In reality, Marvin was well aware that his secretary did not need a lecture on schedules and appointments. If someone had asked Miss Periwinkle in the strictest confidence why her boss continually lectured her, she, knowing the man better than he knew himself, would have candidly replied, "Oh, he's just building himself up to take on the challenge I've brought him." (She freely used contractions when talking to anyone else but Marvin.) And if she was being really candid, she might have added, "Marvin's basically a good soul, but he feels secure only when he's in absolute control of everything and everyone around him. If you throw 'im a clunker — even a tiny pebble — into that quiet pool he's made around himself, it makes a tidal wave, as far as Marvin's concerned."
Again there was a tentative knock on Marvin's door. He rose to his feet and drew his government-issued scaline short-sword before replying, "You may enter!" in a voice as strong and masculine as he could make it.
Miss Periwinkle held open the door so the stranger could push past her into the room.
Marvin pointed his ceremonial sword at her feet politely indicating who he was signaling. (Everyone knows it is improper to point your sword directly at a person's head or heart.) Then, with his arm fully extended, he snapped his wrist sharply upward so that the point of the blade was aimed directly toward the ceiling. THANK YOU. (This was a simple THANK YOU as opposed to an EXALTED THANK YOU done to show respect, with the blade close to the signaler’s chest.) Finally, he allowed the blade to drop to horizontal. Pointing it in the general direction of the door, he wiggled it back and forth randomly several times. YOU ARE DISMISSED.
Marvin would have had stern words for his secretary, accompanied by a very long lecture if he had seen the bemused smile that spread across her face as she turned her back on them. He would have been positively beside himself if he had heard her chuckling to herself after she had pulled fast the door.
Now, facing the stranger for the first time, Marvin neatly flipped his sword into the air and caught it by the tip of its unsharpened blade, to present it hilt first to the white-haired man who stood before him. GREETINGS, I AM IN YOUR SERVICE. The government had spent much money training Marvin in the protocol of swordsmanship and he fancied himself quite skillful.
The old man adroitly mimicked this signal, then, bowing his head slightly, brought the hilt of his sword gently up to his own forehead, waiting for a verbal response. I AM IN YOUR SERVICE. I HAVE A NEED/REQUEST.
Having been forewarned, by his secretary in her unique fashion, Marvin used to his advantage the moment of polite silence between the end of formal sword signal and the expectation of speech. His government-trained eyes took the measure of the man before him, and what they saw he did not like.
First, and most obviously, the stranger did not carry a proper scaline sword, but rather that of a fisherman, a carved tusk of some sea animal. Being the standard length of a forearm and hand, it was like those of the simple-loving, low caste fishermen, however, this man's sword was intricately carved with what the ancients called scrimshaw, showing elaborate scenes of men and animals. Still, it was a low cast sword ...or that of a...!
Marvin glanced at the waterskins the man carried. Yes, there were two, instead of one. One holding a family crest, a dolphin on blue-black waves, which though familiar, for the moment alluded Marvin's recognition. (No small task, for he greatly prided himself on his heraldry.) And there was a smaller secondary 'skin -- a bag of adoption -- on which he could just make out... the golden crest of the Gryphon!
The man was a Swimmer! That also explained the sword!
The moment of politeness had passed, yet the white-haired man held his position with his sword hilt touching his bowed forehead.
Marvin thought fast even while his mouth automatically found the words of protocol, "How may I serve you, father?"
The man wore the nondescript, cream-colored robes of a craftsman, loose in body but tight in the arm. The three brown bands on his sword arm sleeve marked him as a master carver.
Yet he was a Swimmer! A follower of the Gryphon. What would one of his kind be doing at a state-run orphanage on one of the Middle Islands?
As if in answer, the still silent old man dropped to one knee, raising his carved sword, hilt upward, into the air above his head. I AM ON PILGRIMAGE.
Now Marvin became concerned in earnest. In the pluralistic government which he duly represented, all beliefs were officially accepted, and none could be naysaid. Therefore, a man claiming to be on a spiritual quest — a pilgrimage — "must be afforded all reasonable aid under penalty of forfeiture of position and property." Marvin instantly brought the appropriate line of jurisprudence to mind.
