Arthur in Eblis - 1. Chapter 1: The Fens

Chapter 1: The Fens

Arthur stood and brushed at the leaves and muck that covered his trousers and shirt. Cypress knee below the water—I tripped on it. Oh well, I couldn’t possibly get much dirtier than I already am. Can’t worry about that, now. Arthur patted his belt. His dagger was in place, as was the pouch that contained a few coins. Other than the dagger, he had no weapons; other than the clothes he wore and the money in the pouch, he had no possessions. The food he had brought with him had been exhausted the day before. His breakfast had been the tender roots of a waterplant.

He continued to slog through the morass, hoping he was still going south. One part of the swamp looked very much like another, and fog hid the morning sun.

The sky brightened as the sun climbed, although the fog stayed close, and low. Arthur continued to trudge through the swamp: wading in water that reached to his chest, swimming where the water was deeper, and resting briefly when a mass of trees and grass marked a hummock. By tierce—as the boy judged it to be—the air was steaming, yet Arthur was parched. Reluctantly, he cupped a bit of the swamp water in his hand and drank. I’ll have to depend on magic to take care of any germs that might be in the water, he thought, although I hate to use magic lest someone hear it.

A sound—a voice that carried clearly across the water—caught Arthur’s attention. Quietly, he waded into the reeds and hid among them. Peering through the reeds, he watched a boat approach. The boat was long and had a square prow. Plant matter was piled at least eight feet high along the centerline. A tattered fishing net stretched over the pile of plants kept them from blowing away in the non-existent wind. Reeds, perhaps, Arthur thought, for basket makers? No, what’s that smell? The sweet smell of marijuana smoke drifted from the boat. It’s not reeds; it’s cannabis. The boatmen are smoking it.

The two boatmen polled the boat through the water. They stood, one on each side of the boat, near the bow. They rhythmically lifted and planted long poles in the muck at the bottom of the swamp. As they pushed on the poles, they propelled the boat forward. The voice Arthur had heard was the grunt as one man signaled to the other. Arthur assessed his chances and found them good. As the boat passed his island hummock he slipped between the reeds and into the main channel. He slid silently through the water, grabbed the flat stern of the boat, and carefully hauled himself onto the boat. The bobbing created as the men lifted and planted their poles masked the rocking motion he made. Thankful for his slight build, Arthur wriggled under the net and into the mass of vegetation. I will travel faster in the boat, and won’t use nearly as much energy, he thought. Besides, they’re going somewhere, and with cannabis, it will be somewhere in Eblis.

Less than an hour later, the boat entered a bayou. The men traded their poles for sweep oars mounted in waist-high oarlocks on the sides of the boat. The boat began to move faster. The fog had burned off and the sun beat upon the swamp. Now and again, a needle of sunlight penetrated the vegetation and lit Arthur’s hiding place. The boy noted the angle of the sun. We’re going southeast. Excellent.

Near the hour of sext, with the sun at its zenith and the heat pressing down, the boatmen steered into the bank of the bayou. Arthur listened to the men’s conversation. They were going to sleep through the heat of the day before continuing. Arthur waited until their voices had ceased, and then waited some more. I wonder if I should leave, now. They’re almost certainly asleep, and will not see me. What are my chances?

Before he could act, the boat rocked slightly. Peering through the cannabis, he saw a boy . . . no, two boys, lift themselves onto the stern of the boat as he, himself, had done. The boys were naked, but they held bundles above their heads. Bundles that looked like—were—clothes. The boys had not seen Arthur. As they burrowed into the vegetation, Arthur carefully retreated. The slight noise he made was disguised by the greater noise of the two boys burrowing into the cannabis.

“We’ll never get away with this,” the smaller boy whispered.

“Yes, we will. They’ll sleep until dusk, and then travel through the night. We’ll get off just before Detmold and swim to shore. It should be nearly dawn and they’ll be tired. They won’t see us. Even if they do, they’ll not swim after us, I wouldn’t think—” The older boy’s voice broke off as Arthur failed to stifle a sneeze.

The two boys shrank away, and turned as if to flee, before realizing that the sneeze had come from someone, like themselves, hidden in the cannabis.

“You shouldn’t be here!” the older boy whispered.

“You shouldn’t be, either,” Arthur replied. “Who are you? What are your names?

“Golgi,” said the older. “This is my brother, Gonde. Who are you, and why are you hiding?”

“My name is Arthur, and I’m hiding because I’m stealing a ride from these boatmen. I’ve been walking in the swamp for a tenday, and I’m tired.” Arthur was careful to keep his words simple and true, lest one of the boys were a sembler, a truth-teller, although that talent seldom showed itself before a boy became a tween. “Why are you hiding?”

“Um, the same. We’re stealing a ride,” Golgi said.

Arthur saw that the boy was not telling the truth. At least, not all of it. On the other hand, they were both smaller than he, and neither appeared to be armed.

“Where are you going,” Gonde asked.

“To Hagen,” Arthur replied. A tween or adult, hearing the flat tone with which he spoke would know not to pursue the subject.

Gonde, too young to understand or interpret the inflections of Arthur’s voice, asked, “Why? That’s where the slave market is.”

Arthur puffed out his breath as if someone had struck him in the stomach. He drew a ragged breath before answering. “My friend was taken by slave raiders. Everyone knows the slavers take boys to Hagen. I’m going there to find him and rescue him. Then I will kill those who took him.”

Gonde was silent.