Watson, Ian - Black Current 01 (23 page)

 
          
And
Jambi said to me, in an offhand way, "Whatever the little beauties are
,
they seem to keep stingers away."

 
          
I
woke with a start. Her words echoed in me. I repeated them aloud, over and
over.

 
          
Had
she really said that when we were on the waterfront together? Had I forgotten,
or not noticed at the time, because I'd been tipsy? Had I not heard
consciously—yet some part of my mind heard and recorded what she uttered?

 
          
I
rose and paced the room in the darkness, thinking hard.

 
          
Was
this wishful thinking? Dream fantasy? Or was it a sign?
A
response from the black current?
Which?
Why didn't
The Book of the River
mention that the waters of Spanglestream were free of stingers?
If it were true.

 
          
Maybe
the fisherwomen of Spanglestream—Jambi's old school chums—knew this but didn't
make a big deal out of it, except that they felt less leery of sorting their
nets by hand without using gauntlets. . . .

 
          
Maybe
the waters
as such
weren't free of
stingers? Maybe it was only the streamers that were safe? These streamers waxed
and waned; so the water would indeed be infested sometimes.
But
not on the most splendid occasions.
When the streamers seemed to stretch
clear across the river in great swathes, only interrupted by the midway
current, would there be a clear path all the way?

 
          
If
I were to dive into such a silver swathe from
this
shore, and swim with it until I reached the current. . . .

 
          
Ah,
the current.
Problem.

 
          
It
had let me pass once. Why not twice?

 
          
Thence
onward to the east bank, safe in another luminous swathe. . . .

 
          
A
long swim, even so!

 
          
Yet
if I wasn't threatened with being stung to death, I could take my time. Vary my
strokes. Even float awhile to recoup my strength.

 
          
I
tried to taste and savour my dream again. It had been so vivid, so lucid. But
was it
true?

           
Maybe Jambi herself hadn't spoken
that sentence. Maybe I'd overheard one of her fisherfolk friends say it at the
party. And maybe the current itself had spoken to me, through Jambi's dream-
lips.

 
          
Maybe.
Maybe.
I could go round like
this in circles forever. I decided to treat the dream as true.

 
          
I
considered. Guineamoy must lie roughly north-east of Man- home South, if that
tiny pall of smoke-polluted air I'd spotted from the heights of Lookout Gibbet
had indeed been our grimy factory town. So Spanglestream lay to the south-east.

 
          
How
many leagues away from Manhome South was it?
Ten?
Twelve?
Perhaps no more.
I could
assume with some confidence that the Sons must shun
that
part of the shore even more fiercely: there where those bright
emanations from the Snake coursed across to touch the very bank. All the
country opposite Spanglestream ought to be deserted for a long way inland. Once
again my dream pointed in the right direction.

 
          
I
made a mental note to avoid asking Edrick's opinion of the streamers, or show
any special interest should he raise the subject. Then I climbed back into bed.

 
          
The
next morning I began to steal food and store it in my room.
Discreetly
but busily.

 
          
As
it turned out, it was lucky that I'd had to feed Edrick's hound. By now the
beast thought of me as a friend.
Or as something familiar, at
any rate.

 
          
Otherwise,
when I slipped out at midnight a few days later, the wretched creature would
have barked everyone awake, in between tearing me to shreds. . . .

 
          
In
the interim Doctor Edrick had said no more to me about his grand new project.
But he had been absent longer than usual each day. On returning he had twice
closeted himself in his study for ages with Andri and Jothan. Jothan departed
the house a few hours after the second occasion, equipped for the high road. I
had no idea whether he was heading back to the south—or northwards, as a
courier to the Ka-Theodral in Manhome North. Ka-Theodral was the formal name
for the building, "ka" being some old word for the essence of a
person, which rode the psylink back to Eeden when he died.) Whichever direction
Gingerbush had taken, he was well out of the way. That same night I crept
downstairs and unbolted the kitchen door.

 
          
I
tossed meat to the dog, which appeared as if by magic. Before I had gone half a
dozen steps it had bolted all the raw chunks
down,
and
bounded after me. All the way to the gate, I had to soothe it and thump it in
the manner which dogs seem to find friendly. When I shut the gate on it,
pushing it back, the hound began to whine noisily. 1 tore a stick off a bush
and hurled it far into the dark garden. Away 1 sprinted on tiptoe, hoping that
when the animal came back, slavering on the piece of wood and thrashing its
tail, and did not find me, amnesia would overtake it.

 
          
It
must have forgotten. No barking rent the night.

 
          
Onwards
through Manhome South I slipped. I'd gathered that a woman out alone at night
could only be a "whore" or a witch. But I was conveniently dressed in
the colour of darkness, and there was nothing in the way of civic
illuminations.

 
          
Three
hours later, with the town well behind me, I was toiling up a forest trail
leading out of the valley.

 
          
Getting
across town and out through the shanties hadn't been too difficult. The grid layout
proved invaluable. Even the fouler, rougher areas were arranged north by south
and east by west.

 
          
I
only had to hide once; and run another time, when I set a dog a-raving—but it
must have been chained. I hope it choked. I tripped and filthied myself twice,
out in the vegetable fields beyond the shanties.

