George Martin - Fevre Dream

“Yeah.”

Joshua nodded weakly. The skin was stretched tightly over his face, red and chafed-looking. “Julian is old, Abner, old. The thirst

… he has not felt the thirst in years… hundreds, thousands of

… years… that was why the drink… had no effect. I never knew, none of us did. You can outlive the thirst, and he… he did not thirst… but he fed, because he chose to, because of those things he said that night, you remember, strength and weakness, masters and slaves, all the things he said. Sometimes I think… the humanity of him is all hollow, a mask… he is only an old animal, so ancient it has lost even the taste for food, but it hunts on nonetheless, because that is all it remembers, that is all it is, the beast. The legends of your race, Abner, your vampire tales… the living dead, the undead, we bear those names in your stories. Julian… I think with Julian it is the truth. Even the thirst is gone. Undead. Cold and hollow and undead.”

Abner Marsh was trying to frame a comment to the effect that he intended to erase the “un-” part from Joshua’s description of Damon Julian, when Valerie suddenly sat bolt upright in the yawl. Marsh flinched and froze in mid-stroke. Beneath the slouchy felt hat, Valerie’s skin was raw as an open wound, blistered and tight, with a color that had gone beyond red to the dark mottled purple of a bloody bruise. Her lips were cracked, and she drew them back in an insane giggle to reveal long white teeth. The whites of her eyes had swallowed up all the rest, so she looked blind and insane. “It hurts !” she screamed, lifting hands red as lobster claws above her head in an attempt to block out the sun. Then her eyes darted round the boat, and lighted on Karl Framm’s softly breathing form, and she scrambled toward him, her mouth open.

“No!” Joshua York cried. He threw himself on top of her, and wrenched her aside before her teeth could close on Framm’s throat. Valerie struggled crazily, and screamed. Joshua held her immobile. Valerie’s teeth snapped together, again and again, until she had gnashed open her own lip. Her mouth dripped a froth of blood and spit. Struggle as she might, however, Joshua York was too much for her. Finally all the fight seemed to go out of her. She slumped back heavily, staring up at the sun out of blind white eyes.

Joshua cradled her in his arms, despairing. “Abner,” he said, “the lead line. Under it. I hid it there last night, when they went out for you. Please, Abner.”

Marsh stopped rowing and went to the lead line, the thirty-three-foot-long rope used for soundings, a pipe filled with lead at its end. Beneath its coils, Marsh found what Joshua wanted; an unlabeled wine bottle, more than three-quarters full. He passed it up to York, who pulled the cork and forced it to Valerie’s swollen, cracked lips. The liquor dribbled down her chin and most of it wound up soaking her shirt, but Joshua got a little into her mouth. It seemed to help. All of a sudden she began to suck at the bottle greedily, like a baby sucking on a teat. “Easy,” said Joshua York.

Abner Marsh moved the lead line around and frowned. “Is that the only bottle?” he asked.

Joshua York nodded. His own face looked scalded now, like the face of a second mate Marsh had once seen who’d stood too near to a steam pipe that burst. Blisters and cracks were appearing. “Julian kept my supply in his cabin, and doled it out a bottle at a time. I dared not protest. Often enough he toyed with the idea of destroying it all.” He pulled the bottle away from Valerie. It was between a quarter and half-full now. “I thought… thought it would be enough, until I could make some more. I did not think Valerie would be with us.” His hand shook. He sighed and put the bottle to his own lips, taking a long, deep draught.

“Hurts,” Valerie whimpered. She curled up peacefully, her body trembling, but the fit clearly past her now.

Joshua York handed the bottle back to Marsh. “Keep it, Abner,” he said. “It must last. We must ration it.”

Toby Lanyard had stopped rowing and was staring back at them. Karl Framm stirred weakly in the bottom of the yawl. The boat drifted with the current, and up ahead Marsh saw the smoke of an ascending steamer. He picked up an oar. “Get us to shore, Toby,” he said. “C’mon. I’m goin’ to hail that goddamn boat down there. We got to get us into a cabin.”

“Yessuh, Cap’n,” said Toby.

Joshua touched his brow and flinched. “No,” he said softly. “No, Abner, you shouldn’t. Questions.” He tried to stand up, and reeled dizzily, dropping back to his knees. “Burning,” he said. “No. Listen to me. Not the boat, Abner. Keep on. A town, we’ll reach a town. By dark… Abner?”

“Hell,” said Abner Marsh, “you been out here maybe four hours now, and look at you. Look at her. It ain’t even noon yet. Both of you will be burned to a crisp if we don’t get you inside.”

“No,” said York. “They’ll ask questions, Abner. You can’t…”

“Shut your damn fool mouth,” Marsh said, putting his aching back into the oar. The yawl moved across the river. The steamer was coming up at them, pennants waving in the wind, a handful of passengers strolling out on her promenade. It was a New Orleans packet boat, Marsh saw as they got near, a medium-sized side-wheeler named the H. E. Edwards. He waved an oar at her and called across the water, while Toby rowed and the yawl rocked. On the decks of the steamboat, passengers waved back and pointed. She gave a short, impatient blast on her whistle, and Abner Marsh craned his head around and saw another boat, way down the river, a white dot in the distance. His heart sunk. They were racing, he knew, and there was no steamer in the world going to stop for a hail in the middle of a race.

The H. E. Edwards surged past them at full speed, paddles kicking so hard the wake bobbed them up and down like they was shooting a rapids. Abner Marsh cussed and called after her and waved his oar threateningly. The second boat approached and passed even faster, her stacks trailing sparks. They were left drifting in midriver, with empty fields all around them, the sun above, and a pile of smouldering bagasse downstream sending up a gray pillar of smoke. “Land,” Marsh said to Toby, and they made for the western bank. When they ran aground, he jumped out and pulled the yawl farther in, standing knee-deep in mud. Even on the goddamn shore, he thought when he looked around, there was no shade, no trees to shelter them from the merciless sun. “Get on out of there,” Marsh bellowed at Toby Lanyard. “We got to get them up on the bank,” he said. “Then we’ll drag out this goddamn boat and turn it over, get ’em under it.” Toby nodded. They got Framm ashore first, then Valerie. When Marsh took her under the arms and lifted her, she shuddered wildly. Her face looked so bad he was scared to touch it, lest it come off in his hand.

When they returned for Joshua, he was already out of the boat. “I’ll help,” he said. “It’s heavy.” He was leaning against the side of the yawl.

Marsh nodded to Toby, and the three of them pushed the boat clear out of the river. It was hard. Abner Marsh put all his strength into it. The mud along the bank fought against him with wet, clutching fingers. Without Joshua, they might never have done it. But finally they got it over the embankment into the field, and flipping it over was easy. Marsh grabbed Valerie under the arms again and dragged her under the boat. “You get under here too, Joshua,” he said, turning. Toby had Karl Framm and was ministering to him, forcing a handful of river water between the pilot’s pale lips. Joshua was nowhere to be seen. Marsh scowled and went around the yawl. His pants, soaked and heavy with mud, clung to his legs. “Joshua,” he roared, “where the hell you got yourself…”