by Ron Miller
“We received the princess’ message,” he says, “and we are not pleased.”
“You must help me reach Blavek,” Bronwyn pleads.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“Where is Thud?”
“Thud? You mean the man you sent with me?”
“Yes, of course. The human the princess agreed to take to Londeac.”
“I have no idea.”
“She does not know? What of our bargain?”
“It can’t be helped! What was I supposed to do?”
“She was supposed to take him to Londeac!”
“Well, he’s big enough to take care of himself! I have myself to think of!”
“Then she can take care of herself now. There will be no further help from us until she fulfills her part of our bargain.”
“But you must help me!”
“Why?”
“My brother and Payne Roelt are going to destroy this country!”
“And what is that to us?”
“You won’t help, then?”
“Fulfill the bargain.”
“Now?”
“When she has fulfilled the bargain, she can ask our help again. Not before.”
“No!” she cries, but the figure of the king is lost in a flood of incandescent fluid that washes over her, blinding her, and when it recedes there is nothing around her but the darkness of her bedroom. The next morning her resolve to get to Hasselt by any means at all is firmly established. All of Burgos’s and Melfi’s arguments are to no avail: she will listen to them no longer.
“But you can’t get to Hasselt yet,” pleads Burgos.
“Why not?”
“It’s fourteen miles from here!”
“So what? I can walk that in three hours; how much can the snow slow me?”
“You don’t understand!” The poor man is close to tears.
“What’s there to understand? The snow’s stopped; it looks firm enough. Why can’t I use snowshoes?. You’ve told me that the river is practically like a highway. And Hasselt’s so close, I don’t have to take anything with me. You know people in the town; why don’t you just write a letter for me, asking for their help, and let me go on my way?”
“But...”
“I’ll go with or without your help or approval.”
“Oh...Musrum help me!...All right, Princess, I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, Father!” wails Melfi.
They pack in silence. Though the journey might be one of only fourteen miles, the charcoal-burner is taking no chances. In fact, the degree to which he is preparing begin to engender disturbing thoughts in the princess, particularly thoughts casting doubts on the wisdom of her impatience. Perhaps, she ponders, in sixty-odd years of experience Burgos has learned more about the conditions that lay awaiting them than she does.
While Melfi is busy stuffing a pair of bags with enough food for a polar expedition, snuffling back tears all the while, Burgos begins preparing an exit. An open door exposes only a blank wall of snow. Digging away at this with a fireplace shovel and a bucket, he creates a ramp leading to the surface. Since she has not been in the outside air for weeks, Bronwyn eagerly scrambles up the slope. The sky is low and a featureless grey. All around her is a landscape of rolling white, punctuated only by pyramids of buried trees. Behind her the cottage is only another hummock, distinguished solely by its smoking chimney. The air is intensely cold and the gale-like wind sucks the warmth from her body...the sensation is vivid: she can actually feel her body heat escaping through her skin like water oozing through a sieve. The wind seems a supernatural force; it razors through her heavily layers clothing as though she were standing there naked.
She had wound a scarf around her face and her breath is freezing on the outside in sparkling crystals. Her eyes tear in an effort to keep them warm and the overflow glazes her cheeks. Each inhalation fills her chest with pain as the razor-sharp metallic air tries to congeal her lungs. Too deep a breath and her glottis closes spasmodically, making her feel as though she was going to smother. This is impossible! I would never have believed that such cold was possible!
She feels Burgos beside her.
“Come back in!” came his muffled voice.
She can’t answer, but turns to go back down into the house. However, the perception of a strange sound stops her. Are my ears ringing from the cold or am I really hearing bells?
“Wait!” she manages to shout.
She pulls the old man around to face her. All that is visible of him are two twinkling, worried eyes buried deeply within folds of wool and fur. She points to her ears with mittens hands.
“I hear something! Do you?”
“Of course!”
“What is it?”
“Basseliniden! “
“What?”
“Wait! You’ll see!”
Wait? Fifteen more seconds and pieces of me will start snapping off like icicles. But the strange ringing sound is rapidly getting louder. Burgos takes her by the shoulder and gestures to one side. Turning, she sees a dark object rushing over the snowfield. It is more than strange: it is uncanny. Until her senses of depth and proportion adjust, all she is aware of is a tall, triangular shape rising and falling with the billows of ice and snow. It looks like a ship rising and falling with the waves at sea, and it is with that perception that she realizes what she is seeing. It is indeed a boat, as insane as that seemed. A long, sleek hull with a mast supporting a bellying sail. The body is held a foot or so above the snow by outrigger skis that made the craft look something like a waterstrider. The wind in its rigging sings like an aeolian harp. It approaches rapidly and Burgos waves to it. The iceboat’s sail immediately furls and it coasts neatly to a stop only a few paces from the house. The charcoal maker shuffles across the intervening space on his clumsy snowshoes and, after a moment’s uncertainty, Bronwyn follows. As they approach, a figure drops from the boat. Burgos and the stranger embrace like a pair of friendly bears.
