XIII. The Outcast
Thomas’s third ride
down the stream in only a few hours was the least pleasant and the most
frightening.
He lay in the bottom of
the boat, poked in the side by sharp fishing hooks and jumbled up with poles
and boxes and containers and other unidentified paraphernalia, bruised and
still wet from the earlier kidnapping, chafed from the frog-things’ ropes,
hooded and muffled so that he could see but the memory of starlight-glimmer
through the suffocating mask.
In the aft of the boat,
his cloaked captor grumbled indistinctly and pushed them along the stream with
a long pole. Thomas tried to speak, to protest, but the thing either didn’t
hear or didn’t understand—or perhaps simply didn’t care—and Thomas’s voice was
already hoarse and ragged, so he fell silent and huddled against the creaking
wood of the boat and tried to find hope that his friends would come for him
again.
Presently Thomas heard
a nearing rumble. It took him a few minutes to recognize the sound as a
waterfall; his stomach lurched, and he tried to pull himself upright, thinking
perhaps that blindly swimming across the stream would be preferable to
plummeting over a waterfall. But the cloaked figure pushed him back down with
his pole and made a grumbling noise of reproach at him.
Then the boat began to
turn, to slow in the stream. Thomas felt spray on his hands and arms. The
crashing of the waterfall was much louder now. He could feel the current trying
to drag them sideways beneath the boat, but the strong poleman held firm: the boat
continued its slow approach toward the waterfall, slick now with water and
mist.
Thomas realized that
they were coming to the base of the waterfall, not the peak, and that relieved
some of the tight fear in his chest. Perhaps this captor wasn’t mad after all.
The boat bumped on
something in the water. The cloaked poleman pushed mightily and wedged them into
rocks or sand or some kind of dock. The boat rocked and then settled firm, the
waterfall nearby but not, thankfully, on top of them. Thomas blinked as some of
the spray permeated the hood and dripped down his face.
The cloaked figure
rummaged around in the bottom of the boat and then grasped Thomas’s shoulders
and pulled him up. Again the creature’s strength surprised the boy. Thomas
himself was taller than his captor and longer-limbed, but the cloaked stranger
picked him up and bundled him beneath his arm and stepped over the side of the
boat onto the shore as though carrying a few sticks for kindling or a basket of
picked apples.
Thomas was carried like
a parcel across the sandy shore and into an enclosure. The waterfall’s thunder
was softer here. The air was still wet, but it tasted like fog or mist, not
spray. All was dark beyond the hood. Thomas smelled dirt and embers and
pine-needles and wondered if they were in the cloaked creature’s cave or den.
He still didn’t know if his captor was human or—more likely, Thomas
thought—something dark and strange and terrible, something that ate humans instead.
Thomas’s captor tramped
a distance into the cave or den and then unburdened itself, propping Thomas
into a sitting position against a rough rocky wall. Then it thumped away.
Thomas sat still for a
moment. He could hear only the waterfall and the drip of water from one stone
surface to another. Should I run? Is
there anywhere I can go? Maybe I can take it by surprise. That’s what Cathán
would do. Of course, Avery would tell me that I’d get two steps before it
grabbed me and swallowed me whole for its supper. Perhaps there’s somewhere I
can hide?
He didn’t have much of
a chance to decide or act, for the cloaked figure thumped back into the
enclosure and dropped something onto the ground with a resounding clatter.
Thomas heard stone on stone and then the crackle of leaves catching a spark;
through the heavy hood he could see a small red glow. The cloaked figure cast
its shadow over Thomas, kneeling to tend to the fire, and soon its warmth
reached the masked boy as well.
Thomas’s captor
continued to stamp around, muttering all the while, carrying bundles and
belongings from the boat into the cave. Either the fire was mostly smokeless or
the cave was well ventilated, which Thomas appreciated along with its warmth
and the relative comfort of sitting on dry ground instead of lying trussed up
on a feasting-table or crammed into the bottom of a boat. He took this
opportunity to unravel the last of the ropes from his ankles and his shoulders.
Thomas tried to do so furtively, but it seemed the cloaked stranger, for all
its grumbling and muttering, didn’t care whether the boy were bound or free.
Thomas was sure he’d been spotted working on the thick knots that bound the
hood at his nape, but his captor did nothing, just continued to tow objects
from the boat into the cave.
Finally, with fingers
raw and stinging, Thomas untangled the knots and pulled the suffocating hood
off his head. He gasped in a grateful breath of fresh air and blinked at the
sudden soft light of the small fire.
