The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  Then let Yot' s corpse float away, and used the knife to cut free his boots, which were threatening to drown him.

  With boots gone, Drake released the knife. Let it fall awaytothe depths of the ocean. Helayback, floating in the swells which seemed to stretch away to eternity. Ocean. Blood. Rain. When had it started to rain? He had no idea. But it was raining with a vengeance now. Rain hammering outoftheheavens.

  A wave slapped Drake's face. He took a breath which was half water. He felt exhausted. Cold to the bone. Ready to die.

  'But I'm not going to die yet,' muttered Drake to Drake.

  No. He could not die. Notyet. For he carried the magic red bottle. And he carried the ring which commanded that bottle. And within the bottle was Zanya, his true love.

  'Must stay afloat,' muttered Drake.

  Swallowed water.

  And was taken from behind, encircled by strength. In panic he fought, thrashed, struggled.

  'Hey, man,' said Whale Mike. 'Not so rough. You my friend, right?'

  'Right,' said Drake. T your friend.'

  Then he fainted.

  69

  Tor: uninhabited island thirty leagues long lying near coast of Argan on western side of Drangsturm Gulf; heavily timbered, particularly with summerpine, cedar and roble; considerable bamboo resource; rich in caves and water; fauna includes several species of gecko, bat, tree-frog and chameleon found nowhere else.

  Drake ... Drifted . . .

  Tangled with weed . . . deep-fathomed in a sea of bloody intestines . . . lost amidst falling pearls, amidst moon-gilded suns . . . confused by his aliases . . . Drake Douay . . . passion of disintegrating stars, of baked potatoes and consuming flames . . . Dreldragon ... blade chiming against blade . . . Lord Dreldragon . . . Plovey falling, dead . . . Arabin lol Arabin . . .

  The rain, falling, drowning all the world in its own forevers. A dead Neversh, dragged down to the numb cold by the Warwolf's anchor . . . Drake, drowning with the Neversh . . .

  Surfacing, slowly.

  'Drake?'

  'Zanya

  She laid herself down beside him.

  They kissed. Her lips were corrugated with blue sores. Which revolted him. She was dying. No joy in her dying body. And Drake - Drake was disgusted. And hated himself for being disgusted.

  'Don't cry, dearest treasure snake. Don't cry.'

  But he wept in her arms. Helplessly.

  Someone had undressed him. A mattress of sorts was under him; a blanket comforted his nakedness.

  Drake smeared tears from his eyes, sniffed heavily, then said in a voice thick with sorrow:

  T love ... I love you.'

  And, as he said it, knew it was true. He loved Zanya, or some attribute of his association with Zanya, despite the diseased and failing state of her body. But what exactly was the nature of this emotional attachment?

  What makes love love?

  Is it an affection which can be separated from lust? Is it an alliance of wills? Is it something like homesickness, like nostalgia - a longing for the familiar, no matter how timeworn and battered? Is it a recognition of limits, a kind of maturity - settling for what is rather than what might be?

  Drake - who, in early youth, had been schooled ruthlessly in thought by hard taskmasters - could not keep from wondering.

  'I love you too,' said Zanya.

  Drake knew she spoke out of sickness. She was dying: she needed him. Absolutely. But if she recovered? Why, then things would no longer be so simple, no longer love-love-love, but the contention of will against will, of ego against ego. The eternal game-playing of human relations.

  Drake stopped trying to unravel the tail-chasing complexity of his own thoughts. He doubted he would ever get any absolute answer about the nature of love. Indeed, his education had included (as part of his training in the Inner Principles of the Old Science) a study of the Principle of Uncertainty, and the hopelessness of any quest for exact and absolute answers to anything.

  (The Korugatu philosophers hold that we can be certain of some things at least, such as our own existence. As Klen Klo puts it: 'I think, therefore I am; I drink to unthink, which proves that I think.' But Drake's teachers had taught him a more rigorous, more pessimistic formula: T think I think, therefore perhaps I am.')

  'Where are we?' asked Drake, thus beginning an Investigation of his surroundings.

  'Here,' said Zanya. 'Here.'

  And now it was her turn to weep, and his turn to comfort her. While he held her close, he looked around, blinking away the last of his own tears. They were in the red bottle. They had to be. There was no other explanation. But it was not at all what he had expected.

  They were camped between two ranks of monumental royal statues in a gloomy hall of utter silence. Sad and solemn, the kings of long-forgotten realms maintained a watch over them. Kings carved in rock on a scale so huge as to be oppressive. Ponderous entities of granite, of basalt, and unknown stones harder yet, and heavier. Lines of death and wisdom graved deep in their faces. Bearded men, some bare-headed, some helmeted. All armed.

