by Hugh Cook
'What brought those men to the edge of mutiny?' said Arabin. 'Did they hate me? Or what?'
'Nay,' said Drake. 'It was despair which took us so close to death. Despair – that's the great sin, man. That makes all the others possible. But you – you gave them confidence. That's what makes you leader.''You think well,' said Arabin, surprised.
At Drake's age, Arabin (dreaming of future glory while he endured the infinite boredom of schooling) had thought of leadership in terms of machismo. One man – the ultimate killer – to brute it over lesser mortals by death-skills alone.
'We're taught to think on Stokos,' said Drake. 'Not that I can always see the use of it, since there's not much money in thinking. As to leadership – why, my uncle, Oleg Douay, he spoke of it often. For he was mixed up in wars and such in his youth.'
'Well,' said Jon Arabin, teaching done and curiosity still to be satisfied, 'tell me now, friend Drake. Whence came that trinket? From the west?'
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'From the moon. My father flew there when he were but a boy, riding on the back of a great grey goose.'
'I see,' said Jon Arabin. 'Then how about you flying below to get me some soup?''Dragon soup or sawdust?'
'I'll take the seal soup,' said Arabin. 'It seems the least likely to kill.'
It was a long, uneasy day. Arabin worried incessantly. What if reefs and rocks infested these uncharted waters? What if he failed to find safe harbour to the west? An island, yes, that was what he needed. Not anything fancy. Any chunk of rock would do, so long as his ship could shelter in its lee.
Leadership is the science of hope. Yes. But if he found no landfall to the west, what good was hope?
By the time night came, heavy rain was falling. A solid, sullen downpour. Rain! In the Drangsturm Gulf, at the height of summer! Craziness . . .
What should he do? Heave to? Or strive blindly through the night? There were so many unknowns: the weather, the distance to shore, what depth of water they could count on. How much longer could the ship stand staunch against the seas before ripping in half?
Jon Arabin made a round of his ship, and decided he knew one thing for certain: his crew could take very little more of this.
'We run for the west tonight,' said Jon Arabin, with every appearance of confidence. 'I know just where we are, aye, from the taste of the spray. Come morning, we'll see land – I guarantee it.'
Faint hearts were heartened by this bluff, and through the night the Warwolf ran. Jon Arabin slept little, yet thrice dreamed his ship wrecked.
The weather eased further overnight. Come morning, they were cruising in a moderate breeze amidst herds of brisk white horses that were champing across the seas toward the western coast of the Gulf of Drangsturm, which lay in plain view maybe twenty leagues away.
About three leagues south was a considerable mass of land which might have been either a peninsular or an island. It terminated in a rugged cape.'Is that an island?' asked Drake Douay, pointing south.'It surely is,' said Arabin, hoping he was right.'What's it called?''It has no name as yet.'
'Then I name it Island Tor,' said Drake. 'Yes. Tor, in honour of the king of Stokos. How about those mountains on the western shore? Do they have a name?'Not as yet,' said Jon Arabin, amused.'Then. . .'
Drake thought about naming them the Zanya Klieder-vaust Ranges. But that sounded clumsy. He cast around for a better name, and soon had one: the Dreldragon Teeth. Perfect!
Sight of land put new life into the crew. They worked with a will, and, shortly, the Warwolf rounded the cape Jon Arabin had seen to the south.
An ironbound coast slanted away to the south-west for about a dozen leagues, terminating in a second cape, which they rounded at mid-morning. From here, the eastern coast of Tor slanted away to the south-east.
Was Tor an island or a peninsular? The difference was vital. If a peninsular, then it adjoined the terror-lands of the Swarms, and was probably infested with monsters. If an island, it might be safe. Providing the legends of giants, basilisks and such weren't true . . .
The sun broke through the clouds. The wind dropped. They cruised in the lee of the putative island through a blue-green sea of idle wavelets. It grew hot. The damp decks steamed. Men stripped to the waist, soaking up the sunlight. This was more like it! This was how the Gulf was supposed to be in summer!
