Watson, Ian - Black Current 01 (36 page)

 
          
"I'd
like some food and drink sent over.
Just in case I get
peckish!"

 
          
"How
about bedding?" shouted
Peli.

 
          
Hardly.
I'd slept in bushes, up trees, on mud and moss, on
Spanglestream quayside, and most recently in a chalice of fog.

 
          
"No, but I could use a change of clothes and a towel—I'm
drenched!
And when you've sent everything over, unhitch this rope. Haul
your anchor up. Sail the old
Yaleen
well clear!"

 
          
Because
the boat was already well out of gangplank reach, some debate ensued as to the
best method of supplying me; then a wooden laundry tub was dropped in the
water, a canvas bag full of my requirements lowered into this, and a line
tossed to me to pull the tub across. After emptying the tub, I cast it adrift.

 
          
"Hey!"
cried Maranda indignantly.

 
          
Ignoring
her, I stripped off—all but the bodice, which I had to tolerate. Fortunately it
was fairly water-resistant. I towelled myself as dry as I could and donned new
boots, breeches and a jacket.

 
          
"Oh,
and you must signal downstream! Beach any 'jacks who are on the river!"

 
          
"Will do!"
Peli unhitched the rope. I dragged it
through the water and coiled it behind me in the mouth, leaving myself a loop
to hang on to. Most of the rope was held tight in the gullet trap, of course.
So now I had the Worm harnessed, after a fashion.

 
          
The
crew soon upped anchor, upped sails, and stood off. Sparki was already
signalling downstream. I stood there in the mouth, my chest braced against the
rope.

 
          
Worm!
And I presented that special image
to it.

 
          
I
met unexpected resistance.
An image of majesty.
Puissance.
But I'm a
God,
this seemed to say.

 
          
So blast me with lightning! I retorted.
If you don 7 like it.

           
There actually
was
a mild rumble, though it came from deep within the Precipices.
I guessed the Worm was readjusting itself internally, since this rumbling went
on for a while. The noise was more like flatulence, a grumbling of the guts,
than thunder. After a while, it stopped. That cavern where I'd been must have
deflated by now.

 
          
Nothing
else happened, but I stood firm, still insisting on that image. This Worm
wasn't going to make a fool of me now! Actually, the Worm was already obeying;
that was what the thunder meant.

           
Yaleen.
Its voice came clearly in my head. I shall help, because you helped
me.

           
Nonsense,
you've no other choice. And anyway it's your duty to help people, if
you ’re
a God.

           
Duty?
Is it? My duty
is ..
.
to
know what I am. To know what the other God-being is.

           
Why
not leave well alone, Worm? Look after your women and your waterway.

           
The
other God has eyes and ears here, girl! I need to gather the Kas of its
servants.

           
You 'll
collect enough of those, as we clear up the mess you caused.

           
Afterwards,
we’ll be quits?
You and I?
It was almost an
appeal. The Worm was beginning to sound a bit more human. Less of that solemn
"Worm of the World I am" business! Was that the secret of its change:
that in becoming a God, it had become a bit more human at the same time?
Less of a great big sponge for soaking up minds; more of a person
in its own right?
A person with a hint of me in it?

 
          
Well, I'm not one to bully a God; in future
I'll just ask politely.

           
Ask
. . . what?

           
Oh,
of Kas and God-Minds and other things.
Of stars and worlds
and Eeden.

           
I’ll
be sure to let you know, when I know, myself.

           
Good.
If that's all settled, let’s move!
I waved a warning to the
Yaleen,
then
I
jerked the rope.

 
          
Presently
the Worm's head surged out of the Precipice. Propelling
itself
,
I guess, by sucking water into its underside then jetting it out. Or maybe it
used the energy it got from burning water. I glanced aside: old
Nothing-Bothers-Me was really gawping. Peli was openly weeping with joy. Sal
was cheering. I kissed my diamond ring to the two of them. This was the
pattern,
this the
special image: myself riding
downriver in the Worm's jaws.

 
          
As
we swept past Port Barbra a couple of hours later, we weren't of course close
enough to shore for me to spot any crowds lining the bank. Nor were any boats
likely to sail out and maybe get in our way. However, I still stood grandly at
the helm as though steering. Signals were flashing far off, and no doubt
numerous spyglasses were trained on me. There are times when one should enjoy
one's moments of glory, not shrug them off modestly.

