The Feline Wizard (30 page)

“To him, quickly!” Balkis cried, and leaped off the sandfish. Anthony followed her, then ran to catch up as she sped back to the Pytanian.

“I am well, I am well!” Panyat protested, sitting up and brushing off sand. “My apologies, my friends—my clumsiness has lost us our steed.”

“I think that it is well for us.” Anthony pointed back along their trail.

Looking, Panyat and Balkis saw the great dorsal fin curving away, turning southwest, running back into the barren dunes.

“Why would it go back so suddenly?” Balkis asked, wide-eyed.

“It feeds upon the lesser sandfish.” Panyat blanched at the thought. “That must be why it was coming north across the waste—because it had exhausted the shoals in the south, and fortunate we were to catch what we could before it came. Now, though, it has eaten all it can find here, for we have come too close to the northern edge of the desert for the small fish to swim. The giant must go west to find fresh prey.”

“But if that is so,” Balkis said, “our crossing is nearly done!”

Panyat faced north and inhaled deeply. He exhaled and said, “I think you may be right. Let us walk while we may.”

They strapped their sand-skis on again and shuffled through the night. Balkis was feeling even thirstier now, but managed not to speak of it—one glance at Anthony's face showed that he was feeling it, too. She hoped they would soon find an oasis, if not the edge of the desert itself.

Through the darkest part of the night they traveled, speaking less and less as thirst sapped their energy. Finally, Anthony brought out a wineskin and offered it to Balkis. She stared. “From whence came that?”

“From Piconye,” Anthony answered. “Do you not remember? Their king gave it to us as a parting gift.”

“How welcome it is now!” Balkis said fervently as she took the skin. She squirted a few sips into her mouth, swallowed, then coughed and held it out, eyes bulging, hand at her throat. “Tay … take it, Anthony, but only a swallow!” she gasped, her voice hoarse. “It is terribly strong!”

“I had forgotten that.” Anthony's face turned tragic. “Forgive me, sweet companion!”

“I shall thank you instead,” she rasped, “for it is better than nothing—though not by much! Sip at it, Anthony. We shall surely make that last!”

Anthony drank, and they shuffled onward, following Panyat, who watched them with troubled eyes. Now and again they
would stop and share a sip or two of brandywine, but the skin was still almost full when Balkis realized that she was hearing a distant roaring sound, had been hearing it for some time, but that it had grown louder so gradually that she had not remarked upon it.

“The river!” Panyat cried. “Hear you that sound? It is the river that flows into this sandy sea!”

Balkis stared. What manner of river made so much noise? Was it one huge waterfall?

“Then we have come to the end of the desert?” Anthony asked hopefully.

“To the end of the sandy sea, at least,” Panyat said. “There is more desert between the seashore and the mountains, but it is far less harsh than this, and has more frequent water.”

“That will be a blessing, certainly.” The mere thought of water seemed to revive Anthony. “Come, Panyat, let us see this river of yours!” He set out at a quick pace.

Panyat looked up at the note of his voice and cautioned, “There is not much water there.”

“Not much water?” Anthony stared. “How can there be a river without water?”

“Because it has many rocks,” Panyat told him. “Come, you shall see for yourself.”

They came to the river in the unreal half-light that comes as night is beginning to yield to day. First it was only a line of deeper darkness against lighter, but as they approached they saw it broaden even as its noise grew to thunderous proportions—not a roaring anymore, but a crunching and grinding. Coming closer, they stared in disbelief, for they saw a jumbled stream of rocks of all sizes, from boulders to pebbles, ail turning against one another, over and over as they rolled on like a river swollen with springtime rain.

Anthony stared at it, aghast. “If there is any water in there, it would be death to dip for it!”

“Very true,” Panyat said, “but there is moisture trapped beneath the stones, and if you dig a hole in the bank, it will fill with enough for a mouthful now and then. I saw the traders drink thus while they waited to cross.”

“Waited to cross?” Balkis asked. “Did they not see a ford or a bridge?”