A league along the coast, they came upon a bay of beauty. Sailing close inshore so Jon Arabin could check it out, the Warwolf 'lost the last of the wind. She floated in a delicious calm. The crew crowded the larboard railing, staring at paradise. A lean white beach of crisp clean sand. Behind the beach, rough grasses of a brilliant green. Inland from that, deep cool forest of a darker green. Jon Arabin gazed long on that forest. The wood itself was wealth.
He heard the rattle-cackle of staccato bird-talk coming clear across the water. A flight of parrots burst to the sky, hustling across the heavens like splashes of animated rainbow. There was a disconcerting arthritic crackling in the background. What? He'd heard it before, hadn't he? Yes, years ago, in Quilth. Cicadas, that was all. Millions of them. They'd do no harm . . .
At the southern end of the beach, a stream ran swift and bright. Good water! The rocks of the southern headland were of limestone. There would be caves in such rock. Arabin felt a pang of heartbreaking nostalgia and homesickness, for limestone was the ruling rock of Ashmolea; he had loved its landscapes dearly in his youth. How many years since he last saw Ashmolea? Many!
'This looks great!' said Drake, admiring the pale sands, the grass, the forest. Dry land! Dry land! A bare rock covered with seagull dung would have looked sweet to him at that moment.
'Aye,' said Arabin. 'It's a good place. What do you want to call it?'
'Zanya Bay,' said Drake promptly, for he owed his true love that much.'Jon!' cried Baltu. 'Is this the island you promised us?''It surely is,' called Arabin.'Then tell us about it!' yelled one of the men.
Other voices took up the cry. They wanted to know where they were, how long they'd be here, when they'd see the fleshpots of Narba. Jon Arabin gestured for silence.
'Men!' said Arabin. 'This is Island Tor. It's named for the king of Stokos, a fearless ogre who explored these lands in his youth. The father of young Drake Douay voyaged here with the king, and brought Drake proof of the truth of his story.
'This place of beauty here is Zanya Bay, where the king careened his ship. A good careenage it is, too, as you can tell at a glance.''Good, sure,' cried a pessimist. 'But for the Swarms!'
'This is an island,' insisted Arabin. 'No monsters tread these forests. And look west! You see the west of the Drangsturm Gulf, some twenty or thirty leagues away. See those mountains? Those are the Dreldragon Teeth, famous in the legends of Stokos. Such heights are far too bitter-cold for the Swarms. We're safe! So now, boys – to work!'
'Aagh, you can slag work up your poke-hole!' shouted a dissident, anonymous in the crowd. And others shouted similar.
Exhausted by weather, labour, nightmare, fear, short rations, seasickness and wakeful nights, they had no taste for work. The very last thing they wanted was to careen the ship. If the shore had been grim, barren, bitter and stony, Jon Arabin might have won their cooperation – but, as it was, paradise beckoned. Arabin found himself facing a seething, shouting mob. His crew was on the edge of mutiny.
'Men!' shouted Arabin. 'Let's talk money! Let's talk wealth! There's treasure on this island!'
'What treasure?' yelled Raggage Pouch. 'I see nothing but trees!'
'Man!' shouted Jon Arabin. 'And how much is lumber worth in Narba? Eh?'
And he began to talk money. When he had finished, Quin Baltu backed him up:
'It's true what Jon says. Timber's a good price in Narba. If we patch the ship proper, we can leave with riches.'
But the men still refused to careen the ship. So they struck a bargain. The ship would stay afloat. Divers would make emergency repairs to the leaking hull from the outside; other men would work from the inside. Meantime, the rest of the c
rew would work the forest for a cargo of timber to enrich this voyage. In return for Arabin's concessions, the crew swore to overhaul the Warwolf properly once back at the Greaters.
An anchor was fashioned from a net filled with ballast blocks. Divers were nominated and repair parties chosen. Hunters were put ashore to kill fresh meat – even parrots would be welcome. A boat went for fresh water, so the Warwolf would have ample supplies of such if she had to leave without warning. Suzilman volunteered himself as an expert on timber, and was given charge of forestry operations.
By noon, everyone was working at their tasks with confidence.
But Jon Arabin was desperately anxious. What was this place? An island or a peninsular? He had to know! He called together his three most expendable men: Harly Burpskin, Raggage Pouch and Drake Douay.
