The Hag of Calix

by Rod Fisher

Chapter Seven

  CHESSA was insistent, "I could help you. I am very handy and I can fetch things."

  Felic answered with a noncommittal grunt. He crawled along the sides of the hold pushing his knife blade into the wood.

  "Why are you doing that, Felic?"

  "I am looking for rot."

  "What is 'rot'?"

  "You ask too many questions."

  "I think I love you, Felic."

  Felic turned from his work and gave her a blank look. She was sitting cross-legged on the armorer's chest with her head cocked to one side in puckish concentration. "You have a very nice face, Felic. I don't really know you very well, but you have kind eyes...although they do have certain coldness at times, kind of a faraway look. Is that because you think about all the men you have killed and it makes you sad?"

  Felic moved along the hold probing with his blade, paying no heed to her prattling.

  "I don't think you killed so many people," she continued, "or if you did, I think you must have had to...to defend yourself maybe, or to rescue some poor person like myself who was in some kind of trouble. I don't think you would kill anybody just for the fun of it. I don't think you are really like that...deep down I mean."

  Felic shook his head in wonder and kept on with his task.

  She came and squatted behind him. "And I can tell you are very strong, I mean really strong." She ran her fingers over the corded muscles of his back.

  "Do you honestly want to help?" he growled.

  "Oh yes, Felic. Tell me what to do."

  "Just let me work in peace. I have much to do and not much time."

  "All right, Felic," she stuck her lower lip out, "I'll leave you alone. I won't bother you, if that's what I'm doing." She walked away slowly, but stopped after a few paces and reseated herself on the chest. She watched with her chin in her hands, brow wrinkled in concentration. She cast an exaggerated sigh in Felic's direction and fidgeted for a while, changing poses and drumming her fingers on the lid of the chest.

  "Felic, do you love me?" she asked with candor.

  Felic paused in his labor. The sweat was rolling down his forehead from the heat of the hold. He clenched his teeth until his jaw muscles knotted, and rolled his eyes upward as though beseeching some deity for patience. He rose to a crouching stance under the low deck beams and turned to her with an over-dramatic sweep of his arms. "I love you madly, Pigeon. I can think of nothing else."

  "Oh, Felic!" She rushed into his arms, knocking him back on his heels. "I love you too!" She rained kisses on his neck and shoulders.

  "Pigeon..."

  "I knew you loved me." Her eyes shone with joy.

  Felic struggled to disentwine himself. "Pigeon, please! I have work to do."

  "Yes, my Felic. Now I will let you work." She pulled herself up to place a moist, passionate kiss on his mouth. "I will go catch a fish and cook it for your lunch."

  Felic watched her scamper away, a graceful child in clumsy garments. Then, shaking his head in disbelief, returned to the tedious examination of the hull timbers. He considered her assessment of his character. Yes, he had killed a lot of men--good men as well as bad. But her appraisal was off the mark. As a mere lad he had been unusually strong and adaptable to the life of a warrior. He had chosen the life of a mercenary and committed to the course it entailed. Sometimes his employers had been honorable lords with noble goals. But there were others who paid him well that he would rather not dwell on. There had been dubious and shameful campaigns that he wasn't proud of, and his career as a privateer had sent many merchant sailors to their death.

  Focusing his attention on the job at hand he found the wood proved to be sound. Bags of salt placed in the bilges had kept any fresh water trapped there from rotting the bottom planks. But, although the hull was serviceable, the rigging was worthless. He listed the cordage, tar, splicing twine, and other items necessary to replace shrouds, stays, braces, haul-yards and other lines used for supporting the masts and controlling the sails. He was absorbed in those details when Chessa called from the sandbox galley.

  "Felic, the food is ready. Come and eat." She was stirring the contents of an iron kettle hung from the tripod.

  He looked at the steaming pot. "What's this? Boiled fish?"

  She flashed a disarming smile showing her small even teeth. "Felic, I don't know how to catch any fish." She shrugged helplessly.

  "You said you were going to catch a fish for me for lunch."

  "Yes I did. And I thought I knew how to do that. But I didn't."

  "All right. I understand. I'll teach you when I get time. But what's in the pot?"

  "It is pigweed greens. They are pretty good too, you know."

  Felic sighed. "I have eaten worse things."

  She studied him with concern. "Do you eat the hearts of your enemies that you slay in battle?"

  "Their hearts? No, I eat all of them," he replied with a serious face, "then I pick my teeth with their swords."

  She didn't comment, but regarded him with large somber eyes.

  "Come now, Pigeon," he laughed, "I am just teasing. You must not believe everything you are told."

  "But I believe what you tell me, Felic. You are my man now." She dished him up a plate of greens and snuggled next to him while he ate. Her eyes followed his every movement.

  "Did you eat before?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Aren't you hungry?"

  "I don't like pigweed greens.

  "But you just told me how good they are."

  "For you. Not for me."

  He shook his head and took a second helping. "Pigeon, I must go to the village this afternoon. I need to buy supplies--material for repairs and some real food. I will be getting supplies from Calix soon, but until then I don't want to live on greens. You can come with me if you wish."

