Steel Magic (7 page)

In the midst of these was the remains of a fire. The huge logs which had been piled to burn there were full tree trunks, and to transport them to this barren waste must have taken a great deal of labor. But he could see no carts, no men,
though the fire was not quite dead. A thin trickle of smoke still curled, and the bitter tang of it hung in the air.

Greg dropped to the plateau and walked among the pillars toward the fire. Somehow, deep inside him, he knew that this was the goal of his journey and that he was now about to do what he had been sent to accomplish. That he was to recover one of the talismans, he did not doubt. Which treasure it was and whom he was to take it from still remained mysteries.

He was one pillar away from the fire when he put his hand against the last column. But there was no rock under his fingers—he touched something else! Greg snatched his hand away. Somewhere behind or above him he heard a chime as if a cord of silver bells had been shaken with warning vigor.

S
and moved under Eric's feet. And a sea bird screamed as it swooped to snatch a wriggling silver fish from the waves. Wind which was crisp and fresh blew against his face and pulled at Eric's hair.

He climbed to the top of the tallest dune to view the scene. The beach was wide. Behind the dune it rippled back to a point where dark patches might mark trees and bushes, but too far away for Eric to be sure. However, he was certain that his path, which was not a real one such as Greg had followed, lay seaward across the water.

So he faced in that direction, to sight a dark blot bobbing up and down, being brought to land by the breaking combers. A boat? Perhaps, though he could not be sure at this distance.

Farther out there was a smudge of shadow on the horizon. Since it did not move and was darker than any cloud, Eric thought it might be land, maybe an island. And because it lay
directly ahead of the point where he had entered this country, he was sure that it was his goal.

No one could possibly expect him to
swim
way out there! Could he make it by boat—a good, steady boat?

Eric coasted down the seaward side of the dune and trotted on to the damp sand where the waves broke. Slowly he pulled off his shirt and jeans and waded out. The water was cool, stinging where the briers had made scratches on his legs and arms. Before him, just out of reach, the boat drifted. Eric took another step or two and the footing dropped sharply away from beneath him. He splashed in over his head with a cry, thrashed out wildly. He was right—water could never be trusted—try that and you were lost! Then a remnant of Slim's patient drilling at the camp swimming lessons last year returned to him and he floundered as far as the boat. Steadying himself with a hand on the gunwale, Eric looked the craft over. It was half full of water, which made it ride low, but there appeared to be no break in its sides and he thought if he could tow or push it ashore he could inspect it carefully and make sure.

That was easier to plan than to do. The boat was unhandy and sluggish, and Eric had to exert a great deal of effort to get it ashore. As its blunt bow thrust into the sand, he collapsed quite worn out.

He stumbled up after a while and rubbed himself dry on his shirt. More than anything else he wanted to stretch out and sleep, but the boat was waiting there and he had a queer feeling that time was important and he had none to waste.

Luckily it was a small boat and the material it was made
of was very light so he could handle it alone. Upon closer examination Eric discovered that what covered its curved ribs was scaled skin. A giant fish might have been skinned to cover it.

Once the water was spilled out, the craft was buoyant and he pulled it all the way out of the water. Turned upside down so he could look for any breaks in its hull, it resembled a huge turtle with head, tail, and legs tucked into the shell. Dried by the sun the scales had a rainbow sheen, but they were as harsh as a file when Eric ran his hand across the surface.

Sure that it was intact, Eric sat down in the sand and ate a little of the food Sara had given him. He was thirsty, but nowhere on the dunes could he hope to find fresh water to drink.

Then he put the food packet and the spoon into the boat and pushed it afloat before climbing in. The weight of his body sank it into the waves, but it was only at that moment he realized he had neither oars nor paddle.

He was about to go ashore again to search for a piece of driftwood which might serve that purpose when his foot touched the spoon and he picked it up.

“Cold iron,” he said aloud, not knowing why.