Thomas was indeed
sitting in a cave. It looked homier than he’d expected. In the center, a
fire-pit ringed by stones crackled warmly. Boxes and bundles of clothing were
stacked along every wall and piled around the opening to the cave. It was
narrow and low; Thomas sat at the far end, only a dozen paces from the
entrance, and the ceiling would have brushed the top of his head if he stood.
Thomas didn’t see weapons or other frightening implements, nothing to cause him
concern: just clothes and instruments for rowing and fishing and containers of
trinkets and charms. The cave was cluttered but otherwise fairly inviting.
Thomas spotted the cloak
hanging on the boat-pole near the entrance, but his captor was still gathering
things from the boat. Again he considered bolting, dashing from the cave and
leaping into the stream or hiding in the woods. But so far he hadn’t been
harmed by the cloaked figure, and he wondered if his chances of survival might
not be higher if he remained in the cave instead of lost and alone in the
Grimgrove.
He did, however, snatch
a long-handled ladle from a nearby box and tuck it behind his back.
Muttering and grumbling
cut through the rumble of the waterfall and Thomas’s captor stepped back into
the cave, a large wooden box upon its back. Thomas saw at once that he had been
taken by another of the frog-things, but this one looked stranger still, its
head an odd shape that appeared almost human save for the third eye and the
water-slick skin the color of a moonless night and the texture of an amphibian.
The frog-thing placed
the box atop a stack of other boxes and straightened, then glanced at the back
of the cave. It let out a surprised muttering noise upon seeing Thomas. Then it
reached into a nearby crate, fished out another hood and rope, and started
toward the boy.
“No, wait!” Thomas
exclaimed. “Please, don’t put that on. It’s hard to breathe. And I won’t cause
any trouble. Is this your home? It’s rather pleasant.”
The frog-creature
stared at him, all three eyes incredulous. It made a piping noise somehow
different from those of its compatriots, lower and rougher and less musical.
Then, altogether unexpectedly, it spoke.
“I didn’t know you
spoke,” it said. Its voice was rumbling and whistly.
“I didn’t know you
spoke either,” Thomas replied truthfully. “Are you—what’s your name?”
“Brak,” said the
frog-thing after a moment’s consideration, “and I am a male of my species, if
that was your other question. And you may keep the mask off if you want. I have
another bundle to bring in and then many preparations and organizations to
make, but you can stay there if you keep out of my way. Don’t leave the cave.”
Brak tramped out of the
cave. Thomas watched him go and looked around. He found a small cushion in one
of the boxes and pulled it under him, then scooted a little closer to the fire
to warm his hands.
Brak the frog-thing
returned with his final parcel and tossed it with the rest. He then crouched
near the fire and stretched his arms and webbed fingers and flicked droplets of
waterfall-spray into the crackling leaves and sticks.
“I don’t mean to be
rude,” Thomas said after a moment, “but what are you? I’ve never met any of
your kind until tonight, and your friends at the bonfire weren’t very
forthcoming. I think they wanted to eat me.” He shuddered.
Brak regarded him with
three blinking eyes. “They are not my friends,” he said, “and neither are you,
human boy, and I want to eat you too. Now that I’ve got my things inside, I’ll
be preparing a stew to simmer you in over the fire, and when you’re crispy
outside and cooked through inside, I’ll chop you up and eat you and relish my
meager haul, so don’t get chummy.”
He reached over to one
of the piles of things from the boat and pulled out a cushion of his own and
placed it beneath his webbed feet, though still he crouched rather than sat.
“My kind are called the Vathca and we serve the King of the River, the Noble Dobhar,
the Great Riverdog. We are cousins to the otters and maybe to the humans, too,
if you believe some of the stories.”
“I didn’t believe many
of the stories for most of my life,” said Thomas, “but in the past few days
I’ve seen that many of them are true.”
“Stories often are,”
replied Brak, rubbing his little knot of a nose directly beneath the middle
eye. “Of course, sometimes they are not.”
A thought occurred to
Thomas and he looked around. “I don’t suppose you know where my belongings
are?”
“What were they?”
“A satchel,” the boy
replied. “A knit cap and a jacket as well. The satchel had some important items
inside.”
“What items?”
“A spyglass and a
travelling book and a lucky charm. Oh, and a cup and a bit of bone.” Thomas
thought it unwise to be too specific about the contents of his satchel; the
tusk was valuable to him and the chalice to anyone.
“Nothing to snack
upon?”
Thomas shook his head.
“I don’t know where
your belongings are, then. If they’d been food they’d likely still be at Waspan,
or perhaps in the belly of one of the Vathca.”
“Waspan?”
