Moving Water

by Kelso, Sylvia

  It was half-open when the warrior, with that same intent, unoffensive decision, intercepted his hand, kept the grip an instant to be sure it was not misunderstood, then gently eased the shirt back until he could see the edges of the scar.

  Beryx waited. Even more gently, the warrior re-adjusted the shirt, then watched closely as ever while Beryx did it up. After that he squatted a long time and once again studied Beryx’s face. I could not decide if any change showed in his own.

  Finally, not turning his head, he addressed Amver in a level, dead-pan voice.

  Amver’s brows shot up. He wrought with emotions. Then he said, “He thinks, sir, that our fishing net must have been made by a—a—sheep-butcher from Kemrestan.”

  I had just worked out that this came to an insult when Beryx showed me its real nature by replying in the same straight-faced formality, “Tell him that should please him. We’ll miss more of his fish.”

  Amver translated. A sparkle warmed the black eyes. A silent laugh rippled round the perimeter, and before I knew it the warrior was talking full gallop to Amver, hands flying, emphasis in his face, Beryx was saying, “Take it quietly, all of you,” and a crowd of small, respectful but thoroughly searching rank and file were all over us.

  Ulven are not content to use their eyes. Pink-palmed hands tested our bow, assessed our cooking pot, felt the texture of my cloak, my sword-hilt, my hair, my very fingernails. Zem and Zam got on famously, for they touched with equal freedom in return, but after Callissa’s first shrink and squeak they avoided her. In any case, it was Beryx who was the real cynosure.

  They clustered round him six deep, putting out their hands with that odd, intense concentration that held neither fear nor captor’s insolence, but was not, as with us, plain curiosity. It was as if they already knew what he was, and were driven to make the closest possible contact with what they saw.

  His dialogue over, Amver forged into the crowd, more agog than anyone. “Sir, they know about wizards—aedryx, I mean!” Beryx nodded, unsurprised. “Lisbyrx, they say, rainmakers, there are old stories handed down, so when you made it rain at the Taven they knew what you were, they’ve been trailing us since Phaxia, that was the drums, of course, because there’s a prophecy—I’ve never heard it!—that a crippled lisbyr’ll come to Stirsselian, this is the headman’s son and the old folk sent him to find us because,” with rising urgency, “there’s troops coming in from Assharral!”

  Beryx’s look of confirmation had become a kind of wariness. Now it sharpened. “How far? How many?” He was the general again. “On our track?”

  “Nossir, there’s four or five patrols at the end of Kerym Cletho but they’re just probing ’n in trouble with the swamp, the Ulven’re shadowing ’em all ’n they reckon no problem to get rid of ’em—if you want. . . .”

  With a glance at the bows Beryx emphatically shook his head. Amver nodded as if he had expected it and was off again. “So they came to warn us and they’ll hide or help us or whatever we want because you’re a lisbyr and because”—he assumed a thoroughly mystified tone—“the prophecy says the crippled wizard will end the Assharran drought.”

  Beryx sighed in candid relief. “Just so long,” he said, “as I’m not expected to make yams and kanna fall from the sky.”

  “But what’s it mean, sir? There’s no drought in Assharral. Unless they mean Axaira, ’n it never rains there anyway.”

  “No?” Beryx shot him a piercing glance. “How long have they been ‘wild’? And why? Not been hunted, by any chance? Nobody thought they were dangerous animals and tried to wipe them out?”

  Amver stammered, confounded. “B-but—we—they—it’s always been like that! They are dangerous! They raid crops—kill cattle—burn farms, sometimes! My father sort of knew them ’n he still had to pay a bullock a year peace price ’n—everybody thought we were low going near them at all. . . .”

  He tailed off, finding, as I had, shame in what had once seemed reputable. Beryx nodded sadly, his eyes on the naked crowd.

  “Primitive,” he said. “Driven back on poor land, then punished when they couldn’t live on it. Made more backward by the hunts. Just primitive, and the stories warped to a cross between demons and beasts.” There was pity in his eyes.

  He looked back to Amver. “Not your fault,” he said more gently. “You were bred to the thinking. But . . . no wonder they want to end the drought.”