'Boys,' said Jon Arabin, 'I've got you together quietlike so we can talk in confidence. When my greatgrandfather sailed these waters, he was a fearsome pirate. Aye. And he buried great treasure on an island in these waters. Mayhap it was this one . . .'
And Arabin described the treasure-burial place. It was in a cave set in a headland on one side of a sandy bay. A cave lined with emeralds.
'The treasure sits in an iron box which is enchanted,' said Arabin. 'It cannot be moved unless you say the magic word: Ponk!'
'Ponk,' said Drake, savouring the word. Then: 'Is there another magic word needed to open this treasure chest?'
'There is,' said Arabin. 'But only I know that word. But … if you find the treasure, we'll split it. Equal shares.''What about the emeralds?' demanded Raggage Pouch.
'Ah, those,' said Arabin. 'Well. . . what you can hack out of the walls of the cave is yours to keep.''Why are we so privileged?' said Drake.
'Because the rest of my crew deserves no share of treasure,' said Arabin, 'for they have come far too close to mutiny. Aye. Whereas I never saw any of you in that mutinous mob.'
All three, in fact, had shouted against the hard labour of careening: but none of them confessed as much to Jon Arabin. Instead, they congratulated themselves on his trust, and began dreaming of how they would spend their share of the treasure.
Thus it was that Drake Douay, Raggage Pouch and Harly Burpskin provisioned one of the Warwolf 's boats and then, by oar and by sail, began to circumnavigate Island Tor.
Drake was intensely proud to have been chosen for this expedition. The honour confirmed his own high opinion of himself. All eagerness and expectation, he stared at the lush green shore, on the lookout for headlands and caves.
A few leagues south-east of Zanya Bay, the explorers came upon a U-shaped harbour perhaps two leagues wide and two deep. Drake saw at a glance that, compared with Zanya Bay, it offered infinitely better protection from hostile winds.
'Jon Arabin should know about this place,' said he. 'Let's turn back to tell him.'
'What fool's talk is this?' said Burpskin. 'Do you want to get rich, or what?'
'I want,' said Drake, 'to have a ship to go home in. This place would see the Warwolf safer than where she lies now.'
'Aagh,' sneered Raggage Pouch, and hawked, and spat. 'Talking like a ten-year salt-sea sailor, aren't we now? You're young, you're a landlubber, you know nothing of it.'
'I say let's look after us,' said Burpskin. 'That's the important thing. Who knows? The treasure could be hidden in this very harbour.'
'You're crazy,' said Drake, infuriated by such shortsighted selfishness. 'The ship's our survival. The ship comes first, aye, before wealth, food, sleep or leisure.'
'That's captain's talk,' said Pouch, with contempt. 'We've seen you sniffing round Jon Arabin, haven't we just? You're.thinking you want a career of command, perhaps? Well – why shoald we" risk our fortune to get you launched on such?'
'I'm thinking I want to stay alive,' said Drake, starting to get angry.
Thus began an argument which took so long that it was night before they finally beached their boat. They continued the argument round the campfire. It was not exactly an auspicious start to their journey.And things got worse rather than better.
They found bays, headlands and caves, but never the cave they were looking for. They argued further, of course; they forgot precisely what Jon Arabin had told them, and proceeded to invent the details.
Drake learned a considerable amount about getting along with disagreeable companions. He also learned the hard way – about winds, tides, and small boat management. And where to camp and where not to camp.And he suffered.
He was bitten by mosquitoes, stung by a scorpion, spiked by thorns and agonized by poison ivy. Food ran out. The three survived on seaweed, whore's eggs and rock-oysters. Then, when they thought they had almost circumnavigated the island, they wrecked their boat on its most northerly cape.
Jon Arabin had given Drake up for dead when the lad came staggering out of the forest one evening, thin, tired, ragged and footsore.'Where have you been?' said Arabin.
'Chasing a treasure that never was,' said Drake, in something like fury. 'Your great-grandfather never sailed these waters! Or if he did, he never left treasure here.'
'Yes,' said Arabin. 'But you should have known that much to start with.'
And Drake realized this was true. He had let greed overbalance judgment.'So why did you send me round the island?' said Drake.'To see what you're made of,' said Arabin.'Does this mean I get to be a sailor?'