In the briefest of moments, Marvin had already begun a mental campaign against this intruder into his realm. He had ascertained the nature of his enemy, marshaled his available resources, and began planning his defense. He fully realized before the battle began that he had been tactically maneuvered into a position of great disadvantage, and the old man had not yet uttered a word.
The stranger was a Swimmer, and as a rule, followers of the Gryphon's Son did not usually go on pilgrimages like Pascal Priests or Hinterland fanatics, still, Marvin was honor-bound as a government official to try to resolve this man's need. Yet he was a Swimmer and (unofficially) the current administration did not go out of its way to aid Swimmers. Quite the contrary!
But Marvin's worrisome assessment of the stranger was cut short as the man rose suddenly -- with surprising agility for a man of his age -- to sheathe his sword, stand erect (making him much taller than Marvin), and utter garbled speech which grated on Marvin's official ears and nerves.
"Y' may help me on m'way by bringin' out the two lads who be me grandsons. It's for them that I've come a troublin' you on this fine day. They're of age an' I'm takin' 'em with me on pilgrimage."
The elderly carver's thick brogue marked him instantly as a Heartlander, native to the vast fertile plan of central Dragonsback. But, wait! Some trick of his mind must have blocked Marvin from recognizing the seal on the old man's waterskin until that instant. Now he knew it! And with that knowledge, fear, akin to raw panic, burned suddenly through his veins into the core of his being.
Those two? Impossible! he thought with no outward sign. But on the inside, Marvin momentarily resembled a poorly built house of uncemented blocks after a severe trembler. As Miss Periwinkle had suspected, this backward Heartlander had just thrown a sizable boulder into the pool of quiet control her boss always strove to maintain around himself.
I can't let them go! What will They say if the boys are missing? I was told to guard them with my very life. They left me no instructions concerning a GrandSire! Why, if they had living blood kin...? Still, there must have been a reason. The orders came straight from the Source of the River and the government does not make mistakes!
Bolstered by a clearer recollection of the old facts and a better understanding of the new, Marvin made ready his verbal strategy against this intruder into his world. Choosing words as a warrior might choose weapons from an arsenal, he spoke with strength and conviction in his voice, "I am sorry, sir, but without the proper authorization, I could not possibly release the boys into your custody, no matter what the reason. You are well aware that family crests can be unscrupulously duplicated. I am sure that you understand that I must follow proper governmental procedures which have been established for the safety of all of our wards, including your grandsons."
If Marvin had felt that this humanitarian appeal to protocol would have any effect on the old man, he was soon disappointed. The intruder would not be so easily dissuaded. Shaking his head back and forth like a small animal shedding water, the GrandSire withdrew from under his cloak several official-looking documents. Yes, thought Marvin, remembering, Miss Periwinkle had said he carried documents, else she never would have allowed an unappointed man to enter this office.
Marvin was aware that things had been changing for the worse on the pillars below the falls. A right-banked unde
r-champion had even been polled into a position above him during the mid-term games. However, Marvin had been assured that this young upstart would never be allowed to discover the secondary purpose of the Orphanage. Yet, here in front of him, bold as the mid-day sun, was a document bearing the golden seal and signature of that self-same under-champion!
Another boulder crashed into Marvin's still reeling mental pond. Soon there would no longer be any room for water, only rocks.
Think! Marvin demanded of his government-trained mental faculties. There must be a solution! But aloud he said, "A pilgrimage, you say? For how long and to what destination? The government has given me charge of the boys’ welfare and I must keep official records."
The Director emphasized the word "me" trying to stress his own exclusive importance and fitness in matters concerning the two boys.
But the old man's reaction was not exactly what Marvin had expected. Instead, he smiled what appeared to be a very self-assured smile and, leaning forward over the desk, put his face very close to Marvin's, saying, "Oh, I don't think y'understand, laddie!"
