Tigerheart (15 page)

There was an outcropping of rock that blocked her immediate view of the Seirenes, but the splashing of the longboat in the water undoubtedly alerted them to her presence. That was how the Seirenes always knew of the approach of potential victims. If unwary mariners happened to see them before they were in range of their voices, they would know enough to turn aside. But if they were upon them without knowing the dangers that awaited, then the Seirenes could lure them close with the summoning call of their song.

Fearless Earless had a bit of a time maneuvering the longboat around stray pieces of wreckage that dotted the area from previous unfortunate travelers. Directly in front of the Seirenes’ lagoon was a shoal of devastating rocks, hidden beneath the water’s surface. Directly in front of the rocks was a gargantuan drop-off. As a result, ships drawn toward the lagoon courtesy of the Seirenes’ song would strike the rocks, take on water, and then sink into oblivion, down and down into the drop-off never to be seen again. But a few random pieces of masts and such had caught on stones, and those were what Fearless Earless had to attend to as the longboat approached the lagoon. The fearsome rocks were too far below the surface to be of concern to the smaller, lighter boat, although naturally they were fatal to any of the far heavier sailing vessels that dared draw near.

Nevertheless, Captain Slash had no desire to draw too close to the Seirenes themselves, for who knew what additional obstacles might present themselves as traps? The outer shoals might prove no danger, but Slash wasn’t overlooking the possibility that there might be more jeopardy within. That was why Fearless Earless was essential to her endeavors: Any other man at the oars would have felt compelled to keep right on rowing toward the Seirenes, no matter what orders to the contrary Captain Slash might issue. For that matter, had it been Slash’s brother at the helm, he would have been perfectly willing to order the longboat speeding forward to its likely doom. But since Fearless was largely deaf and Slash was female, neither was at risk.

The Seirenes were singing their alluring melody at full strength now. It was light and airy, but at the same time there was a sense of timeless sadness about it, like something that might be produced by a lark that had seen its mate and offspring torn to shreds one by one. Captain Slash could sense the attraction that the song might provide in the same way that a sober judge could, upon sipping a glass of sherry, comprehend in a distant manner the glorious wonders that excess imbibing might provide. But the sober judge would feel no personal compulsion to partake, and Slash was no different in her disposition. The blue water was astoundingly clear, and she could see the drop-off and shoals that provided her line of demarcation. She put up a hand, gesturing to Fearless Earless that he should cease his forward motion. He did so, putting up the oars. The water was flat and motionless this particular day, with not a shred of wind to gust it, so the longboat maintained its position easily.

From this vantage point, Captain Slash could easily behold the Seirenes. Their nest was elevated far above the waterline, with cliffs stretching high above and behind them. There were three of them: One with blond hair, one blazing red, and a third dark as the heart of the foulest villain. They shared one nest, and their long hair hung down and around their naked torsos, covering their bosoms discreetly. From the waist down, they had no need of hair covering: Their plumage more than sufficed. As human as their torsos were, from hip to toe they were a bizarre combination of human female and bird. Their legs were festooned with wild purple feathers, and they ended not in normal feet, but in three-toed talons—two forward, one reversed—as a parakeet might have. Although they had human hands, their arms were covered with feathers, these overlaying one another and with a skeletal structure that gave the arms the distinct likeness of wings. Their eyes had an avian look to them, with gleaming yellow irises.

Their nest was extremely large to accommodate the three of them. They had brought their heads close together, perhaps the better to harmonize. But when they saw who had drawn near, and that it was a female at the helm and a man who for some reason was immune to their musical blandishments, they promptly ceased their song and merely looked irritated. The raven-haired one, whom Captain Slash had correctly intuited was the leader, flapped her wings in irritation and then drew them around herself like a bat. She tilted her head slightly. When she spoke, there was still a musical, singsong quality to her voice that reminded Slash of a Jamaican lilt.

“Who are you?” said the Seirene. “What brings you to this place?”

“I am Captain Slash, a humble pirate. I seek your help.”

This brought a good deal of twittering from the Seirenes, who thought this was simply the funniest thing they had heard in many a day. But their chorus of birdlike laughter abruptly ceased when Captain Slash said, “I seek your help against The Boy.”