Then he watched, round eyed with amazement. From a teaspoon it grew swiftly to ladle size in his grasp, then larger, until he was holding an object, spoon-shaped still, but as big as a small spade. Magic, real magic, he thought with a small thrill of excitement.

Large though it now was, the spoon's weight could still be handled easily. Not without fear that it might shrink as suddenly as it had enlarged, Eric dipped it overside experimentally and, using it as a paddle, headed out to sea, his goal that offshore island.

Eric was not an experienced boatman, nor were the skin boat and the spoon the best equipment for such a voyage. But he dipped the improvised paddle with energy, and the temporary smoothness of the water surface was in his favor. As he drew away from the beach the sea birds gathered above him, screaming to one another, and continued to escort him out to sea.

Practice helped. His first clumsiness lessened and his speed picked up, though he had difficulty in keeping the boat headed in the right direction. And, if he paused to rest his arms and shoulders, the incoming waves bore him back, to lose the painfully won distance. To Eric, the impatient one of the Lowrys, the very slowness of his advance was an added trial, but he continued on.

Slowly the island rose higher out of the water. There appeared to be no shore beach there. Cliffs rose directly from the sea to afford no landing place to anyone but a bird. The flock of birds that had been following Eric's slow progress now flapped ahead of the cliffs and settled down there.

As he drew nearer, inch by weary inch, Eric saw that even if some scrap of beach did exist at the foot of those rock walls there would be no way from it to the heights above. However, there were openings in the cliffs themselves, vast
waves into which the sea pushed exploring fingers. Painfully Eric paddled his light craft around the end of a rocky point, hoping to find on the seaward side some landing place.

He circled the entire island, which was a small one, without finding what he sought. Yet he was certain that he
must
land here. And until he did so, and accomplished the task which had been assigned him by the mirror—or by Merlin—there was no going back.

Underneath his outward impatience Eric possessed a core of stubbornness. It was this that now held him to his weary round of paddling, though his shoulders ached and his arms felt leaden. If there was no beach, then he must find another way in—perhaps through one of those gaping caves. He chose the largest and paddled toward it.

The curve of the roof was high above his head, and for about three boat lengths the daylight lasted to guide him in. Eric used all his small skill to keep directly in midchannel, well away from the ledges of rock from which trailed lengths of green weed. The smell of the sea was strong, but with it also came another odor, not as pleasant.

As the light grew dimmer the walls began to draw together, and Eric feared his choice had not been a good one. But still he sent the boat on, even when the ledges came within scraping distance. For he believed he could see a wider area ahead. So sure was he of this that he poled the boat for the last foot or so, pushing the spoon against the rocks for leverage. There was a scrape and then he floated into a lighted space.

Far overhead a break in the rock framed the sky, and the
sun shot dusty rays to a pool of quiet water. To Eric's left was the beach he had sought, showing dry white sand well above the water line.

When the keel of the boat grated on the miniature beach, Eric crawled over the blunt row, pulling the light craft up behind him. The smell of the sea was strong here, as it had been in the outer cave, but with it was that other odor.

Eric drew the boat entirely out of the water before he explored farther. There was no way of reaching that hole far above. But the beach sloped up, and since there was no back wall to be seen as yet he started to walk on it.

He was really thirsty now, his longing for a drink increased by the sound of the sea's wash around the rocks. And he hoped to discover a spring of freshwater pool on the surface of the island. The memory of the lemonade he had drunk so long ago made him run a parched tongue over his dry lips.

The beach slope continued upward, bringing him to a dark crevice. Eric hesitated. It was so dark in there and the thought of pushing on was not a happy one.

At last, extending the spoon before him to test the footing, he advanced. The crevice proved to be a short corridor, ending in a well. Only now, against the circle of free sky above, could he see the rough projections and hollows which provided holds for the hands and feet of a determined climber.

