The Hour of the Gate (10 page)

Caz adjusted his monocle. “Reasonable enough, considering that we've given a month's pay for every day we're likely to travel.”

Bribbens looked unperturbed. “I once saw a rabbit who'd had all his fur shaved off. He was a mighty funny-looking critter.”

“And I,” countered Caz with equal aplomb, “once saw a frog whose mouth was too big for his head. He experienced a terrible accident.”

“What kind of accident?” inquired Bribbens, unimpressed.

“Foot-in-mouth. Worst case I ever saw. It turned out to be fatal.”

“Frogs aren't subject to hoof-in-mouth.”

The rabbit smiled tolerantly. “My foot in his mouth.”

The two held their stares another moment. Then Bribbens smiled, an expression particularly suited to frogs.

“I've seen it happen to creatures other than my own kind, three-eyes.”

Caz grinned back. “It's common enough, I suppose. And I see better out of one eye than most people do out of two.”

“See your way to moving a little faster, then. We can't sleep here all day.” The boatman ambled off.

Talea was leaning out of the wagon, brushing sleepily at reluctant curls tight as steel springs.

“Since you layabouts aren't ready yet, I'm going to take the time to secure my team and wagon and lay out fodder for them,” said the frog.

“Possessive little bugger, ain't 'e?” Mudge commented.

“It's his wagon and team now, Mudge.” Jon-Tom carefully slipped his staff into the loops crossing his back beneath the flashing emerald cape. “They're in his care. Just like we are.”

When they were all assembled on the boat and had tied down their packs and supplies, Bribbens loosed the ropes, neatly coiled them in place, and leaned on the long steering oar. The boat slid out into the river. Pog shifted his grip on the spreaders high up on the mast and watched as silver sky raced past blue ground.

Before very long the current caught them. The cove with its mud-and-thatch house vanished behind. Ahead lay a gray-brown wall of granite and ice; home to arboreal carnivores, undisciplined winds, and racing cloud-crowns.

Jon-Tom lay down on the edge of the craft and let a hand trail lazily in the water. It was difficult to think of the journey they'd embarked upon as threatening. The water was warmed from its long journey down from distant Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. The sun often snuck clear of obstructing clouds to lie pleasantly on one's face. And there seemed no chance of rain until the night.

“Three days to get to the base of the mountains, you said?”

“That's right, man,” Bribbens replied. The boatman did not look at Jon-Tom when he spoke. His right arm was curled around the shaft of the steering oar, and his eyes were on the river ahead. He sat in a chair built onto the railing at the craft's stern. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white bowl up into the sky.

“How far into the mountains does the river go?” Flor was on her knees, staring over the front of the boat. Her voice was full of expectation and excitement.

“Nobody knows,” said Bribbens. “Leagues, maybe weeks worth. Maybe only a few hours.”

“Where does it end, do you suppose? In an underground lake?”

“Helldrink,” said the boatman.

“And what's Helldrink,
Señor Rana?”

“A rumor. A story. An amalgam of all the fears of every creature that's ever navigated on the waters in times of trouble, during bad storms or on leaking ships, in foul harbors or under the lash of a drunken captain. I've spent my life on the water and in it. It would be worth the trip to me if we should find it, even should it mean my death. It's where all true sailors should end up.”

“Does that mean we're likely to get a refund?” inquired Caz.

The boatman laughed. “You're a sharp fellow, aren't you, rabbit? I hope if we find it you'll still be able to joke.”

“There should be no difficulty,” said Clothahump. “I, too, have heard legends of Helldrink. They say that you know it is there before you encounter it. All you need do is deposit us safely clear of it and we will continue our journey on foot. You may proceed to your sailor's discovery however you wish.”

“Sounds like a fine scenario, sir,” the boatman agreed. “Assuming I can make a landing somewhere safe, if there is a safe landing. Otherwise you may have to accompany me on my discovery.”

“So you're risking your life to learn the truth about this legend?” asked Flor.

