The Tale of Oriel (9 page)

Without their boat, this island would be a sentence of death. The high cliffs were too smooth to climb. The water was too shallow and stony for fish; there was no sand or mud for burrowing skals to live in; no blue-black skals clung to the rocks here, because the sea ran too strongly for seaweed to attach itself. No food, no water, no escape—this island could be a killing place.

He crossed the beach to the cliffs. When he looked up from their base, they seemed to sway over his head, they seemed about to fall over onto him. Almost dizzy, he reached out to the stone.

There were letters cut into the stone. His fingers felt them, and now he knew what to look for he could see them clearly, lines cut deep into solid rock and worn by weather. The letters formed words. The words were names, he thought, two of them close together while the other three were separated, each one alone.

The two together were cut more deeply into the stone. They might have been carved with a knife, he decided, whereas the others were hacked roughly. A rough solitary name was under his hand. SANDO, he read, and then another solitary name, MILLAR, and then—its initial C as ragged as a scream—CORBEL. These names were at different heights and the letters differently shaped; these three must have come to the island at different times.

The two names together, cut more narrowly, worn more smoothly, one above the other, were two who had been together, he thought. ORIEL, he read, and BERYL.

He wondered—his fingertips tracing the O, the sun warm on his back—which names had been first carved, and how long ago, and if those made at a later time had been inspired by the sight of the earlier. Then he thought, he must be more weary than he guessed, not to recognize the gift.

BERYL and ORIEL, weathered yet clear. He knew beryl, and he ran back to where Griff sat, looking seawards.

“I found names carved in the cliff face,” he said. “As if people were maybe shipwrecked here. From a long time ago, but there's no way of knowing how long, but—look—” He reached up under his shirt and his fingers worked their way down into the strip of cloth he had wound around and around his waist, concealed by both trousers and shirt. “There were two names together, Oriel and Beryl and—see?” He brought out what he had carried hidden among the windings of cloth, and unwrapped it.

The green stone lay in the palm of his hand. Shafts of light seemed to lead the eye into its green heart.

“You can hold it if you want to.”

Griff reached out his hand and took the beryl. The stone was as long as his thumb, and twice as thick.

“This is the last beryl.”

“They said,” Griff said, “that as long as there remained one of the Great Damall's beryls, the island would be safe from harm.”

That wasn't the response he expected, or wanted. “They also said,” he reminded Griff, “that the Great Damall would rise from the sea, his sword in his hand and Death himself at his shoulder, if danger threatened the island. What of that? They also said there were nine stones given to the Great Damall, each one as large as a man's fist. But I know better. I read what the Great Damall wrote: There was a Prince from a distant Kingdom, in the northern lands, who bought the giant from the Great Damall. The Great Damall had saved the giant from drowning in the sea, and the price the Prince paid was three beryls. The Great Damall wrote down what the Prince told him. This giant had been stolen from the Kingdom by pirates; the Prince disguised himself as a beggar and followed after. When the Prince saw how well the Great Damall treated the giant, he revealed himself, and offered the three beryls. Two bought the island. This is the last of them.” He didn't believe all the Great Damall wrote, but that last he did believe. The giant, the Prince, the distant Kingdom, the Great Damall wearing honor like a cloak—those he might doubt; but the beryl he could touch.

“I take Oriel for my name,” he said. “Shall I?”

“For what reason?”

“Isn't it reason enough to see the name carved here? And beryl with it? Isn't it reason enough that I must have a name?” He gave himself the name, silently speaking it, Oriel. “Can you name me?”

“Yes,” Griff said. At the waiting silence, he looked up. “Oriel,” Griff said. “I can name you that. Oriel.”

At each saying, the name fitted him more closely. “Name me again,” he said.

“Oriel,” Griff said. “Did you bring the Great Damall's treasure with you then, Oriel?”

“I did. Not all, though. I left some gold pieces, and silver. For the well-being of those who stay behind.”

“Now what will happen there?”

