The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 21

To make it worse, the sunlight was fading. They were at the bottom of a valley, after all, and the sun had fallen behind the ridge to the west. If Balkis was going to find an apple tree, she would have to do it quickly.

Did apples even grow in this country?

Apples grow everywhere, she told herself, and shrugged off tendrils of despair. She cast about her, found a forked stick and picked it up by the branching twigs. It was four feet long, and she held the stem of the Y straight out before her.

“We seek apples, not water,” Anthony said with a frown.

“So you have heard of divining rods in your mountains,” Balkis said with absent interest, her mind on Panyat. “Know, then, that a wizard can make a rod seek whatever he asks, not water alone.” She stroked the branch with her right hand, crooning,

She broke off in frustration and cried, “Anthony, finish it!”

“Take us to the rosy fruit!” Anthony called.

The rod jerked sharply to the right.

“Well done, my lad!” Balkis cried. “Follow fast!”

Speed was needed, and fortunately speed they found. The forked stick guided Balkis by pressure first against one palm, then against the other—and in the last rays of sunset, brought them to an old, gnarled, withered tree with a few last wrinkled fruits still hanging on its boughs.

“Succor!” Balkis cried, and reached up to pluck—but the apple fell into her hand. She dropped the divining rod and plucked another—it fell even as she touched it—and carried both to Panyat. “I regret they are such poor and withered things, my friend, but perhaps—”

“They will do! Oh, bless you, my friends!” Panyat's eyes opened wide; he moved a hand, but it trembled and fell. “I cannot… cannot…”

“Here.” Balkis thrust the apple under his nose. The Py-tanian inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes, trembling with the sensation as new life coursed through his veins. He inhaled again and again; color came back into his skin, and he seemed to swell with vitality even there in Anthony's arm. Then a hand, no longer palsied, reached up to take the apple. He held it under his nose, inhaling its fragrance with every breath, though it seemed to shrink and wrinkle even as they watched.

“The tree!” Anthony cried out, aghast.

Balkis turned to look and saw that amid a shower of its own yellowed leaves, the apple tree had shriveled. As they watched, limbs broke off and fell, the trunk caved in on itself, and the bark shredded into motes, until they found themselves staring at a pile of sawdust.

Finally Anthony spoke, his voice trembling. “What manner of tree was that?”

“A blessed one,” Panyat said, his voice no longer faint, but still not as rich as it had been. “By your leave, my friends, let us spend the night here, for I am not yet strong enough to walk.”

“Surely,” Balkis agreed. “After all, where there is one apple tree, there may be others.” She sat down, reaching up for the Pytanian, and Anthony set him down with his head and shoulders in her lap. Then he turned to gathering wood and building a fire.

They woke in the predawn chill. Anthony fanned the fire to life, fed it a few sticks, and brewed a porridge of crumbled joumeybread. They ate, watching the east and talking in low tones, savoring the freshness of morning and the scents of life around them, so welcome after the dearth of the desert. Then the first rays of sunlight broke over the eastern ridge and Balkis threw back her head, closing her eyes and letting the warmth bathe her face.

Panyat cried out with joy.

Turning wide-eyed, Balkis saw a green spike stretching up from the heap of sawdust. As they watched, the shoot grew taller and the dustpile smaller, giving its substance to the life of the plant. They stared, entranced, as the shoot grew into a foot-high sapling and put out thread-thin branches.

“What manner of tree is this?” Anthony asked, his voice shaking.

“It is a thing of Faerie, my friends,” said an old quavering voice.

They turned in alarm, Anthony leaping to his feet, but the old man who approached only raised one palm, saying, “Peace, peace. I am the guardian of this grove and mean no harm to you, unless you mean harm to my trees.” He was bald, with a white beard falling almost to his waist. He wore a robe the color and texture of bark, and carried a staff in his hand that still bore twigs and leaves. Balkis thought it must have been her imagination that made the leaves seem to freshen when he stopped, resting the butt of the staff on the ground.

Panyat folded his hands over his midriff and the slight bulge of the dried-up apple within it.