 
          
On
the far side of the fields was tangle. Finding a trail through all the bushes
and trees took a long time. I had to backtrack. I had to circle to the north.
Eventually I found a rutted road heading in the right direction—that direction
being eastwards, riverwards.

 
          
Just
as the sky was starting to grey with imminent light the road reached its
destination: a timber
camp.
Ahead were long huts,
felled trees, carts—with yokes and very long traces laid out for teams of men
to haul.
(Or teams of huge hounds.
Or women.)

 
          
I
debated my chance of racing through the camp, but it was too near dawn to run
the risk of being spotted by early risers. And there might be dogs about.
Instead I worked my way all around the slope, which had been thinned by
felling. By the time the sun did rise, I was beyond.

 
          
And
a clanging alarm sounded from the camp. My heart stopped for a moment—till I
realized that this was the signal to rise and shine; and toil.

 
          
I
journeyed on for perhaps half a league more till I finally had to stop,
exhausted. The undergrowth was thick but not impenetrable. No paths were
evident other than minor runs trodden by small creatures unknown. I burrowed
into a dense brake, squirmed round several times like a dog to make my bed,
and slept.

 
          
When
I woke in the afternoon, insects were zizzing about me, settling on my
scratches and my sweat to feed. I fairly itched with their attentions, but I
didn't immediately slap these pests away. Holding quite still, I listened: for
any distant shouts, the baying of hounds, whatever.
Nothing.
I only heard the noises of the forest: a babbling murmur, occasional cackles.
So I fed, then I emptied my bowels, burying the evidence with the aid of a
stone. I forged onwards.
Downhill, now.
Away from the
heights that lay inland. I navigated by the brightness of the sun.

 
          
It
took eight days to reach the waters of Spanglestream. I didn't hurry
unduly—often I
couldn't.
I avoided
easy, exposed routes, though after the first day or so I didn't expect to be
overtaken by pursuing Sons. Doctor Edrick must surely decide that I had struck
off north in the direction of Verrino. Or perhaps less likely, that I might
have fled due east straight towards the enchanted river to have my witch's
limbs in it as soon as possible.

 
          
Instead
I slipped south-east diagonally across the land.

 
          
This
was no mean journey. Yet with ample food on hand, and compared with those weeks
of travel up in the far south, at times it almost seemed a stroll.

 
          
At
last one evening as the world was darkening I pushed through brush and creepers
for the last time, to stand upon the river bank once more. I beheld silver
streamers snaking upon the waters, and my heart rejoiced. As night fell, the
phosphorescence glowed ever more brightly.

 
          
Dream
and reality seemed to merge. Once again the myriads of beasties were putting on
a show for me, and this was such a show as seemed more allied to my dream than
to my memory. As far as I could see in both directions liquid silver floated,
hardly broken at all by straits of black water. Even if I drifted downstream I
should still be safe.

 
          
One
tongue of white fire lay particularly close to the shore. It was as wide as
could be: three hundred spans, or four. It angled down from the south-east.
Faint twinklings of light visible far off in the north-east were perhaps the
harbour lanterns of Spanglestream itself.

           
I slipped off my women's black
weeds—they were certainly the worse for wear. I discarded my undershorts. I
kicked off my frayed rope sandals. I cleansed myself of the West. I was
determined to plunge into the stream quite nude. If any Son of Adam could have
seen me, he would have known that a witch was going home, and would have
covered his eyes. Or else he would have stared, and lusted for fire.

 
          
I plodged out to where the mud fell sharply away—and launched
myself upon the luminous highway.

 
          
When
a light wind stirs even the gentlest of waves, on so wide a river after a while
you lose sight of the bank entirely. Stars spread above me in a second river;
mainly of silver, with several sapphires and rubies scattered through that
setting. I took the constellation of the Axe for my guide, remembering how it
would turn about the Pole as time went by.

 
          
No
stingers attacked. If great shoals of pollfish, ajil and hoke were grazing upon
the streamer, I felt no mouths bump or nibble at me. My arms were haloed in a
warm white fire. My head, too, I suppose —though I never dunked my face as I
swam.

 
          
I
don't know how many times I varied my stroke—breast, butterfly, crawl—or
whether an hour had gone by or longer, when blackness loomed immediately
ahead. The ever-splashing silver had begun to blind me to the stars of the
Axe; that blackness gave me back my sight.

 
          
I
didn't tread water or hesitate.

 
          
But I did think fiercely in my head: Worm of
the World, it's me: Yaleen! Let me pass!

           
If I'd expected it to drink me deep,
then
spew me out again with a giant fish to bear me
senseless to the eastern shore, I was wrong.

 
          
I
swam through the current sluggishly, breasting what felt like soft butter or
congealing lard. And while I swam, it explored me. Dreams rolled around inside
my skull, examining the contents once again, laying out the wares. I never sank
into the depths, of the current or of unconsciousness. In the midst of my
"hallucinations" I remained aware of where I was. Thus I was swimming
briefly through the southern jungles—then along the high road in company of
Andri and Jothan. Next I was floating in Doctor Edrick's house. Here, the
current seemed to shudder, to wobble. . . .