The Seirenes cried out as one then, in a combination of fury and pain; and then the black-haired one stilled the outrage of the other two as she perched on the edge of their nest. “What know you of The Boy?”

“I know that you both despise him and covet him,” said Captain Slash. “I know that you have wanted him to remain with you forever and always.”

“Who told you such things?”

Captain Slash thought of the trapped pixie and yet again smiled her awful smile. “Someone who would know.”

“He flies!” said the Seirene, as if the source of the information was no longer of interest. “The Boy flies! And he sings pretty songs. Why should he not be with us forever and always? We have begged him and pleaded with him to remain with us and be ours, and we would love him if he would only love us, for we are so very similar. But he denies us! Refuses us! Will not give himself over to us! Instead he prefers to laugh and play and remain a boy always in the jungles of the Anyplace.”

The redhead spoke up. “And every so often, he flies near us and calls down taunts over how foolish we are. If he remained with us, we would sing for him and only for him. No sailors need ever fear us again. But does The Boy care? He does not!”

“How does he remain immune to your song? Could you not force him to remain with the allure of your song?”

“His head is far too full of himself to become filled with us,” said the blonde sourly. “We sing to him, and he whistles back a mockery of our song before flying away while laughing.”

“Evil boy. Inconsiderate boy,” said Slash in her most sympathetic voice. “And how long has this state of affairs been the case?”

“For as long as we can remember,” said the raven-haired one. Naturally, since all three of them were somewhat birdbrained, it is impossible to determine exactly how far back that “as long as” really was.

“And you have allowed it to remain thus?” Captain Slash stroked her chin thoughtfully and shook her head. “I am frankly astounded, my deary dears. To think that beings as formidable as you would be satisfied with such a situation…”

That comment truly ruffled the Seirenes’ feathers; and the black-haired one lifted high into the air, her wings beating furiously. She let out an angered cry. Fearless Earless was taken aback and was glad he couldn’t hear her screeching protest. Captain Slash winced and shook her head slightly to clear out her ears.

“
How dare you!
” said the black-haired one. “How dare you come here and presume to—Who are you to judge us?”

“Captain Slash,” she told them again, but then added, “sister to Captain Hack, who suffered at the hands of The Boy to a legendary degree. The woman who wants to see vengeance taken upon The Boy even more than you do.”

This reply seemed to appease the black-haired Seirene, and she slowed the beating of her wings, allowing herself to drop back to the nest. She cocked her head once more and said, “And what would you of us?”

“You,” Captain Slash said, “can help me achieve it, and help yourselves as well. Satisfy your anger against The Boy and the Anyplace, where he hides and frolics and ignores you.”

“How?”

“You know how,” Captain Slash said. “You are Seirenes. You are daughters of Father Ocean, sisters of the storm, and they will all attend to you. You’ve had the ability forever and always, and you’ve simply never chosen to use it.”

“We know not whereof you speak,” the redhead said quickly, but too quickly to be convincing in her protest.

“I think you do,” said Slash. “I think you know precisely whereof I speak, and you need only screw your courage to the sticking place in order to accomplish it.”

The other two exchanged looks, and Slash knew at that point that they were considering it. But the raven-tressed one still looked very uncertain.

And so Captain Slash kept talking to them. She cajoled and complained and convinced; and whether it took longer or shorter than it did to convince Fiddlefix to cooperate, again we cannot tell. Know, though, that Captain Slash had something of a silver tongue, coated by Satan himself, and thus could eventually talk almost anyone into doing almost anything. In a way she had her very own Seirenes’ song at her command.

It took her much of the day. Not until the sun began to sink into the sea did she finally convince them of the rightness of her beliefs and also of what she was asking them to do. Indeed, so persuasive and insinuating was she in their minds and hearts that, by the time she was done, the Seirenes were convinced that the entire notion she had proposed to them was, in fact, their very own.

Never has there been a more clear underscoring of the difference between men and women, at least as far as their villainous methods are concerned. The difference was exemplified in the very weaponry of the piratical siblings. Captain Hack believed that the solution to all problems was to chop away at them. If it was a living opponent, cut it to pieces until it ceased movement. If it was an obstruction, try to batter it out of the way.