Marvin hated to be called familiar terms by strangers; after all, he was a representative of the government, was he not? He momentarily entertained the idea of backing up a step so the old man's beard would stop wiggling up and down in front of his nose, but instantly reconsidered, thinking, this is my office and my space. This old windbag will not usurp my control!
Obviously unhindered by Marvin's thoughts, the white-haired man continued pressing his point, "I've no intention o' returnin' the lads t'your keepin', excellent though it may've been. It's past time fer me t'have at their futures. 'Tis after all the right o' kin t'choose... unless the gov'ment rules've changed considerable like since you left-bankers've got in!" And the old man paused, to inhale a deep breath through his nostrils, as though, thought Marvin, he too struggled to control himself.
Control! I am the one who must regain control of this or my career may well be thrown in the River, thought Marvin furiously. His pond had shrunk to no more than a rapidly dwindling puddle when his government training finally leaped to his rescue.
"Please be seated, kind sir, while I sort through these papers," he said in his most placating tone. To himself, he added, And gain some time to think!
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the old man did as he was requested, sinking into one of the low, hard chairs opposite Marvin's desk.
Good! thought the Orphanage Director, towering over his now seated opponent. At least now he felt more in control. But what could he do against all the right papers and signatures?
An Idea! Yes, thought Marvin gleefully to himself, it just might work! The details can be worked out later and it is devious enough that I am sure They would approve! Better to keep one of the boys in Their control than to lose both of them altogether. Must be the older one, he is already heavily cloaked by the thorns he carries.
With a workable plan in place, the old man in a controlled position, and the chance that his career just might be salvageable after all, Marvin felt a sense of calm returning to his shaking world.
"Sir," he addressed the old Swimmer seated before him, "your papers all seem to be in order, yet we have a problem with your request."
Despite Marvin's wishes to the contrary, the old man again jumped to his feet.
"Looky here, sonny!" The Swimmer drew his false sword and banged its hilt on the documents for emphasis. Although he was not shouting, there was a sense of immense power behind his words that caused Marvin more than a little trepidation; he simply was not used to being talked to this way.
"These papers," continued the GrandSire, pounding the table to emphasize each word, "sez I've the right t' take m' boys with me, an' you or nobody else is gonna' pull no fish outa' a puddle to tell me 'tain't so!"
"I am sorry, sir'" countered the Director, still using his best soothing voice, "but there is just such a 'fish'. You see, Kaleb, the older brother, has already been irrevocably selected by the government for special training under the Grant for Advanced Studies Program For Orphan Rehabilitation And Integrated Response." He had spoken the previous two sentences in a rush, without pausing, but now he allowed himself the luxury of a deep lungful of well-earned air. What a brilliant lie I have concocted! he silently congratulated himself. Truly it is something to be proud of! Then he continued aloud, hiding, but just barely, the glee he felt in defeating his foe, "As you know, sir, once a youth has been selected for this free program, a government claim is established. This claim takes precedence over all others.
"You are to be congratulated on your grandson's good fortune! As for the younger boy, if you can prove that you have properly provided gainful employment for him, then I suppose you may take him with you."
Now Marvin sat down, resting in the calm of his restored domain. A big self-satisfied smile crept across his government-issued face. It did not even bother him that he had indulged in the use of a single contraction as he built the case leading to his stunning victory. Words can be such potent weapons!
But the boys' GrandSire was not so easily defeated. Deliberately the old man laid his sword down across the documents, a clear breach of ethics and an affront to Marvin's authority as Director of Middle Isle Orphanage. (A sword was never to leave the hand of its owner unless thrown down in thorn challenge.) Then whipping out a hitherto unseen document from inside his cloak, the old man leaned over the desk once again and thrust it into Marvin's startled face.
What now?! he wondered and something in the old man's attitude made him cringe.
The ancient carver did not allow him to wonder long. "As for Kaleb," each of the man's words was a sword in its own right, and Marvin felt them painfully carving at his suddenly unstable world, "I've the righta take 'im on pilgrimage, afore he goes t'school. An' as for 'is brother, I ulready 'ired 'im out as a 'prentice."
