Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 13

  Jinnarin sighed. “Four to six weeks. Ai, but I would that we could go faster.”

  She and Jatu with Rux between sat atop the steps leading up to the low poop behind the aft quarters. Dusk had fallen, swiftly followed by night racing across the waters. And in the gathering darkness Jatu looked down at the tiny Pysk. “Lady Jinnarin, could we catch a constant polar blow abaft, then we would cross in two weeks or less, mayhap in but ten days. Yet such is not the case, for the wind does not come at our beck…that is, it does not answer my summons, though perhaps Mage Alamar could whistle it up.”

  Jinnarin shook her head. “I don’t think so, Jatu. Alamar once told me it took great power to call the wind, to make storms.”

  Jatu cleared his throat, a deep rumble, then said, “Even the Jujubas of Tchanga, as powerful as they claim they are, make no weather magic of their own…though when it is dry for long seasons—so dry that the lakes have dwindled to nothing but pools of stirring dust and the land is pitted and cracked and the trees and vines and brush and grasses are reduced to arid tinder merely waiting for a spark—the Jujubas sometimes call upon the gods and ask for rain.”

  “And are they answered, Jatu?”

  The black Man laughed. “Sometimes, my tiny one. Sometimes. And sometimes the gods bring more rain than is wanted.”

  “Then, Jatu, those gods must be different from mine, for seldom if ever do Adon and Elwydd answer, no matter how dire the need.”

  A silence fell between them, and Jatu reached over and petted Rux, scratching him behind the ears, the fox closing his eyes in pleasure. At last Jatu said, “Perhaps, Jinnarin, the Tchangan gods do not answer either. Perhaps instead it is merely the rain come again and the Jujubas simply take the credit…or, if the rain is overmuch, blame the gods.”

  Again a silence fell between the two. Overhead the crescent Moon rode the sky. Jinnarin looked up at the spangle of stars above. After a while she said, “Do you think that much of worship is that way, Jatu? I mean, priests claiming credit for the good things, saying that their prayers were answered, or disclaiming the bad, blaming each dire event as an act of some maleficent, vengeful god.”

  Jatu grunted. “In my village, Lady Jinnarin, during hard times our Jujuba alleged that the gods were meting out punishment to the tribe, claiming that we deserved whatever woe the gods now descended upon us—be it drought, pestilence, plague, famine, war, or aught else—for we had strayed from the one true way.”

  Jinnarin looked up at the huge Man. “The one true way? What…?”

  “I think the one true way was whatever the Jujuba had decided it should be on a given day.” Jatu slammed a fist into an open palm, his look sullen, angry.

  Rux peered up at Jatu and then stood and cast about, as if enemies or danger drew nigh, the fox glancing to Jinnarin for any command she might issue.

  Yet the Pysk looked not at the fox but instead eyed the Man. “You are…disturbed, Jatu. Is there anything I can…?”

  Slowly Jatu relaxed. “I did not mean to give you concern, Lady Jinnarin. I was merely…remembering.”

  Once more silence descended between them. After a moment Rux again lay down. The Eroean continued slicing through the dark water, the wind yet abeam as it had been for the past two days upon the Weston Ocean.

  Without preamble Jatu said, “When I was fourteen, my father was ill and wasting away. No matter what the Jujuba did, my father seemed to slip further into his misery. It was the will of the gods, said the Jujuba.

  “One night I followed the Jujuba into the jungle, and there I saw him foraging. He found what he was searching for, a yellow flower, and he dug up its root, pounding it to a pulp, draining the juice into a small clay vessel. The flower is named the viper’s eye, and its root sap is poison. The Jujuba mixed this juice into the medicine he was giving my father. When I told my mother, she confronted the Jujuba, and that was when he told her that he wanted her. He tried to force her and that’s when I killed him.

  “I ran away to escape the punishment of the elders. Then it was that I took to the sea with Captain Aravan. He taught me much—including reading and writing and ciphering…and language and manners and knowledge of the sea and its ways, and of the sailing of this ship. I was nought but an ignorant lad fleeing from a dark deed when I came aboard, yet thanks to Captain Aravan I am now an officer on the Eroean, the best ship in all of the oceans and all of the seas in all of the world. And on this ship I have seen more than any Tchangan child could ever have imagined—marvelous wonders and dangers dire, things precious and deadly and of unsurpassed beauty and charm.

