Traveler

by Greg Weisman

Makasa tried to grab him—but he was too fast and just out of her reach. Growling angrily, she followed him back to the crevasse.

  She overtook him there before he could start down. “No!” she yelled, grabbing hold of his shirt. Then something caught her eye. She turned. It was a stag. A massive buck. Ten, twelve points, at least. Only ten, fifteen yards away with no cover in sight. Here was enough meat to feed them for weeks. She released Aram and turned to pull her harpoon out from between her back and her shield.

  But as she turned, Aram descended, wedging his arms on either side of the slim crevasse and lowering himself down a foot at a time.

  Makasa felt helpless. She tried to keep an eye on the stag while calling back over her shoulder for Aram to “STOP!” But the boy didn’t stop. The deer tilted his head at her, staring her down, as if waiting for her to decide.

  Roaring louder than the river, she drove the harpoon down into dirt with both hands and turned her back on the animal. She could just hear him run off as she dropped onto her stomach and reached her long arm down, grabbing hold of Aram’s hair, which was all she could reach.

  “Ow! Let go!!”

  “Listen—”

  “No! I have to try to save it!”

  She didn’t let go of his hair, but she swallowed hard. “Fine! But first give me the end of the rope! Or were you planning to fly back up here after your daring rescue of the slimy thing that’s probably going to eat you?!”

  This gave him pause. He nodded and wedged his shoulders against one side of the crevasse and his feet against the other. Then he slowly reached for the rope that was wrapped around his torso.

  “Careful!” she barked, startling him.

  “Stop doing that,” he said. He unknotted one end of the rope and handed it up to her.

  She finally let go of his hair, took the rope, and wrapped it around her hand a few times. “Now unwind it!”

  “We don’t have time!” He glanced down, but from this angle he could no longer see the murloc.

  “Do it, or I’ll rip out your scalp!”

  Slowly—because slowly was the only way he could manage it in his current position—he did as he was told. As it slackened, Makasa sat up and slung the rope around her back. “Now tie the other end around your waist, and I’ll lower you down!”

  Now he understood and quickly obeyed. He also tucked the compass under his shirt, as he’d seen his father do before taking action of any kind.

  He carefully rappelled down the crevasse, with an angry, grunting Makasa acting as his anchor above. This was actually something he’d done before—at the Lakeshire quarry back home with his friends Stitch and Willy—so he made good time to the bottom.

  Once his feet touched down on a thin strip of rocky terrain between the wall of the gorge and the rushing river, he waved up at Makasa and untied the spent rope, leaving it hanging. Then he rushed upstream, hoping the murloc was still alive to save.

  Its screaming confirmed it was. Aram couldn’t reach the creature, but he grabbed hold of the nets and tried to pull them in. But the panicked murloc hadn’t yet seen its savior and was fighting the nets—and inadvertently fighting Aram.

  Aram pulled again, but the murloc and the current pulled back; he stumbled forward, his left leg sinking up to the knee in the rushing water. He looked down and couldn’t see the river bottom. Aram was still off balance, and one more tug of the current submerged him completely. The water was dark and murky, cold and deep. It dragged him forward. He surfaced, gasping for breath and glimpsing the white water and rocks ahead.

  He fought the current, flashing back to the night he’d swum to shore and nearly drowned. And for one brief moment he thought, This time, the water might win …

  But a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back onto gravel. Aram sucked in air and looked up at a furious Makasa looming over him. Now, he flashed back to her yanking him out of his bunk aboard Wavestrider. Some things never change.

  She helped him, practically pulled him, to his feet. They turned as the murloc—who seemed to be mostly one big head with gangly arms and legs—surfaced briefly and screamed again. But now, the creature’s large soulful eyes locked onto Aram’s. For the first time, the murloc became aware of his rescuer and smiled hopefully.

  Makasa said, “If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”

  Together, they both grabbed hold of the nets and pulled with all their might …

  With Makasa’s strength added to his, the effort was more than enough. Nets and murloc came flying out of the water, slamming into Aram, who slammed into Makasa. They all went down in a pile on the edge of the river.