“Come on in!” the old man shouts, and all three descend into the cottage. Once back in the warmth, Bronwyn allows Melfi to cluck over her. If anything, the heat from the fire makes her feel colder at first as her gradual thaw tingles and stings.
“Look who’s here, Mother!” says Burgos, as he and the other begin the laborious process of deinsulation.
“Why, it’s Basseliniden!” shouts Melfi, rushing to the stranger, who, his disrobing reveals, is a tall, thin man with a distinguished and equally distinguished whiskers. “What in the world were you doing outside, Burgos?” he asks, accepting a cup of tea from Melfi. “Thanks! Didn’t expect to see you outside your burrow before Spring.”
“Well, we have a guest, Bassel...”
“So I see!”
He turns to the girl and offers his hand.
“I’m Basseliniden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
In spite of his rather serious mien, there is a sarcastic sparkle to him that she likes.
“I’m Bronwyn Tedeschiiy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
“Tedeschiiy? Tedeschiiy? Why does that sound so familiar?”
“She’s the Princess Bronwyn, that’s why!” explains Burgos, ignoring Bronwyn’s glare.
“What? What in the world are you talking about, Burgos?”
“It’s true!”
“I read the papers, Burgos, and I think your hobby has at last become an obsession. The princess is dead. It’s sad, but everyone knows it.”
“No,” says Bronwyn. “It’s true. I am the princess.”
“Uh huh,” he replies, his condescending doubt making Bronwyn angry enough to forget her displeasure with Burgos.
“Look at this,” she says, offering him her hand and displaying her signet ring.
“And this,” adds Melfi, holding out an album featuring a full-page photograph of the princess cut from a magazine.
“But...” stammers the tall man.”How?”
The story is told, but neither q
uickly nor all that coherently since Bronwyn, Burgos and Melfi all insist on sharing the chore. However, Basseliniden eventually gets the gist of it.
“I believe you,” he finally admits.
“Thanks very much,” replies Bronwyn with ill-conceals sarcasm, “but does that really do me any good?”
“Certainly,” he answers, unabashed.
“How?”
“You want to get to Hasselt?”
“That’s what you just heard me say.”
“No problem. Are you ready to go now, or do you have something you have to do first? I can’t wait very long.”
Her departure is sentimental but perfunctory. She genuinely likes the charcoal-burner and his wife, but is intensely impatient to be on her way. In spite of all the resolutions evolved from her recent self-revelations, she characteristically puts her immediate goals ahead of any pain she might be causing the old couple. She realizes the hurt she is causing, but what can she do about it? It’s all for the greater good and that’s that.
Basseliniden packs her away deeply within the hull of his snowboat. She has about as much room inside as a cigar in its protective tube. The roughly cylindrical wooden shell is scarcely a yard in diameter, though it is extremely long. The interior is packed with boxes and bundles of all sorts: evidently its cargo. Basseliniden sits ahead of her on a slightly raised seat that allows his head to project into a small turret, the sides of which are pierced by small, circular windows. His hands grasp the various lines that control the sail and rudder, which he operates with the intense concentration of a carilloneer ringing the changes on his bells.
Protected from the wind, she is able to conserve her body heat and except for her cramped extremities, is not terribly uncomfortable. Her only serious complaint, and regret, is that she is unable to see the passing landscape.
The course must be amazingly level, she thinks; the snowboat feels as though it is flying. There are no bumps or sudden movements, just a sensation of great, smooth speed. The only sounds are those caused by the wind in the rigging: a combination of hums, low and high, that sounds like a sustained chord on an organ. The trip is over before she has a chance to begin enjoying it.
They have arrived at Hasselt-on-the-Dootlen. There is very little to the town: it is simply a fishing village at the head of a large fjord. Other than a cannery, a few dozen houses and a handful of stores and shops, there is not much to it.
Basseliniden has stopped in front of a tavern or inn. He hands the princess down to the people who came out of the building as though she were just one more item of cargo. Inside, the inn is warm and crowded with people. There are both men and women of all ages and even a few children. The atmosphere is hazy and fragrant, noisy with laughter, talk and music. No one at first pays much attention to the arrival of the newcomers. Following Basseliniden’s example, Bronwyn begins shedding, artichoke-like, layers of overcoats. Her companion keeps on his black cape, however. It makes him look even taller and gaunter.
“Basseliniden!”
Bronwyn turns at the shout and sees a ruddy-faced, portly man pumping her companion’s hand as though he expects water to start pouring from his mouth.
“Didn’t expect you for days!”
“Trade’s been off. Not much doing, so I thought I’d come on in.”
“Well, glad to see you! Come on, seat yourself and I’ll find something hot for you! You look more like an icicle than usual.”
The innkeeper ‘for such he seems to be) plows a path through the crowded room. Basseliniden is greeted from all sides by friendly shouts. On the other hand, Bronwyn finds herself completely ignored. They locate seats together on a bench at the end of a trestle table already occupied by a dozen other people, all busily eating and drinking, or just drinking.
“Well, hello, Basseliniden!” cries one of them. “Who’s your pretty little friend?”
“Just someone who needs a lift.”
“She wanted to come here? In the winter?”