  “Years later, I had a chance to go home. There I discovered that my mother was yet alive as was my father, for he had miraculously recovered after the Jujuba was found dead of a broken neck, though a new Jujuba had later come to take the other’s place.

  “I could have gone back into the tribe then, but by this time it was no longer my way of living.

  “And so you see, Lady, given my experience with the Jujubas and their claims concerning the wills of the gods, I hold little faith in religion…though of late I am beginning to believe in the teachings of Adon.”

  Jinnarin glanced again at the black Man. “Teachings of Adon? What do you mean, Jatu?”

  Jatu shrugged. “Oh, that He created the Planes and the worlds, that He brought forth life unto the waters and the earth and the air. That His daughter, Elwydd, created the peoples of the worlds and gave them free will. That Adon leaves us alone to become whatever we can without His aid or interference.”

  “Oh,” said Jinnarin.

  Jatu again ruffled Rux’s ears. “I am not at all certain, though, that I believe the rest of it.”

  “The rest of what?”

  Jatu took a deep breath. “The rest of the teachings: that each Folk has a hidden purpose, and that it is our destiny to try to discover what that hidden purpose is. Too, Bokar tells me that each person is reborn time and again and that—”

  “Bokar is your mentor?” interjected Jinnarin.

  Jatu nodded. “In these teachings, yes.”

  Jinnarin began to laugh, her tiny voice trilling as would a bird song.

  Jatu looked at her in puzzlement.

  Finally she managed to gasp out, “Jatu, when you’ve been converted by Bokar, you will be the tallest Dwarf of all.”

  Jatu’s great belly laughs joined her giggling twitters to ring out over the sea.

  A week fled into the past, and now they came to the Doldrums of the Crab, the wind falling to fitful zephyrs first blowing this way and then that, finally dying out altogether, the Elvenship’s silk hanging slack—“Caught on the claws of the old pincher, himself,” claimed Frizian. Aravan called for the gigs to be unshipped and crews to row them across the unruffled sea, this time heading straight north, the shortest way through the calms.

  Aylis and Jinnarin stood in the bow watching as the Men canted their chanteys, oars dipping into the glassy waters, ringlets and riffles spreading outward, the hulls drawing widening wedges behind, vees and circles merging in mingling patterns.

  Jinnarin on the stem block stood bewitched by the rhythmic sights and sounds, Aylis just as entranced, Men rowing, voices chanting, sunlight glancing from the ever shifting, never changing ripples spreading ‘cross the sea.

  At last Jinnarin looked down into the pellucid waters, seeing her own reflection far below. “It was in a mirror such as this that I first saw my true love,” she said, breaking the silence between Aylis and her.

  Aylis turned, her eyes widening. “You, too?”

  “What?” Jinnarin twisted about and stared at Aylis to find the seeress blushing.

  “Please say on,” said Aylis. “I interrupted.”

  After a moment, Jinnarin continued. “It was in Darda Glain nearly five thousand years past. Rux and I were—”

  Aylis held up a hand. “Wait. How can that be? Rux is a fox, and they are short-lived.”

  “Oh, it was not this Rux, but another. An ancestor long past. You see,
we keep a fox for some seven seasons, and in the last two we raise one of the kits from a litter, training him—in some cases a vixen—to take the place of the sire or dam, calling the kit by the same name.”

  Aylis tilted her head. “Ah, I see. Then you have always had a Rux, neh?”

  The Pysk nodded. “For as long as I can remember.”

  “Pray, continue.”

  “Where was I? Oh yes. Rux and I were travelling through the north of Darda Glain. The day was hot, and I asked Rux to find water. Foxes are especially good at that, you know. In any case, he raised his muzzle and scented the air all ‘round and then, straight as a bee flies to the comb, Rux ran through the forest, coming at last to a wide mere, the pool shaded by overhanging trees, reeds standing along the banks. It was fed by a small stream, watercress growing in the run, its clusters of white flowers matching the white floating blossoms of the lilies in the mere. Beneath the trees the ground was carpeted by cool moss, and violet blooms nestled down among the brye.

