Part Four
Chapter 37
DEEP WATERS
Monwyrt had always exulted in the freedom of the run. The physical exertion required to fly across the terrain was a penance, the teeming life of the forest a salve and tonic, to his own mortality. Solitude in the wilds engendered a sense of community in him that no society could approach, and was less lonely, paradoxically, than the most crowded Banquet, Bazaar, or Conclave could ever be. Monwyrt did not merely live for the run; the run was, for him, life itself.
There came a time now, though; a dark, troubled time when, left alone with his own thoughts, Monwyrt felt himself falling into a deep hole. His head was crammed with uncomfortable visions; bursting with doubts, guilt, grief, and half-remembered dreams, all raucously competing for his harried and reluctant attention, when it seemed he had never had to think at all before. He could not erase the vision of piles of dead Eatopygiastees heaped at his feet. It had seemed to become the background, the horizon, against which all his future life would be projected; a permanent horror emblazoned on his mind from which he could hope for no escape, waking or sleeping. There was no possible justification for it; no act could even partially make it right. He could not presume his own innocence, he could not weigh his own life, now, against all those others. He sank into a kind of morbid guilt-wallow: he even regretted his life as a hunter, remembering with sudden and piercing pangs of remorse the trusting thriddahypes he had called to destruction. Every act of his life, recalled through these sanguine eyes, became a base crime of one sort or another; and the spiral plunged another loop.
But luckily for Monwyrt, he was not alone during this black fog. He did not realize it himself, but the outriders, with their acrid mental banter and ludicrously cheerful conversation, provided a much-needed foil to his own deep dagger-rymen remorse. Trinatree, with his self-centered naivete, and Binatree, cautiously discovering his new role of authority, kept the Traeppedelfere busy and amused as he tried to instruct them in thought-masking through the next couple of days. They were unwitting but nonetheless adequate vents for his unintentional confessions in their fireside talks at night. Monwyrt rolled himself in his skin to sleep, after these purging sessions, with a hopeful window of ease opening through the heavy wall of his depression - only to watch it slowly and ominously close while he slept. But next morning, Trinatree would hurry through his meal and rush to "feed" the ofaexedee with such eye-popping intensity in his eagerness to begin the lesson that Monwyrt could only laugh out loud, and the shrinking escape hole would slowly expand again.
After three days of instruction, the Eatopygiastees were proficient thought-maskers. It gave Monwyrt great pride to note the almost blissful expressions on their faces. He could practically taste the relief from a lifetime of uncontrolable eavesdropping. He thought with satisfaction of the overall effect on the race as a whole. It would be a new life.
That evening, after the omofinishees had finished eating their peculiar greenish loaves, they rollicked up to Monwyrt's fire and made themselves comfortable.
"Igilvee," Binatree began, attempting to dislodge a wad of something from his mouth with a blunt finger, "we will be leaving the next morning. The omofinishees' assignments have been shortened to inabee hand-days, and we must now hurry to complete our rounds before reporting back."
"Icsee, Igilvee," said Trinatree contentedly. "We have much to thank you for. Before you came our rounds took aterquee hand-days at least."
"It seems to me that you have little reason to thank me, but much reason to condemn me," Monwyrt said. "I have been revealed to myself and to you as a carrier of misery, of death. That is hardly worthy of praise."
They fell into silence, all of them staring into the dancing tongues of the fire. The sun was going down behind a bank of low clouds, and the sky went dark almost before they noticed. Treowdwellans took up their untiring tirade. The iscelervees whistled in their sleep. Monwyrt tore off another mouthful of the dried ruhhnecca he had been chewing absent-mindedly, and looked at the piece remaining in his hand.
"How can I ever hunt again?" he suddenly cried out. "Whenever I make a kill, I will remember the Conclave. Whenever I eat, I will remember the Conclave!" He threw the strip away from him into the dark foliage.
Binatree looked up across the fire at Monwyrt. His swart body was flickeringly illuminated through the flames, his face grave. "Igilvee," he began, "forgive my impertinance at presuming to seem to lecture an Orsnumquammee, but a thought occurs to me which I think you should hear, now that you have taught us to hide them.
