Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

This concession represented, for him, a major intellectual advance.

'No,' said Zanya, 'they're not good things at all. Sex is poison. So is alcohol. I just told you I'd seen the proof of it.'

'Ah,' said Drake, 'but you're living proof that one can taste yet not necessarily be poisoned. Therefore it must be a matter of quantity. And . . . quality, perhaps.''But-'

'Nay, woman. The cities of the world are peopled with heads as numerous as seashore sands. For each of those heads, one act of fornication, minimum. There's a world of tasting there. But is the whole world poxed? No! Is the whole world poisoned? No!'

'Drake,' said Yot, coming over to them, 'can I ask you if you could-'

'You can't and I couldn't!' said Drake. 'Piss off before I knife you!' Yot vanished himself.

'Where were we?' asked Drake, his chain of thought broken.

'Oh, deep in the toils of the higher philosophy,' said Zanya. 'But you'll never persuade me that lust is good. As I'vetoldyou, I've tried everything. And what I tried I didn't like.'

Drake found that believable, since most of the things Zanya had tried as a priestess of the Orgy God seemed less than pleasant – for instance, being roughed over by twenty drunken men while wallowing in the guts of a whale.'So we must be chaste,' continued Zanya.

'Ah,' said Drake, his voice sly. 'But it would be an error to condemn your flesh to chastity before you tried just one last thing.''I tell you, I've tried everything!'

'I listened very very carefully,' said Drake, cunning as a Korugatu philosopher trying to get extended credit at his favourite wine bar. 'And I'm sure, beyond all doubts, that you've never ever tried moderation.'Zanya thought hard.

'Hmmm,' she said. 'You're right. I never have. But in any case, why would I want to practise moderation with you?''Because I love you,' said Drake simply.

'You mean, you'd rather have me than all the other women in the world put together? My charms would be sufficient for fifty lifetimes and the bright day after?'

'Well… I wouldn't go that far,' said Drake. 'I mean, not yet. After I'd tried all the women in the world once, then I'd be in a better position to decide.'She slapped him, which he deserved for being so crass.

'Hey!' he said. 'Can't you take a little joke? Of course I'd want you, just you, only you, dearest cony. I'm in love with you, yea, red skin, red hair, kisses and blisses. This is the real thing. True love!'

'You mean,' said Zanya, 'you hear music when you look at me, smell spring behind my tender ears?'Drake sniffed.

'On Investigation,' he reported, 'I smell, if anything, dead bear.'

Whereupon she slapped him a second time, for impertinence.

But he was a quick learner, and, twenty-three slaps later, was singing her praises as sweetly as any courtly swain in pursuit of a high-born damsel.

Delicately he kissed her, and lightly traced the outlines of her cheekbones, and the hand which fondled its way between her thighs was so gentle, so skilled, so courteous, that she could scarcely resist its claim on her desires.She had not had a man for three years.

Or a dog, or a woman, or a cucumber, or any other form of relief. Religion had even kept her from pleasuring her own flesh. But propinquity was steadily eroding her religious faith.However, fear still kept her chaste.For the time being.

For, if she took on Drake Douay, what then? She knew what men were like. She must stand staunch against all of them. For, if she gave in to one, the others would then be insulted by her refusal. She still had nightmares about serving lust en masse in the Ebrells. Even though that was years ago.

Therefore she – gently – removed that skilled and courteous hand from between her thighs. When it replaced itself, she – not so gently – tried to break one of its fingers. The hand got the message.

Thus Drake and Zanya, lying in each other's arms on the fur-side of a fresh-killed bearskin, practised not moderation but abstinence. And the art of the promise.

But Drake's comrades – men wise in the ways of the world – believed what it was only natural for them to suspect. And this increased the jealousy of some of them beyond all reason.

Name: Arabin lol Arabin (formerly Dreldragon Drakedon Douay, or, more simply, 'Drake').

Occupation: wilderness survivor, energetic creator of heresies, dedicated exponent of practical aspects of that congeries of delusions known as 'love'.

Status: in the eyes of his true love, his dearest kiss, the high-breasted red-skinned red-haired Zanya Kliedervaust (she who is sweeter then nectar, more tender than his foreskin, closer to his heart than his kidneys, and more valued than both of his great toes and the strength of his arches) his status is rising steadily.

Description: a fair-haired smiling fellow who whistles, sings, laughs; wears rather odd mixture of torn wool, battered sealskin, pungent uncured bearskin; looks totally absurd but more spritely by the moment.

There were thirteen in that downriver party. Guest Gulkan, the Pretender of Tameran whom they had met so briefly, was not amongst them, having failed to emerge from the Door by the time Jon Arabin finally snatched the star-globe from its golden cup, thus closing the Circle.

Zanya Kliedervaust was there, of course. She was chaste, yet in love. Amongst so many men, she felt protected because of what she thought of as Drake's power. She longed for the day when they could begin to practise some moderation together. It would be marvellous to be

cherished, soothed, gentled and adored. An antidote, perhaps, to her memories of Ebrell, where she used to finish an important ceremony feeling as bruised and abused as a pigskin which has just survived five games of ruck in succession.

With them was the purple-skinned Oronoko, rescued from the Great Arena of Dalar ken Halvar when Zanya was. Language difficulties kept him largely silent; only Zanya spoke his native Frangoni, and she had scant time for anyone other than Drake.

Drake was now universally known, to Jon Arabin's delight, as Arabin lol Arabin. While he had not yet tasted the delights of Zanya's flesh, he was already learning that the poets, while extravagant, are not entirely untruthful. Love does indeed have its pleasures – such as waking beside a woman in the morning and not having to ask her what her name is.

In his world of rain and river and water, of mud and dirt and charred bear meat, Zanya was the brightest, most bubbling thing in the universe. And her smile was itself a flattery he had never had from any other woman.

Warwolf and Walrus had of course survived, as had the wart-faced Sully Yot, who followed Drake like a bad smell until Drake threatened to lib him.

'I just fancy some jungle oysters,' said Drake. 'So get out of here before I cut your goolies off.'

'When you die,' said Yot, 'the Flame will burn you forever. You're living in sin.'

'Aye,' said Drake, not caring to confess that he had yet to sin with Zanya, 'for that's the way I was born. And I'm proud of it.''I'll tell Zanya you're the Demon-son!'

'Do it!' said Drake. 'Go on, just do it! Then I'll shove your face in the fire and hold it there till your nose burns off. What's more, my father will tear you limb from limb once you're dead.''You mean . . . ?''I mean I am indeed the Demon-son,' said Drake, savagely, 'seed of Hagon, sent to bring evil to the world and destruction to prissy little spoil-sport shits like Sully Yot. So bugger off!'

Yot was an unpredictable factor.

He wanted, for a start, to survive. To get the hell out of Penvash – certainly the closest thing to hell he'd ever encountered. And he also wanted to renew Drake's faith in the Flame (if Drake was human, and not born of the Demon), or to kill Drake (if Drake was indeed, true to his boast, the Demon-son). During each day's march, Yot lagged far behind the others, having long, involved theological discussions with himself as he tried to sort truth from boast and right from wrong.