While working, however, she had decided how to mend the larger holes. She would cut flat pieces of wood, glue them to the outside of the boat with frag sap, then cover the entire outside of the boat with the canvas boat cover.
It took five days more to complete the repairs. She dragged the hull back to the beach and into the water, where she managed to get the canvas under and around it, lacing the rope across the boat to catch the hooks on the opposite side. The mast was up, raised the same way she had raised it when on the River, with panting and grunts and a good deal of helpless cursing. She looked at the thing where it floated, shaking her head. It had a deck of rope, almost a net, where the lines laced across to hold the canvas. She would have to worm her legs between the ropes to sit at the rudder. She would have to wriggle herself beneath them to lie down at night. If there were another storm, she would probably sink.
In all that time, she had not seen the fliers. In all that time, she had almost forgotten them.
In the morning she could forget them completely, for she would be on the River once more, where they could not follow. Westward. To the end of this land, if it had an end. Then south. And if it had no end, then northward once more. Back to Northshore. She had a plentiful supply of dried fruit stored in canvas sacks, an almost equal supply of sun-dried lizard meat. The last two days she had spent digging edible roots, which lay in well-washed succulence among the other provisions. She had raveled some rope to make a fishing line and carved some fragwood hooks. Even if the strangeys had forsaken her, she should be able to manage. She would not be out of sight of land unless she came to the end of this land and turned north or south once more.
So she built her small, smokeless fire under cover of the rocks, ate fresh fruits and roots, freshly roasted meat, curled into sleep in satisfied exhaustion. There would be plenty of time to rest on the River.
During the night there was a tidal surge which washed the canvas-girdled Cheevle half back onto the shore. Medoor Babji, wanting an early start, was on the beach when the sun had barely risen, struggling to get the boat back into the water. Its canvas bottom did not wish to slide on the rough sand, and she swore at it fruitlessly, knowing she would need rollers to get it moving, which meant another day before she could leave.
The screech that came from behind turned her around, bent her backward over the Cheevle as though to protect it, before she even saw the fusty, raddled form of the flier stalking toward her over the sand. It carried a leaf-wrapped bundle in one set of rudimentary wing fingers. Without asking or being told, Medoor Babji knew they were Tears.
“So, human,” said Esspill. “You tried to trick us.” It cawed laughter. “You did trick stupid Talker. He went that way, long ago. Looking for you.”
“You weren’t tricked?” she asked from a dry throat, the words croaked almost in the flier’s own harsh tone.
Esspill shook her head, a mockery of human gesture. “Oh, no. Was no meat in those fires. No bones. No reason for them.”
“You’re very smart,” she gasped. “Smarter than I thought.”
“Oh, fliers are smart. Smarter than Talkers think. Talkers think . . . think they are only smart ones. All words. No faith.”
“Faith?” She edged to one side, trying to get the boat between her and the flier.
“Stand still,” it commanded. “Don’t try to run. Tears won’t hurt much. After that, humans don’t feel.” It clacked its jaw several times, salivating onto its own feet, doing a little skipping dance to wipe the feet dry.
“Faith?” asked Medoor Babji again, thinking furiously. “What do you mean, faith?”
“No faith in Promise of Potipur. Potipur says breed, grow, have plenty. Talkers say not breed, not grow, live on filth. Now Thraish have herdbeasts again. Soon have many. Then all humans will die. No more filth. No more horgha sloos.”