The sword was a far subtler instrument than the hatchet. It slipped and slid into its opponent and could cut to the quick before anyone even knew they were under attack. That exemplified the tactics of Captain Slash, who insinuated herself into people, getting under their skins before they even realized that the blade had penetrated to its target. The late Captain Hack preferred to battle with his own “claws” barred; Captain Slash preferred the many advantages of cats’ paws.

Now, having spent much of the day with the Seirenes and feeling it was time to leave them to their work, Captain Slash had Fearless Earless row her back to the
Skull n’ Bones.
It was probably fortunate she returned when she did, for the crew was beginning to get concerned by her extended absence. So there was much pointing and cheering from the deck when Big Penny was the first to spot the two of them steadily rowing toward them. “Yo ho and view halloo!” said the brawny second in command.

“Prepare to weigh anchor!” Captain Slash said, even before the longboat got within range of the pirate vessel. Fearless Earless was rowing as hard as he could. “We need to bring the ship around to the leeward side of the island!”

“Aye, Captain! Expecting a turn in the weather?”

As the longboat drew aside the
Skull n’ Bones,
with the ropes being lowered to haul her back up, Captain Slash grinned and said, “Oh, yes. A major turn. We’re in for quite a blow…and, by the shadow of my brother, it’s going to be The Boy who bears the brunt of it!”

Chapter 14

Foul-Weather Friends

F
or Paul Dear, the events following the death of his great and mighty companion of a thousand dreams were as blurred as any dream might have been…except, of course, that they were really happening. Long after the tiger had passed away, Paul remained curled up in its embrace, trying to will the warmth in its body to remain. Instead it ebbed away into nothingness. By the time it did, The Boy had already returned to the Piccas and informed them of what had transpired. A hunting party had been dispatched to follow The Boy. Initially there was some suspicion that The Boy was endeavoring to lead them into a trap. Since he claimed to be half brother to the trickster god Coyote, first cousin to Puck, grandnephew of Loki, it was certainly not beyond possible that he had schemed up some fatal prank to perpetrate upon the Indians. We know that was not the case, but the Piccas did not.

Still, when the hunting party was finally sent to follow The Boy, he brought them straightaway to the clearing that had borne witness to the death of something truly magnificent. They began to let out war whoops until they spotted Paul, and then they became uncharacteristically silent.

Paul didn’t remember being gathered up into the powerful arms of Pouring Rain or being transported back to the Indian settlement. Nor was he aware that the braves were tying the snow tiger to a long pole and were carrying the dead beast to the camp as well. He wasn’t asleep exactly, or even in shock. Instead, in a manner of speaking, he was hiding from and within himself, his spirit curled up deep within his mind and trying to tell all the world that he would very much prefer that they all went away, thank you.

It was smell that began to bring him out of his semicoma. Not all that surprising; smell is the most ignored of the five senses since we associate it mostly with animals, and yet it is also the most potent. Even the poor, pathetic sense that passes for smell in human beings (as opposed to the glorious olfactory prowess of just about any “lower” animal you could name) was an amazingly puissant force. So the aroma of burning meat wafted its way not only into Paul’s nostrils but also his consciousness.

Slowly he became aware that it was daytime once more. He was no longer in the forest or even outside, but rather in a wigwam. Paul crept forward on hands and knees and peered out through the flap. Interestingly, he knew what he was going to see before he saw it.

There was a large carcass roasting on a spit in the middle of the camp. The appendages had been cut away and it was denuded of hide as well; and it was already cooked to such a golden brown that it could have been the body of a very large hog or an elk or just about anything.

But Paul knew what it was. He knew it was his tiger.

He was amazed how he was able to view such a sight with detachment. His tiger was dead. Nothing was going to bring it back. And everything that dies gets eaten, whether by worms in the ground or fish at sea or maggots or vultures. That was simply the way of nature, and one as attuned to nature as was Paul understood that fact better than most.

But although Paul understood it intellectually, he knew that he himself wasn’t going to partake of the feast that was obviously being prepared. He couldn’t eat his dear friend. He’d likely choke if he tried. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hungry, for he very much was, and his stomach was tying itself into mad knots of desire over the smell of the roasting meat. Paul was determined, though, and crossly told his stomach that it was just going to have to deal with the situation and that was all there was to it.