  Makasa, with Aram’s armpit covering her eyes and a murloc foot stinking of fish right under her nose, growled, “Get. Off. Me.”

  They scrambled off. The murloc, still tangled to some degree in the nets, bowed to his rescuers over and over. “Mmrgl, mmrgl, mrggl mrrrgl, Murky, mrgglll,” he said, which meant exactly nothing to the two humans. Still, it was obvious the small green creature was grateful. He clapped his two-fingered hands and scampered about nervously back and forth on his webbed feet, tangling himself even more hopelessly. The fins on his cheeks flapped up and down. He seemed eager to approach Aram but kept pulling back, afraid—or too wild and undomesticated—to trust the human entirely.

  “You’re welcome,” Aram said. “Do you speak Common?”

  “Mrgle, nk. Murky mrrrgl mmmurlok.”

  “I guess you only speak murloc.”

  “Mrgle. Mrgle, mrgle,” said the murloc.

  “I’m Aram,” the boy said, pointing to himself. Then he pointed to Makasa. “This is Makasa.”

  The murloc pointed to Aram and said, “Urm.” Then he pointed to Makasa and said, “Mrksa.” Finally, he pointed to himself and said, “Murky.”

  “Murky? Your name is Murky?”

  “Murky, mrgle!”

  “Wait? Murky or Murgle?”

  “Murky! Murky!”

  “Murky. Got it.”

  “Mrksa” actually rolled her eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  “Right,” Aram said, turning to Murky. “Follow us. We have a way up and out. I think.”

  Murky hesitated. He didn’t seem to understand. Wasn’t sure if he was wanted.

  “It’ll be okay,” Urm told him. He approached Murky slowly and then patted him on his slimy head.

  Murky seemed to like that and rubbed his head against Aram’s stomach. It left behind an oily stain and the distinct aroma of old fish. Aram had to fight off the urge to vomit, even as he tried with little success to wipe his hand off on his pants.

  But the combination of Aram’s soothing words and gentle actions had certainly worked its magic on the murloc. Murky was nodding enthusiastically as he began to gather up his nets.

  Makasa growled, “Are we really waiting for this thing?”

  Suddenly, Murky began jumping up and down excitedly. He reached down into his net and pulled out one very large salmon, then held it up over his head in triumph!

  Then, with much ceremony, he knelt in front of Aram and handed him the fish.

  Aram smiled up at Makasa with his own bit of triumph. “Looks like we eat tonight.”

  Makasa had left the rope tied to a rock atop the crevasse and used it to climb up. Then Aram followed, half climbing, half being pulled up by Makasa. He turned to lower the rope back down to Murky, but the little murloc had used his claws to scamper up the crevasse right behind Aram. So all three were back atop the gorge and exhausted.

  Night was falling. They found a copse of ironwood trees that hadn’t yet been chopped down and made camp. Their fire was small and burned poorly; the wood was too green. But they were able to cook Murky’s salmon on a flat rock and share it among them.

  Murky initially declined his share, pantomiming that he wanted his rescuers to have it. Instead, he tried to eat the oilskin that had been wrapped around the box of flints. “Mmmm, mmm,” he said, trying to put a brave face on his feast. But ultimately
, he spit it out at Aram’s feet, shook his head, and said, “Mlggr, nk mmmm, mrggggl. Murky mrrrgll.” Aram handed Murky a piece of fish, which the murloc took but made a face over. He used his claws to delicately remove any sign of charring before swallowing the remains down.

  Aram said, “You’d have liked it better raw, huh?”

  Murky smiled at him but said nothing. Aram was never entirely sure how much they understood each other. With two fingers, he reluctantly picked up the slimy, saliva-covered oilskin and laid it near the fire, hoping it would dry.

  And hoping he would dry, too. His plunge into the river had soaked him to the bone, and the night was getting cold. He huddled as close to the fire as he could get without setting himself ablaze. And as he stared, he thought of Wavestrider aflame, and his face darkened.

  It was then that Murky tried to get his attention, calling out, “Urm. Urm.” It took Aram some time to realize Murky was trying to say his name, and thus a lesson in pronunciation began.

  “Urm?”

  “Aram.”

  “Urm …”

  “No. AIR-am.”