 
          
Another
four hours, and it would be night. By then we ought to be between Jangali and
Croakers' Bayou, and I might as well get some rest. (I wasn't
actually
steering the current.) By dawn
we would be approaching Gangee, and getting near the war zone.

 
 
          
I
had a choice to make.
A decision before me.

 
          
For
in my eagerness I'd neglected something fairly basic: namely, how I was going
to disembark. Perhaps I ought to have hung on to that laundry tub after all!
First the diving helmet, now the tub; I seemed to have developed a habit lately
of throwing away things that I might need. If only I'd asked for a mirror, too!
And not only to tidy myself.
Come to think of it, I
could probably use one of those bottles my friends had sent over, to flash a signal.
. . .

 
          
My choice?
It wasn't just a question of how I would
disembark; though that little problem did rub home the nub of the matter. And
the nub was this: I could halt the Worm at Umdala. I could wait for a boat to
put out and take me off. Then I could despatch the Worm's head onward into the
wild ocean. By so doing I would have restored the current to the whole length
of the river, and our world to itself.
By and large.
Give or take weeks of warfare to liberate Verrino.

 
          
But
ought I?

 
          
I
thought of how "conserver"-minded my own guild was at heart; yet how
much freer and finer women's lives were as a consequence compared with life in
the west.
And on account of the fact that men hadn't been
able to sail the river.
Surely everyone's life in the east, man and
woman, boy and girl, was better as a result?

 
          
But
then I thought of the frustration and resentment the 'jacks would feel after
they had tasted travel to distant ports, and sacrificed lives in the process;
unless they were all supremely glad to march home . . . three hundred leagues
on foot.
(For they certainly couldn't sail the river, with
the current back in place.)

 
          
I
thought of the madness of Josep, who had yearned to journey far, only to see
his dreams first drowned then parched to death. And I thought of that boy
destroyed for a dare on the ice at Melonby. I thought of
Kish
caught in a spider-web of domestic bliss in
Jangali.

 
          
I
thought of my own brother, destroyed by restless curiosity— because there was
only one outlet for it. I thought of my parents, and Narya. I weighed and I
balanced.

 
          
The
Worm could come just
part way
out of
its lair. It could stop near Aladalia, say—leaving a further hundred and eighty
leagues of northern water free for men and women voyagers, both. True, that was
only one quarter of the river's length. But it might be a start, a promise . .
. On the other
hand,
this would leave a long stretch
of river-border open between east and west. The Westerners would be wise to
assume we could close it if we wished. Though were they wise? And would they
refrain from raiding and piracy? Would the towns from Aladalia to Umdala thank
me for leaving their shores unprotected?

 
          
Ultimately,
the wisdom or otherwise of stopping short did rather depend on what the Worm
might learn of that distant power in Eeden which had sent us all here in the
first place. It hung, too, on what the Worm might learn of itself (God or not).
I didn't think the Worm quite knew what a God was; did anyone? Maybe a God was
just an idea, waiting for an embodiment—like any other invention, such as the
mysterious vessel which had brought our seeds here long ago.
Which
brought me back to the puzzle of the Big Intelligence, bom of men, which ruled
in Eeden.

 
          
Basically,
had I the right to decide to stop short? Had I won this right by restoring the
current? Or had I only redeemed the mess I had provoked? In future years would
I be seen as a heroine or a criminal idiot?

 
          
How
could I know the answer to that, till it was far too late to choose a different
option? And did this matter? Maybe no one can be a heroine if they set out to
be one. And if someone does set out to be one,
distrust
them.

 
          
Questions, questions.
At least I had a choice.
A free choice, for once.
On behalf of
everyone living, and quite a few who were dead.

           
The bow-wave rolled foaming away
equally towards east and west. I laid down my harness rope and burrowed in the
canvas bag, unpacking dried fish, sweetcakes, fruit, a bottle of water, a
bottle of wine.

 
          
I
drank some water then scoffed a few cakes and chewed on a fish-stick. The wine
I would reserve to toast Jangali when we passed. A swig or several would help
me get to sleep that night; to sleep upon my little problem.