  "I am afraid, Felic. The soldiers search for me still. I will stay here. You could give me a job to do while you are gone."

  Felic thought for a moment. "I have it. You can spread the sails on deck. If you find holes, patch them. Can you sew?"

  "Oh Felic, of course I sew."

  "As good as you catch fish?"

  She folded her arms and planted her feet. "I know you are teasing me now!" Her face registered doubt. "...aren't you?"

  "Yes, Pigeon."

  "Well, anyway, don't worry. I can sew...really."

  "Then get started. I'll be back at sundown." He strode across the deck, but she was on him in a bound, her arms clutched around his chest.

  "Felic, you should kiss me goodbye. I'm your woman now."

  He stooped and gave her a peck on the lips.

  "That was not very good, Felic; you need to practice."

  He disengaged himself with a laugh and set off down the dock. "I will practice tonight, Pigeon," he called over his shoulder, and he followed the path into the trees.

  In Marskal Felic prowled the waterfront. He watched the rendering operation going on near the carcass of the sperm whale, then losing interest, he searched out a ship chandler and dickered for the items he needed. The onshore breeze that had pushed the foul odor of the hot oil vats over the village during the afternoon died to a whisper, and the sun, hanging low over the bay, was burnishing the wavelets with liquid gold when Felic finished his business. He took the road to the south, intending to circle back around the town and pick up the path going north through the swamp. He was burdened with a load that taxed even his unusual strength. Bent under the weight of it, he failed to see the two Dagran swordsmen until they were blocking his way.

  "Rest your load a moment, citizen. We would like to ask you a few questions."

  Felic dropped his bundle and faced the patrol. The taller of the two, an aquiline hard-looking warrior, did the talking. "We search for a yellow-haired girl dressed like a boy. Have you seen such a person?"

  "No."

  "If you should see anyone answering to the name 'Chessa' or fi
tting that description, it must be reported to the Dag staying at the inn. If you should apprehend this fugitive and bring her to the priest, I am sure he would be most generous."

  The speaker's companion was poking into Felic's bundle. "This is an odd package to be carrying along a farm road. Where are you taking this gear?"

  Felic was glib. "A fishing boat was driven ashore to the south of here. We are repairing it," he lied.

  "Then go about your business," the taller man ordered curtly.

  They stood aside as Felic shouldered his pack and walked between them.

  Once out of sight he cut back though the trees. He moved warily, not wishing to be stopped by another patrol. He stayed off the trail where possible, but the terrain slowed his progress and it was dark when he reached the yacht. He threw the load from his tortured back to the deck and straightened up with a groan. Chessa detached herself from the shadows of the quarterdeck and ran to him.

  "You scared me, Felic," she was breathless. "I saw you over there and I thought you were a hump-backed demon in the dark." She leaned against him, trembling.

  He led her gently down to the cabin where he told of his encounter with the patrol. She shivered in his arms. "I am so frightened. If they find me, I will kill myself!"

  "If they try to take you, they will pay a bloody price, Pigeon," he reassured her.

  All the following day, Felic worked steadily. He spliced in the blocks and thimbles of the new rigging and sent Chessa shinnying up the mast to set the shrouds and reeve haul-yards through the masthead sheaves. Chessa was eager to learn and soon became familiar with the names and uses of the many lines.

  Tword paid them a visit. He appeared from nowhere and when Felic looked up from his work, the rumpled little man was standing there wearing his enigmatic grin. Without speaking he handed Felic a sealed scroll. The unmistakable scent of Gwenay was on the parchment. Felic pulled the ribbons from the wax and read the message. It was a query as to his findings.

  "Tell the queen that the yacht can be repaired. Tell her that I have started the work, and that she should send supplies for the voyage."

  Chessa came on deck as Tword was leaving. "Oh...who is that quaint little grandfather?" she giggled.

  "His name is Tword. He brought a message from Calix." Felic ran the scroll under his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

  Two days later Tword came back. In the late afternoon he came trooping out of the swamp before a file of his kindred dwarves, all laden with supply packs and kegs of wine. The last dwarf out of the woods staggered under the weight of a slain doe.

  Felic examined the loads and was irritated by what he found. "What is this, Tword? `You have brought four packs of gowns, perfumes and other feminine nonsense, but only one pack of food. Does your vain queen propose to live on wine during the voyage?"

  Tword scratched his ribs and explained in patient patois that Gwenay would bring additional food when she arrived.

  After the supplies were stowed, they butchered the venison and Chessa created a steaming, savory kettle of stew with onions, turnips and generous chunks of meat. The dwarves were a churlish and uncommunicative lot. Tword was the only one to show any social skills. While the rest bunched together on shore to eat, he stayed on board and asked child-like questions about the boat.

  The dwarves of Calix were noted for skill in tempering steel. They traded the gems mined from their tarn for Dagran iron, and the weapons crafted by their blade smiths were the chief items of barter for goods not available in their mountain stronghold. Among the supplies brought aboard ware a selection of weapons for the armorer's chest. Tword seemed especially pleased to present Felic with a great double-edged sword. It was a hand-and-a-half sword designed for use with one hand or both. The grip was covered with braided bronze threads and the pommel sparkled with garnets and opals in a cloisonn? of gold.

