“There’s got to be a route,” Garion objected. “Why don’t they put up markers or something?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Look.” The little man put his pole against a solid-looking hummock rising out of the water beside the boat and pushed. The hummock moved sluggishly away. Garion stared at it in amazement.
“It’s floating vegetation,” Belgarath explained, stopping his poling to wipe the sweat from his face. “Seeds fall on it, and it grows grass just like solid earth – except that it isn’t solid. It floats wherever the wind and current push it. That’s why there aren’t any permanent channels and there’s no definite route.”
“It’s not always just wind and current,” Silk added darkly. He glanced out at the lowering sun. “We’d better find something solid to tie up to for the night,” he suggested.
“How about that one?” Belgarath replied, pointing at a brushy hummock that was somewhat higher than those surrounding it.
They poled their way to the clump of ground rising out of the surrounding water, and Silk kicked at it experimentally a few times. “It seems to be stationary,” he confirmed. He stepped out of the boat and climbed to the top, frequently stamping his feet. The ground responded with a satisfactorily solid sound. “There’s a dry spot up here,” he reported, “and a pile of driftwood on the other side. We can sleep on solid ground for a change, and maybe even have a hot meal.”
They pulled the boat far up onto the sloping side, and Silk took some rather exotic-seeming precautions to make certain that it was securely tied.
“Isn’t that sort of unnecessary?” Garion asked him.
“It isn’t much of a boat,” Silk replied, “but it’s the only one we’ve got. Let’s not take chances with it.”
They got a fire going and erected their single tent as the sun slowly settled in a cloudbank to the west, painting the marsh in a ruddy glow. Silk dug out a few pans and began to work on supper.
“It’s too hot,” Garion advised critically as the rat-faced little man prepared to lay strips of bacon in a smoking iron pan.
“Do you want to do this?”
“I was just warning you, that’s all.”
“I don’t have your advantages, Garion,” Silk replied tartly. “I didn’t grow up in Polgara’s kitchen the way you did. I just make do the best I can.”
“You don’t have to get grumpy about it,” Garion said. “I just thought you’d like to know that the pan’s too hot.”
“I think I can manage without any more advice.”
“Suit yourself – but you’re going to burn the bacon.”
Silk gave him an irritated look and started slapping bacon slices into the pan. The slices sizzled and smoked, and their edges turned black almost immediately.
“I told you so,” Garion murmured.
“Belgarath,” Silk complained, “make him leave me alone.”
“Come away, Garion,” the old man said. “He can burn supper without any help.”
“Thanks,” Silk responded sarcastically.
Supper was not an absolute disaster. After they had eaten, they sat watching as the fire burned down and purple evening crept across the fens. The frogs took up their vast chorus among the reeds, and birds perched on the bending stalks of cattails, clucking and murmuring sleepily. There were faint splashes and rippling sounds in the brown water about them and occasional eruptions of bubbles as swamp gas gurgled to the surface. Silk sighed bitterly. “I hate this place,” he said. “I absolutely hate it.”
That night Garion had a nightmare. It was not the first he had suffered since they had left Riva; and as he sat up, sweat-drenched and trembling, he was positive it would not be the last. It was not a new nightmare, but rather was one which had periodically haunted his sleep since boyhood. Unlike an ordinary bad dream, this one did not involve being chased or threatened, but consisted rather of a single image – the image of a hideously maimed face. Although he had never actually seen the owner of the face, he knew exactly whose face it was, and now he knew why it inhabited his darkest dreams.
The next day dawned cloudy with a threat of approaching rain. As Belgarath stirred up the fire and Silk rummaged through his pack for something suitable for breakfast, Garion stood looking out at the swamp around him. A flight of geese swept by overhead in a ragged V, their wings whistling and their muted cries drifting, lonely and remote. A fish jumped not far from the edge of the hummock, and Garion watched the ripples widening out toward the far shore. He looked for quite some time at that shore before he realized exactly what it was he was seeing. Concerned, then a bit alarmed, he began to peer first this way and then that.
“Grandfather!” he cried. “Look!”
“At what?”
“It’s all changed. There aren’t any channels any more. We’re in the middle of a big pond, and there isn’t any way out of it.” He spun around, desperately trying to see some exit, but the edges of the pond in which they sat were totally unbroken. There were no channels leading out of it, and the brown water was absolutely still, showing no evidence of current.
Then in the center of the pond, without making so much as a ripple, a round, furred head emerged from the water. The animal’s eyes were very large and bright; it had no external ears, and its little nose was as black as a button. It made a peculiar chirping noise, and another head emerged out of the water a few feet away.
“Fenlings!” Silk gasped, drawing his short sword with a steely rustle.
“Oh, put that away,” Belgarath told him disgustedly. “They aren’t going to hurt you.”
“They’ve trapped us, haven’t they?”
“What do they want?” Garion asked.
“Breakfast, obviously,” Silk answered, still holding his sword.
“Don’t be stupid, Silk,” Belgarath told him. “Why would they want to eat a raw Drasnian when there’s a whole swampful of fish available? Put the sword away.”
The first fenling which had poked its head up out of the water lifted one of its webbed forefeet and made a peremptory gesture. The webbed foot was strangely handlike.
“They seem to want us to follow them,” Belgarath said calmly.
“And you’re going to do it?” Silk was aghast. “Are you mad?”
“Do we have any choice?”
Without further discussion, Belgarath began taking down the tent.
“Are they monsters, Grandfather?” Garion asked worriedly as he helped. “Like Algroths or Trolls?”
“No, they’re just animals-like seals or beaver. They’re curious and intelligent and very playful.”
“But they play very nasty games,” Silk added.
After they had stowed all their packs into the boat, they pushed it down the bank into the water. The fenlings watched them curiously with no particular threat or malice in their gaze, but rather a kind of firm determination on their furry little faces. The solid-looking edge of the pond opened then to reveal the channel that had been concealed during the night. The strangely rounded head of the fenling who had gestured to them moved on ahead, leading the way and glancing back often to be certain they were following. Several others trailed after the boat, their large eyes alert.
It began to rain, a few drops at first, and then a steady drizzle that veiled the endless expanse of reed and cattail stretching out on all sides of them.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Silk asked, stopping his poling to wipe the rain out of his face. One of the fenlings behind the boat chattered angrily at him until he dug his pole into the muddy bottom of the channel again.
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Belgarath replied.
The channel continued to open before them, and they poled steadily along, following the round-headed fenling who had first appeared.
“Are those trees up ahead?” Silk asked, peering into the misty drizzle.
“It appears so,” Belgarath answered. “I suspect that’s where we’re going.”
The large cluster of trees slowly emerged from the mist. As they drew closer, Garion could see a gentle rise of ground swelling up out of the reeds and water. The grove which crowned the island appeared to be mostly willows with long, trailing branches.
The fenling who had been leading them swam on ahead. When it reached the island, it emerged half out of the water and gave a strange, whistling cry. A moment or so later, a hooded figure stepped out of the trees and moved slowly down to the bank. Garion did not know what to expect, but he was more than a little startled when the brown-cloaked figure on the shore pushed back the hood to reveal a woman’s face that, though very old, still bore the luminous trace of what had once been an extraordinary beauty.
“Hail, Belgarath,” she greeted the old sorcerer in an oddly neutral voice.