‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ Silk asked, stopping his poling to wipe the rain out of his face. One of the fenlings behind the boat chattered angrily at him until he dug his pole into the muddy bottom of the channel again.
‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ Belgarath replied.
The channel continued to open before them, and they poled steadily along, following the round-headed fenling who had first appeared.
‘Are those trees up ahead?’ Silk asked, peering into the misty drizzle.
‘It appears so,’ Belgarath answered. ‘I suspect that’s where we’re going.’
The large cluster of trees slowly emerged from the mist. As they drew closer, Garion could see a gentle rise of ground swelling up out of the reeds and water. The grove which crowned the island appeared to be mostly willows with long, trailing branches.
The fenling who had been leading them swam on ahead. When it reached the island, it emerged half out of the water and gave a strange, whistling cry. A moment or so later, a hooded figure stepped out of the trees and moved slowly down to the bank. Garion did not know what to expect, but he was more than a little startled when the brown-cloaked figure on the shore pushed back the hood to reveal a woman’s face that, though very old, still bore the luminous traces of what had once been an extraordinary beauty.
‘Hail, Belgarath,’ she greeted the old sorcerer in an oddly neutral voice.
‘Hello, Vordai,’ he replied conversationally. ‘It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?’
The little creatures that had guided them to the island waded out of the water to gather around the brown-cloaked woman. They chirped and chattered to her, and she looked at them fondly, touching their wet fur with gentle fingers. They were medium-sized animals with short hind legs and little rounded bellies and they walked upright with a peculiar quick shuffle, their forepaws held delicately in front of their furry chests.
‘Come inside out of the rain, Belgarath,’ the woman said. ‘Bring your friends.’ She turned and walked up a path leading into the willow grove with her fenlings scampering along beside her.
‘What do we do?’ Garion whispered.
‘We go inside,’ Belgarath replied, stepping out of the boat onto the island.
Garion was not sure what to expect as he and Silk followed the old man up the path toward the dripping willows, but he was totally unprepared for the neat, thatch-roofed cottage with its small adjoining garden. The house was built of weathered logs, tightly chinked with moss, and a wispy tendril of smoke drifted from its chimney.
At the doorway, the woman in brown carefully wiped her feet on a rush mat and shook the rain out of her cloak. Then she opened the door and went inside without looking back.
Silk’s expression was dubious as he stopped outside the cottage. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Belgarath?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’ve heard stories about Vordai.’
‘It’s the only way to find out what she wants,’ Belgarath told him, ‘and I’m fairly sure we aren’t going any farther until we talk with her. Let’s go in. Be sure to wipe your feet.’
The interior of Vordai’s cottage was scrupulously neat. The ceilings were low and heavily beamed. The wooden floor was scrubbed to whiteness, and a table and chairs sat before an arched fireplace where a pot hung in the flames from an iron arm. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table and curtains at the window overlooking the garden.
‘Why don’t you introduce your friends to me, Belgarath?’ the woman suggested, hanging her cloak on a peg. She smoothed the front of her plain brown dress.
‘As you wish, Vordai,’ the old man replied politely. ‘This is Prince Kheldar, your countryman. And this is King Belgarion of Riva.’
‘Noble guests,’ the woman observed in that strangely neutral voice. ‘Welcome to the house of Vordai.’
‘Forgive me, madame,’ Silk said in his most courtly manner, ‘but your reputation seems to be grossly inaccurate.’
‘Vordai, the witch of the fens?’ she asked, looking amused. ‘Do they still call me that?’
He smiled in return. ‘Their descriptions are misleading, to say the least.’
‘The hag of the swamps.’ She mimicked the speech of a credulous peasant. ‘Drowner of travellers and queen of the fenlings.’ There was a bitter twist to her lips.
‘That’s more or less what they say,’ he told her. ‘I always believed you were a myth conjured up to frighten unruly children.’
‘Vordai will get you and gobble you up!’ She laughed, but there was no humor in her laughter. ‘I’ve been hearing that for generations. Take off your cloaks, gentlemen. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You’ll be staying for a while.’