“There is none, for shallow or deep, the turning rocks would grind you to meal,” Panyat said, “and none could build a bridge, for the pilings that hold it up would be swept away in minutes. For three days in the week it flows, casting up stones both great and small, and carries with it also wood to the sandy sea—but on the fourth day the river slows, then stills. Then we may cross it.”

Balkis gazed out over the turning stones. “So we must wait three days?”

Panyat shrugged. “Perhaps three, perhaps one—perhaps even tomorrow the river will stop. Who knows on which of those three days we have come?”

As the day brightened, Balkis saw how the grinding rocks could carry wood—whole tree trunks slid along on its surface, the stones rolling beneath them. Following their course with her gaze, she saw the end of the river—the place where the huge stream of rocks and wood poured into the sandy sea, the stones and wood disappearing into the sand.

“Yonder is its ending!” Balkis pointed. “Can we not simply walk around
itV

“Nay, Balkis. You can see how the stones sink into the sand, how it swallows them up. It is a quicksand, and no one knows how far it extends.”

“Do we have to cross the river at all?”

“Yes, for the land of Prester John is on the other side—far on the other side. This side leads only into more wasteland.”

“A drink!” Anthony rose from kneeling beside a foot-wide hole, flourishing his waterskin triumphantly; it bulged very slightly at the bottom. He presented it to Balkis as though it were a treasure, which indeed it was.

“Many thanks, sweet fellow,” she said, and upended the skin, letting a mouthful trickle past her lips. Then, with a supreme effort of will, she handed it back to Anthony.

He took and drank, too, afterward pushing the skin back into the hole he had dug. Looking out over the river, clear now in dawn's light, he said, “Can it be that all the sand of this
sea has come from these rocks grinding themselves to powder as they flow?”

“Perhaps,” Panyat said, “though I should think it would take a great many such rivers, and this is the only one of its kind in all the world—or so say the traders.”

As the day brightened, Anthony's little well slaked their thirst a mouthful at a time; then he set himself to filling both waterskins. As he waited, Anthony scouted along the river-bank and gathered small branches and other bits of wood that had broken off the rolling trunks and been carried to the sides. As he stacked kindling and small sticks to build a fire, Balkis set out the baskets one last time. As Panyat had said, it was too shallow for good fishing, but they did catch several small sandfish and made one last meal of the savory creatures. Then Balkis and Anthony buried the butts of their branches in the sand and stretched their cloaks over the improvised frame to give them shelter from the sun.

They napped in the afternoon, sleeping peacefully in spite of the noise of the river—they had grown so used to it that it troubled them not at all.

The ant was faint with hunger; even for an ant, there was little to eat amidst the sand dunes. It had slowed to half its normal speed but kept plodding on as long as daylight lasted. Its thirst was raging; it had lost the humans' scent, but doggedly pushed ahead, sure it would find them. Poor insect, it could not know that it had strayed, that its path had curved amidst the shifting dunes, that it was far from their route of march.

Its antennae quivered; ahead, it detected moisture. Energy flowed, and it moved toward the source, if not with its old speed, at least faster than it had been going.

It came to an oasis and sped toward the water, ignoring the palm trees, the birds, the lizards that fled as the ant's acrid scent reached them, ignoring everything but the scent of water. It was a brackish pond, but it was wet, and the ant drank deeply. Finally, its thirst assuaged, it became aware of the pang of hunger again, and turned to seek the scent of living things.

They were all around it, six times as tall as it was, and all of them carried clubs.

Among the things the ant had ignored was the skin tents that circled the oasis, for it was home to a clan of humans— but rather strange humans, for their shoulders were level and uninterrupted by necks or heads. Instead, faces looked out of their chests, huge eyes just beneath the collarbones, mouths just beneath their rib cages. The women with babies in their arms stayed back by the tents, waiting curiously for the rest of the clan to deal with the little intruder. All the rest, men and women alike, gathered about the creature, raising clubs.

The ant ignored the clubs; all it knew was the scent of flesh. It charged the nearest of the men, then swerved at the last second to attack the woman beside him. Three clubs smashed into the earth behind it. The woman screamed in anger and swung; the ant shied in the nick of time, and the club pounded sand right in front of it. It leaped onto the wood and ran its length, then up the arm that held it, knowing how to deal with these soft creatures, for had it not killed the anteater-man and the uniped with a single clash of its huge mandibles? It scurried to the shoulder and reached out to bite…

But there was no neck.