“I named an heir.”

“Nikol?”

“If I hadn't named him . . .”

Griff remained silent for a long time. His fingers turned the beryl over, and back, and over again. “There's something—” he held it up before his eyes—“Look, Oriel, isn't there something carved?” He returned the stone.

“A bird?” Oriel tilted the stone so the sun shone onto it. “This looks like a beak, head, and the wings outstretched— Tomorrow we leave this place, Griff, and when we have paper we'll see what there is to see. But who would carve into such a stone?”

Griff didn't know.

“And why?” Even Oriel, who had read the Great Damall's book over and over, couldn't guess.

The day passed slowly, until afternoon faded into evening. Darkness crossed the sea, slowly, approaching. Oriel was hungry and restless. Beside him, Griff was probably just as hungry although neither spoke of it.

The stars came out, faint as distant sails, then clearer. Griff went back to the shelter of the boat to sleep. Oriel remained at the shore, with the sound of little waves for company. In a while the moon would rise up into the black sky. On such a clear night, the moon's light would be so bright it would cast shadows.

They might, Oriel's restless mind thought, set sail on such a night.

But nobody sailed at night. Night sailing was dark and dangerous. Besides, were Nikol to search for them, he'd never look at this stony, eastward-facing cove, at the back of this uninhabitable island. He wouldn't care enough to search. Except—

For the treasure. Nikol wouldn't have read the Great Damall's book, because reading was too hard for him. Nikol would think there were many beryls stolen. Nikol would search long and hard for beryls, and for imagined riches of more gold and silver than the treasure boxes had ever held.

Oriel was on his feet. He turned, staring into the darkness that was cliffs, then back over the water. They should sail this night, and sail by night.

It was already too late, the wind had sunk, if they didn't make a harbor by morning and if Nikol were searching—

But it would be foolhardy to sail out blind, and at night on unfamiliar waters he was as good as blind, and worse if the wind rose up.

Here, everything was known. Everything was stone. Here lay safety, here safety was sure. Here, night shielded them.

Nobody ever sailed by night. Everybody knew better.

Oriel turned back to the shelter of the boat. Sleep came swiftly, as if she had only been awaiting his summons to lie down beside him and wrap him in her soft arms.

T
HEY WERE LATER THAN THE
sun in rising, and clumsy at righting the boat. It was, Oriel thought, the weakness of hunger and thirst. He hadn't brought enough food when he stocked this cove for their sheltering. But he had taken all the food he dared risk removing from the storeroom. If failing to take the greater risk meant that they failed—

But they hadn't failed. They were here, safe, on the third morning. They might not live, but they wouldn't have failed. A surging effort, beyond his own strength, enabled him to lift the stern, while Griff shifted the bow onto his shoulders and back. They were breathing heavily and could only carry the boat twelve paces before they had to set it down.

When they had regained strength, they crouched down and once again lifted, settled the boat's weight, and bore it twelve slow paces before setting it down again.

In that fashion they made their way down to the water. Once the keel was buoyed up by water, there was only the mast to lift and set into place. Oriel locked the mast into place with its wooden pin.

Oriel and Griff climbed into the boat and each took an oar to paddle them out into deep water. Then Griff lowered the boom from where it had been lashed against the mast, and thereby unfolded the sail. The wind came from the northeast. The sail swelled with wind. The sun shone down, dancing along the uneven surface of the water, reflecting light into their faces. The sky was empty and blue. The cove fell away behind them, and the rocky island fell away.

Griff didn't ask where they were heading, not even when Oriel brought the bow around to point as close to direct west as the wind permitted. This slowed their pace, and the wind—dying into noonday calm—slowed them further. At the pace of a leaf floating on still water, they approached two islands that seemed only a hand's breadth apart, but which they knew from familiarity lay hundreds of paces separate. From those, the Damall's island lay close. Beyond those islands, to the north, stretched the green horizon of the mainland.