  And Drake, lying on his mattress with his woman in his arms, thought:

  This is power.

  Something about power.

  It speaks ofpo wer.

  It was the ultimate art of the State: huge, cold, implacable, inhuman. Built to crush all fragile emotion. To convince mere mortal bones of their fragility, of the uselessness of their protest.

  And Drake (perhaps unfairly) thought:

  Gouda Muck would have loved this place.

  And Yot, too.

  In the distance, someone was moving. A man. Approaching. A single man. Walking.

  Boots striking echoes from the ranks of statue-kings. Echoes in a place otherwise utterly silence. Cool. Immense. A roof lifted beyond shadows. Walls lost in the distance. The floor beneath . . . veined with red. As if a million million blood-bearing capillaries ran through the stone.

  Gently, Drake separated himself from Zanya.

  'Dear treasure snake,' she said. 'What is it? Are you hungry? Here - drink this.'

  And she handed him a curiously-carved cup of ivory. Inside was a dark, unwholesome fluid.

  Drake drank. Then spluttered.

  'Blood's grief! What's that?'

  'Siege dust mixed with water,' said Zanya. 'Drink it. Come on! It's good for you!'

  'Man, you've got to be kidding,' said Drake.

  But he forced it down regardless.

  And the lone man walking solo bore down on them. Falchion at his side. Jon Arabin.

  'Drake,' he said. 'Recovered?'

  'I live,' said Drake.

  Looking for the ring, which he expected to see on Jon Arabin's hand. And did see.

  'Who wears the bottle?' said Drake.

  'Rolf Thelemite, for the moment,' said Jon Arabin. 'We've got a raft of sorts on the surface. A sail of sorts, too. The wind is from the east, so we're making for Tor. That's closest, in any case.'

  'And the Neversh?'

  'It's dead,' said Jon Arabin.

  Drake braved himself to his feet, holding his blanket around him.

  'What duty for me?' he said.

  'To rest,' said Jon Arabin. 'To rest with your love. Nay, man - don't protest. All are resting if not needed on the surface. We'll be busy enough when we make shore at Tor.'

  'All are resting?' said Drake. 'Where?'

  'Above. Far above. You two . . . let privacy serve you.'

  And, satisfied with what he had seen, Jon Arabin turned and walked away from the long avenue of ancient kings. They heard his boots for a long time until he vanished, ascending a staircase.

  'Who are these kings?' said Drake.

  'Who they are,' said Zanya. 'Who they were. Let me -let me look at you.'

  And she took the blanket away, and gazed on what she thought of as his beauty. Lean flanks. A fluff of gingerish hair on his chest. A scraggly ginger beard on his chin. Hair yellow, bleached toward pale by the sun. Scars of whip-marks on his back. Scar encirclin
g left ankle, where slave iron had gnawed his flesh when he was labouring in servitude aboard a galley on the Velvet River.

  'Turn around,' demanded Zanya.

  Upon which Drake thought to raise his hands above his head and spin like a dancer. But he found himself too sore. Which was scarcely surprising, since there were rainbow bruises all over his body.

  'If we get to Ling,' said Zanya. 'If we get what we're seeking, if we get a cure - I'll want more than to look.'

  'I know that, most dearest saucy wench,' said Drake.

  And hugged her.

  Ling was still far, but Tor was closer.

  After five days at sea, the clumsy raft which carried the red bottle grounded on the shores of Tor. Soon, every survivor from the good ship Dragon was out in the open air. The shore was of rocks and sand edged with rough grass, beyond which grew cool forest. The sky was of opal-bright blue, washed with wind and sunshine.

  Ish Ulpin and Bucks Cat immediately set off hunting. In the red bottle, they had fed on nothing but siege dust - a survival food which tastes as bad as it sounds.

  The wizard Miphon also wandered off towards the forest. He wanted to be alone, to mourn the death of his friend Blackwood, and the loss of control of the red bottle to Jon Arabin. From the edge of the forest, Miphon looked back and saw Arabin standing in company with Drake Douay, Zanya Kliedervaust and Whale Mike.

  Whale Mike had the red bottle tied to his belt.

  Jon Arabin wore the ring which commanded the bottle.

  A good team: Miphon's chances of getting the bottle off them by bluff, guile or violence were more or less zero. So ... to the forest, then . . .

  Jon Arabin, watching Miphon go, guessed what he was feeling. Well, too bad. Jon Arabin had need of that red bottle. It would be the foundation of his new empire.

  He had worked it all out by now.

  The Greater Teeth were finished.