One of the fenlings – the one who had led them to the island, Garion thought – chattered at her in a piping little voice, glancing nervously at the pot hanging in the fire.
‘Yes,’ she answered quite calmly, ‘I know that it’s boiling, Tupik. It has to boil or it won’t cook.’ She turned back to her guests. ‘Breakfast will be ready in a bit,’ she told them. ‘Tupik tells me you haven’t eaten yet.’
‘You can communicate with them?’ Silk sounded surprised.
‘Isn’t that obvious, Prince Kheldar? Here, let me hang your cloaks by the fire to dry.’ She stopped and regarded Garion gravely. ‘So great a sword for one so young,’ she noted, looking at the great hilt rising above his shoulder. ‘Stand it in the corner, King Belgarion. There’s no one to fight here.’
Garion inclined his head politely, unbuckled the sword belt and handed her his cloak.
Another, somewhat smaller fenling darted out of a corner with a piece of cloth and began busily wiping up the water that had dripped from their cloaks, chattering disapprovingly all the while.
‘You’ll have to forgive Poppi.’ Vordai smiled. ‘She’s obsessed with tidiness. I sometimes think that, if I left her alone, she’d sweep holes in the floor.’
‘They’re changing, Vordai,’ Belgarath said gravely, seating himself at the table.
‘I know,’ she replied, going to the fireplace to stir the bubbling pot. ‘I’ve watched them over the years. They’re not the same as they were when I came here.’
‘It was a mistake to tamper with them,’ he told her.
‘So you’ve said before – you and Polgara both. How is she, by the way?’
‘Probably raging by now. We slipped out of the Citadel at Riva without telling her we were leaving, and that sort of thing irritates her.’
‘Polgara was born irritable.’
‘We agree on that point anyway.’
‘Breakfast’s ready.’ She lifted the pot with a curved iron hook and set it on the table. Poppi scampered over to a cupboard standing against the far wall and brought back a stack of wooden bowls, then returned for spoons. Her large eyes were very bright, and she chittered seriously at the three visitors.
‘She’s telling you not to drop crumbs on her clean floor,’ Vordai advised them, removing a steaming loaf of bread from an oven built into the side of the fireplace. ‘Crumbs infuriate her.’
‘We’ll be careful,’ Belgarath promised.
It was a peculiar sort of breakfast, Garion thought. The stew that came steaming from the pot was thick, with strange vegetables floating in it, and large chunks of fish. It was delicately seasoned, however, and he found it delicious. By the time he had finished eating, he rather reluctantly concluded that Vordai might even be as good a cook as Aunt Pol.
‘Excellent, Vordai,’ Belgarath complimented her, finally pushing his bowl away. ‘Now suppose we get down to business. Why did you have us brought here?’
‘To talk, Belgarath,’ she replied. ‘I don’t get much company, and conversation’s a good way to pass a rainy morning. Why have you come into the fens?’
‘The Prophecy moves on, Vordai – even if sometimes we don’t. The Rivan King has returned, and Torak stirs in his sleep.’
‘Ah,’ she said without much real interest.
‘The Orb of Aldur stands on the pommel of Belgarion’s sword. The day is not far off when the Child of Light and the Child of Dark must meet. We go toward that meeting, and all mankind awaits the outcome.’
‘Except me, Belgarath.’ She gave him a penetrating look. ‘The fate of mankind is a matter of only the mildest curiosity to me. I was excluded from mankind three hundred years ago, you’ll remember.’
‘Those people are all long dead, Vordai.’
‘Their descendants are no different. Could I walk into any village in this part of Drasnia and tell the good villagers who I am without being stoned or burned?’
‘Villagers are the same the world over, madame,’ Silk put in. ‘Provincial, stupid, and superstitious. Not all men are like that.’