Fastening the spoon to his belt, Eric began to work his way up. Had it not been for his thirst he would not have found this a difficult venture. But now all he could think of was the need for fresh water—lots of water—and quickly found.

He made a last hard pull and was out, to lie panting on a mat of coarse grass. The cries of the sea birds were loud and shrill, their screams rising to a deafening din. And the odd smell which had hung in the cave was much stronger here. He sat up to look around.

The cliffs which were the sea wall of the island were, in fact, the outer sides of a giant bowl. By a series of ledges the land within descended to a valley, the center point of which could not be far above sea level.

Those ledges were covered by patches of rank green grass, but they also afforded lodging places for hundreds of nests—old nests, Eric decided, after examining the nearest. If this was the community nursery of the sea birds it was not in active use at present.

In the very center of the round valley was a vast mass of sticks and rubbish which might have been gathered by some giant among birds. Or did it mark where the refuse of years of nests had been brushed and wind-blown?

What interested Eric far more at the present was the sight of a small trickle of water splashing from ledge to ledge on the far side of the cup-shaped valley. He was sure such a tiny rivulet was not born of the sea, and it was what he wanted most at that moment.

He started around the valley, not wanting to take the more direct route over the odorous mass in the center. The birds continued to wheel and call about him, rising into the air as he passed, settling down on the ledge behind him.

They seemed, he thought once, rather like spectators gathering for a promised show. And he was sure that more
and more of them were winging in from the sea to settle about the upper rim of the bowl. But none of them flew at him or tried to defend the old nests. And he did not fear their presence.

Only—there was such an attitude of waiting that Eric's uneasiness increased. He now noticed that though all the upper ledges were thick with nests the fresher masses of dried materials there were based on moldering remains of earlier building; yet, for a good space about the mass in the center, there were no smaller nests at all and the wide ledges were bare.

Eric made the journey to that thread of stream and drank from his cupped hands, taking a bite of bread with the welcome water. Then he splashed handfuls of it over his hot face and neck. From this point he had a good view of the stuff in the center of the dip. And the longer he studied it the stronger grew that unpleasant suspicion that it was not driftage from the old nests on the upper ledges but a huge nest in its own right, entwined and woven in its present state and size with purpose.

“For an eagle?” Eric wondered, wishing he knew more about birds. He remembered some pictures in an old
National Geographic
of a bird in South America—a condor. Yes, that was it—a condor! Those grew to be so large they could carry off a sheep. Was this the nest of a condor?

Judging by their condition, the other nests were all last season's; perhaps the same was true of the large one. Eric sat gazing down. The last thing he wanted to do was to descend and rake through that mess. Yet, just as he had been drawn to the island from the shore, so was he being drawn to that big nest.

He hunched forward, his elbows planted on his knees, his cupped hands supporting his chin. There were strange things caught in that tangle. He was sure that he had seen the glint of sun reflected from metal.

But the present odd behavior of the birds kept him from exploring. The upper ledges were now packed almost solid with them. And their cries and calls were dying away. They perched there, one folded wing against the next, all eying him. Eric did not like it. He wanted to retreat to the sea cave, to the boat waiting there. Only, he could not.

Then the spoon, which had been fastened to his belt, slipped free. Eric grabbed for it without success. It clattered down on one of the lower bare ledges, gave a bounce, and flew out into the very heart of the massive nest. There it stood, handle up, bowl buried deep.

He could not go back to the boat without it. Eric stood up. The birds were so quiet they all might have been holding their breath to watch some important action. Within him Eric feared that once he touched that giant nest he would provoke some unheard-of danger. He had to get the spoon and yet he dared not!

Fighting his fear Eric dropped from one ledge to the next, descending to the mass of withered sticks and other material. In order to reach the spoon he must jump out into the very center of the mess.

Now not a bird called, there was no sound at all in that queer valley. Eric jumped. From far off there came a shrill scream as he crashed down, waist-deep, in the stuff of the nest.