, which he drank, the liquid prompting his stomach to rumble, so that Darys chuckled and spoke with Valryn, who went to the door and called through it.
After a while, Marthyn came to apply a fresh coating of the unguent and feed him droplets of a blue liquid, then spooned broth between his lips. It was a small bowl, but it filled him as if it were a feast, and afterward he slept again.
He woke to day’s light, once more not knowing how much time had passed, think
ing it likely not much, for Darys and Valryn still played the parts of nurses, or guards. He needed badly to void his bowels, which was difficult to express, though he at last succeeded; Valryn drew his sword as Darys unlocked his fetters and helped him rise. The chains were fixed again about his wrists and ankles, and he was brought to an alcove. He was chagrined that he must still rely on another to walk, more that both men watched as he satisfied his need. He found some small comfort in the thought it were better men observed him than that Rwyan or some other woman had been present.
After, he was returned to the bed and chained again in place.
So the days passed, at first in confusion but then to an emerging pattern. He drifted less, remained longer awake. Under Marthyn’s ministrations his body healed, sun-ravaged skin becoming whole, his strength returning. He ate; at first only broth or gruel, but then more solid food—fruits and vegetables and meat. He saw that his guardian nurses were changed daily, and that while they were usually men, sometimes women took a turn. He liked none of them so well as Rwyan, for she seemed the only one not much afraid of him, nor so wary. Most seemed to perceive him as they might a wild animal, half-tamed and potentially dangerous. He knew somehow that he was strong and that he could fight, but he felt no animosity toward these people—save they kept him chained—and he did not understand why they held him so. He wished he understood their speech, or they his, for then he could tell them he intended no harm and would not seek to hurt his saviors. Rather, that he was indebted to them, that he owed them his life and would lay it down before offering them injury.
As he recovered, so his curiosity increased. He was a full-grown man, but of his life he remained innocent as a babe, as if the sea itself had birthed him on that miserable rock. He was of different stock to the folk who tended him—their language told him that much—but from whence he came and in what land he found himself, he had not the least idea. He determined to learn and commenced to ply those who sat with him with questions. It was a dissatisfying process, a matter of gestures and repetitions that enabled him to identify objects, to learn simple words. His mind, it appeared, was quick enough, for he soon could ask for water, or food, the latrine; he could offer thanks and greet newcomers, but true communication remained impossible. He gleaned more from the attitudes of his tutors: some refused to indulge him, some were reluctant, some few enthusiastic; but in all of them he felt still that wariness, and in some a loathing he could not at all understand. It emphasized his loneliness.