His rustling of the flap must have attracted notice, for a minute or two later Gwenny stepped in between the flaps and smiled at Paul. He hadn’t had all that much time to take stock of her, and certainly no private time with her. He found her, on the whole, pleasant enough to look at. He had a sense that she was on the cusp of something, but couldn’t quite guess what. Which was all right, because he was correct about the cusp bit; truthfully, even Gwenny wasn’t entirely sure what was to become of her either.

She knelt down opposite him, her hands resting gently on her legs after smoothing her skirt. “Are you feeling quite all right?” she asked politely.

“Of course I’m not,” Paul said. He wanted to shout at her, to demand of her how she could be a patient mother and friend to The Boy. How she could tolerate residing in this place of sadness and death that was cloaked in a false environment of abandon and adventure. But there was no point to it at all. She was just a girl, an older girl, trying to be polite and helpful to him; and even though she presented a convenient target for his distress, he couldn’t bring himself to lash out at her. So he reined in all his vituperation and restrained himself to a simple, “I killed my tiger. I’m never going to be all right again.”

“The Boy told us that,” Gwenny said. “It was extraordinarily brave of you, I must say. And the most impressive thing of all is that The Boy gave you the credit for it.”

“So?”

“So! That’s monumental, that is!” Her eyes were wide with amusement. “No one but The Boy himself is the hero of his retelling of adventures. Even incidents that I know beyond question happened one way turn out an entirely different way when The Boy is involved. And he’s so convincing in his oratory that I almost come to believe that it all occurred just the way he said.”

“And that didn’t happen in this instance?” Paul said, prompted by his curiosity in spite of himself.

“Oh, no!” Gwenny said. “No, not at all. He told us the whole thing. How he was about to deliver the fatal blow, but you thought that he was in dire straits and so you suddenly charged forward and, shouting ‘This is the end of you, beast,’ you drove home the point of your sword with unerring accuracy and…” She saw his change of expression and the truth began to dawn upon her. “It was nothing like that, was it?” she said.

Paul shook his head, and explained to her how his slaying the tiger was purely happenstance. How The Boy in fact
had
been in dire straits, with the tiger having him pinned and all, and how Paul had blindly flung his sword and a one-in-a-million chance landed the sword in between the tiger’s ribs.

“Well,” said Gwenny, with a shrug, “the Anyplace is a one-in-a-million land. So it shouldn’t be all that surprising that one-in-a-million occurrences transpire here all the time. Still”—and she shook her head, making disapproving clucking sounds—“wicked, wicked Boy, to make it sound as if he was never in the slightest danger.”

“Who knows?” said Paul. “The way his mind works, by this point he probably genuinely believes it. It’s not wicked or a lie if you believe what you’re saying, is it?”

“I’m not sure. That’s always one of those questions that adults change their minds on, depending upon who’s doing the asking and who’s doing the lying.” She paused and then said softly, “You should come outside. They’re all done with…”

“Eating my friend?”

“The feast, yes,” said Gwenny. “I hope you don’t hold it against them.”

“Did you…?”

She looked down, her cheeks flushed. “Well…I didn’t want to be impolite.” When she saw his expression, she added quickly, “Besides, I never chatted with him.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference!”

“Well, it does. I mean, honestly…do you have any problem eating lamb chops?” Paul shook his head. “No? All right. Now how about if you knew the lamb before it was slaughtered? If you’d cared for it, or if it had been a pet of yours. Would you be able to eat it then if someone cooked it up and served it to you on a bed of rice?”

“Probably not,” Paul said.

“There, you see? It’s never a good idea to develop a personal relationship with a possible future meal.”

Paul’s chin sank into his hands and he sat there disconsolately. “I should never have come here. My parents say that some places are nice to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. That’s what this place is. The Anyplace. Nice to visit briefly, in your dreams. Pass through, see the sights, and then scurry back to your bed. But come and live here, and it does things to you.”