"You do not, perhaps, realize what a gift you have brought us in thought-masking. I do not know how it might change the Eatopygiastees on the whole, but I know how it makes me feel as an individual. You have given us control over our own minds, you have made it possible to deceive one another if we choose. But because such deception is now possible, the truth takes on an importance it never had before. Do you understand what I am saying? You have given us the potential to be honorable, to be trusting and trustworthy, when those qualities were beyond us before. We can choose to be good, for the sake of our own consciences, and not merely because of the threat of social censure."
"You are not comforting me, if that was your intent," Monwyrt told him morosely. "The Eatopygiastees, you are implying, will now be able to be dishonest cheats, thanks to me."
"Icsee, that is true," Binatree said, adding hurriedly, "but we will be free to do as we want, right or wrong. Don't you understand? You brought us freedom, release from The Curse. Generations of Eatopygiastees have pondered what that might mean to us, with no hope of it ever happening. You have given us more than mere hope: you have brought the freedom itself!"
Freedom. Um, Monwyrt could understand freedom, he thought. He had been imprisoned for only one day, not for uncounted generations, and his freedom had been as sweet and satisfying to him as he ever could have hoped. He began to appreciate what Binatree was saying.
"For many Eatopygiastees, though, I have not brought freedom," he said sadly.
"To eat," Binatree answered thoughtfully, "the Eatopygiastees must work, and kill. Every Conclave is followed by a day of pain. All things have their price. The mood in Bisuree when we left it was that the mourning and grief you wrought is the price we must pay for removal of The Curse. It is indeed a heavy toll, but it has been paid, and we await the reward with no thought of going back."
"You may be able to reconcile the deaths as a trade for your relief, but I cannot. I killed without eating, unnecessarily. I can't help but think of 'going back.'"
"Perhaps if you had eaten part of your kill you wouldn't be so remorseful," Binatree said facetiously, to Trinatree's shock. To the youngster's further dismay, Igilvee appeared to seriously consider Binatree's remark. There was a kind of forest logic to the suggestion that a kill not be wasted, and Monwyrt remembered his curiosity over the Eatopygiastee's potential as food from the first time he laid eyes on them at the acabee.
"Do you really think so?" he asked Binatree, smiling.
"No," Binatree admitted. "Not really."
Trinatree exhaled loudly. "Binatree, you frightened me! I really didn't know what you thought! How could you say such a thing?"
Binatree smiled evilly. "And do you know now what I really thought, Trinatree? Perhaps I lied!"
Trinatree hastily struggled to his feet. "I don't like this conversation!" he cried. "I don't know - you might indeed be lying to me. I don't know you anymore!"
"Sit down, Trinatree," Monwyrt said soothingly. "You do know Binatree. I think I understand what he is doing: he is demonstrating for us both his, and your, new freedom. You are free to trust him, if you think you know him, or mistrust him, if you think you do not know him; but you now have the responsibility to decide for yourself. You cannot any longer rely on hearing Binatree's thoughts. You must rely only on your own, and your judgment."
"I'm not sure I want to rely only on my own thoughts," said Trinatree glumly. "I never had to before. And I don't want the responsibility of passing judgment! That sounds like as much of a curse as The Curse."
"It's done, Trinatree," said Binatree gently. "It's too late. You know how to thought-mask. Now you will have to think for yourself."
Trinatree moaned as he sat down with a thump.
"Don't feel so bad," Monwyrt said. "There are whole races of folk who have always lived without The Curse. They have no difficulty making their own decisions, and trusting one another."
Trinatree grunted to his feet again. "Other races?! I don't want to hear any more!" He rollicked toward the iscelervees, shouting back over his shoulder, "I'm going to sleep!" Monwyrt shrugged off the temptation to assist. Binatree rose also.
"We should get some sleep," he said. "We have to make up for lost time on our rounds the next few days." He took a few waddling steps after Trinatree, then turned. "Thank you, Igilvee. We will remember you."
Monwyrt looked him in the eye. "Thank you, Binatree."
The omofinishees arose early the next morning. Igilvee was already gone.
Monwyrt had found a comfortable pace, after some experimenting.