Shouts rang in its ears as something struck its abdomen, knocking it from the woman's shoulders and sending it spinning through the air. It landed on its feet, though, and turned to charge back.

A dozen clubs pounded at it.

The ant danced, managing to avoid all the blows except the one that crushed the tip of one antenna. Even for a live eating machine like itself, the danger was obvious, and it turned and ran. The people ran after it, shouting and slamming clubs every time they came near. Having been revived by the water, however, the ant outstripped them and shot out into the desert.

Something struck it, and it fell to the side, then rolled and came to its feet again, not even stopping to look but running and running from these horrible creatures that did not die
when they should. At last the clan's shouting diminished behind it.

The companions woke in late afternoon, drank, ate the last of the sandfish, and sat about trading tales again, then fell asleep for the night.

Balkis woke suddenly and looked about, wondering what had wakened her. She saw Anthony and Panyat likewise sitting up, blinking in puzzlement. The rosy hues of dawn made even the river of stones lovely, the rocks seeming to glow.

“What wakened us?” Anthony asked.

His voice seemed unnaturally loud, and Balkis suddenly knew the answer. “Silence woke us! The river has stopped!”

They turned to look, and sure enough, the stones had stopped turning. All three shouted with delight. They made a quick breakfast, tied their branches to their packs, left their sand-skis for anyone who might want to travel southward, and set out to cross the river of stones.

“Step carefully,” Panyat warned. “One or two might turn beneath your feet, and even those that hold still may be uncertain footing.”

Uncertain indeed, as Balkis discovered—she had thought it would be like crossing a brook on stepping-stones, but such stones had been flattened by long use, and these were all rounded from their grinding. They pressed painfully against the soles of her slippers, all the more because the long journey had worn those soles thin. She tried one large step, skipping a rock in between, and cried out with alarm, arms windmilling. Anthony instantly turned back and caught her wrist, steadying her enough so that she caught her balance— but he threw himself off and tumbled gracelessly to the stones. Balkis cried out and stooped to help him up.

He cast a rueful glance at her, then brushed himself off, avoiding her gaze. “It is not as easy as it seems.”

“Not at all,” Balkis agreed. “Pardon me for slowness, but I think I shall mince my way across.”

So she did, stopping on only one stone at a time and making sure both feet were secure before she stepped to the next—or as secure as they could be on a rounded surface; she teetered
each time, but caught her balance, then stepped on. Finally, though, one stone turned beneath her foot, and she cried out as she slipped and fell.

Again Anthony was beside her in an instant, lifting her to her feet—but pain stabbed through her ankle, and she caught her breath to stifle a scream.

“Carefully, then,” Anthony said. “Lean on me, and hop with the good foot. Hold the other high.”

“Be wary,” she told him. “I do not wish you to be hurt, too”

But he wasn't, not until they were within ten feet of the northern bank. Then he stepped over a small pile of rocks, a sort of granite wave, and as he put both feet past it, one stone fell, crashing down at his heel. To escape it, Anthony stepped more quickly than he should have and fell with a cry of surprise. Balkis hauled back on his arm, almost upsetting herself, and cried with pain as her injured foot touched rock.

“Can you rise?” she asked.

“I think so.” But Anthony spoke through stiff lips, his face white and strained. He shoved himself to his feet—then cried out and fell to his knees.

Panyat was there, though, shoving a shoulder under Anthony's and keeping his fall from having too rough a landing. “You must both lean on me now,” he told them. “Come, it is only a few yards more.”

That was how they finished the crossing, bracing themselves on Panyat's shoulders, which turned out to be just the right height. As they stepped onto the hard ground of the northern bank, they sank down with sighs of relief.

“I had not thought it would be so hard to cross a waterless river when it v/as still,” Anthony admitted.

“Thank Heaven we did not have to try when it moved!” Balkis said.

They rested a little while, then pushed themselves to their feet and turned to look northward—and stared in dismay.