The announcement of what is evidently an inconceivable eccentricity garners Bronwyn the attention she has until moments before been lacking. She tries to avoid the curious gazes that are now focused upon her, but found herself circled by questioning eyes. The innkeeper returns with a tray bearing a pair of overflowing mugs, bread and bowls of steaming soup. He sets these before Basseliniden and Bronwyn. She buries her face in the food, grateful to be able to ignore her now-curious neighbors. Basseliniden catches the innkeeper by the sleeve, drawing his face down near his own.
“Say, Droomly, you know of anyone going out soon?”
“Out? You mean to sea? In this weather?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I sincerely doubt it.”
“Ask around, will you?”
“I’ll let you know, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“How am I to get to Blavek?” Bronwyn whispers to her new friend as soon as the innkeeper leaves them.
“We’ll see. There’s always a way.”
“It doesn’t look like it to me.”
“Just eat and don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, but gets no answer as his long legs have already carried him well into the room. Taller than anyone else, his black-clad figure looks like the fin of a shark cutting through choppy waves of heads. Sitting as she is in a corner with her back to two walls, Bronwyn has a moderately clear view of almost the entire interior of the inn. As small as the room is, there still must be fifty or sixty people in it. No one around her pays her any further attention. The only clear memory that would remain with her about the few hours she would spend in the inn is that it smells terribly bad: a heady combination of fish oil, tobacco smoke, wet wool and spilled beer that is rancid, stale and cloying at one and the same time, and the acrid reek of bodies that are unwashed and would remain that way until spring.
Basseliniden returns presently with a short, stocky man in tow.
“Miss Tedeschiiy,” he says, “this is Slivik Patooter, captain of the Upsy Daisy.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the smaller man says politely, scraping a shapeless hat from his shaggy head.
“I told Captain Patooter that you need to get to Blavek.”
“That’s true, he does, ma’am. You’re mighty lucky th’ fjord ain’t froze up yet, still too early in the year for much ice. Howsumever, ma’am, I really hasn’t planned to go out again this season. In fact, I was just going to put my boat ashore when this gennelman approached me.”
“I can pay you anything you want!”
“Well, that may be so...and it may be not. Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you don’t give me much reason for confidence in your solvency, if you’ll forgive me for being so observant.” He wrings the hat in his stained hands in embarrassment and the anxiety of incipient cupidity.
“Look,” says Basseliniden, “sit down here with us for a few minutes, will you?”
“My pleasure, certainly. My, but that ale looks mighty good...”
While another mug is sent for, Bronwyn has a moment or two to assess the newcomer. Her impression adds up to a total that is neither savory nor encouraging. The small man is stocky, solidly built, with a frog-like face laced with broken veins. His pop eyes have a jelly-like sheen to them.
“Listen to me,” says Basseliniden, whispering conspiratorially. “There’s more in this for you than you can possibly imagine. You do this right and you can have your own fleet next season, Captain.”
Patooter’s eyes slit at this and he licks his lips, Basseliniden, Bronwyn thinks, is evidently someone known for not joking about matters involving money.
“Exactly what d’you want me to do?”
“I’ve got to get to Blavek as soon as I possibly can!”
“Blavek’s an awful long way from here by sea. Even longer in the winter. I’ve not ever gone there, in fact, in any season, so far as that goes.”
“That’s no matter. If you can’t sail to Blavek, then g
et me to the nearest coast town that has coach service to the city.”
“Well, I doesn’t say that I wouldn’t take you to Blavek, ma’am, just that it’s a long and mighty difficult voyage.”
“How long? How difficult?”
“That’s not easy to say...”
“Is anything?”
“Well, ma’am, the shortest way would be to go by way of th’ Straits, of course, but that’s impossible, no one’s never tried to do that who ain’t suicidal. To sail from here to Blavek we’d have t’ go north, through th’ Fezzoo Channel and then ‘round th’ whole damn island to the mouth o’ th’ Moltus. Take a month or so this time o’ th’ year.”
“A month! Impossible!”
“I don’t make th’ weather nor th’ winds, ma’am. And Musrum Himself made th’ distance.”
“Look here,” interjects Basseliniden. “Why not just take her to the head of Stuckney Bay? She can get a coach at Glibner that’ll take her to Blavek; they aren’t two hundred miles apart.”
Bronwyn unfolds a mental map of Guesclin. Basseliniden is right: a boat would bypass the highlands that lay between her and Glibner, and all the severe snows that made normally rugged, twisting mountain tracks completely impassable. Between Glibner and Blavek lay only flat lowland whose roads will not yet be impeded. A fast coach can have her in the city in two or three days.
“How long would it take to get me to Glibner?”
“Oh, only two or three days; four maybe, depending on th’ winds.”
I can be back in Blavek in less than two weeks!
“Basseliniden, can I trust this man?”
“Depends upon what you want to trust him with. I, for one, wouldn’t overburden him.”
One thing, Captain,” she says. “There’s no way I can pay you now; in fact, I’ll probably have to send your money from Blavek, once I get there.”
“If Basseliniden vouches for you, ma’am, that be right with me.”