The terrain was no longer too rugged, but the foliage nearer the river was more dense than it had been up in the hills, and he was forced to shorten his stride somewhat. By keeping well away from the actual river bank, but within sight of the water itself, he could stay on firm, higher ground and still follow the flow. And by concerning himself with his breathing, his footing, his gear and his course, he would have no time to think of other things.
But, after a while, he found a comfortable pace, and his mind wandered.
Binatree's assertion that all things had their price intrigued him. He tried to disprove it, but could think of no examples that would do it. It indeed seemed that every act, product, or emotion was either the punishment or the reward of some trade-off. He wondered cheerlessly whether his guilt was the punishment for his deed or there would be a greater punishment to come.
In the meantime, he ran, stopping only to refill his water-bladder or pull up some weodthuf. He distractedly passed by the new sights and scents around him: the sudden familiar taste of grunddwellan did not even faze him. The sounds of strange as well as well-known grunddwellan and treowdwellan held no fascination for him, and he ignored the rich scents of the forest which mingled with that increasingly pressing and mysterious cutting smell he associated with the odd sound of faraway, high continuous thunder.
That sound, and that scent, were so pervasive now as to be hardly noticeable. Monwyrt ran on and on, into the twilight of evening, opening his inner lids at last, and plunging on. He resolved to run all night, despite the heavy clouds which blotted out the starlight, as long as he could make his way through the foliage. To run, that was everything, just to run, to move, change, live! He slashed at the fronds in his way with his hands, and swore at the tendrils pulling on his legs, and ran. He could not see the river now; it was too dark - but it had to be close: the ground was more level now, and sandier. It didn't matter if he did veer away from it anyway, he thought. He could find it when it got light again. This night, now, he wanted to run, to taste that freedom again, to savor that joy he remembered, which Binatree was feeling now for the first time.
He climbed with difficulty a small knoll which had risen up before him. It seemed to be a mound entirely made of sand! He pushed himself to the top of it, and was immediately greeted by a cool, stiff breeze in his face, carrying the now familiar but still unidentified scent and sound. But this time, there was a difference.
The scent was overpowering, absolutely the only thing his taste could detect, flooding his tongue and burning his nostrils. It was stifling, oppressive: he could hardly breathe for the biting, cutting intensity of it. And the low, distant hiss had become a thunderous, pulsating roar, numbing his ears. "Moc!" he shouted into the breeze, hardly able to hear his own voice. It was terrifying. He peered into the black wind, unable to see the source of the tumult. Should he try to go on? He mused on the responsibility of deciding for himself, then backed off, back to the bottom of the sandy knoll. It was late. It was dark. He would go on the next day.
The next day, a foggy grey dawn came on, covering him with cold moisture, and Monwyrt struggled to shake off the clinging skin. He had not slept much, but he had rested. The acrid scent and the ceaseless roar had conspired to keep him awake all night, with some success. He blinked at the thick mists, chewed a tasteless slab of ruhhnecca, and rolled his things together. With not a little trepidation, he scaled the knoll again to see what lay beyond.
The breeze had died in the night, and he looked out at a horizonless expanse of fog. Cautiously, he walked down the sandy hill toward it, toward the sound, now seemingly subdued from its violence of the night before. Inexplicably, the foliage and vegetation became suddenly sparse, and then died out altogether, as he made his way down the sandy slope. He had not walked far when, looking back, he realized he was completely surrounded by the fog. It was an eerie feeling, reminiscent of that early morning on the banks of the Luhvluhv. Monwyrt faced the sound and went on.
Suddenly, he took two steps out into water. It washed over his feet. It felt warm. "Moc!" he thought. "The river! It must have changed direction." He backed up, deciding to follow the water's edge. The scent, and the sound, was coming from the opposite bank, apparently. Recalling how wide the river had become the last couple of days, he had no desire to try to cross it in that fog. There was no real need to cross it, anyway, he reflected, although he was curious to know the source of the strange scent and sound. He walked along for a great distance, listening to the river's surface lap the sandy bank.