‘All men are the same, Prince Kheldar,’ she disagreed. ‘When I was young, I tried to involve myself in the affairs of my village. I only wanted to help, but very soon not a cow died or a baby took colic without my being blamed for it. They stoned me finally and tried to drag me back to the village to burn me at the stake. They had quite a celebration planned. I managed to escape, though, and I took refuge here in the fens. After that I had very little interest in the affairs of men.’
‘You probably shouldn’t have displayed your talents quite so openly,’ Belgarath told her. ‘People prefer not to believe in that sort of thing. There’s a whole catalogue of nasty little emotions curdling in the human spirit, and anything the least bit out of the ordinary raises the possibility of retribution.’
‘My village learned that it was more than a possibility,’ she replied with a certain grim satisfaction.
‘What happened?’ Garion asked curiously.
‘It started raining,’ Vordai told him with an odd smile.
‘Is that all?’
‘It was enough. It rained on that village for five years, King Belgarion – just on the village. A hundred yards beyond the last house everything was normal, but in the village there was rain. They tried to move twice, but the rain followed them. Finally they gave up and left the area. For all I know, some of their descendants are still wandering.’
‘You’re not serious,’ Silk scoffed.
‘Quite serious.’ She gave him an amused look. ‘Your credulity appears selective, Prince Kheldar. Here you are, going about the world in the company of Belgarath the Sorcerer. I’m sure you believe in his power; but you can’t bring yourself to accept the idea of the power of the witch of the fens.’
Silk stared at her.
‘I really am a witch, Prince Kheldar. I could demonstrate if you wish, but I don’t think you’d like it very much. People seldom do.’
‘That isn’t really necessary, Vordai,’ Belgarath said. ‘What is it that you want exactly?’
‘I was coming to that, Belgarath,’ she replied. ‘After I escaped into the fens, I discovered my little friends here.’ She affectionately stroked the side of Poppi’s furry little face, and Poppi nuzzled at her hand ecstatically. ‘They were afraid of me at first, but they finally grew less shy. They began bringing me fish – and flowers – as tokens of friendship, and I needed friends very badly at that time. I altered them a bit out of gratitude.’
‘You shouldn’t have, you know,’ the old man said rather sadly.
She shrugged. ‘Should and shouldn’t have very little meaning to me any more.’
‘Not even the Gods would do what you did.’
‘The Gods have other amusements.’ She looked directly at him then. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Belgarath – for years now. I knew that sooner or later you’d come back into the fens. This meeting you spoke of is very important to you, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the most important event in the history of the world.’
‘That depends on your point of view, I suppose. You need my help, though.’
‘I think we can manage, Vordai.’
‘Perhaps, but how do you expect to get out of the fens?’
He looked at her sharply.
‘I can open the way for you to the dry ground at the edge of the swamp, or I can see to it that you wander around in these marshes forever – in which case this meeting you’re concerned about will never happen, will it? That puts me in a very interesting situation, wouldn’t you say?’
Belgarath’s eyes narrowed.
‘I discovered that when men deal with each other, there’s usually an exchange of some kind,’ she added with a strange little smile. ‘Something for something; nothing for nothing. It seems to be a sensible arrangement.’
‘Exactly what did you have in mind?’
‘The fenlings are my friends,’ she replied. ‘In a very special way, my children. But men look upon them as animals with pelts worth the taking. They trap them, Belgarath, and they kill them for their fur. The fine ladies in Boktor and Kotu dress themselves in the skins of my children and give no thought to the grief it causes me. They call my children animals and they come into the fens to hunt them.’
‘They are animals, Vordai,’ he told her gently.
‘Not any more.’ Almost without seeming to think, Vordai put her arm about Poppi’s shoulders. ‘It may be that you were right when you said that I shouldn’t have tampered with them, but it’s too late now to change it back.’ She sighed. ‘I’m a witch, Belgarath,’ she continued, ‘not a sorceress. My life has a beginning and an end, and it’s approaching its end, I think. I won’t live forever, as you and Polgara have done. I’ve lived several hundred years already and I’m growing very tired of life. As long as I’m alive, I can keep men from coming into the fens; but once I’m gone, my children will have no protection.’
