IV
The rest of the story is known to you, how Riverwind, bearing the staff, returned to the People, the darkness of stones in his eyes, what the Chieftain ordered, (I was there to see it my words this time could not stop them) what the Staff in the hand of Goldmoon accomplished. But this you may not know: that in the pathways of light from the plains to the Last Home riding she said to him, now are you worthy, no longer in my eyes only, but now in the falcon's eye of the world forever the story is walking forever the story, but riverwind no, and no again no to the fractured light of the staff, for caught in the light his hand was fading, through facet and facet unto the heart of the light, and not of this earth was the third moon rising, and the heart of the staff was his naming night.
Here on the plains where the wind embraces light and the absence of light, where the wind is the voice of the Gods come down, the rumor of song before singing begins, here the people under the winds are wandering ever towards home, forever in movement an old man is singing the song of an absent country, beautiful, heartless as sunlight, cold as imagined winds behind the eye of the rain, and wide before us, my sons and fathers, the song of the country centers and swoops like a hawk in a sleeping land, borne upon hunger and thermals, singing forever, singing.
The Blood Sea Monster
Out of breath — and nearly out of hope — I ran across the wet sand, looking for a place to hide. After the terrible storm earlier that day, running along the muddy beach felt like running in a huge bowl of thick mush. But I ran just the same because Thick-Neck Nick, the village baker, was dead-set after me.
I had lost Thick-Neck when I made a quick dash between two buildings and headed down toward the sea. I knew he might realize that I had come this way, but then I saw my salvation: along the shore was a long row of fishing boats.
Clutching the stolen loaf of bread close to my body, I looked back over my shoulder. Thick-Neck hadn't yet reached the beach. I took my chance and dove into the very first boat.
After covering myself with a heavy netting, I took in deep drafts of air, trying to catch my breath. I knew that if Thick-Neck Nick lumbered by, he was sure to hear me.
I don't know how much time passed. When you're scared, breathless, lying in rainwater up to your lower lip, and have heavy fish netting on top of you shutting out the light, nothing moves slower than time. Absolutely nothing.
But my heart started picking up its pace when I heard fast approaching footsteps. I cringed down at the bottom of the boat. The rainwater covered my mouth. I had to breathe through my nose.
The steps came closer.
It was useless. I raised my mouth up out of the water and took a bite of the bread. If Thick-Neck was going to beat me, at least I wanted to have something in my stomach to show for it.
Despite my dry mouth, I hurriedly began to chew.
The steps came closer. Did he see the netting move? Did he hear my heavy breathing? Did he hear me chewing his bread? Though I hadn't swallowed my first mouthful, I took another bite, and then another, and another, until my cheeks were so puffed out they looked as if they had the wingspan of a dragon. Well, maybe not that big, but there was more bread in my mouth than there was left in my hand-and I hadn't swallowed a single mouthful. At least, not yet.
The footsteps stopped right next to the boat. I closed my eyes, the bread stuck in my throat.
I started to choke!
The netting flew off me. Even as I tried to breathe, I covered my face, hoping to ward off Thick-Neck's blows.
But there were no blows.
I peeked out between my arms as big chunks of bread spewed out of my mouth.
"What is this?" asked a bewildered old man staring down at me. "A young elf, all by himself?"
I didn't answer. I kept coughing, spitting out wads of half chewed bread into the bottom of the boat.
The old man shook his head with exasperation and began slapping me on the back.
When I was finally able to breathe again, I looked past the old man and saw that the beach was empty. Thick-Neck Nick was nowhere in sight.
"You in trouble, elf?" asked the old man, seeing my furtive look.
I nodded my head, figuring to play on the old man's sympathies. "Thick-Neck Nick doesn't like me," I said.
"Thick-Neck Nick doesn't like anybody," agreed the old man with a sigh. Then he looked at me with a sly grin and added, "He especially hates one particular elf who has a habit of stealing his bread."
My face reddened.
"What's your name, elf?" he demanded.
"Duder," I told him.
"That's all? Just Duder?"
"It's enough," I replied, not wanting to say any more on that subject. "What's yours?"
"Folks call me Six-Finger Fiske."
My gaze immediately shifted to his hands.
"Don't expect to see an extra digit, elf," the old man said with a harsh laugh. "Had a drunk doctor at my birthing, and the fool thought he saw six fingers on my hand. My mother didn't know enough to count them herself, and, well, nicknames have a way of catching on. Know what I mean?"
I nodded. What else could I do?
Without warning, the old, leathery fisherman picked me up by my shoulders and set me down on the muddy beach. "You're a funny-looking little fellow," he said. "Don't see too many elves around here. But you can't stay in my boat. I'm heading out to sea now."
"You're going fishing?" I sputtered, astonished. "Everyone stayed in port because of the storm," I pointed out. "And now it's too late to go out. It'll be dark in just a few hours."
"The fish bite best after a heavy rain," replied Six-Finger Fiske. "Besides," he added mysteriously, "there is one fish that I must catch-and my time is running out."
I didn't know what he was talking about. The truth? It didn'treally matter to me. All I cared about was keeping out of Thick Neck's sight; a hard thing to do in such a small fishing village.
"I'll go with you," I quickly offered. "If you head out onto the Blood Sea so late, it'll be dark by the time you come back. I have really good eyes and I'll be able to help you find your way back into port."
The old man laughed. "I don't need you to help me navigate in the Blood Sea," he said. "I've been fishing in these waters since before you were born."
I was sixty-two years old-just an adolescent for an elf-but just the same I didn't doubt that Six-Finger Fiske had outlived me by a good ten or fifteen years. I had to find another way to convince him to take me along.
"If you've been fishing for as long as you say," I said slyly, "then you're not quite as young as you look."- Unlike most elves, I can stretch the truth until it's almost ready to snap. — "But if you're as old as you say, Mr. Fiske, " I continued, "then I'd be glad to offer my rowing services to you for just the modest fee of ten percent of your catch."
"You're a clever one, elf," the old man said with admiration in his voice.
"Please, call me Duder."
"All right, Duder. Though you don't look like you can row worth a damn, your company on a dark night might keep these tired eyes of mine from closing. But if you really want to go with me, you need to know that I'm setting out to catch the Blood Sea Monster."
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
"So, you're one of those who doesn't believe it exists," he said without anger.
"I've heard stories," I admitted. "But that's all they are. Everyone knows that. Even kender."
"Just the same," the old man said doggedly, "it's the Blood Sea Monster that I intend to catch. Do you still want to go?"