“No, woman. I'm risking my life for a hundred pieces of gold. And a wagon and team. I'm risking my life for twenty-two offspring. I'm risking my life because I never turned down a job in my life. Without my reputation, I'm nothing. I had to take your offer, you see.”

He adjusted the steering oar a little to port. The boat changed its heading slightly and moved still further into the center of the stream.

“Money and pride,” she said. “That's hardly worth risking your life for.”

“Can you think of any better reason, then?”

“You bet I can,
Rana.
One a hell of a lot less brazen than yours.” She proceeded to explain the impetus for their journey. Bribbens was not to be recruited.

“I prefer money, thank you.”

It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them, Jon-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they would not have required Bribbens' services. He was surprised to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philosophy, he still missed the dragon.

“Young female,” Bribbens said finally, “you have your romantic ideas and I've got mine. I'm helping you to satisfy your needs and that's all you'll get from me. Now shut up. I dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females.”

“Oh you
do,
do you?” Flor started to get to her feet. “How would you like—”

The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore. “It's not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any trouble.”

Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and resumed her seat near the craft's bow. She was fuming, but sensible. It was Bribbens' game and they had to play with his equipment, according to his rules. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. “Interesting group of passengers, more so than my usual.” He tapped out the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and commenced repacking his pipe. “Wonder to me you haven't killed one another before now.”

It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli dropped into an as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular journey through the mountains.

Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, raindrops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.

Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt's Teeth until the third day. They entered the first foothills that morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing mountains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.

Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.

Several days passed during which they encountered nothing suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them, becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts was scarce.

Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and mares formed a semicircle with the water at their backs, protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.

Pacing confusedly before the herd's defensive posture was a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleek as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in the sunlight.

As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang, trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle. Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly horn of one of the stallions.

A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore off his head.

The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly stalked the retreating craft… .

VI

IT WAS THE FOLLOWING
afternoon, when they rounded a bend in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.

The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead. Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked like twigs where they marched up into the mists.

It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.

Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this impassable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply ground on the rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman was aiming for.

It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain. Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat's passengers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove was the last landing point on the river.

On the visible river, anyway.

The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It seemed to be saying, “Go back, fools! There is nothing beyond here but rock and death. Go back!” and a sudden gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the wind tried to urge their retreat.

Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.

Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the river's end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones, and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like cold lava.

He couldn't see where the water vanished into the mountainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn't be more than a few inches above the waterline. If it were higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and drowned out, among other things, the cove they were beached upon.

But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it ground against the mountainside, and the current was no swifter than usual.

“What do we do now?” Flor had waded out to stand next to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of pounds and were waterlogged as well.

“There's no way we can move any of that stuff upstream against the current.”

“It doesn't matter,” he told her. “Even if Clothahump could magic them aside, the opening's still much too low to let the boat through.”

“So it seems.” Bribbens stood on the sand behind them. He was unloading supplies from the boat. “But we're not going in that way. That is, we are, but we're not.”

“I don't follow you,” said Jon-Tom.

“You will. You're, paying to.” He grinned hugely. “Why do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli is called also The Double River, The River of Twos?”

“I don't know.” Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. “I thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn't tell me how we're going to get through there,” and he pointed at the churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.

“It does, if you know:”

“So what do we do first?” he said, tired of riddles.

“First we take anything that'll float off the boat,” was the boatman's order.

“And then.”

“And then we pole her out into the middle of the current, open her stoppers, and sink her. After we've anchored her securely, of course.”

Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it. Since the frog's statement was absurd and since he was clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew something Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable claim, he'd been taught, it was better not to debate until the supporting evidence was in.

“I still don't understand,” said Flor confusedly.

“You will,” Bribbens assured her. “By the way, can you both swim?”

“Fairly well,” said Jon-Tom.

“I don't drown,” was Flor's appraisal.

“Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.

“For the moment you can't do anything except help with the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch.”