Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

She cleated the line she held and scratched in salt-stiffened hair. My skull’s quite hollow — Nay, there is much sand within the shriveled kernel of my brain. Have I gone mad? Am I indeed possessed? This scow’s not even very good at tacking. I know no longer where I am, or why. I ought to make for shore, where’er’tis nearest — whichever way that is, unless too late—not plod eternally to seek a Dutchman whose own witch-pilot somehow must have’ died.

She raised her head, though it went slowly. Why, there’s my reason! How could I forget for e’en a minute? If the spell has failed, he too may be bewildered and beset. With God all things are possible, they say, although, of course, the most of them unlikely; thus it may be I’ll find him—help him — find him — If not, I died in trying, like a soldier.

She turned the helm a trifle, seeking the most use out of what breeze she had.

A swirl in the water drew her look. Why,’tis a dolphin, she realized. Aloud, a croak forced from leathery mouth and tongue: “Greeting, Master Dolphin! Good morrow to thee. Come, I bid thee welcome. The antics of thy kind beside this hull, the liquid lightning beauty of their pace, have helped me keep my reason and my life. God loves the world; He gave it dolphins—Oh!”

That was a parched scream. For the swimmer had drawn alongside, arced up in a cataract of spray, caught the first sunbeams on spear-bright flanks, and shimmered into something else.

Jennifer shrank back. The one who perched on the middle thwart laughed. The sound was like bells, heard far away across summer meadows through dawn-dreams when she was a child; and he sang more than spoke: “I thank thee for thine invitation, lady, and do accept with pleasure. Pardon me if I surprised thee when I doffed my cloak. I have no few of them—as this—”

Abruptly a dragonfly hovered, the absoluteness of blue. “Or this,” it said, and a dove preened an iridescent breast. “Or this”—a young man, brown, golden-curled, in a brief white tunic, strumming a lyre, wings on his cap and sandals—“or this”—a vortex of radiance, not unlike what had come from the ring before it faded, but whirling, whirling—“or this,” the being said, and returned to the first shape taken aboard, “or many more.”

“What sending art thou,” Jennifer’s words dragged, “and from where, and why?”

“Am I so terrifying in thy sight?” he teased. “I can become a gorgon if thou’d’st liefer.”

Her breathing began to slow. Certainly his aspect could in itself only charm: a boy of seven or eight years, slenderness clad in breechclout and a lily garland across the fair locks, eyes big and cornflower-colored in a countenance dusted with freckles—but less than a foot tall, and winged like a butterfly which had been patterned on a tiger in a field of gillyvor.

No matter his minuteness, she could easily hear him, and read the concern which crossed his features: “Wait. Thou hast sailed too near the edge, I see. No babe has drained thee, but a red-hot vampire, and thou art more a mummy than a mother. Abide a moment.”

He was gone. She stared, opened and closed her mouth, could get forth no noise. Untended, the rudder waggled idle, the yardarm rattled, and the sail spilled its wind.

A footman appeared before her. “Milady, tea is served,” he intoned, set a tray on the after thwart, and became the boy-sprite, perched gleeful in the bows.

She gaped. A pot of China ware steamed upon the brass, next to an eggshell-thin cup; there were plates of cheese, raisins, cakes; beside a pitcher of milk stood one of water, both bedewed from their coldness, and an honest clay mug to pour full.

“Quaff slowly, nibble, till thou’rt wont to life,” he warned.

“I know,” she answered, “but know not how to thank thee… Oh, thou’st naught against a prayer?”

“Nay, I’ll join.”

Reassured, she knelt for minute, as he did in the foresheets. Meanwhile the sun had come wholly in flight and the sea lay a-flash.

With wondering care, Jennifer started to drink and eat. Her rescuer found a comfortable position against the gunwale, kicked his heels, and said: “No doubt thou’rt curious about this business. Well, I am Ariel, the airy spirit who once served Prospero upon that isle which thou’st been dogging, till he slipped me free.” Her stupefaction sent him into a gale of mirth. “I read thy mind. Fear not.’Tis very pure.” He grew solemn. “And thus I learn how Faerie’s faring ill. I’ve kept myself too long in isolation—lost track of time, mine island is so pleasant. Now must I help thy cause and Oberon’s. Else might erelong the foe bestride my holm, his iron passionlessly ravish her, then flense the daisies from her dying flesh and on her bones erect a countinghouse.”

“As has been happening in England,” she said between cautious, marveling sips. “Rupert—”

“What’s in a name?” Ariel scoffed. “Well, names can be important. They should have made him Ernest. Ah, no matter. He clumps well-meaning, if on heavy hoofs. Myself, I like thee better, Jennifer.”

“Speak never ill of him!” she flared.

“That’s what I like,” nodded Ariel.

“But… he’s alive and hale?”

“Aye.”

“God be praised.” Were she not desiccated, she would have wept.

After a while, during which he conjured a sparkling ball into existence, bounced it on his fingertips, and dismissed it, Ariel went on: “Thou know’st our Faerie powers are but slight—illusions, apparitions, some few tricks, forecastings which the stream of time may drown, a whisper of ambiguous advice. Outside mine eyot, I’m a spy, no more. Not only would I not have known of thee, I could not aid thee as I’m doing now hadst thou not by thyself come near my home. Nor can I resurrect those mighty things whereby Duke Prospero first saved, then bound me. I can but show thee where he sank them down, and mortal muscles which may help thee—”

“Rupert?”

Ariel grimaced. “Nay, he sits deep inside” a shell of books. I have no strength to winkle him from them, for that whole palace has an iron frame to fence off magic, which its builders feared.” Seeing her crestfallen: “However, by himself he’ll soon creep forth. Meanwhile, I know how it has fretted thee about the lad who cut thy chains in twain and thus did leave his sword unscabbarded. Well, he is in no danger. His companions agree thou didst bewitch his innocence, and anyway, have too much else to think of.” He grinned. “The owner of this boat demands its price of them—a sum left float to bloat, I’m sure—since watchmen state a Puritan did steal it, and furthermore insists on partial rental, although’tis clear they’ll never use his ship. He threatens lawsuit; whilst they speak no French!” He beat the thwart and whooped.

“How dost thou know these things?” Jennifer wondered.

“The span of time I took to fetch you rations, was enough to follow up the clues within thy mind.” Ariel began to sing: “ Where the eaves drop, there drop I— ” but broke off in apology. “Ah, nay, I pray thy delicacy pardon each single second sere and useless here within this furnace hole of movelessness. I’ll bring an oil which heals all burns at once.” His words rose to a cry. “Now from the deeps for thee let whirl a wind, lass!”

He flung an arm aloft. The air brawled to life, the waters beneath it. Sail suddenly filled, the boat sprang forward.

Hills lifted high from wide white beaches and intimate coves. They were bedecked with forest—here pine and juniper, there tall hardwoods—or meadows star-sky full of flowers. Springs gave rise to brooks which tumbled over moss-softened cobbles and rang down cliffsides. Odors of growth, blossom, sun-warmed resin drenched the air. It was always singing, for wings were overhead in the thousands: chirrup, trill, carol, and chant.