  Amver rallied a little. “But sir, the prophecy. How did they know?”

  “They don’t. It’s a hope. A lot of us live on them. Or perhaps there’s a foresighted strain, there often is with people like this. And your headman’s son doesn’t know Ruanbrarx, but he could follow my mind. He only knew about this”—he touched his side—“when I thought of it.” His smile was wry. “Empathy. Like a higher form of beast.”

  Amver retired hastily on the tangible. “Do we go with them, though? ’N what about the troops?”

  “Go with them, yes, if they can get us round the patrols.” He frowned. “But not to their village. When Moriana gets serious she might destroy it. I don’t want any surplus hostages.”

  “No problem, sir.” Amver’s face cleared. “They don’t have a village, just season camps. They live on the move, in their boats.”

  Beryx’s face cleared too. “At least,” he said, smiling, “they might teach us how to fish.”

  * * * * *

  They taught us we were babes in Stirsselian compared to them. That first morning, giving their tacit opinion of our punts by ignoring them, they loaded us in their own craft, single log dugouts without so much as an outrigger, kept upright by the paddlers’ balance and skill, no deeper than the punts but immeasurably swifter, handier, water-tight, able to knife unchecked into the thickest undergrowth. Their fishing nets are finger-sized meshes of twisted human hair, they use tiny bird-bows you can draw in elbow-length, bone sliver knives and needles kept in their hair, woven cane tents that fold down into a dugout and can be pitched anywhere, stone spears and axes patiently chipped and ground from raw flint. They are immune to swamp fever, insensible to mosquito and leech, swim like fish, see safe mud at a glance, move with shadow speed and silence afloat or afoot, know their territory to the inch, and have positively uncanny communication on the road or in the hunt. The dugout fleets veer simultaneously, like starlings in the air. Nor are beaters or archers instructed for a hunt. They assemble at the boats, reach the run, melt away, flush the game, and rise at the precise spot for the equally silent, uncelebrated kill.

  Silence, indeed, is the watchword of Ulven life. Babies never cry; even at play children do not shout; adults consult, gossip, mourn, exult, in a permanent undertone. No doubt, like their impassiveness, it has been bred in by generations of outlawry.

  What their race numbers I have no idea. Normally they live in family groups which rove a particular territory, but we had caused a general mobilization of the most tenuous sort. Some fifty warriors had mustered to scout or meet with us, from which I guess there are perhaps three hundred in the Kerym Cletho tribe, but we never saw them assembled. On a low islet whose sole sign of occupation was its bare-trodden earth, we met the headman, whose one badge and function of office seems to be the maintenance of four wives, and the rest of the Old Ones, men and women as inscrutable as their envoy. They studied us all, gathered to touch Beryx with that same deep constrained respect, then dissolved, leaving the warriors to act as escort, commissariat and guides.

  There was also an entourage of families, brotherhoods, hunting teams, who would join us for a day or a week, then melt away and be replaced. Perhaps it was because we were in their runs, but chiefly, I think, it was that they wanted to be near Beryx for a while.

  They were never extravagant or importunate. There was just the silent, intent gaze, the compulsion to touch, the repression by their people’s discipline of an emotion close to reverence, that yet contained affection. A hunger for bodily contact with something legendary, a prophesied deliverance that was also flesh and blood
.

  It neither embarrassed Beryx nor went to his head. I daresay he had been schooled to a lesser scale of such treatment when he was a king, but his use of the arts certainly did nothing to discourage it. We landed one day in a stand of huge nerran trees where a work-party were hewing with stone axes at a dugout-sized trunk. Two days’ labor, and the cut, dimpled like embossed hammer work, was barely three inches deep. Beryx took one look and sprang to life.

  “Four! They’ll be there for weeks.” A swift glance raked the terrain. “Amver, tell them to stand—over there. You others too.”

  The Ulven obeyed, impassive as ever, but every eye was riveted on him. He swung to face the tree. Stiffened, drew the first familiar extended breath.

  Pressure built up. The air seemed to vibrate. Then his body whiplashed, there was a lash of green-white fire. With a deafening crackle of shorn wood the giant snapped at the cut, tilted, gathered momentum and thundered to its earth-shaking fall.