Finally, he began to spy the foothills emerging from the mists as the sun rose higher. He gazed out across the river, but the fog hung close to it, and he couldn't yet see the opposite shore. He walked down closer to it, and lay down to take a drink. A ripple washed over his face as he lowered it to the water, and he gagged and spluttered in his haste to escape it.
The scent, that scent, was coming from the water! The taste of it was burning his mouth, burning his throat, even though he had spat out most of what he had taken in. Monwyrt coughed and retched, unable to understand what had happened to taint the water. It was undrinkable. He had a momentary flash of panic as he realized the possibility that it might be poisonous. He hurriedly gulped down what was left of the water in his water-skin, and anxiously awaited unknown symptoms.
When nothing more serious than a foul taste in his mouth materialized, he calmed, and began to look about himself. The fog was rapidly lifting now, and a scene unfolded before him for which he was completely unprepared. As he searched intently for the source of the yet unknown sound on the opposite riverbank, the fog rolled away, and an awful realization swept over him. There was no opposite bank.
The sun burned the last vestiges of mist away, and blazed warmly in the mid-morning sky, illuminating the mountains behind him, the foothills before them, the endless stretch of sand he was seated on, and beyond; a limitless plain of water.
Monwyrt rose unsteadily to his feet. The sound was nothing but water, then; rolling, rolling onto the sandy bank. He stared out, searching the horizon, but the water reached out beyond it as far as he could see. How could this be? he wondered. How could the river become so wide, overnight? He ran back, ran with the speed of panic, on the tireless legs of a morwetraeppe, back in the direction from which he had come. The sand was flat and smooth and bare - he could run as fast as he wanted! and he ran. He was the only moving thing on the long, long strand, running heedlessly, recklessly, until he came upon what he sought. There, just before him, spewing turgid water far out into the vast pool, was the mouth of the river. He ran up, breathless. Um, he could see the opposite bank now. He tasted the water. Um, it was good - cool and delicious compared with the tainted water he had tasted a while ago. He looked again out to the line of the horizon, and sat down, exhausted and excited.
He had found the end of the river. The bottom of the world.
He felt sick to his stomachs. It was as if the ground had been pulled out from under him, leaving him in a free fall, never to strike bottom - only to realize that the bottom was the fall itself!
Almost without thinking, he plunged into the river and began to swim across, with the vague notion of finding a way around this obstacle, this impossible pool, somewhere on the other side. The current, slow but unyielding, carried him far out from shore before he got across, and he found himself swimming in the tainted water, spluttering, and struggling to keep it out of his mouth and eyes. The small waves helped wash him onto the sand at last, and he began running again at once, forcing himself to catch his breath as best he could but not stopping to do it. But the sand stretched on forever, and he ran on and on, all the rest of that day. Finally, with night fast approaching, he found a small freshet tumbling out of the nearby hills. He tasted it, discovered it to be potable, gulpingly drank his fill, and and decided to stay there for the night. He threw himself down beside the stream with the exhaustion of desperation, and fell at once into a deep and blissfully dreamless sleep.
Sunrise brought with it a stiff wind coming off the water, forcing the bitter scent down Monwyrt's resisting nostrils, and whipping its surface into a crashing frenzy, and blowing mist from the rolling breakers into his face. The noise was stifling, huge, everywhere. He looked ahead of him along the strip of sand between the water and the crowding mountains. He looked back toward the river, invisible in the distance he had run the day before.
Then, he looked up into the hills.
The mountains were valiantly trying to push out into the water, and where the little freshet tumbled out onto the sand the low foothills were only a slight rise in the ground before they gave way to bare cliffs and rocky slopes. With the grinding roar at his back and the wind seemingly trying to push him off the sand, Monwyrt suddenly decided to climb into these mountains. Perhaps he could see across this water from on high, he thought in passing; but that was no longer as important to him at that moment as the thought of simply putting distance between himself and the horrible pool. He wanted - needed - to escape it.