 
          
By
the time we reached Verrino next day, I would certainly have made my mind up.
That's what choices are for.
To savour them while you can,
and then to seize one.
Or the other.

 
          
My
Book of the River, that's to say!
The book that the river guild asked me to write, here in Aladalia,
even while the war was being fought and won a hundred leagues away.
I
guess they felt it necessary to explain to everyone from Umdala to Tambimatu
exactly what had happened, even if this meant spilling secrets in the process
(and perhaps bruising a few egos!). Otherwise, who knows what scare stories and
wild rumours would have been flying about for ever more?

 
          
Before
this book is printed up Ajelobo way they'll probably change the title, though.
And maybe some committee of guildmistresses will go through it first with a
pot of black ink . . . And then again, maybe not.

 
          
At
first I imagined that writing a book might be as daunting a task as swimming
the river or walking to Manhome South. But once begun, I found to my relief
(then delight) that my story flowed easily enough. My reading of all those
Ajelobo romances came in handy at long last! I think I even got better at it as
I went along. In fact, I can hardly bear to put down my pen.

 
          
What
else?

 
          
Oh
yes: I have nutbrown hair and hazel eyes. I'm slim, rather than skinny (except
when on my way to Manhome South); and in bare feet I stand just over five spans
tall—or short. I have a chocolate mole on the side of my neck. I forgot those
little details. That proves I'm modest.
Obviously.
(Should I add them in? No. . . .)

 
          
But
of course there's
more;
which is what
these last few private words are really about—for my eyes only.

 
          
This
part doesn't belong in the book, but I'd better write it down in case I get
struck by lightning or something.

 
          
For
the Worm has kept its promise—just last night. (As if it had watched and waited
till I'd finished my whole writing task.) Last night I dreamed I was out alone
upon the river in a rowboat; when the grim head (which is actually loitering
south of here) rose from the depths. Suddenly I was wide awake in my dream, and
in my head I heard these words:

 
          
Yaleen.
I was made, aeons ago, to keep this world
empty of mature minds. I was put here as a destroyer.

           
Recently
I brushed against the God-Mind of Eeden and it cried, "Wretch! On six
worlds since this one, I found your likeness.
Habitable
worlds, with no high life on them.
You aborted intelligence on them, you
kept them lying fallow. You injured my people when they came! What made you,
Demon? Name your Master! War will go on between us till I own you and can use
you, to find what made you lie in wai
¹
a million years, as a trap
and barrier.

           
But
Yaleen, I think I've found how to etiter Eeden. I believe I can send a suitable
human agent along the psylink. To fabled Eeden, Yaleen! And back again!

           
Even in a dream I was able to figure
this one out. And retort,
Don
7
look at me! I
like
it here.

 
          
Come, come, Yaleen, chided the Worm. One
fine day
you ’ll
die, then your

           
Ka
will be with me to send wherever I wish.
Its long white eyes
winked, and its head sank back beneath the water.

 
          
Me,
travel to Eeden along the psylink?
As an agent in a war of
the Gods?

 
          
In
the words of some sensible lads of Melonby: not likely! And, no fear! I've some
items of human business to attend to.

 
          
I
still
haven't seen my parents, to
bring them up to date. Maybe I ought to wait till my book is printed and send
them a copy first? But that would be churlish. We've been strangers too long. I
still haven't bounced Narya on my knee; Narya my sister, not of the river but
of flesh.

 
          
I'll
certainly go to Verrino to begin with. Not merely because it's on the route to
Pecawar—nor to gawp at the damage or the prisoners, or to collect horror
stories. I very much want to find out if Hasso is alive. I want him to know how
much Nelliam appreciated his final kiss. And maybe repay him in kind.

 
          
I
might stay in Verrino a while, maybe help a bit with reconstruction. But then
I'll head on home for sure; back to Pecawar.

 
          
Before
leaving home again ... to go where?

 
          
I
do fear that there's a big "where" waiting for me. And
that
may well be another tale, just as
long as this
Book of the River
(new
version, by Yaleen of Pecawar). If there is another tale, it may be longer than
the river itself—for maybe it will stretch all the way from here to the stars.

 
          
I
can always hope I'm wrong.

 
          
Right
now, I just can't tell.