Marvin started to rise to his feet in objection but found the old man leaning so far over his desk that this was impossible to accomplish. Before today, the small desk had always seemed adequate in its unobtrusiveness, now Marvin wished that it was much, much bigger. "But... But..." he sputtered, all vestiges of control vanishing.
"Look 'ere, young feller," said the emphatic white-haired man, waving the parchment back and forth under the Director's nose. "This 'ere's a lett'r of intent drawed up by my dagger. He's a Riv'r Valley dagger! An' he sez I'm perfectly in m' rights to do this thing I want t' do."
Marvin sputtered "but..." one last time, then blanched as he grasped the credentials of the author of the note.
The wily GrandSire did not let up even a finger's width, "Now, sonny, fer your own good, I suggest y' scamper up there 'an get m' boys or elze I'll 'ave t' send for my Riv'r Valley dagger 'an he'll 'ave to come all the way out 'ere t' straighten y'out. I don't guess he'd be mighty pleased t'do that. I hear ‘e hates boats with a mighty powerful passion. Probably bring a mighty big thorn with 'im. Am I gettin' my point across, young feller?"
Marvin, pressed back in his chair to escape this verbal onslaught, nearly swooned with panic. His defenses had been crushed and his orderly world had been conquered by this outrageous, backward, Heartlander. If the government found out he was involved in litigation...
"No need to threaten," Marvin managed to say as the cantankerous old man finally stood erect once more. With his own space now intact Marvin fought to think, to speak, to do. Anything which might restore order!
"I do know the law," he said defensively. "I'll go get them right away. Don't call your dagger, or I'll be tied up in a thornhouse for weeks! There are some forms you'll have to fill out. But it'll take only a moment. Oh, dragons! Now you have me doing it, too! I hate contractions!"
The Director of Middle Isle Orphanage threw down the appropriate scrolls and a quill in front of the old man and fled the room in desperation.
"I've got to find some sanity!" he called to the thin air as he briskly walked down the hall leaving open-mouthed wards and guardians in his wake.
GR
YPHON’S TRACKS
Still in semi-unbelief, Jason looked around him, taking in, as though it were life itself, the wind-blown tightness of the black sail, thrusting them forward through the slight swell of the rolling waves toward the Mainland. And away from the Orphanage! He glanced back, once, to see the sharp "V" their passage cut across the face of the Bay, and could not help thinking with growing excitement that the blue-white churning of the wake also buried his past. He carefully avoided glancing at the Islands of the Tail; they held no happiness. Only questions. And pain.
The three of them stood in the very front of the square-sailed Pascal boat, named, to Jason's delight, the Flying Eagle. The sun-sparkled open waters of the Bay raced toward them, then past their view.
It had taken all night for their tiny ship to cross the fathomless waters of the Bay. Now, as they finally passed out of the sun-cast shadow of one of the distant Islands to their right, the early morning light touched their craft. They ran northward before a strong breeze, parallel to the Mainland, out of reach at last of that retreating line of shadows that still touched the waters to their west. The earlier gray-black of the darkened waves had given way to an inscrutable blackish-green which reflected light like a polished looking glass once touched by the sun. The water before them, unobstructed by any object for as far as the eye could see, blended eventually with the open Sea, where, at the edge of the known world, it would eventually disappear beneath a great gray wall of fog. To their not too distant left, beyond the sea-splashed bulk of the boat's pointed outrigger, rose the over-towering mass of the side of Dragonsback; the western-most of the Mainland’s twin mountain ranges protruding sharply up from the sea into the sky like the points of some huge green crown; its jewels fashioned by sunlight reflecting from the still dew-covered scaline exposed at the summits of its peaks. Behind the Pascal ship, in the invisible distance, those towering ridges descended in a large arc till they drowned their feet in the Sea, forming a series of isolated peaks called the Islands of the Tail. On their right, the vestiges of that serpentine Archipelago gradually lost themselves in the dark depths.
The Dragon's Back Trilogy Page 3