“Peace, my friend—you may keep the apple,” said the old man. “Indeed, you may take as many as you wish.”

“A safe offer,” Balkis said with a cynical smile, “since there are no others that have not rotted to dust.”

“Ah, but there will be,” the old man said.

“We cannot wait four months.”

Panyat cried out in joy.

Turning back, Balkis saw that the shoot had grown into a sapling and put forth buds. Even as they watched, those buds opened into lovely, pale pink blossoms. Buzzing began and grew, and bees appeared as if by magic to crawl into the flowers and collect pollen.

“This tree thrives remarkably,” Anthony said, wide-eyed. “If I could take only a dozen of its seeds home to my father and brothers, they would grow such an orchard as the neighbors would never believe!”

They watched spellbound as the tree grew and grew. The old man carried buckets of water from the stream to moisten its roots, pruned it carefully, and pinched off flowers that were too close together. The blossoms withered and fell to reveal small hard fruit that swelled as the tree waxed. The old man still carried bucket after bucket of water, then shovelfuls of the mud of the riverbank, rich with decaying weeds to pack around the roots. By midday the fruit was full and ripe and the whole grove filled with the sweet aroma.

“How marvelous!” Anthony reached up to pluck an apple.

“You must not eat!” the old man warned.

Anthony's hand froze an inch from the apple. “Why must I not?” he asked, eyes still on the fruit.

“Because it is a thing of Faerie,” the old man answered, “and if you take within you anything of that mystical land, it will shackle your heart forever to illusions. I have seen people thus bound, forever seeking, never satisfied. Everything they see they feel they must own, for that will make them happy, but an hour or a day after they have gained it, their delight in it fades and dies, and they grow restless, once again looking for their hearts' desire. Poor fools, they do not realize that what they truly seek, no one can attain in this world.”

“Is not this the common state of men?” Balkis asked, eyes wide.

The old man turned to her, a gleam of approval in his eye. “Perhaps, and of women, too. Ail of us are fools, but the wiser know that what they truly seek cannot be held or weighed. But if you eat the food of Faerie, you will never gain that insight.”

“I, however, need not fear it,” Panyat said, “for I shall take only the perfume, as all of you do, and that much has not harmed you.” He reached up a hand. “May I?”

“You may indeed,” the old man said, smiling with approval, “for your folk at least have realized the value of the insubstantial. Nay, take of the fruit as many as you can carry, and may they serve you well.”

Anthony lifted Panyat; he plucked three apples and stowed two of them in the fold of his loincloth. As Anthony set him down, he held the third to his nose and inhaled. Immediately the flush of health returned to his cheeks; his eyes sparkled with vigor, and he smiled. “Oh, thank you, my friends! I am well-provided now.”

“But how is this?” Balkis cried. “It ages!”

They looked, and sure enough, the apple tree had begun to look old; dry leaves fluttered from dying branches, and as they watched in shock and grief, the bark thickened, dead branches broke off, bark closed over the knots, and the limbs became gnarled and twisted. The dust of dry rot poured from the trunk, leaving a portion of it hollow. The apples fell, soft and wrinkled, and as the rays of the setting sun touched the leaves, they turned yellow and fluttered to the ground. As twilight descended, the tree itself began to crumble away to powder until, as gloaming thickened into the darkness of night, it was again only a heap of sawdust.

“How could such vitality and beauty fade so quickly?” Balkis protested, tears in her eyes.

“You shall ask that of yourselves in thirty years, my friends,” the old man sighed. “Set your hearts and minds on things that endure.”

“What things are those?” Anthony asked. “Ho! Do not leave us in ignorance!”

The old man had turned to go, but now he looked back, a smile glimmering. “What endures? Why, the beauty of music and poetry, which is gone in an instant but awakens again at a singer's thought—but you and your lady have something far more lasting about to spring into life between you, though like this tree, it requires tending and care to grow to its fullest. See you prove as good in gardening as I.” Then he turned away into the shadows and was gone.

“Who was he?” Balkis asked, staring after him as though by doing so she could ignore his advice.