This morning, there was something in the fury of the water which at once terrified and attracted him. The noise of it, the sheer brutal power, the mystery, even the stinging scent, seemed to entice him in a way he could not understand. The sound of the waves destroying themselves on the shore, reaching far up its surface to pull at his feet with their dying fingers, was mesmerizing. It almost felt as though it came from within him, somehow, as much as from without, so compelling was its influence. He found himself walking down to it, slowly, step by step. The water (cool this morning!) invitingly rushed over his feet, sucking the sand out from under them when it ran back to meet the next wave. He took another step. It pushed playfully against his legs, then teasingly pulled them back. It was a pleasant sensation. He took another step. This time, the wave inexplicably shunned him, stopping far down the sand before reaching where he stood. The roar inside him comforted him, the wind in his face warned him threateningly. He walked down a little to meet the next roll of water.
The breaker slammed into his waist, revealing its duplicitous plot, throwing him off-balance, knocking him off his feet, with a surge of power Monwyrt found unbelievable. He tried to regain his feet - the sand would not support his weight, the water was washing it out from under him. He suddenly realized that he was being pulled off the shore with the sand - he was under water! rolling and bumping along the bottom. He felt a cold panic sweep through him. He could not tell which way was up; he could not find the surface. The Traeppedelferean dread of disorientation was almost greater than his fear of drowning at that instant. He opened his eyes - the tainted water stung them, and he still could not find the surface. Everything was dark. He pushed out with his feet, but the bottom was not there any longer. Madly, he began to swim underwater, trying to keep his breath, not knowing whether he was going up or down. In three forceful strokes, he pushed himself straight to the bottom, ramming his hands into loose sand. Turning desperately, but no longer confused, with his lungs already bursting, he pushed off as forcefully as he could and shot toward where he knew the surface had to be. It has to be there! It has to! He finally had to ease the pressure in his chest, and tried to exhale just a little, just a little, as he swam, but the breath came out of him in an explosion of bubbles, and he reflexively gulped in a great amount of choking, bitter water to take its place. He felt himself getting light-headed, it seemed like he was sinking despite his efforts, he wasn't going to make it! Where is the surface?! He groggily realized, or instinctively guessed, that he had his eyes closed again, and struggled to open them, despite the sharp sting of the water. He could see light! to the side - he was swimming parallel to the surface. He righted himself, gulping water uncontrolably, and burst into the daylight at last, coughing painfully.
It was not easy to tread water while he got his breath, but somehow he managed, though he sank once and accidentally sucked in another great mouthful. The waves tossed him about, occasionally getting their crests blown off right over his head. He was amazed to see how far from shore he came up: perhaps half the width of the river at its mouth. He was hindered in his swimming by the swells, and by the pain in his chest and sides, but eventually, and with much trepidation, he made it in to shore and scrambled up the sand out of reach of the water, panting, and retching violently.
He had to get away from that water.
As he lay by his skin, resting, taking stock of his injuries, he realized how foolish, and how lucky, he had been. What a cnawannawiht to walk down into that wild water! and then to swim with his eyes closed! But at least, and this was lucky, he thought to himself, he knew how to swim! No other Traeppedelfere would have survived it. It was lucky he had known Zholybet... He smiled to himself in spite of all his hurts, and dozed off to a much-needed slumber.
The sun was past the mid-day when he woke. The sound of the crashing waves filled his head, and he nearly took a few steps down toward them again, but caught himself in time. Without pausing another moment, he filled his water-bladder from the stream, bundled up his pack, strapped on his knife, and set off into the foothills.
His reward was almost instant. The coolness of the shade; the sweet, sweet scents of the foliage and the soil; the colors of the undergrowth, and the feel of solid ground under his feet; and the muffling of the water's noise almost overwhelmed him with relief. He climbed the hills slowly, partly because he was still sore in places, but also to savor the richness of the contrasts. In places, huge, smooth black stones protruded from the ground, and Monwyrt would sit on them and rest, revelling in their solidity, marvelling at their hardness and color with an appreciation possible only of one born in the caves.
He spent the remainder of the day working his way up through the hills. By late afternoon he was already in the shadow of the mountains. He would occasionally catch a whiff of lighter air, and would stand with his eyes closed, imagining himself to be in the mountains, real mountains, again at last. He became quite eager to go on. Something like wanderlust was coming over him. It was a feeling he couldn't remember having since... well, since his first run for Snecchen, when he had caught his first glimpse of the plains from that high pass. He looked up at the mountains before him with shining eyes.
