Dave Duncan - West of January

Some of the other adults clustered around also, but most went off to play languid games with their children, for it was a rarity to have everyone gathered onshore at the same time. The angel remained standing, tucking thumbs in his belt and looking us over for a moment before starting to speak.

“Your home is dying,” he began. “You must know that it will soon be out of the water altogether?”

“Time yet,” Behold said complacently.

“Soon it will lie in the surf zone and be ripped to pieces. You do not have long—it will happen before that babe you carry learns to crawl, lady.” He meant Sparkle.

“Great ones will find us another.”

He shook his head. “It is not the shallow water that is killing the sea trees. There are other groves. I have passed many, and they are all dying.”

No one else spoke, so I said, “Why?”

“Salt. The ocean is shrinking—evaporating—and the water is becoming too salty.”

“The watervines!” I said. “They all—”

The angel flashed me an odd glance and I stopped, puzzled.

Old Tusk cackled. “Was born on land, in much colder place than this. Will show them how to make tents. Is always changing, the sea. Are able to change also.”

There was a mutter of agreement, and some of the audience wandered away. The angel’s eyes scanned the rest of us carefully and fixed themselves on Sparkle. “And what will you drink?”

“He is right,” I told the silence. “The stream is much smaller than—”

Again the angel caught my eye, and this time he plainly shook his head. He wanted me to stay out.

“Rain,” Tusk said, less confidently.

“When did you last see rain?”

He got no answer. I looked at Sparkle, who was frowning. There had been no rain since I had come to the grove.

“Will find another stream. Great ones will know.”

The angel shook his head sadly. “Even if you do find one, it will dry up soon. The sun is coming… Do you know that the sun moves?”

I did, of course, and I had seen the grasslands die, but my seafolk hosts had never cared much for that morbid tale. Now the angel began to tell a terrifyingly similar story. The springs would dry up, the ocean would dry up, the fish would die. When High Summer arrived, the sea itself might boil. The prospect horrified me, but I was even more horrified when I looked around my companions and saw no alarm on their faces. The seafolk were going to be as disbelieving as the herdfolk.

“What must do?” Sparkle asked. More of the other listeners were scrambling up and going off to join in the play.

“You must leave! Load your boats, mount your great ones, and travel the Great River, back to the South Ocean.”

The three elders scowled and muttered, “Cold!”

“You must go soon!” the angel said. “The Great River is flowing very swiftly. Soon it will be too fast for even the great ones, and they will be trapped here. They cannot leave on foot, as people can.”

Already people were leaving on foot—leaving the meeting. Only Sparkle and the three elders remained, in sullen silence. And me. Sparkle blushed and said, “Have many women with child…”

The angel’s bright eyes flickered toward me and then away again. “You must not delay, even for that. Pregnant women can travel in boats.”

The listeners glanced at one another. “Are grateful, sir,” Sparkle said. “Will talk it over soon. Now have feast, and singing?”

The angel smiled. “I shall enjoy that. First I must attend to a few things…in my chariot, then I shall join your feast.”

With sighs of relief, the gathering dispersed. The angel caught my eye again and jerked his head. I handed Merry back to Sparkle and strode off alongside him.

He was a handbreadth taller than me, that lanky angel, and he looked down at me with needle-sharp gray eyes as we paced along the strand toward his chariot.

“Your name was not always Golden.”

“It was Knobil, sir…once.”

“Wetlander?”

“Herdman.”

That surprised him. We reached our destination, but obviously his only purpose had been to take me aside for a private chat. He leaned back against one of the big wheels, folded his arms, and studied the scene on the beach for a few moments.

“What do you think of seafolk?” he asked quietly.

“They are very kind. Very happy people. Very hospitable.”

He nodded, and a small grin crinkled the sun-browned skin around his eyes. “They have obviously been hospitable to you, Knobil—or should I call you Herdmaster?”

I felt my face grow hot. “What can you mean, sir?”

“Very few toddlers, but a great many babies? Many women pregnant? I see a lot of youngsters with straight hair.”

I shrugged. Fortunately there had been no scandalously blond or blue-eyed babies.

“How many are yours?”

“None—according to the tribe.”

“How many according to you?”

I contrived what I hoped was an innocent boyish grin. “Nineteen, sir.”

He shook his head in what might have been admiration. “You have cause to be proud of your manhood.”

I shrugged modestly. “Any herdman can outbreed a seaman.”

“It isn’t only that.” He hesitated and then said, “I don’t question your prowess—you’re obviously a fabulous stud, and they’re very fortunate to have you available—but their trouble is mostly inbreeding.”

“It is?” I was taken aback. The incest taboo?

“How many founders?”

“Sir?”

“How many came from the South Ocean?”

“Six…four women, two men.”

The angel nodded sadly. “And they were probably highly inbred to start with. You can tell just by looking at them, Knobil, right? They all look as alike as a clutch of eggs. When relationships get that close, fertility drops. The women don’t conceive, and when they do, they usually abort. They won’t lose yours, of course. How do they dispose of the freaks?”

Freaks? “I… I don’t know, sir.” I had not even known about miscarriages. No one ever mentioned such things. Freaks? I shuddered.

“And the intelligence goes down,” Brown added. “They’re like kids, aren’t they?” He eyed me thoughtfully.

“I try to be patient with them.”

He nodded. “This is the fourth group I’ve talked with, and they’re all the same. It’s very serious! There isn’t much time.”

I had little understanding of time, but I nodded profoundly.

“The woman—your wife?—said they would talk it over. Will they?”

“Probably not. They prefer to ignore unpleasant things, sir.” They would forget the angel’s bad news as soon as possible.

“But I think you can help me… Herdmaster.”

“I’m a seaman now, sir.”

“But you deserve the title. Very few men of your age have sired so many—and such fine strong babies! I’m really impressed. You won’t mind if I call you Herdmaster while we’re alone?”

“Of course not.”

“And you may be able to save your family and friends, perhaps even many other tribes also. Now, tell me your story.”

“Once I was a pilgrim.” I fumbled at my neck for a leather amulet that Sparkle had made for me long ago, and which I had dug out now in the angel’s honor. It closed very tightly around a small packet, well waterproofed with grease. I opened this and showed my two tokens.

“Two!” The angel whistled. “I’ve never heard of anyone collecting two! And if you will help me, of course I shall give you one of mine. You’ll have three then, Herdmaster! That’s never been done before, I’m sure.”

“Of course I shall help, sir. Not for a token—I am a pilgrim no longer. But in a sense I feel that the tribe—I feel they are all my children.”