“The great feast of my
people.” Brak poked the fire with a stick. The flames crackled and popped.
Sparks sprayed into the air like frantic fireflies, then faded. “We hold a
Waspan every thirteen days and devour whatever delicacies and stragglers we’ve
rounded up. I’m not invited to Waspan anymore.”
“Why not?”
Brak shook his head. “Anyway,
we don’t have much use for belongings unless we can crack them between our
teeth. They’re probably wherever you left them. Where was that?”
Thomas thought. “Back
at the campsite,” he said. “Upstream; I don’t know how far. We’d camped there
for the night because we didn’t want to go into the Grimgrove in the dark. When
I woke up, I was already strapped to a plank of food and floating down the river.”
“That is the way of the
Vathca.”
Brak pulled over a
medium-sized iron pot, a small knife, and a bundle with greenery poking out the
top. Unwrapped, the rough cloth contained several long carrots and a few squat
turnips, as well as a vegetable Thomas didn’t recognize: slender,
brownish-purple, and forked at the tip. Brak took the knife and began slicing
the vegetables into the pot, where they clanked and rolled.
“Your belongings,” Brak
continued after a moment, “are therefore probably still on the shore, safe for
someone else to find. If I happen upon them, I’ll know they were yours and I’ll
think of you.” He blinked. “Why were you going into the Grimgrove? Who was with
you at the campsite on the shoreline?”
“Friends,” Thomas said,
“and we were about our own business. We have . . . an
errand to complete within the Grimgrove.”
Brak shrugged. “Were
your friends taken by the Vathca too?”
“One of them, but he
escaped. The other one was safe, I think.” Thomas picked at a stray thread on
his trousers. “Brak, couldn’t you just let me go? Let me leave and go find my
friends?”
“Why?”
It was Thomas’s turn to
blink. “I don’t want to die.”
“Nor I.” Brak gave a
little fluting whistle and dropped the pot onto the kindling in the fire, which
he had shaped to hold the pot above the flames. “And I am hungry. If I don’t
eat, I will die.”
“Couldn’t you—just eat
someone else? Something else, maybe?”
“I would love to, but
no.” Brak made a face. “I don’t care for human meat. Nothing of savor or
sweetness to it. I much prefer animal fare, hares and deer and voles, or a
massive carp with salt and fronds perhaps. But I cannot get those things now,
so you’ll have to do.”
Thomas frowned. “Why
not go to the river and catch a fish? I’m sure with your webbed hands you’d be
very successful. Then you could eat—we could both eat—and you could let me go.”
“No.”
Brak retrieved a heavy
bag made of animal skin from his boxes. He loosed the drawstring and poured
water into the pot. Steam filled the air above the pot, temporarily obscuring
the Vathca frog-thing from Thomas’s vision. Brak tossed the empty skin aside
and crouched back down.
“I can’t go the river
now,” Brak said through the steam, “because the fish are sleeping and they don’t
like swimming near the waterfall. And anyway, I’m tired from hunting and I’ve
already chopped up the greens and roots for a roast human. I’d have to start my
preparations all over if I were to cook some other kind of meat. I’m far too tired
for that. No, you’ll be my crispy meal, and I’ll just suffer through it and try
again to find something better tomorrow.”
“What if I go catch the
fish for you? I’d prepare the whole meal. You could rest; you wouldn’t have to
do anything.”
The steam was clearing,
chased by the scent of sizzling carrots. Brak eyed Thomas, three glowing orbs
against a dark dripping face, wet despite the dryness of the cave.
“A thoughtful offer,”
Brak said. “But if I let you leave my home, you would not come back, and then I
would be left hungry. I cannot let that happen. Thank you, though.”
“I won’t be cooked
willingly,” Thomas warned.
“Few things are.”
“I’ll fight you. I’m
quick and strong. And I’ve faced scarier enemies in the past day or two than
even you, Brak the Vathca. I might win.”
“You wouldn’t. I am
quicker and stronger, even in my . . . condition. I think you a
brave human boy, but you would not win. You will be my meal tonight.”
Feeling his worry and
fear begin to rise in his throat, Thomas tried a different approach. “You said
you’re not invited to Waspan anymore,” he said. “Why not? The rest of the
Vathca—they don’t like you?”
Brak blinked his middle
eye slowly. Thomas supposed that would make it a wink, but it looked more like
a thoughtful expression, like Brak was considering whether and how he should
reply. Finally, the Vathca closed all three eyes, then opened them again and
answered.