  “The water was cool and clear and marvelous, and Rux and I drank our fill. I told Rux that here we would rest, and sent him to find a meal for himself, the watercress would provide ample fare for me. Rux slipped into the woods, and as I watched him go I plucked a blossom from the moss. Thinking to put the bloom in my hair, I knelt on a poolside rock and leaned out over the still water to see my reflection. To my great surprise the face I saw was not my own, and I leapt up and whirled about, looking behind…but no one was there. Thinking perhaps it was a water sprite, carefully I peered again into the mere. And there once more was the face. Surrounded by leaves. Then I looked overhead, and there was another Pysk, laughing in the tree above, lying along a branch where he had been watching me.

  “‘Ho, my lovely,’ he stood and called down, ‘I, Farrix, who have never been known to lie, declare that no flower, no matter how fair, can do aught but pale in comparison to your own shining tresses.’

  “Well, with such a bold overture, how could I do other than fall in love with him—immediately and completely. But then he did the most foolish thing: without hesitation he dived into the pool—gracefully and cleanly and with hardly a splash. And I screamed in horror—”

  Aylis held up a hand. “But why, Jinnarin, why scream? ‘Tis clear that he was merely trying to impress you. There is nothing of horror in that.”

  “Oh, Aylis, it is plain to see that you are not a Pysk. Think you what would have happened had there been a great trout or pike living in that pool. For me or anyone of my size, ‘twould have been swish, gulp, and good-bye. And that’s why I screamed in horror, for had there been such a monster lurking below, Farrix would not have survived. Fortunately, there was not, and my newfound love was not eaten.”

  Aylis mouthed a silent O of understanding.

  “I could see him swimming underwater to my rock, but he didn’t emerge and didn’t emerge and didn’t emerge. I became frightened for him and when I knelt down and leaned over to see if he was caught on a root or trapped in some manner, he popped up and kissed me and laughed. Now I ask you, how could I not love him?

  “And when he climbed out he bowed deeply to me, his grin lighting up the whole world, and he said, ‘In case you have forgotten, my name is Farrix and I never lie, and my fox there behind you is Rhu.’”

  Once again Jinnarin leaned over the wale and peered down at the placid sea rising and falling below. And as gentle swells from the towing rowers passed across the undulant surface she said, “And that’s where I first saw the face of my true love—reflected in a mirrored pool.”

  Six days and nights it took to escape the claws of the Crab, for upon the dawn of the seventh morn they haled into a light wind, Reydeau piping the tow-crew aboard, Rico piping up the hoisting of sail, and ere the break of fast the Eroean was once again cutting the waves, her white wake churning behind.

  It was on this same morn, though, that Jinnarin woke refreshed after a peaceful night of sleep. And the moment she realized such, she burst into tears. Rux whined in anxiety, licking at his mistress’s face, and he cast about for sign of threat, finding nought.

  “What’s all this ruckus?” called Alamar, knocking on the wooden wall of Jinnarin’s under-bunk quarters.

  “Oh, Alamar,” sobbed Jinnarin, “I slept the night through.”

  “Eh?” Alamar rattled the tiny door.

  Jinnarin opened the panel and stepped into Alamar’s room. “I said, I slept the night through.”

  A frown came over the Mage’s face. “Oh my, not good. Not good at all.”

  Jinnarin, sobbing, plopped down on the floor, burying her face in her hands, whining Rux alternately nudging her and glaring at Alamar, as if to place blame.

  “No dream at all?” asked the Mage.

  Without looking up, Jinnarin shook her head.

  “Not of any kind?”

  Again Jinnarin shook her head, No.

  “Well, Pysk, we will just have to wait and see.”

  Snubbing, at last Jinnarin looked up. “Wh-what might it m-mean, Alamar?”

  Alamar stroked his white beard. “Any number of things, not all of them bad.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Look, just because you didn’t have your usual nightmare, it doesn’t mean—”

  “Don’t try to cozen me, Alamar! Tell me straight out.”

  Alamar sighed. “Well…it could be that whoever is sending this vision was troubled last night and too busy to cast you your nightmare. Likewise, it could be that he or she no longer needs to send the dream—why? I know not. Perhaps his problem is resolved. On the other hand, the sender could be injured or…” The Mage fell silent, his words sputtering to a halt.