“Oh, but we’re not living here, you and me,” Gwenny corrected him. “We’re likewise just visiting—”

“Are we?” He gave her a piercing stare. “How do we know that? How long have you been here?” Now it was Gwenny’s turn to shake her head, looking puzzled. “You lose track. Nothing is as it appears. For all we know, our homes are long, long left behind. We might only think that we’ve been here a short time. Maybe we’ve been here years. Or forever. Maybe it’s our memories of our past lives that are the dreams. How do you know if you’re truly alive?”

“Are you grieving for the loss of your tiger?”

“Yes.”

“That’s how you know,” Gwenny said. “You don’t feel grief in a dream.”

“You don’t know that for sure. You don’t know anything for sure. That’s the advantage of growing up. You know things for sure.”

“I know,” Gwenny said wistfully. “I wonder when that happens.”

“What do you mean ‘when’?”

“Well, I wonder if it happens all at once. Do you reach a certain age and suddenly everything comes into focus, like a camera lens? Or is it a gradual thing where you just become more and more sure until you realize belatedly that you’re just sure of everything all the time?”

Paul shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you.” He chucked a thumb in the general direction of outside, indicating The Boy in a broad manner. “Do you think he ever wonders about such things?”

“No. He doesn’t care. That’s the joy of being him.”

“I’m not sure if it’s so joyful,” said Paul, “or whether it’s very, very sad.” He paused, and then said, “What do you want to be? When you grow up, I mean.”

Her eyebrows knitted. “A teacher, I think. Or perhaps a social worker. Maybe even a psychiatrist. Specializing in dream therapy…Wouldn’t that be appropriate? Plus a mother, of course, with three children…two girls and one boy. Although, you know, a sports star might be nice. I do fancy skating. And dancing—I so love to dance.” She paused. “Bother, you’d think I’d have it sorted out by now. What about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Paul thought about it and then said, “Myself.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Well…good luck with that. Pardon my saying, but I think that may be the hardest thing of all.”

“You may be right.”

There was a knock at the tent flap, which technically wasn’t a knock since the canvas didn’t allow for much of a true knocking sound. The flap peeled back slightly and Dog Licking Self peered in. “Princess Picca wish see you. Make present.”

“I don’t know that I’m in the mood to get any presents right now,” Paul said.

Gwenny saw the expression on the warrior’s face and turned quickly to Paul. “I think you’ll find that when a princess says she wishes to see you, it’s not the same as if you or I wish for something. You know, like when you blow out candles on your cake and toss out a wish in the hope that maybe it will happen, except maybe it won’t. The wish of a princess is more of a command. And when the people who convey that wish carry sharp weapons, there really isn’t a good deal of room for negotiation.”

“Well then,” Paul said, having no desire to cause problems with the Indians. “I suppose there’s nothing else for it, is there?” He rose, shaking out his feet since they had quite gone to sleep while he was sitting cross-legged, and followed Dog Licking Self out into the center of the camp. Gwenny trailed behind.

The sun had long since set, and the full moon was already on the rise. It was at that point that Paul came to the realization the moon had been full ever since he had arrived. However long that was, it was certainly longer than a moon is typically full. He saw that the braves had formed a fairly large circle, and he was being ushered into the middle of it. He might have felt some faint tickle of alarm in the back of his head, but he was too morose about the entire situation to care. Torches were posted at the outer edges of the circle, casting illumination throughout the camp. That was fortunate, for large, dark clouds were moving across the moon, causing its light to be inconsistent.

The Boy was standing next to Princess Picca. She had her arms folded, as did he. She had a grave air about her, and Paul wondered what could possibly be going through her mind that she looked so serious. In looking around, he saw no sign of the barbecue that they’d been consuming, and for that at least he was thankful.

“Storyteller,” she said with great intensity, “you help provide great service to Picca tribe. We prepare great honor for you in exchange.”

“That’s…very kind of you,” Paul said, “but it really wasn’t necessary.”

“Was necessary. Is Picca way.”

“I suggest you respect the Picca way,” The Boy said, and there was something in his tone that seemed to carry a degree of warning.

Princess Picca raised one arm in a commanding fashion and gestured for something to be brought forward. Paul turned to see where she was pointing, and his jaw dropped, as several braves brought forward a large white bundle. He blinked several times, unsure that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. “Is that…?”