Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2 by Alan Dean Foster
“Stop him! Don’t kill him, but stop him!” the senior Gate Master shouted.
With dozens of soldiers in pursuit, Ehomba ran inland. A lifetime of chasing down errant calves and stray lambs allowed him to outdistance all but the most active of his pursuers, not to mention the Gate Masters who trailed huffing and puffing in their wake. Neither group was in any especial hurry. There was nowhere for the herdsman to go. If he entered the water they would quickly chase him down in boats. The headland toward which he was running ended in a low bluff overlooking the river. All other directions were sealed off by the still active time gates, through which the flow of Time continued to ripple and shimmer.
“Stop!” yelled a voice from behind him.
“You can’t get away!” shouted another. “There’s nowhere to go!”
But there was somewhere to go. Or rather, somewhen.
Taking a deep breath and making an arrow of his clasped hands, Ehomba leaped forward and dove headfirst into the time stream.
Somewhere far around the curve of the world, the most powerful sorcerer alive woke up screaming.
From the hole Ehomba’s body made in the channel, Time spewed forth in a gush of unrestrained chronology. Amid shrieks and howls, Gate Masters and soldiers alike were swept up and washed away in the flood of Time, to disappear forever into some otherwhen. The detained deranged foreigner was forgotten in the survivors’ haste to close all the time gates and so shut off the flow to the devastating leak.
Once this had finally been accomplished, reluctant soldiers were sent to scour the area where the tall stranger had disappeared. Though not hopeful, the Gate Masters knew they had to try. The Logicians would demand it. As expected, there was no sign or suspicion that the foreigner had ever existed. He was gone forever: vanished, swept away, taken up by the river of Time. With wondering sighs and expressions of regret for those colleagues who had been lost in the short-lived disaster, they set about composing themselves for the journey back into the city. It was an occurrence that occasioned much animated discussion among the survivors.
Caught up by the river of Time, Ehomba kicked and dug hard at the eras that rushed past. Growing up by the sea, he was a naturally strong swimmer. Still, it was hard to tread years, difficult to hold one’s breath as wave after wave of eternity broke over one’s mind. But to the determined and well conditioned, not impossible.
He swam on, trying to make timefall as close to the point where he had entered the river as possible. The current was strong, but he had expected that and, by his angle of entry, done his best to anticipate it. Caught up in the flow of Time, he was battered and buffeted by astonishing sights. Animals ancient and fantastical rushed past. Great machines the likes of which he had never imagined clanked ponderously forward down unsuspected evolutionary paths, and all manner of men inhabited times immemorial and impossibly distant.
He was almost out of breath when a faint gleam caught his eye. Turning in the Time flow, he kicked hard for it. It was one of the blazing yellow-white streaks he had seen from his own time, viewed now from the inside out. This in itself was a wonderment to him, for he did not know that it was possible to see light from the inside out. The current tore at him, insistent and relentless. He felt himself weakening.
Worse than that, he was running out of Time.
* * * *
Below the Narrows of Hamacassar the Eynharrowk once more became a broad, placid highway. Smaller boats traveling in the same direction as the Grömsketter kept closer to either shore, while those beating their way upstream gave her a wide berth. Small islands dotted with reeds and cattails had begun to appear, the first outposts of the great delta into which the torpid river spread before at last entering the ocean. Fishermen had erected modest homes on the larger islets, and spread their nets from long poles rammed into the shallows.
The Grömsketter kept to the main channel. With the widening of the river, the current had dissipated considerably over the past weeks and her speed had slowed accordingly. Crewmen and -women palavered boisterously as they worked the ship, but among her remaining passengers the mood was glum.
Simna was unable to think straight. His friend had charged him with completing the journey begun in the far south, but how was a common mercenary like himself to know how to proceed? Ehomba’s mystic weapons remained on board, but the swordsman was more leery than hopeful of figuring out how to make proper use of them. He had no money, the herdsman having carried off the remaining “beach pebbles” in his pocket. His one ally was the imposing but simpleminded Hunkapa Aub. As for the black litah, upon awakening and learning what had transpired, the big cat had promptly announced his intention to leave the ship at the first opportunity. As he explained inexorably to Simna, his allegiance had been to the herdsman personally, not to his cause. With Ehomba gone, the cat considered its obligation at an end.
“Don’t you care about what he began?” the swordsman had reproached the litah. “Do you wish all his efforts to go for naught?”
The big cat remained unperturbed. “His efforts are, and were, of no interest to me. It was the person I chose to associate with. I am sorry he is no longer here. For a human, he was a most interesting individual.” The moist black tongue emerged to lick and clean around the nostrils. “I always wondered what he would have tasted like.”
Simna sneered openly, not caring how the sleek predator might react, finding that he presently cared about so little that it shocked him. “It’s all primeval to you, isn’t it? Food, sex, sleep. You’ve acquired nothing in the way of culture from your association with us. Nothing!”
“On the contrary,” the litah objected. “I have learned a good deal these past many weeks about humankind. I have learned that its culture is obsessed with food, sex, and sleep. The only difference between us is that you don’t do any of it as well.”
“By Geenvar’s claws, I’ll tell you that—”
The discussion was interrupted by a loud cry from the lookout. Posted atop the mainmast, the seaman was pointing and shouting. Fully intending to resume his dialogue with the big cat, Simna glanced curiously in the direction indicated by the mariner. At first he saw nothing. Then the subject of much commotion came into view and he found himself surrounded and carried forward by excited members of the crew. Not that he needed any help.
Etjole Ehomba was standing on the end of a small, handmade pier, waving casually in the Grömsketter’s direction. Except for a rip or two in his kilt and shirt, he looked healthy and relaxed.