“I am something of an
outcast,” Brak said. “You must have noticed my hideous deformities. I look
nearly human. I am an embarrassment and a hideous wretch in the eyes of my
people and in the eyes of many living things. They tried to include me for a
time, but I suspect their distaste runs deeper than my looks. Perhaps my personality
or habits are unpleasant to them. Whatever their reasons, they have decided
several years since to disallow me from participating in the Waspan or, indeed,
from commingling with any of them at all.”
“That sounds awful. I’m
sorry to hear it.” Thomas spoke out of true sympathy, though he also hoped he
might sway the Vathca outcast into letting him live. “It must be hard to have
to live by yourself. Your waterfall is lovely, though, and this seems like a
nice cave to call home.”
“The waterfall is not
mine, but yes,” Brak replied. “This is a lovely place, considering. A lovely place,
but lonely.”
They sat together in
silence for a moment while steaming vegetables filled the cave with sweet
scents. At last Thomas asked: “Were you born with your condition? I don’t think
you look deformed at all, by the way. I happen to think humans look normal and
the Vathca look strange, so you look less strange to me than the rest of them
at the Waspan.”
“Thank you,” said Brak.
“And no. I was not born like this.”
The frog-thing rose
from his crouch and leaned over the fire. He sniffed with his small nose. “Ah,
the stew is ready.” He lifted the pot from the fire and set it aside, then
fetched a small rock and a long sharp stick from the corner of the cave. Thomas
felt fear boiling in his belly.
“Now, human boy,” Brak
said, turning to him, “I must eat you. I will thump you on the head with this
rock so that you die quickly. I do not delight in the pain of others. I will
then spear you with this stick and roast you so that you do not make me sick. I
will eat you with this stew I have made. It is a simple meal, but it will keep
me alive another day. Please hold still.”
“Wait!” Thomas cried,
holding up his hands to ward off the advancing Brak. “Please, just wait a
moment! You can’t kill me and eat me!”
“Why not?” Brak stopped
a few paces away. The fire lit him from behind, shadowing all but his three pale
eyes.
Thomas considered his
available responses. He thought about pleading for his life, about promising
vengeance by the Thistledown Kingdom and the Blackhill Clan, about returning as
a spirit to snuff out Brak’s fire and fill his cave with snapping eels. He even
thought he might try to persuade the Vathca that he would taste terrible due to
some unseen illness or deformity of his own.
In the end, with Brak
staring at him in the gloom with three wide unblinking eyes, Thomas opted for
telling the truth.
“You can’t kill me,”
the boy from Mídhel said, “because I’m on an important quest. I’m here in the
Grimgrove to collect a prized acorn. I need to collect certain things and take
them to a witch so that she will release my sister Eleanor. I made a mistake
and ate some of the witch’s blackberries and she’s punishing me by threatening
to kill Eleanor. So you can’t kill me, Brak, because I need to save my sister
first.”
Thomas fell silent.
Brak blinked then, first the right eye, then the left eye, and finally the
middle eye, slow and deliberate. The Vathca crouched where he stood, sharp
stick and rock still held in his webbed hands. He bent closer to Thomas, close
enough to drip water from his still-wet skin onto the boy’s hands, which Thomas
clasped in his lap to keep them from shaking.
“A witch,” Brak
repeated. “A witch has done this to you? for eating her blackberries?”
Thomas nodded, too
scared to speak.
“The witch and her
blackberries,” Brak said, now with distinct emphasis and heavy tones of
loathing. “The witch!” he shouted, standing to his full height. He hurled the
stone and stick toward the entrance of the cave, where they clattered against
boxes and bundles of trinkets. Then he grabbed the small knife with which he
had chopped the simmering vegetables.
Thomas cowered, readied
himself to fight back, but Brak held the knife’s handle toward him. “Take this,
human boy,” said the Vathca. “Take this knife so that you do not fear me while
you tell me the story of the witch and her blackberries and the theft of your
sister. I wish to know all that happened to you.”
Thomas accepted the knife
slowly and set it on his knee. “Why do you want to know the story?” he asked. “I
thought you wanted to eat me. I’m not complaining, just—confused.”
“I want to know the
story because I want to cook the witch and eat her instead,” Brak replied
vehemently, still standing over Thomas. “Or perhaps I will drop her in the bog
or let the moths eat her up while she’s suspended from the whitewoods. I hate
the witch.”
“Why?”
“I was not born with
this condition.” Brak gestured vaguely to his face and hands and body. “I was
cursed—by the very witch who has stolen your sister. She has turned me into
this monster and ruined all I love.”
Thomas stared.
“Come, human boy,” Brak
said. “Sit with me and eat this stew with me and tell me your story so that we
may take our revenge upon the witch who has cursed us so.”