  “UR-um. Urum.”

  “Close enough,” Aram said. “So you can understand Common?”

  “Mrgle,” said Murky, nodding.

  “You’re nodding. So ‘murgle’ means yes, right?”

  The murloc shrugged ambivalently. “Mrgle. Mrrrrgggl mrglll mmmrggl.”

  Aram sighed.

  But Murky wasn’t finished. He began talking rapidly. “Urum, mrgggl. Murky mrrrgl mrrgggll, mrrg, mrggllrm Murky n mmmurlok, mmmrrggl, mrgle?”

  Aram smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  So Murky began to act out his tale. He picked up his nets and started walking in place.

  Aram attempted to follow along. “You took your nets and went for a walk …”

  “Mrgle, mrgle.”

  Makasa stared at them both, unsure which one was crazier.

  Murky then began throwing out his nets.

  “You went fishing.”

  “Mrgle.” Murky clapped his hands together. Then he climbed into his nets and intentionally tangled himself up in them.

  “You got tangled in your nets …”

  “Mrgle.”

  “… And that’s when we found you.”

  Murky’s face fell. He shook his head, waved his arm back behind him, and said, “Nk, nk. Mrrrrgg mrrrrgglll, mrglllle mmmrgg.” Then, still completely tangled in his nets, he started clomping halfway round the campfire and growling, “RRRgrrrs, RRRgrrrs.”

  Makasa had to leap forward to keep him from dragging the nets through the fire itself. “Stop,” she shouted at him.

  He clapped his hands, pointed at her, and shouted back, “Mrgle, mrgle! Mrksa RRRgrrr!”

  Suddenly, he threw his arms around himself and wrestled himself to the ground. Then he looked up at Aram and said, “Mrrrgle?”

  “Sorry,” Aram said, “you lost me.”

  Murky frowned and looked at Makasa.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I wasn’t even paying attention to you, murloc.”

  Aram turned to her with a reprimand. “Why not? He taught us both to pay attention to everything. To everyone.”

  They both knew exactly whom Aram meant by he. Aram saw Makasa look down, actually chastened. A girl again.

  Murky was now trying to disentangle himself from his nets. With little luck. Aram stood and went to his aid. The murloc seemed to appreciate the help but seemed equally determined to help Aram help him. He wouldn’t keep still, and Aram wasn’t having any better luck setting him free. “Wait, Murky, don’t move. I’ve almost got it …”

  Finally, a frustrated Makasa told Aram, “Out of the way!” She grabbed the nets and lifted them up to her full height. Murky hung there by one last tangled foot. Aram rushed in and pulled the foot loose. Murky dropped, landing on his head. Aram knelt down, apologizing. Makasa swung the nets clear of murloc, boy, and fire. Then she sat back down in a huff.

  Aram was concerned the murloc had been hurt, but Murky seemed cheerful. He pointed at what remained of the fish: nothing but bones, the head, and bits of skin. “Mmmmrgl?”

  “Be my guest,” Aram said.

  Murky scooped up the remains and practically inhaled them, bones and all. Aram was half-prepared to see the murloc spit it all out as he had the oilskin. But Murky swallowed, smiled, and lay down on his stomach with a contented sigh. He propped his head up and stared at Aram with the biggest puppy-dog frog eyes the boy had ever seen.

  “I think he’s in love,” said Makasa ruefully.

  “He’s just grateful,” Aram shot back. Murky made Aram smile, and he pulled out his sketchbook to capture the murloc and that feeling. He flipped past the unfinished memory sketch of his father, pausing over it before shaking his head and turning the leaf to a blank page.

  While Murky tended to his nets—rolling them up into a thick belt that he tied around his small waist, so that the belt became something more like a vest by the time he was done—Aram began sketching the murloc in detail: the huge head and eyes, the cheek fins, tiny nostril holes, and crooked toothy smile. The little body, so small it barely seemed capable of supporting the weight of Murky’s head, and the musculature that actually did make it capable. As usual, sketching brought Aram closer to his subject, showed him the biology they had in common. Aram’s own smile began to mimic Murky’s as he started another sketch, this one showing the murloc in a familiar pose—entangled in his nets.