“Sails,” Griff said, pointing to the east. “Do you see three?” Both knew how unclear vision over distance is, at sea. “Two?”

Oriel bent his head to look under the boom. He saw at least two, and maybe three, or four. He saw tiny dots that were red sails, the same color as the sail over his head. “Coming closer?”

“I can't tell,” Griff said. “Oriel—?”

Oriel didn't know if this was Nikol, searching. He didn't know if their single boat was visible over the distance. He didn't know if they should fold up their sail, since it was the most visible thing about them. He didn't know what—

Danger made his choice. He pulled the tiller in close, to swing the bow of the boat around until the wind came at the sail from behind. This was the favorable set. This was the set of the sail for speed, and he held it—heading south and west, heading away from what might be boats pursuing. Griff watched behind them while Oriel watched the sail, to keep it filled. They might be pursued, but on this heading they couldn't be caught, not with such a lead on their pursuers. The tiller and rope pulled against his hands, and the boat pulled eagerly through the water.

He didn't dare turn his head, so he watched Griff's face. He wasn't surprised to hear, after a long while, Griff's report. “They're out of sight. I haven't seen them for a long time. I think we're clear of them.”

“A little longer,” he decided.

It was afternoon when he turned the boat again. They had gone so far out to sea that only a dim greyness at the horizon that might have been a line of clouds marked what he hoped was land. He turned the boat and sailed a zigzag course back to the north, then west again, across the empty water. He thought, he would like to see just one island. If he could see an island coming towards them out of the distance—green-headed within its encircling boulders—then he would know that sooner or later they could find one of the few beaches that appeared on the islands, and make a landfall.

The afternoon passed slowly, as they first saw at a distance and then sailed among unfamiliar islands, bringing the boat in close wherever it looked as if they might make a landing. At last they saw a narrow pebbled beach.

“I hope there's water,” Griff said. “A creek, or a spring.”

“Yes,” Oriel agreed, and he hadn't realized until then how dry his mouth was, how great his thirst. When he had turned the bow of the boat and sailed for speed in whatever direction the wind chose, he might have lost both of their lives, when he let danger make his choices.

It was twilight by the time they had dragged the boat up the slope of shore and tied it to a boulder, in case the tide rose high. From beyond the beach the island's rim of great stones—smoothed by weather until they seemed huge flanks of even huger animals—trees were visible against the darkening sky. “If we sleep until light, we can try then to find water,” Oriel said.

“I feared,” Griff said, “that we might never make landfall again. For a while I truly feared it. You did well, Oriel. You— I don't know how you do it, we're away from the island, and safe and— You did it.”

Oriel heard the wonder in Griff's voice and he knew why Griff felt that way, but he couldn't agree. He counted up the errors he had made, and understood how great a part good luck had played in their escape. Without all of the luck, Oriel knew where they would be. Because his first error was not killing Nikol, when he had the dagger in his hand and the Damall's permission.

But what kind of a life was it when you had to kill somebody to keep the place that had been awarded to you? What kind of a world was it where in order to be on top you had to push others under—as if you were pushing heads down underwater—and hold them there until they drowned, and then you could be on top.

Oriel hadn't done nearly as well as he should have and this could have cost his own life, and Griff's, too. How that hadn't happened, he reminded himself, was more important than how well he had done. It was more important, if he wanted to continue living, not to let himself lose sight of the truth of things.

They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down on the rocks, to sleep. The sky overhead was curtained with long drifting clouds, through which moon or stars sometimes appeared. Sleeping, then waking to hear the water, see the stars, smell the salty air—then sleeping again, Oriel passed the night.

In the morning, they took off their boots and trousers and waded, barelegged, into the icy sea to pull blue-black skals up from where they clung to rocks under cover of ropy seaweed. Oriel had the tinder-box at his waist. He struck sparks to start a cookfire. When the driftwood logs had heated to coals they lay seaweed in armloads down upon the flames, dumped the skals, and then more seaweed. Steam rose moist and salty, as the skals cooked themselves open.