‘And you want me to take them into my care?’
‘No, Belgarath. You’re too busy; and sometimes you forget promises you don’t care to remember. I want you to do the one thing that will make it forever impossible for men to think of the fenlings as animals.’
His eyes widened as what she was suggesting dawned on him.
‘I want you to give my children the power of speech, Belgarath,’ Vordai said. ‘I can’t do it. My witchcraft doesn’t reach that far. Only a sorcerer can make it possible for them to talk.’
‘Vordai!’
‘That’s my price, Belgarath,’ she told him. ‘That’s what my help will cost you. Take it or leave it.’
Chapter Nineteen
They slept that night in Vordai’s cottage, though Garion slept very little. The ultimatum of the witch of the fens troubled him profoundly. He knew that tampering with nature had far-reaching effects, and to go as far as Vordai wished might forever erase the dividing line between men and animals. The philosophical and theological implications of that step were staggering. There were, moreover, other worries. It was entirely possible that Belgarath could not do what Vordai demanded of him. Garion was almost positive that his grandfather had not attempted to use his will since his collapse months before, and now Vordai had set him an almost impossible task.
What would happen to Belgarath if he tried and failed? What would that do to him? Would the doubts then take over and rob him of any possibility of ever regaining his power? Desperately Garion tried to think of a way to warn his grandfather without arousing those fatal doubts.
But they absolutely had to get out of the fens. However reluctantly Garion had made the decision to meet Torak, he now knew that it was the only possible choice open to him. The meeting, however, could not be delayed indefinitely. If it were put off too long, events would move on, and the world would be plunged into the war they were all so desperately trying to head off. Vordai’s threat to trap them all here in the fens unless Belgarath paid her price threatened not only them, but the entire world. In a very real sense, she held the fate of all mankind in her uncaring hands. Try though he might, Garion could not think of any way to avoid the test of Belgarath’s will. Though he would reluctantly have done what Vordai wished himself, he did not even know where to begin. If it could be done at all, his grandfather was the only one who could do it �
�� if his illness had not destroyed his power.
When dawn crept through the misty fens, Belgarath arose and sat before the fire, brooding into the crackling flames with a somber face.
‘Well?’ Vordai asked him. ‘Have you decided?’
‘It’s wrong, Vordai,’ he told her. ‘Nature cries out against it.’
‘I’m much closer to nature than you are, Belgarath,’ she replied. ‘Witches live more intimately with her than sorcerers do. I can feel the turning of the seasons in my blood, and the earth is alive under my feet. I hear no outcry. Nature loves all her creatures, and she would grieve over the obliteration of my fenlings almost as much as I. But that’s really beside the point, isn’t it? Even though the very rocks shrieked out against it, I would not relent.’
Silk exchanged a quick look with Garion, and the little man’s sharp face seemed as troubled as Belgarath’s.
‘Are the fenlings really beasts?’ Vordai continued. She pointed to where Poppi still slept, her delicate forepaws open like little hands. Tupik, moving stealthily, crept back into the house, carrying a handful of dew-drenched swamp flowers. With precise care, he placed them about the slumbering Poppi and gently laid the last one in her open hand. Then, with an oddly patient expression, he sat on his haunches to watch her awakening.
Poppi stirred, stretched, and yawned. She brought the flower to her little black nose and sniffed at it, looking affectionately at the expectant Tupik. She made a happy little chirping sound, and then she and Tupik scampered off together for a morning swim in the cool water of the swamp.
‘It’s a courting ritual,’ Vordai explained. ‘Tupik wants Poppi to be his mate, and as long as she continues to accept his gifts, he knows that she’s still fond of him. It will go on for quite some time, and then they’ll swim off into the swamp together for a week or so. When they come back, they’ll be mates for life. Is that really so different from the way young humans behave?’
Her question profoundly disturbed Garion for some reason he could not quite put his finger on.
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