Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

'My own dear son,' said Arabin, 'the light of my life, the sun of my sky, the moon of my heavens, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, as sweet to me as my mother's milk.'

He was very close to them now, teeth shining as grinned.

'I didn't know you had a son,' said Drake, puzzled. 'Ah,' said Arabin, 'but you know now.' And tousled his hair, and kissed him. And Drake, belatedly, understood.

Ling: an open bay on the coast of Argan some seventy-five leagues west of Castle of Controlling Power; lies west of Peninsular Quanat and south of Island Va and Island Ko.

Ling: the inhabitants of Ling, a golden-skinned people with milk-white eyes; notable as pearl divers.

Population of Ling: 4,261 (year Khmar 17).

'You can't do this to me!' shouted Drake. He was shocked. Outraged. 'I trusted you!'

'Then you can trust me still,' said Jon Arabin. 'Thisis but a little thing you're being asked to do. A few days ashore – why, that's nothing.''Days!' said Drake.

'Oh yes. Now we've arrived, the Ling will want to make a special expedition to Ko for extra pearls. We'll wait here till they've finished.'

'But this – this – the whole idea is impossible,' said Drake. 'To start with, I'm the wrong race.'

'Don't worry,' said Jon Arabin. 'They're not racist. They've got no prejudice against blond-haired boys. Just keep away from their women and you'll come to no harm.'

'That's not what I meant, and you know it!' said Drake angrily.

'My dear, dear son,' said Jon Arabin, tousling Drake's hair again in a truly infuriating manner. 'You'll have to

keep that temper under control once you're ashore. You don't want to disgrace your father, do you now?'

Drake hardened his hands to fists. But Jon Arabin just laughed. An easy, healthy laugh. Easy for him to be happy!

'Man,' said Drake, 'I'll never pass muster as your son. Man, you're like coal, whereas me – I'm more the colour of a cockroach.'

'The Ling only breed their own gold with their own gold,' said Arabin. 'They know nothing of the mixing of skins.'

'But they breed dogs,' said Drake, desperately. 'And cats, surely.''Nay,' said Jon Arabin, 'for they have none such.''Then they have mice! And rats. Don't they?'

'Man,' said Jon Arabin. 'Rest easy. I've told you -there's no harm here if you keep your cock in order.'

'Aye,' said Jon Disaster with a grin, 'but if you send your cock adventuring then they'll cut you in half and tear your head off. If you're lucky! If you're not. . .'

Disaster elaborated, until Arabin, seeing Drake was getting increasingly nervous, ordered him to silence.

'Your canoe's come alongside,' said Arabin. 'Down you go!'

And, as the entire crew of the Warwolf applauded, Drake scrambled down a rope ladder to the canoe waiting to take him into captivity. The five Ling in the canoe stared up at him. Their eyes really were white. Could they then be truly human? One reached out and steadied him as he stepped from the ladder to the canoe, which wobbled alarmingly underfoot; he crouched hastily, grabbing at the sides. Men mocked him from the decks:'Remember to smile as they skin you!''When they offer up bowls of sand, it's polite to eat it.'

'Blow me a kiss, darling, while you've still got lips to kiss with.'

Drake, ignoring them, sought arse-space on a paddle bench. It was hot. In the Warwolf's shadow, small fish hung motionless, weightless, amidst masses of dark-green weed trailing away into limpid depths. Strange, to think of that garden hauling from the hull through the deep-sea waves.

'O-lo-o-la-tra-lee-o-zo,' said one of the five men in the canoe.

'O-lo-see-lee-ay-lit-ay-lo,' he was answered, by the eldest man afloat. 'O-lo-al-o-so-lo,' said all in unison.

Dipping their paddles in the water, they began to stroke toward the shore.

Sun and sea split from flashing paddles. Drake squinted against the glare, closing his eyes as the paddlers began an ominous high-singing chant. Hot blood-light filtered through his eyelids. He heard distant laughter on the Warwolf, and wished he was back on board.

Shadows cooled out the sun. His eyes startled open. Their canoe was sliding into a deep dim sea cave. Cold blocks of white light gleamed in the rock roof. How old was this place? Who had made it? Slaves, maybe. Aye, slaves sweating under whips till they fell from exhaustion and were beaten to death by the brutal Ling.

'O-so-lo-lee-o-lo,' chanted the paddlers, 'O-so-say-lo, o-lo-ay-tree-o-lo.'

The words were music. Senseless music. Perhaps the paddlers were gearing themselves up for a killing. Perhaps it was a death-chant they were singing.

Deep within the cave was a shelving beach. As the canoe scraped against sand, Drake jumped overboard and helped run it ashore, seeking – ah, desperate hope! – to win favour by showing himself work-willing. A little water leaked into his boots; he stamped his damp feet, partly from nervousness.

The much-trampled sand, grooved by canoe-keels, suggested that a dozen of the craft afloat by the Warwolf belonged here. Drake had a sudden, sickening vision of ambush, rape and slaughter, of laughing pirates falling on the Ling to murder them for pearl-wealth.

Might that happen? Might Arabin succumb to greed, and decide to kill rather than trade? He was known to be deeply in debt, needing every scraping he could get. Was Arabin that kind of man? Need could make anyone that kind of man.

The Ling were talking amongst themselves in their fluid, fluent voices. Drake cleared his throat. 'Does anyone here speak Galish?' he said. They fell silent.

Had his voice annoyed them? How much excuse did they need before they fell on him with flaying knives and torture hooks? He smiled nervously: then wondered if these strangers might deem even a smile a deadly insult.

'O-o-o' said one of the Ling, taking Drake by the hand to lead him into the secret places beyond the canoe cave.

Drake was intensely embarrassed, for on Stokos only slaves walked hand in hand. Still, he dared not protest. He sniffed the air. Imagined he smelt blood. Hot, reeking blood in great quantity.'Grief,' he muttered.

After many turnings, bends, stairs, squeeze-holes, ramps, inclines, corridors and passageways, Drake was at last shown into a large white room where great big globular crabs with claws the size of nutcrackers were crawling over the walls.'What's with the crabs?' said Drake. 'Eh?' 'O-lip-o,' said one of the Ling, smiling.And gave him a little push.Drake, fists clenched, stepped into the room.

Okay, crabs! Watch out! This is Drake Douay you've got to deal with.

Drake's guides departed. The crabs made no move against him. They looked . . . well, actually, they looked remarkably dead. Yes. On Investigation, they proved to be empty shells which had been glued to the walls, doubtless by way of decoration.Drake took stock.He was in a square-hewn chamber dominated by a raised deck of small grey stones topped off with clean white sand. Drake entirely failed to recognize this contraption for what it was – a bed. And not just any old bed, either, but a bed for one of the High-Born. For the second degree, tradition prescribed stones minus sand. And a commoner would have slept on rocks.

Drake fingered one of the stones. It was too small to make much of a weapon. He still had his dirk, but what good was that? He should have asked to bring a sword ashore. He would have felt safer, yes. And besides – if he was playing at being Jon Arabin's son, surely he should have been kitted out with the weapons appropriate to his status. Well, too late to worry about that now . . .Was there a toilet nearby? He needed one urgently.

The sand-topped stone-heap . . . yes, it was obviously a glorified sand-box, to be used like the one his boyhood friend, Levil Norkin, had for his kittens. Drake promptly began to scrabble a little hole in the top of the bed. But, before he could commit a faux pas of enormous dimensions, a young woman entered. In her hands she carried the tail of a stingray – which, amongst the Ling, was the ultimate erotic symbol. She was naked. 'O-ma-no-so?' she said, a faint smile on her lips.