  Leaves, twigs, and frightened birds erupted everywhere. Beryx stood back, getting his breath, with a contented smile. “Not the biggest I ever cut,” he said to us. “But it’s something I can do for them.”

  The axemen, nailed down till the last echo faded, had finally crept up to look. There was none of the outcry you would find in Assharral. Just small hands creeping over the shorn butt, and a look behind them, whites vivid in those masked Ulven eyes.

  Beryx smiled at them in turn, and made the gesture for “It was nothing.” The eyes grew wider. They were still watching two hours later when we paddled away.

  * * * * *

  That swelled our entourage over the next days, especially at the midday halt, when we Assharrans, to the Ulven’s puzzlement, would insist on brewing mint-tea. Since his art was quicker than flint or tinder or even coals from an Ulven ember-flask, Beryx had got into the habit of lighting the fire. A crowd would inevitably gather for it, quite silent and mannerly, those ranks of unwinking eyes patiently expectant for the green flash, the flare of flame; after which they would melt off to let us rest in peace.

  Callissa usually made the tea. Having managed to muster us all in the one place at the same time, she was pouring out that day, while we sat cross-legged round the fire like any patrol brewing up. The twins were ensconced at Beryx’s elbows, also as usual. He had just taken the first cautious sip when Zem piped up, “Sir Scarface, why is Mi like a Quarred fyr?”—“And what is it?” added Zam.

  I saw Beryx pole-axed at last. He choked, the cup flew from his hand; but instead of being caught with Axynbrarve it dropped plumb in the angle of his crossed shins amid a scalding flood of tea.

  “Oh, you stupid boys!” Callissa broke out crossly. “Stand up, quick, before it burns you.” More tartly still, “I don’t want that again.”

  She might not have spoken. Beryx had got his wind. Absently he shook out his wet trousers, but his eyes were turning from one to the other wide-eyed, guileless face. He answered with conscious casualness.

  “Quarred is a country with a lot of sheep. Fyrx are the dogs that work them. They’re red and small and clever, and very quiet. And I was thinking your mother was like a fyr, because here we all are, going quietly along together in the right direction, while she rushes round out of sight, doing twice the work. Just like a Quarred fyr with a mob of sheep.”

  They nodded as if they too saw nothing odd. Callissa was torn between unwelcome pleasure at the compliment and insult at the comparison to a dog. I sat speechless. I had noted his choice of verb.

  Still intent on them, he asked casually, “How long have you been hearing me, Zam?”

  Zam replied with equal nonchalance. “Ever since you came. But with most people we have to really listen. You’re much better. It’s quite easy to hear everything.”

  “Everything,” Beryx repeated. He sounded a little faint. I knew he was torn between consternation and mirth.

  Mirth won. He let out a splutter. “Served with my own sauce!” And sobered. “Do you listen to everybody?”

  “We listened when you first came,” Zem explained, “like we always do with new people, to be sure they’re all right. Mi and Da don’t often make mistakes, but it’s harder if you can’t hear.”

  “Thank you!” I said. “You pair of—of—” Beryx grinned without looking round.

  “So I suppose you’ve heard me talk to your father, and the Lady as well?”

  Zem nodded. “And we heard you fight for him.” I cringed. “We didn’t like you then, till Mi explained what you really did. To herself, I mean.” He added conscientiously, “We can’t always hear Mi and Da properly either, unless they’re stirred up, but they’re better than anyone except you.” He looked disapproving. “That Fengthira nearly deafened us. And she called Da a dolt.”

  “She’s no diplomat.” Beryx’s shoulders shook. “You’ve always been able to hear?”

  They nodded. Zem squirmed. “At school—we used to—but nobody understood—or liked it—so now we just use it for ourselves.”

  “I see.” His eyes were in flux, lightened to crystal green, but this time it was not the rise of power. Then it altered to amused percipience.

  “So now,” he said blandly, “you thought you’d make some real use of the thing?”

  “Yes!” they chorused. “We want to talk.”—“And see.”—“And light fires.”—“And manage horses.”—“Like you.”

  “And you want me to teach you?”

  Their eyes lit up. “Yes, please!”