  "Gwenay, queen of ours, sends you this one." He proudly pulled the blade from its scabbard and traced a damascened inscription with his finger. "For you it is read Felic Cumilan."

  Felic's brow was knit in puzzlement. Tword tapped the blade patiently.

  "He means 'Felic m'Lans,'" Chessa interpreted. Tword grinned at her and nodded.

  Felic voiced his appreciation, and taking the sword aside, made several whistling sweeps through the air. Chessa watched the charade and shuddered.

  "This is a fine weapon, Tword," Felic tested its center of balance. "Tell the queen I am very pleased with her gift."

  "The snake...blow on sword and snake will come out," Tword urged.

  Felic held the blade before his mouth and let the moisture of his breath condense on the metal. A twisted pattern seemed to ripple to the surface.

  Chessa was delighted. "How does it do that?" she asked.

  "It is caused by the method used in forming the blade," Felic explained. "The blade smiths start by twisting rods of iron together. Then they lay two flat plates to either side by heating the metal white hot and hammering on it. They keep heating and hammering until the blade is formed, and when it is filed and burnished the pattern of the twisted rods is still in the metal."

  "And what is this?" She fondled a bit of polished meerschaum that was mounted in gold and attached to the pommel by a short cord.

  "That is the life stone. A wound from this sword must be touched by the life stone before it will heal." Felic held the sword up and reflected the sun's rays from its beautiful finish. "I shall name you 'Battle Flasher' and you will become the most famous sword in Antillia!"

  He was enamored with his gift and played with it all afternoon, polishing the blade, inspecting the details of the hilt, testing its edge, and fawning over it with a warrior's reverence.

  Tword refused an offer to spend the night. Shortly before sunset he kicked his motley troop to their feet and started them back to Calix. He took with him a dispatch for Gwenay with news of Felic's progress and a sailing date.

  The following day Felic rigged a rope harness to support him over the side while he cleaned and recaulked the worst of Sun-Eagle's seams. Chessa helped by foraging in the forest along the path for the fibrous inner bark of the swamp mulberry tree. The fiber made excellent caulking material when mixed with the sticky sap from the pines.

  She was pleased to have the responsibility of doing something on her own. She searched close to the path, filling a leather bucket with chunks of resin and the hardening runs of sap. Her labors led her further and further from the dock until she found a mulberry tree that promised to fulfill their needs. She hacked a square through the tough outer bark with a hatchet. The pulpy inner layer came away in thick strips. While she worked her attention was attracted to a beautiful parasite flower that bloomed in the lower branches of the tree. She bundled the bark together with twine and placed it, with the hatchet and bucket, on the path. Then she returned to the tree and scrambled up the massive trunk.

  She moved nimbly along a branch that swept out horizontally over the water of the swamp. Before she was within reach of the flower the branch started to bend with her weight. She edged forward; the branch creaked. She grabbed a dead limb hanging nearby to relieve some of the strain, but it snapped and she lost her balance. She pitched forward and her shift of weight broke the branch supporting her. She plummeted feet-first into the water.

  The water was only knee-deep, but her legs went into the muck of the bottom. She tried to move to higher ground but her movements caused her to sink deeper. The water was up to her waist. She tried to free one leg, but the effort sent the other deeper into the sucking mire; she fell sideways. She panicked when her face went into the muddy gruel. She thrashed her way upright only to discover the water was up to her shoulders.

  "Felic, help me!" she screamed, knowing he was too far away to hear her. "please, Felic...help me...please help me!"

  A pole splashed into the water. The stinging mud and tears blurred her vision, but she grabbed it and hung on with desperation while she was drawn from the suction. Br
awny hands hooked under her armpits and dragged her onto solid ground.

  "Oh Felic," she moaned, wiping at her eyes, "I..." She broke off, astonished. The man standing over her was a Dagran soldier.

  "Krel, come and see the fish I caught," he called back.

  Another Dagran burst through the brush and stood before her. He stared at the muddy figure. The wet boy's clothing clung to her body revealing the swell of her breasts and her nipples.

  "So, we have a girl dressed like a boy...a rare catch indeed!" He pulled a length of rope from his pouch.

  Chessa sprang to her feet and tried to slip past them, but the men stopped her easily. They tied her hands and feet, then slung her twisting torso from the pole like a slaughtered stag.

  Realizing she was helpless, she screamed for Felic. In response Krel struck her a blow that knocked her unconscious.

  When Chessa failed to return, Felic went looking for her. He was irritated because of the delay, but he was also worried that she had met some misfortune. He found the bucket, hatchet and bundle of bark. A search of the area around the tree revealed the whole story. The broken branch, the flower, the mud on the grass, the footprints of the soldiers in the soft ground--all told a mute tale to Felic's keen eyes. He looked down the path, winding off toward the village. As he stood there in thought, his fingers toyed with the hilt of the long dagger at his belt. He turned abruptly, gathered up the bark and resin, and retraced his steps to the dock.