  With the collapse of piracy as a profitable profession, those remaining on the Teeth were doomed to a life of ever-increasing poverty. Better to start afresh, here on Tor, which was rich in water and timber. They could build ships; they could trade between Ling, Stokos and the Scattered Islands; they could build a seapower empire.

  'Tools,' said Jon Arabin, raising his voice in command. 'Rolf! Rally a work party. We need to get tools out of the red bottle. Aye. Axes. Hatchets. Saws, if they're to be found. Nails. We've a boat to build.'

  'A boat?' said Drake. 'We'll need a ship to carry so many.'

  'You not worry about any ship,' said Whale Mike. 'You build nice boat, take sick people to Ling. Friend Walrus, he tell me all about it. Magic snakes. Good stuff, eh? Maybe snakes here, good eating.'

  'Mike's right,' said Jon Arabin. 'AH we need is an open boat. With so many men, we can build one quickly. Then make the journey to Ling, aye, soon enough. We're now but a hundred leagues from Ling.'

  'He right,' said Whale Mike. 'After you gone, we start proper ship. You come back from Ling, we have ship finished. Sail north. We get people from Greater Teeth. That place not so good now. My wife like this place. She like green stuff, always complain Teeth all rock. My kids like this place too. You like it, Jon? We make you king, man. You make good king.'

  'Maybe I would,' said Jon Arabin, first with a smile and then with a laugh. 'Maybe I would.'

  The logic was inescapable.

  'Some people may come,' said Drake. 'But a lot won't,

  I bet. Bluewater Draven would never shift. He loves it, lording the Teeth.'

  'Then let him stay on his stupid rocks and rot,' said Zanya. 'Come on, my hero! How about hunting up something fresh for me?'

  'What do you want, my darling?' said Drake.

  'A butterfly would do to start with,' she said.

  And Drake thought she was joking. But, in truth, people from the Ebrells did eat butterflies on occasion. These two young lovers still had many surprises in store for each other.

  Elsewhere, in the caves of Ling itself, a very old woman lay dying. Now, for the first time in seven days, she spoke: 'They...'

  'They what?' said one of the elders who waited on her.

  'They are coming,' said the Great One.

  Weakly.

  Her red-veined eyes - blind now for a year - staring at nothing as her mouth writhed, struggling with prophecy.

  'Coming . . . they . . . an island ... a ship . . . yes . . . He is coming . . . Jon . . . Jon Arabin . . .'

  The watchers by her death-bed looked at each other. So the Great One was cracking up after all.

  'You think,' she said, startling them by the sudden strength in her voice, 'you think you see a foolish old woman dying. Speaking nonsense as she dies. But you will learn. He comes. Jon Arabin. His son with him, the pure one. He who ventured to the Forbidden Tower.'

  She sank back on the sands of her bed.

  Fading.

  Muttering.

  The watchers listened, and heard: '. . . sickness . . . from the Plague Lands . . . a woman ... a man . . . prepared . . . initiate . . .' Her mouth fluttered. Shaping sibilants. And said: 'He will rule amongst you . . .' Then said no more.

  'She is gone,' said one of the elders. 'She is dead.'

  With the Great One dead, the elders of Ling ignored her prophecy, and made no plans for the reception of Jon Arabin, his son, and the sick people travelling with them. Truly it has been Written (in Kalob V, quilt 7, section 2a, line xviii): 'A prophet has no honour in her own country.'

  But, before long, a boat appeared in Ling Bay. Canoes ventured forth to see if those aboard were dangerous. Then the canoes escorted the boat into the caves, where it grounded at last on the Sacred Sands.

  There were half a dozen men aboard, and there was one woman.

  One of the men was Jon Arabin. And the elders knew him well, and realized that the Great One had indeed spoken truth in prophecy. And they fell down in awe, and lamented. They had doubted! They had sinned!

  But Jon Arabin said (or is reported to have said, which is not necessarily the same thing):

  'Fear not, for I bring not death but justice. Aye. And we have sick people who need to be seen to. So move your arses!'

  It is usually impossible to deduce anything so elusive as a moral from the workings of history. But-the diligent student will, no doubt, make an exception in this case, and will fortify the arsenal of wisdom with the following observation:

  While Great Ones do have their off-days, it is always less than wise for the unwise to write them off completely.

  The End

  About This Edition

  This ebook was scanned from an old paperback on the hot month of August, 2011.

  The paperback had to be torn so as to get as clean a scan as possible.

  May he live forever in digital form.

  “Memoria et Verbum”

  V1.0 Readable version, some spelling errors may still linger.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  THE WALRUS AND THE WARWOLF

  THE WALRUS AND THE WARWOLF

  Maps

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  About This Edition