They rose up in formidable grandeur. On the lower reaches (and especially appealing to Monwyrt) were dense forests, blanketing the slopes. Here and there a bare black cliff thrust through the foliage, shooting up to a dizzying height, giving a promise of even greater peaks beyond, now hidden from his sight. Turning his back on the great water was suddenly the easiest thing he had ever done: it was already all but forgotten. He was going into the mountains.
Three days later, he gazed down the slope before his little camp. His fire burned brightly, built up of hard sceadutreow branches, not the pulpy fuel he had been forced to use since he came to the fens. His camp was pitched somewhat precariously on the slope; there was not a flat spot to be found. Even this was a happy reminder to the hunter. He had not lost his mountain legs, his balance and sure-footedness were as good as ever. The great water was safely on the other side of the mountain: he could imagine that he couldn't even catch its scent, and the sound of it was gone completely. He had found many fresh streams and rivulets. Their water was cold, sweet, and unbelievably clear - he was amazed to think how he had drunk the stinking muddy water of the river and fens. Out before him was a deep plunging rift between the mountains. He could look across it at the neighboring peak, and down it out to a great range of mountains stretching as far as he could see. He sighed happily and laid back, closing his eyes in contentment.
Suddenly he sat upright so fast he almost slid down the slope. The one thing that had been lacking in making his return to the mountains a complete success jumped to the front of his mind. He licked the roof of his mouth carefully, hardly daring to believe it, but there it was! The scent of thriddahype was in the air.
The dried ruhhnecca had carried him a long time, and he still had enough left for perhaps another hand-day, but that would be stretching it. He hadn't hunted since then. Now, with the taste of thriddahype making his mouth water, he was surprised to notice he was hungry. Very hungry. Thinking back, he hadn't eaten his fill once since he had roasted the ruhhnecca. He was very hungry.
He also realized, to his great discomfiture, that he was rather eagerly anticipating the hunters' joy of the kill. The guilt of the Conclave, forgotten for days, rolled back over him with a fury. He thought of his conversation with Binatree, he remembered his worry that he could not kill again, even to eat. It would be a gesture, a large gesture, toward atoning for the massacre at the Conclave, if he would give up meat altogether, he decided. He licked the roof of his mouth again. Um, he would eat only weodthuf, and berries, and coecil, and, er, and acabees, and drink water. He laid back with great satisfaction at his sacrifice. Um, he thought, Binatree was right. It was better to be free, to be able to choose to be good, and know you made the right choice. He would become an anonymous martyr to those poor Eatopygiastees. The thought made him proud of himself. It was the right thing to do. To commemorate the decision, and prove his commitment to it, he took the remaining ruhhnecca from his skin, and unhesitantly threw it down the slope as far as he could throw it. It dropped out of sight into the undergrowth. To begin the pact, he took out an uncooked weodthuf he had stowed in his pack the day before, and bit off a piece decisively. Just then, the strong scent of thriddahype came to his nostrils, even as his mouth was full of food.
"Tungebunge moc!" he spat out the weodthuf with the words, jumped to his feet, strapped on his knife, and silently jogged off into the breeze, tracking the scent, once more a hunter.
Monwyrt ran the mountains for hand-days. It was a spiritual rebonding for him; he found his sense of freedom, his sense of unity with the forest. He spent his days exploring; he spent his nights guarding his memories. He traveled far, living off the land unapologetically. He was a Traeppedelfere: he belonged in the mountains. He was a hunter, and ate his kills. To deny his identity, he reasoned, would in reality do nothing to assuage the grief he had brought about. And actually, right or wrong, as time went on and he came to feel more and more comfortable with his origins and his surroundings, Monwyrt's guilt grew less burdensome by the day. He actually began to feel a little guilty about not feeling guilty, until he realized how saelig that was, and gave it up altogether.
