neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“We might follow the river on foot,” the merchant murmured, reluctant to the last, “but the terrain is difficult and becoming more so, and I confess that the prospect of an extended hike does not thrill me with anticipation.” “Then ith mettled.” The platy extended a hand. Buncan had to admit the thought of traveling by water instead of land was an inviting one. His battered backside and jostled spine certainly approved.

The platy family proved to be excellent hosts, and the travelers spent the most relaxing evening and night in days luxuriating in their hospitality. In exchange for some selections from Gragelouth’s stock, the fanner additionally provided them with substantial supplies of dried fish, fruits, crayfish, and freshwater oysters, as well as vegetables from the garden. Even Gragelouth had to admit that the riparian hermits had been more than fair in then’ dealings. As a result, they did not miss the supplies they bad been unable to obtain in Hygria.

The boat was sturdy and larger than expected. There were four sets of oars, which since they were traveling with the current no one expected to have to use save perhaps to fend the craft off the canyon walls should they grow unexpectedly narrow.

The single lateen-rigged mast was stepped solidly into the keep fore of the cabin. Its sail remained furled as they pushed away from the rustic rough-hewn dock and rode the tranquil waters of the tributary into the fast-moving current of the Sprilashoone.

They watched the farm recede behind them until a bend in the river blocked it from their view. The six youngsters ran along the beach, clicking then- bills by way of farewell, until they too disappeared from sight.

Buncan found himself wondering if he would ever see the little valley again. Certainly Gragelouth might, in search of what trade goods remained behind.

“This is more like it.” He made the comment to no one in particular as he leaned against the bow and watched the canyon slide by. The layered sandstone and granite glistened in the morning sun. Wild lizards and other native inhabitants scrambled in and out of clefts in the rock, pausing occasionally to peer from uncomprehending eyes at the boat drifting past below. Others sped out of the craft’s path, then- subaqueous activities temporarily disrupted.

“A definite improvement.” Having jumped over the side to cool himself, Squill had climbed back aboard over the low stem and now lay on his back on the front deck, soaking up the sun. Gragelouth handled the tiller while Neena hung over the side, trailing a paw in the water.

“To be back on a river.” She let out a low, whistling sigh. “ ‘Tis more than I could’ve ‘oped for.”

“I am glad you are pleased.”

She turned to look at the merchant. “Don’t you ever lighten up, guv? You should try an’ be more like me bro’ an’ I.”

“No one can be ‘like’ an otter except another otter,” Gragelouth declaimed firmly. “Your kind possesses the most extraordinary facility for delighting even in unpleasant circumstances.”

“Maybe so, pinch-face, but even you ‘ave to admit that our present circumstances are ‘ardly anythin’ but unpleasant.”

“I must confess that I am increasingly sanguine about our current situation.”

“Crikes, don’t overdo your glee. You might strain somethin’.”

“I miss the old wagon,” Gragelouth continued, “but one must be prepared to make sacrifices in pursuit of great goals.” He nudged the tiller slightly to port. “I admit that this method of transportation is both cooler and easier on certain select portions of one’s anatomy.”

“Bloody well right.” She swiped at a surface-swimming fish and missed. “So chill, and try to enjoy yourself.”

It required a conscious effort on his part, but by their fourth day on the river the ease of travel and promise of more of the same had even the perpetually dour merchant smiling. The current had increased and the walls of the canyon grown sheer, but they passed through with impunity.

It was midafternoon when a distant hum in the air pricked Squill’s ears. He was lounging near Buncan, who was taking his turn at the tiller. Gragelouth and Neena were down in the main cabin, cobbling together a lunch.

“Now there’s a sound,” the otter murmured, sitting up straight.

“Wot’s a sound?” Neena emerged from below, carrying a plate of assorted cold cuts. “Rapids?”

“Probably.” Squill helped himself to the food but ate with unaccustomed gravity.

Not much time had passed before the noise had grown noticeably louder. “Big rapids,” he muttered as he cleaned his whiskers with his tongue. He walked around the central cabin to stand in the bow, craning forward while sampling the air with nose and ears.

Moments later he shouted back to Buncan. “Oi, mate! We may be comin” up on a bit o’ a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Buncan yelled up to him.

“ ‘Tis the canyon. It seems to disappear just ahead.”

Buncan strained to see ahead. “What do you mean, ‘it seems to disappear’?”

“ ‘Ard to tell.” Abandoning the bow, the otter scampered monkeylike up the mast and clung to the top, shading his eyes with one paw as he stared forward. Buncan squinted up at him.

“See anything?”

“Not bloomin’ much. That’s the problem.”

Gragelouth’s smile had vanished. “I do not like this.”

“Didn’t the duckbill tell us this river were safe?” Neena murmured.

“He’s never been down this far,” Buncan reminded her. “He told us that, too. He said there might be rapids.” The roar had intensified, progressing from loud to deafening. “Sounds like more than rapids to me.” He called to their lookout. “Anything yet, Squill?”

The otter was silent, looking like a large brown comma astride the punctuation of the mast. A moment later he let out a sharp bark and slid down to rejoin them. His eyes were alert as he confronted his tall human friend.

“Ain’t no rapids to worry about.”

“That is a relief.” Gragelouth sighed.

“ ‘Tis a waterfall. A bloody big one, near as I can tell.”

The merchant blinked doe eyes and then turned away to commence a desperate study of the passing banks. By this time the rock walls they were traveling between verged on the perpendicular.

“There is no place to land here. No place at all!” His thick claws dug into the wood of the gunwale. “We are going to go over.”

“Just keep calm, everybody,” said Neena. “Me bro’, ‘e’s been known to exaggerate. Now Bunkoo, do you recall the tale o’ when Mudge an’ Jon-Tom ‘ad to ‘andle a situation like this?”

Buncan thought back to the stories his father had told him. He nodded eagerly as the one she was alluding to leaped to mind. “The Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli! The double river.”

“Righty-ho. An’ remember ‘ow they escaped it?”

He nodded vigorously. “Gragelouth, take the tiller. My friends and I have magic to make.” Passing control of the boat to the merchant, who was becoming progressively more unglued with each passing moment, Buncan dashed below and returned seconds later with his duar.

“The Sloomaz interdicted four waterfalls at the Earth’s Throat,” he reminded his companions confidently. “Surely we can spellsing our way down one.” Ahead of the boat the now thunderous roaring had given birth to a dense, rising mist.

“We’d better,” agreed Squill, “or in a few minutes we’re all gonna be mush an’ kindlin’.”

“Words.” Buncan strove to inspire them as he strummed the duar. “Lyrics. Get on it.”

Neena stared at her brother. “I don’t know anythin’ about flyin’ over waterfalls.”

“Think of something.” Gragelouth clung to the tiller as though it were some graven wooden talisman, fighting to keep them on a straight course in the grip of the now relentless torrent.