  “Go ahead, Alamar, you can say it: the sender could be injured or dead!”

  Chapfallen, Alamar nodded, and at this confirmation again Jinnarin burst into tears. Now Rux growled a warning at Alamar but made no move toward the Mage.

  At last Alamar spoke, saying, “Let us ask Aylis. Mayhap she will know…or can find out.”

  Aylis stared into the small silver basin of jet black water, her face reflected from the ebon surface. Her emerald eyes were lost in intense concentration, and sweat beaded on her brow. To one side stood Aravan, his own features filled with concern. Alamar sat across the table, and Jinnarin kneeled in front of the dark liquid, peering deep within. The portholes were blackened out, and a single taper burned in a silver candlestick on the table beside the Pysk.

  “Patefac!” demanded Aylis for the fifth or sixth time, a strain in her voice, but the raven-dark water did not change.

  “Patefac!” she gritted again.

  Yet nought altered in the silver bowl, and with a groan Aylis slumped back, her eyes closed.

  Jinnarin gasped, and Aravan leapt forward, catching up the seeress’s hand. “My Lady Aylis,” he called, chafing her wrist.

  “I am all right,” she murmured. “Just exhausted. The shield…it is too strong. Beyond my power to discern aught past.”

  Aravan touched her hand to his cheek, and she looked up at him, startlement in her gaze. He smiled and sat beside her and clasped her cold fingers between his two warm hands.

  Tears welled in Jinnarin’s eyes. “I am so afraid,” she said, her voice quavering.

  Alamar sighed. “I don’t think that there’s anything to be afraid of—”

  “Oh, Alamar,” burst out Jinnarin, “I am not afraid of something. Instead I am afraid for Farrix.”

  “Look, Pysk, we don’t even know who is sending this dream, much less whether it has anything to do with Farrix.”

  “Father”—Aylis’s voice came quietly—“I deem that Jinnarin has cause to worry, for who else would send such a vision to her?”

  “But, Daughter, ‘tis a nightmare, this dream. Would Farrix send such to his love?”

  Jinnarin leapt to her feet and paced back and forth upon the table, and in the flicker of candlelight, shadows seemed to gather about her and disperse and gather and disperse and—“Alamar, you said you
rself that dreams are oft not what they seem. Farrix would not deliberately send me a nightmare.”

  Aylis glanced at the Pysk and then to her sire. “She is right, Father. Besides, the vision she sees—the storm, the black ship, the pale green sea, the crystal castle—these things in and of themselves are not frightening. Instead, there is something else in her dream that brings fear with it, something that remains unseen.”

  Alamar grunted in acknowledgement. “And, Daughter, you have no idea as to what it might be, or of the meaning of the dream itself?”

  Aylis made a negating gesture with her free hand. “None. As I said when Jinnarin first told me of her vision, it seems indeed to be a sending, yet what it means, I cannot say, for I could not then nor can I yet see unto the source.”

  Alamar stood and shuffled to one of the three curtained portholes on the starboard side. “Let’s get some light in here,” he growled, sliding back the velvet drape.

  As the bright morning Sun streamed into the captain’s lounge, Aylis reluctantly freed her hand from Aravan’s and snuffed out the candle. The Elf stood and stepped to the larboard ports and slid back the covering cloths.

  Jinnarin plopped back down to the tabletop and sat with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped about her knees. “What can I do, Aylis?” she asked, a tormented look on her face.

  “Oh, Jinnarin, there is little you can do. Merely wait, that’s all. It may be that Farrix, if indeed he is the sender, is tiring, for it takes energy to give a dream unto another.”

  A tear rolled down Jinnarin’s cheek. “Tiring? You mean weakening, don’t you?”

  Aylis turned up her hands. “I don’t know, Jinnarin. I simply do not know.”

  Over the next several days, Jinnarin went about the decks of the Eroean in poor spirits and weary. Her days were cheerless and her nights filled with fitful sleep, the Pysk tossing and turning and unable to rest, for no nightmare plagued her dreams. All the crew noted her downtrodden stance and a glumness fell upon them as well. Even Rux seemed dispirited, his tail hanging lank, and his hunting of rats and mice fell to nought.