One beautiful clear day, near a high pass he had been making for for three days, he stumbled upon a pool fed by a clear stream. It was absolutely calm, almost round (except for the side where the stream entered in) and obviously deep. The sky seemed to be reflected in its surface - or was that the color of the water? The forest came down on all sides but one, the one he had climbed up to reach this place, and as he looked down at the wonderful scene, a chilling breeze swelled up behind him, bringing a scent he had almost managed to forget. He whirled in his tracks.
There, way out in the distance, beyond the mountains, stretching out endlessly beyond the ends of the horizon, was the great water. The sight froze his blood. Just when he had found the most idyllic spot he had ever seen, he was reminded of his harrowing experience on the sand, of nearly drowning in the wild water. And that was not the thing that disturbed him most.
He found himself thinking of going back to it.
"No!" he shouted in defiance of the water and his own inclinations. "No! I won't go back!" There was a splash out in the water behind him, and he turned back to see rings of ripples spreading across the calm surface.
Something was eerily familiar here. His skin chilled with more than merely the coolness of the breeze at his back, and he shivered. What was this place? He stepped down the short slope toward the pool, to try to shelter himself from the breeze, and looked around again. The stream fell tinkling into the pool on the opposite side, filling the round bowl, and then... He looked around, curious. There was no outlet. Out in the center, a truhthalig leapt up, flashing brilliantly in the sun. "A good omen," Monwyrt thought, but then that strange feeling of familiarity chilled him again.
He touched the water with his foot - it was warm! He looked up at the sun in surprise: it was just past mid-day and shining brightly - he guessed it must have heated the whole pool. He carefully sat on the shore - it was steep - idly splashing his feet in the pleasant water. It was exceedingly clear: he could see the side plunge almost straight down a great distance. He was tempted to swim in it. The warmth would feel good after being in the cool wind. He looked for a more gradual slope into the water on which to enter.
Without warning, a very large truhthalig leaped out of the water right at his feet, slapping his leg with its tail. Monwyrt was startled, frightened for an instant. He could see the individual sparkling hues of its tiny plates, he looked helplessly into its cold eye, and it was gone. He found himself scrambling, awkwardly off-balance, trying to get back from the edge of the pool, slipping on the loose gravel and wet stones of the steep shoreline. Before he knew what had happened, he had fallen into the pool: pack, knife and all.
He had to laugh, when he thought about it. Frightened by a truhthalig! And here he was, swimming, just when he had been thinking about it. To be sure, he would have found an easier and more graceful way to get in, and without his pack and knife. But the water was deliciously warm and soothing. It was sensuous, this swim in warm water! He decided to continue his search for a place to exit, so he could at least remove his pack. He swam toward the middle, to command a wider view.
Plash! the truhthalig, or another one, jumped directly ahead of him. This was very nice, this swim! he declared to himself. It made his hair wave and curl, his skin tingle. He swam another stroke, and thought of Zholybet. "She would like this pool," he thought, suddenly feeling an unlooked-for arousal. It surprised the long-solitary Traeppedelfere with its suddenness and intensity, this feeling of desire. "What is going on here?" he thought, surprised, but not unpleasantly so, on reflection. The weird familiarity of the place, the activity of the truhthalig, the unusual warmth of the water, and especially the sudden surging sensations of arousal combined in Monwyrt to create an altogether new feeling. He practically writhed in the water. He was tense, he was relaxed, he was tortured and pleasured all at once. But then his head cleared in a flash, and he remembered.
"Follow the truhthalig!"
The glittering creature jumped in front of him again at the very instant those words ran through his mind. It floated, waiting, within sight, just below the surface. Monwyrt's mind raced; he felt saelig.
"Follow the truhthalig!" he thought again. Was he gemaed? It seemed that he was losing control of his own body, the warm water swirled about him as he twisted in it. The truhthalig remained, watching him with a dispassionate eye. The hedonistic idea rushed into his head that the deeper water would prove even more exciting, even more wonderful, somehow. Monwyrt struggled to suppress this thought: he had almost drowned once, he kept telling himself, do not rush to it again! No! The truhthalig began to swim away, straight down into the pool.
"Follow the truhthalig!"
"No!" Monwyrt shouted in a panic, straining to resist, but helpless against his own yearnings.
"Um!" his body seemed to respond. He took a deep breath, and swam down, down into deep water.
|