  “Mrgle, mrgle,” Murky said, resting what passed for his chin on one hand. Then he pointed at Aram and said, “Urum. Mrrrgl mrrg, Urum.” He pointed at the nets and himself. Then he pointed at Aram again. “Urum mrrrgl mrrg.”

  Aram had a sudden epiphany. “You want to know my story?”

  “Mrgle, mrgle,” Murky said and shrugged again. Suddenly, Aram was less certain of his epiphany. And besides …

  Which story is that?

  On his last morning in Lakeshire, Aramar Thorne had risen early, determined to go nowhere.

  But his parents—all three of them—had made their own determinations. Ceya, Robb, and Greydon were all waiting for him by the fire, and Aram could instantly tell by their expressions—different as they all were—that his cause was already lost. Not that Aram was ready to accept that loss—or at any rate, not that he was going to make it easy on any of them. Yes, there might have been a part of him that was curious, excited even, to travel with Greydon. Truthfully, he had dreamed of following—or perhaps chasing—his father to sea for years. But he hated that he was being given no choice in the matter now. So he suppressed that part of himself and argued, debated, whined, wheedled, pled, and flat-out refused.

  Greydon largely stayed out of the discussion, but it hardly mattered. Ceya and Robb were adamant that Aram needed time to get to know his father, to understand him, and to see the world.

  Aram appealed to their practicality, to their emotions, to their sense of justice. He wouldn’t even shy away from questioning their concern for him or from claiming they’d always wanted to get rid of him so that they could have their own little family without any reminders of Ceya’s old life with Greydon. If it seemed helpful to his cause, he said it. If it seemed hurtful, but helpful to his cause, he said it anyway.

  Ceya had tears in her eyes, but it changed nothing. She said, “Aram, I know you’re angry and frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened,” he had said.

  “Yes, you are. We’re asking you—telling you—to leave everything you’ve ever known. Who wouldn’t be frightened?”

  He glowered but said nothing.

  “But this is something you need to do or you will always wonder. You need to go out and explore that piece of you that is just like Greydon Thorne—”

  “I’m nothing like him!”

  “Oh, Aram, you grow more and more like him every day. If I thought you could see that, I might let you stay.”

  “Fine, I see it.”


  She smiled then through her tears. “Nice try, clever boy. But you need to open your heart to him again. I know he hurt you, hurt us. But you need to know him to know yourself. And you need to see all of Azeroth—open yourself to its strangers and their customs—before you can decide that Lakeshire is truly your home. And you need …” She trailed off.

  “Need what?”

  “The rest you need to discover with time.”

  “How much time?”

  “A year. After that, if you want to come home—”

  “I don’t want to leave, so of course I’ll want to come home!”

  “After a year, you can come home.”

  So there had been a little packing and a lot of good-byes. Robertson seemed as angry as Aram and actually threw a cup at Greydon’s head over breakfast, which—if it accomplished nothing else—at least made Aram smile.

  After that, Greydon waited outside.

  Selya was inconsolable. And the more she cried, the more their mother cried. Soot began to howl.

  Robb Glade finally picked up Aram’s rucksack and walked the boy out.

  Greydon, trying not to look too pleased, stood at the crossroads a dozen yards away.

  Robb knelt beside Aram and busied himself squaring Aram’s sweater on his shoulders. “Don’t spend the next year being stubborn,” he said. “Or angry or bitter or any of those things. Any son of mine knows better than to starve his own fire that way. The forge needs to be fed to stay hot enough to melt iron. Hot enough to make something strong. So make yourself into something strong by feeding your forge with everything you can. Understand?”

  “No,” Aram said gloomily, though he thought he probably did.

  “All right, you can starve it for one day. I don’t blame you, I suppose. But by sunrise tomorrow, you open your eyes and feed that fire, Aram.” The big man was squeezing back tears. He cuffed the boy gently—though not too gently—then stood abruptly, went inside, and shut the door.

  Leaving Aramar Thorne alone with his new captain.

  Aram stared at Murky and sketched the gigantic pupils of his big eyes onto the page.

  “Urum?” Murky prompted.

  “You want my story …”