'No, for you've obviously lost me a boat. And what have you done with Burpskin and Pouch? Have you eaten them?'
'Came close to it,' said Drake. 'They gave up. They're two days north – two days as the survivor stumbles.' 'Inland?' said Arabin.
'No. Shorebound, on a beach at the foot of the cliffs of a cape to the north of here. There was a way up the cliff, aye, easy climbing, but they were both too gutless to try it.''Then I'll send a boat,' said Arabin. And did.
Then settled down to interrogate Drake, for he wanted to learn as much as he possibly could about Island Tor. Who knows? He might someday be forced back here again.
As Drake ate parrot-meat and ironbread, and answered Arabin's questions, he became quite proud of his achievement. Yes. Despite all difficulty, he'd managed. He'd not like to do it again, but… it was worth doing once.
Jon Arabin tested me. Aye. Well, I hope he's happy. For lam.
Seventeen days after she had arrived at Zanya Bay, the Warwolf put to sea again. She had a new foremast made of roble cut from the forests of Tor. The worst of her leaks had been repaired. She had a cargo of summerpine, cedar and bamboo, also cut out of the hinterland. That should fetch a good price in Narba – and should help pay for the permanent repairs which were still needed to make the Warwolf truly seaworthy.
They sailed north, rounding the island's northernmost cape. Then the wind got up and attacked them. A howling wind from the east. Despite Arabin's best efforts, they were forced westward, coming closer and closer to the mountain heights dominating the mainland.
Rumour held that the white enamel of those fangs was water curdied by cold. The Galish termed such stuff 'muff. Jon Arabin, who was much-travelled, knew it well: Drake, on the other hand, reserved judgment, withholding belief until the day he could walk on it.If the wind kept up, that day might be soon.
Finally, when they were almost on the rocks, the wind died. Jez Glane claimed it was prayers to his god which had stopped it: and he converted three people to the worship of that god (the great white star-dragon Bel).
Drake was not interested in Glane's god.
He was, though, intensely interested in what he could see on the shore.'Look!' he cried. 'Something moving!'
There were many things moving on the narrow coastal plain between the waters of the Drangsturm Gulf and the heights of the Dreldragon Teeth. It was too far to make out details, but clearly they were bigger than buffalo. Some were as big as cottages.
The entire western coast of the Drangsturm Gulf was, for as far as they could see, swarming with monsters of the Swarms.
Jon Arabin vowed that
he would never come this way again. Not unless his life depended on it. His dreams of making a fortune from the timbers of Tor faded to nothing on the spot. Forget it! This place was far too dangerous!
Jon Arabin paced up and down the deck, waiting for the wind to get up again. But the ship floated in a deathly calm.'Right!' said Arabin. 'We'll drop anchor!'
The net filled with ballast blocks which served them as an anchor slid away into the sea. And, on hitting the bottom, tore apart.'Anch ench unchV said Jon Arabin.
Then apologized to his mother's shade, for he had once promised her he would never again use such obscenities.
A shadow flickered over the deck of the Warwolf. He looked up. Only a buzzard. But it could just as easily have been a Neversh.
'Lower the boats, boys!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We're going to sweat the ship out of here.'
Arabin gave Drake command on one of the smaller boats, to see how he would do.
'The ship's survival is our survival,' said Drake, to his boat's crew. 'So pull, boys, pull!'
And, on this occasion, nobody disputed his judgment.
Fingerlength by fingerlength, the Warwolf was hauled away from the shore. Hands blistered. Eyes burnt with sweat. Men cursed, strained and swore. But they put distance between them and the monsters.
Then, finally, the wind got up. From which direction? From the west!
'A miracle!' said Jez Glane. 'All power to the great god Bel!'
Jon Arabin, who had his own gods to worry about, paid no attention to Glane.
'Let's hope we're favoured fair to Narba,' said Arabin grimly, knowing – everyone aboard had reason to know by now – that the winds of this strange season were powerful weird and treacherous.
Fortunately, Arabin's wish was granted, and, four days later, a bullock team was hauling the Warwolf up the ship canal to the Inner Dock of Narba.
13
Place: Narba, a low-lying city connected to the Central Ocean by four leagues of ship canals.
