Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (16 page)

A tentacle had emerged from the water and was moving slowly across the boat.

It's going to crush us,
thought Thomas.
It's going to crush this boat just like it did the ship. I've led us into a fool's quest, and this is the end for both of us.

Except the lifeboat was so small that it was, in and of itself, indistinguishable from dozens of other pieces of flotsam and jetsam that were bobbing in the water, a mute reminder of the sailing vessel that had been endeavoring to traverse the seas only minutes earlier. The tentacle slid into the boat, but rather than touching the bottom, the tentacle rested on the rower's bench. It then moved across it tentatively, looking for . . . well, Thomas didn't like to think about what it was looking for. It was mere inches above the boys, neither of whom were moving, and even the newly christened Poxy was able to restrain her natural desire to start barking at it or challenging it in some manner. Thomas could see that she was trembling against James, her fur still matted down from the water. High above, the lightning continued to shatter the darkened sky, the waves bouncing them around. And Thomas was utterly convinced that he could still hear the screams of the pirates being ripped apart or dragged down to their deaths in the murky, surging sea.

The tentacle had now made its way across the bench, probing delicately, and Thomas braced himself, waiting for it to haul the entire ship beneath the water.

And then it withdrew.

Just like that, the tentacle withdrew, hurriedly, seemingly losing interest. Seconds later, it was gone, and although the ship was still bobbing violently in the water, the kraken appeared to have moved on to something else.

Thomas could not for the life of him imagine how it was that they were still alive. He wanted to stay where he was, flattened on the bottom of the boat and doing everything he could to avoid possibly being noticed by the tentacles making their triumphant return. But that didn't seem to be a viable option, not if they wanted to have a prayer of keeping the boat from tipping over.

James realized this at the same time, and, sitting up, he grabbed the oars and started rowing. It seemed an eternity ago that he had boasted to Thomas that his presence on the excursion was a necessity because he has an infallible sense of direction. Never had that been put more to the test, or been more necessary to any possibility they might have for survival, than at that point in time.

Poxy remained at the bottom of the boat, taking up a position under the bench and keeping her head covered with her paws. She might well have been a valiant rat catcher and even assailant of pirates within the relative safety of a boat, but it was clear that she was not exactly at her ease in the middle of a roiling sea. But neither were they, so it didn't seem fair to hold the dog to a higher standard. Her flank was near Thomas, and he saw a gash in her hindquarters that he had no doubt was a gift from the barrel of Rackam's gun.
Well,
thought Thomas grimly,
the dog is still alive, while Rackam died.
So it was obvious who was the final victor in
that
little confrontation.

“Do you need help?” he called to James, who was continuing to row with all the considerable strength in his arms.

“Not right now! I'm pretty much in control! Trying to do it together might be more trouble than it's worth!”

“True,” said Thomas, who hated to admit that since he despised the notion of simply lying there and not serving any purpose. He pulled himself upward and steadied the prow as best he could, trying to offer a counterbalance every time the waves threatened to upend the boat.

Then, in the near distance, he heard what could only be described as an unearthly scream. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, like nothing he thought anything living would have been able to produce. It was deep and sonorous. Shielding his eyes as best he could, he tried to see through the chop and the spray, through the darkness that continued to be broken almost entirely by lightning and nothing else.

And then, for just a moment, a cloud moved aside, and moonlight flooded from on high, and Thomas was able to see something that seemed as if it had been ripped from a primeval time before humanity strode the earth. At that moment, the notion that there were dividing lines between myth and magic, between reality and legend, dissipated, and Thomas saw the world through a prism that provided an image of a world that could not possibly exist.

A vast, perfectly shaped undersea creature that Thomas could only conclude was a whale—a creature so astoundingly big and so beautifully and meticulously crafted by nature that Thomas had to choke down a sob lest he be unmanned by the sight—lunged in slow motion out of the water at least a mile away. It was not alone. The kraken was wrapped around it, its tentacles encircling it like a twisted perversion of a lover's embrace. For the first and only time, Thomas had a brief glimpse of the kraken's vast body beyond its tentacles, shaped like a spear, clinging onto the whale's skin. The eerie noise that Thomas had heard seemed to be coming from the whale, and he could only imagine what it signified. Was it a bellow of defiance? Was it a desperate cry for help that would never come? He did not know, nor would he ever. It was obvious that the presence of the whale had been what had drawn the kraken away from him, and with any luck would keep the creature away long after he and James had vacated the area. That was assuming, of course, that they managed to accomplish that seemingly impossible feat.

But James was undaunted by the challenge that the high seas were presenting. He rowed unrelentingly, indomitable, his jaw set, unwilling to give even an inch to the seas that were battling him.

The waves pushed them higher, higher, and then the boat tumbled down the far side, and James deftly kept the valiant little vessel on an even keel. They completely lost track of how long they continued to fight to survive: It might have been minutes, or hours, although it most certainly wasn't days. James continued to row, and Thomas saw that his friend was becoming exhausted. His arms were moving as if they were leaden, and he was grunting with every stroke whereas earlier he had rowed with facility. Finally, he could stand it no longer. “I'm taking over!” he shouted.

James tried to shake his head, but he scarcely had the energy even for that. Thomas pulled himself across the bottom of the boat, avoiding standing up lest he cause the entire thing to topple. Realizing that their mutual safety was far too important to be jeopardized by his pride, James waited until Thomas was in place and firmly gripping the oars and then slid off the bench with a moan.
“Which way?”
Thomas shouted. In response, James pointed off to the right, and Thomas obediently sent the boat careening in that direction.

And as they continued to try to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the site of the pirates' violent demise, the cries of the whale eventually subsided and then disappeared entirely.