Unsuspected excitement in her voice, Stanager Rose roared commands. The mainsail was reefed and the sea anchor cast off astern to slow their speed. As she hurriedly explained to Simna, she did not want to risk anchoring and stopping in the event that the soldiers of the Gate Masters were giving chase. This despite the fact that no troops or pursuers of any kind were in evidence. The swordsman did not argue with her. He was of like mind when it came to not taking chances.
One of the ship’s lifeboats was quickly put over the side. Commanded by Terious himself, it plucked the waiting Ehomba from the end of the pier and, propelled by six strong oarsmen, returned to the Grömsketter. The sea anchor was hauled in, and this time all sails were set.
Ehomba’s friends were waiting impatiently to greet him as he climbed back aboard. Attempting to clasp the tall southerner by the arm, Simna was nearly bowled over as Hunkapa Aub rushed past him to envelop the herdsman in an embrace that threatened to suffocate him before he could explain what had happened. From the helm deck, Stanager Rose looked on with pretended disinterest.
When Ehomba finally managed to extricate himself from Hunkapa’s smothering grasp, Simna confronted him with the question that had been bothering him ever since they had first caught sight of the herdsman standing alone on the pier.
“I am half convinced that you are what you claim to be, Etjole: nothing more than a humble herder of cattle and sheep.” He gestured back toward the section of river that was falling far behind. “However, the other half of
“I cannot, friend Simna.” With a smile and nod in the Captain’s direction, the herdsman began to walk forward, seemingly little the worse for his experience. “No more than a bird without wings. But I can swim.”
As had happened to him more times than he cared to remember in the herdsman’s presence, Simna ibn Sind did not understand.
“Time is harder to tread than water, my friend, but it can be done. We of the Naumkib are taught how to swim at an early age. It is a necessary thing when one lives so near to the sea, and to other great emptinesses.” Reaching into a pocket, he began to roll the remaining beach pebbles in the little cloth sack fondly through his fingers. Whereas before he had never paid any attention to the activity, now, each time he heard them grind together, Simna winced.
“I swam hard, my friend, determined never to give up.” Ehomba smiled. “Giving up would have meant renouncing my pledge to Tarin Beckwith, and never seeing my home or family again. I vowed that would not happen. After treading Time for a while I tried to swim back out a little ways from where I had entered the river of Time.” A shrug rippled his shoulders.
“But the current was powerful. Time is like that, always moving forward, always flowing strongly. So I did not come out where I wanted to.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Emerging several weeks before I entered, I found myself on this little island. I built a small shelter of reeds, and the clumsy pier you saw, and caught fish and mussels and clams. And I waited for you. A month after a few minutes ago, the Grömsketter came through the Narrows.” Reaching out, he put a comradely arm around the swordsman’s shoulders. “And now, here you are.”
The explanation did nothing to mitigate the look of utter bewilderment that had commandeered the swordsman’s countenance. “Wait now, bruther. We just saw you off the ship and in the surly company of those Gate Masters not more than—”
“A few minutes ago. I know.” They were approaching the bow. “But I have been waiting for you nearly a month. Time is a river most strange, my friend. Strange as only those who swim in it can know.”
“But if you were there, and now you are here ...” Simna’s brows furrowed so deeply they threatened to pinch off his nose.
“Do not ponder on such things too long,” Ehomba advised him. “That was the Logicians’ problem. Overthinking can snarl the most elegant logic.” Raising a hand, he gestured forward. “Ahead lies the great delta of the Eynharrowk. Soon we will leave behind the land for the Semordria. The eternal ocean that I have fished in, swam in, and played in all my life. If the shore is so amazing, what wonders must lie hidden beneath its outer depths?”
“Some that bite, I’ve no doubt.” Inhaling deeply of the still steamy air, the swordsman leaned against the bow rail and gazed westward.
Feeling something bump him firmly from behind, Ehomba turned to see the black litah standing at his back. Typically, he had neither heard nor sensed the big cat’s approach.
“So you’re back.” The long-legged carnivore yawned, revealing a gape that extended from the herdsman’s head to his belly. “Pity. I was looking forward to returning home.”
“No one is restraining you,” Ehomba reminded him.
“Yes someone is. I am.” As he addressed Ehomba, yellow cat eyes glared at the herdsman. “Call it a matter of culture. I am stuck with you lot until the next time you try to die.”
“Then I will do my best to avoid that, and make an end to this business as quickly as events allow.”
The cat nodded impressively, the freshening breeze from off the bow ruffling the magnificent black mane. “We seek the same thing.”
“Hoy, not me,” Simna protested quickly. “It’s the treasure I’m after!” He eyed the herdsman sharply. “Whether it consists of legendary Damura-sese itself or nothing more than ‘beach pebbles.’ So don’t try to deny it, bruther!”
Ehomba sighed resignedly. “Has it ever done me any good to do so?”
“No,” the swordsman replied emphatically.
“Very well. The Visioness Themaryl. Treasure. No denials.”
Satisfied, Simna went silent. Its freedom once again postponed, the black litah chose a sun-soaked section of deck, curled up into itself, and went back to sleep. Astern, Hunkapa Aub was watching a handful of sailors at dice while struggling to comprehend the intricacies of the game.
Waiting for the sea, Ehomba watched the river and thought of Mirhanja, and his children, and the way the same ocean they were about to enter lapped at the beach below the village. Soon it would be calving season at home, and he knew he would be missed.
Did ever any among the living drive a man so hard and so far as one dead? he found himself wondering.
* * *
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Alan Dean Foster, Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2