Ross Lawhead - A Hero's throne

He crossed to the rock and the long piece of leathery something that was blowing against it. He was carrying something silver in his mouth and his hands that he dropped at his feet, and then he crouched above them. Gretchen couldn’t quite see, with his form partially hidden by the rock, but presently some bluish wisps of smoke appeared and the man sat back, relaxed and satisfied. He had made a fire.

He raised his head to the dunes now, right to where she was, and Gretchen drew back slightly. She was lying on her stomach with her chin on her arms, trying to make as small a shape on the horizon as possible. She thought it highly unlikely that he would be able to see her at this distance, but then he raised his hand and waved at her.

She pulled back and looked around. Maybe he was waving to someone behind her.

There was no one else in sight. She peeked out over the edge of the dune again. The man raised a hand and beckoned for her to come down.

Something about him-besides the obvious, she told herself-made her want to obey, and so she stood up, brushed herself off, and awkwardly descended the slippery face of the white dune. The man stood, clearly relaxed and waiting for her to join him. She could tell she was blushing as she approached, and she swore at herself under her breath.

“Latha Math,” he said in Gaelic.

“Hello,” Gretchen replied. “What are you doing?”

“Fishing,” he said, again in Gaelic.

“In the ocean? By hand?”

The man shrugged and bent over the small fire he had made out of driftwood. He blew on it a few times and rearranged the wood. Gretchen took the opportunity to look him over a little more closely. His skin was hairless, white and gleaming, like something new from nature-an early spring sprout or a recently blossomed flower petal. It looked soft and luminous, tender and delicate.

She shook herself as she realised he had just said something. “What?”

“I asked if you’re hungry,” the man asked.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose so,” she said, not actually knowing if she was hungry or not.

The man reached across to what turned out to be a couple of midsized mackerel. He moved his strong hands quickly over them, running his thumbnail here, bending the head back there, sliding his fingers underneath here, and in a matter of seconds he had produced a small pile of offal and two glistening fillets. He tossed them into the fire on the face of a long, flat rock.

Gretchen had never seen anyone prepare food in this fashion, but he obviously knew what he was doing. And then she watched while he bent over the fire and licked his fingers, palms, and wrists clean of the scales and slime that cleaning the fish had left behind on him. It was slightly sickening but also, Gretchen felt with a terrible stir inside of her, an awful compulsion.

“Aren’t you. . cold?” she asked eventually, as the fish started to bubble merrily. “Swimming like. . that?”

“The sea is my true home. One’s true home is never cold,” he answered. “Ah, lovely,” he said, sliding a stick under one of the mackerel fillets and lifting it up. “Here you are, eat up,” he said, passing her the stick.

She accepted it, her hand brushing his. In their brief touch, she found his skin warm, indeed. She held the sizzling fold of meat on the stick, then brought it up to her face and nibbled gingerly at it. It was still pretty hot, and at first she got a mouthful of hot grease and flesh, but as it cooled quickly in the wind, she found it very succulent and flavourful. She ate it all, savouring it to the last bite, and then, following the other’s example, she ran her tongue along a runnel of juice that had spilled down the side of her hand.

The man was less dainty in his enjoyment of the fish. He took it straight from the fire with his fingertips and tossed it between his palms as it cooled, and then quickly tossed the chunks that fell off of it into his mouth, where he chewed it with wide, biting chomps. The fish all gone, he once again set to cleaning his hands with his tongue. Now finished, he smacked his lips and gazed lustily at the pile of entrails, bones, and fish heads he had discarded earlier.

“Well, thank you very much,” said Gretchen, rising and making to leave. She wasn’t about to stay and watch anyone eat that , no matter how-

“You’re not going, are you?”

Gretchen frowned. “I thought I might.”

“Why don’t you come home with me? I’d like to introduce you to my family, and I know that they’d love to meet you.”

“I don’t know,” Gretchen said. “Is it far?”

“It’s as near as the ocean spray on your face!” the man said, standing abruptly. He bent and picked up the long, leathery thing that was still flapping against the rock and shook it out. Gretchen now saw it was a leather jacket, some type of suede thing. The man fussed with it for a while and then wrapped it around his shoulders and clutched it around his waist. It didn’t seem to have any sleeves, pockets, or belt-it seemed to be all tailored from one piece. It was very odd, and more properly a cape than a coat.

“What’s your name?” Gretchen asked.

“Call me ron glas .”

“Ron Glass?”

“Yes, that will do. What’s your answer?” He held out his hand, and as Gretchen looked into his large, dark eyes, she knew that she would be going with him. She placed her hand in his.

But instead of leading her away from the water, he turned away from her and hooked her arm over his shoulder. “Hold me around here,” he said. “Both arms, tightly. Don’t let go, whatever happens.”

“What are you doing?” she called as he led her out into the ocean.

“Are you holding tightly?” he called back.

“Yes.”

“Very tightly?”

“Yes!”

“Then here we go!”

He leapt so powerfully that at first, Gretchen thought they were flying, seeing the seawater in the bay blur beneath them, but midair, something astonishing happened. The leather coat flapped out and then wrapped around him, head to foot, clinging to him like a wetsuit or a second skin.

Then they were falling, and Gretchen had just enough time to take a quick gasp of air before her head plunged under the water. She felt the man rippling under her, propelling himself with a vigorous and apparently highly effective jack-knife action. He bumped and shook against her so powerfully she felt that she would have to let go, but just as she felt the air in her lungs start to expire, he surged upward and their heads broke the water.

Gretchen got the shock of her life when she realised that the shoulders she held on to were not that of the attractive young man, but that of a sleek, whiskered seal. At first she thought it was just a trick of the eye, that the hood he wore was only made up to look like a seal, but then the head turned, rolled one large puppy-dog eye toward her, gave a wink, licked its nose, and then turned and continued carrying her away from the sunset.

Alex and Ecgbryt were profoundly disheartened. They had visited no less than four sleeping chambers, only to find them raided and their occupants slaughtered. They did not talk to each other-they had nothing to say. Their spirits were as low as the short tunnels they had to crouch through and as smothering as the narrow cave walls around them. They felt smothered. Alex took to openly swearing at every bump and jolt that a rocky outcrop or low ceiling gave him. He felt that the tunnels themselves were outrightly hostile, reaching out and hitting him when opportunity arose.

They were utterly soaked. Water dripped from the walls when it didn’t cascade around them. At times they had to wade, hipdeep, along freezing streams, and it was absolutely impossible to get dry afterward. There was nowhere to rest that wasn’t slippery with slime. Alex decided he was going to raise serious objections to continuing their quest after the next stop on their map, which was bound to be another massacre scene.