  “Well, I won’t.” He did not mince matters. “Not because I don’t want to. Because it wouldn’t be right. You’ll know why, later on.”

  He gazed at them with longing, and the nervousness of someone handed a fragile, potentially dangerous yet precious living thing. It was not their paralyzing innocence that he feared, I understood, but his own inadequacy.

  “Dismiss,” he commanded. “Case is closed. Go and talk to the Ulven. And don’t listen in!”

  Dashed but obedient, they departed. His eyes lifted across the fire to mine.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ve bred a couple of aedryx. Or aedryx-to-be.”

  “But—but—” I spluttered. “What—how—”

  “Oh, your side of it’s easy. I thought the moment I saw you, That’s a perfect gray-eyed stiff-necked granite-honest Stiriand.”

  “I am not!” I said in revolt and fear. “We’re farmers, we’ve always been farmers—”

  “I don’t mean your blood’s pure or that you’re even in the direct line. Some branch of a branch probably drifted east, so long ago they’ve lost the very memory. Or were driven underground, the way they were in Everran when the aedryx were wiped out. You’re just a throwback to the looks, and maybe you carry the power’s seed. But. . . .”

  His eyes turned to Callissa, whose face revealed protest, abhorrence, scandalized horror and outright mutiny.

  “What was it, ma’am?” The question was gentle, but not to be denied. “Bee-master, water-finder, soothseer, witch? With such a strong show as this, the blood couldn’t come just from one side.”

  Callissa went white. Then her eyes shut. It was a bare whisper when it came.

  “The sight . . . my mother’s people.” She might have been confessing descent from an army whore. “We never talked about it, but. . . .”

  “You’ve no call for shame,” he said gently. “In fact, you should be proud.”

  Her eyes shot open. He did not notice. He was gazing after the twins.

  “You may not think it, but—you’ve mothered something beyond the greatest hope you ever dreamed.” An immense distance entered his gaze. “Something that couldn’t be manufactured by Velandryxe itself.”

  “Eh?” I said.

  He woke up. “The aedryx before Math lived in cycles,” he said. “A cycle would start, they’d increase, then they’d exterminate themselves. Then a new founder would appear, and it would start again. The last cycle was Th’Iahn’s own, and Fengthira thought she was the last of them. Until I came along.
I am the first new aedr for eleven human generations.” His quiet voice kept the import of the words. “I was made, not born. And I can’t found a line. But. . . .” Now it was sheer reverence. “They were born. A natural blending of aptitudes. And when they learn Ruanbrarx . . . they’ll grow up with Math. Not, like every other aedr who ever came to it, have to graft it on.” A brief, depthless, ungrudging envy crossed his face. “It’ll be in their lives’ grain. And if a new cycle starts . . . for the first time, it will begin in Math.”

  And, I thought, as my heart moved in unflawed joy for him, you will have found your sons.

  Callissa took breath. Knowing what she would say, I cut in first.

  “If that’s so, why won’t you teach them? The sooner the better, surely, and who better—”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Ruanbrarx must go plough-track. Between opposites. Man to woman, woman to man. I don’t know why, even Fengthira doesn’t. The old aedryx didn’t always follow it, but they knew perfectly well that when they didn’t it brought Ammath. I was lucky that when I learnt, the last living aedr was a woman, so I came to it the right way. No matter how much I wanted, I wouldn’t teach them. Not run the risk of—warping a thing like this. If only—”

  He fell silent. Then he shot a glance at Callissa, and said abruptly, “Somebody called Math a river because it finds channels where no reason would expect. I’ll just have to hope it finds a channel for this.”

  * * * * *

  Callissa would not talk about it, and for the boys’ sake I was reluctant myself. The others took their cue from me, so by evening the revelation might never have come at all.

  It did make me more conscious of where the boys were and with whom. Next midday, or the day after, we halted under a big heagar, and, waking from a catnap among its roots, I thought as usual, Where are the twins?

  There was no sound of them. Beyond the buttress at my back Callissa stirred and murmured. Then she started up with a mew of alarm, and somewhere further away Beryx said in quiet reassurance, “Swimming with Amver. Quite safe, ma’am.”