“Who tended the garden from which the Physon flows?” Panyat asked with a smile, but would not answer his own question.

The next morning Panyat told them regretfully, “I fear I must leave you now, my friends. These three apples will see me safely home, but if I go much farther with you, I shall not be able to carry enough fruit to last me, even though I take only its aroma.”

Tears in her eyes, Balkis embraced him. “Thank you so for guiding us safely to this borderland!”

“It was my pleasure,” Panyat assured her. “When I come home, I think that I shall have had my fill of adventuring.”

“If you do not, perhaps I shall see you again when I return,” Anthony said, clasping his hand, “and we may travel southward together.”

Balkis felt a stirring of alarm within her breast at the thought of Anthony leaving her and returning to the harshness of his father's farm—but she had no claim on him, no right to bid him stay, so she bit her lip and said to Panyat, “Fare you well, then, my friend. We shall miss you sorely.”

“And I you,” Panyat assured them. For a moment he held both their hands, his eyes shining as he looked from one to the other; then he turned and walked away, back along the shores of the river Physon.

They watched him until he had disappeared among the trees. Then Balkis turned away with a sigh, wiping a tear, and Anthony said, “I hope he will not go hungry.”

“If his provender fails,” Balkis said, “he has only to travel by night, for he can plant an appleseed every morning, sleep until the tree is grown and its fruit ripe, then pluck an apple and walk south under the moon again.”

“I wish we could accompany him and guard him,” Anthony sighed, “but would we not then be the merry company, forever going back and forth over the wasteland and the Sea of Sand?”

Balkis smiled at the thought, but assured him, “I had some concern for his safety, too, and I plan to recite a spell every morning to shield him. For now, though, perhaps we should continue our own journey—or have you no longer any wish to see Maracanda?”

“Maracanda!” Anthony's eyes lit. “Yes, of course we must march northward, for I must see you to your homeland and discover the city for myself!”

Balkis set off with him on the northward path, somewhat nettled that his reason for traveling onward seemed to be Maracanda, and not more time spent with her.

The ant heard the rumble from far off but, knowing only the drives of hunger and the need to regain what was its own, had no idea what the sound meant, nor even thought of it. When it came to the river of stones, it was half dead of thirst and hunger, but its antennae quivered at the scent of water. It leaped upon the rocks, never thinking of danger—never thinking at all, seeking only water. The stones rolled under its feet; it leaped and danced, but a rock came rolling over the others and struck it a glancing blow. It scrabbled, trying vainly to keep its feet, then fell, rolling, and felt itself being pulled toward two rotating rocks. In desperation, it flailed with its forelegs, mandibles opening and closing, striving to catch hold of something, anything—and its jaws closed on driftwood, a broken branch five feet long and half a foot thick. Its forelegs found footing, pulled its middle and back legs up, and it perched precariously on its makeshift surfboard, dancing as the branch turned under it. Then the bank was coming closer, closer, and at last it leaped and caught firm soil. Its back legs tangled in the branch's twigs, though, and it hobbled away from the river of stones hauling a large piece of wood after it. The poor insect was too tired to try to wriggle free— but it smelled water again! Much safer than the water beneath the rolling rocks, which it had not found. It hurried forward as best as it could with the branch dragging behind it, and found the hollow in the huge boulder. The scent of water was stronger still, and it plunged downward into the darkness, the log bumping along behind. Down and down it went, impelled by the swelling scent, then by the sound of water rushing. Faster and faster the ant ran—and plunged straight into the water.

Its legs flailed and water shot into its spiracles as it tried to breathe, wracking it with pain. Then, suddenly, it burst through to air, flailing about with its forelegs, for its spiracles were still submerged. A leg caught; it pulled itself up—onto the very log it had hauled from the river of stones.

Water drained from its spiracles; the blessed air flooded in. It clung, then danced as the log turned under it, clung again until the log spun, when it danced again—and so, bedraggled, chilled, but no longer thirsty, it rode its former burden, clinging and dancing by turns, plunging and rolling through the darkness with absolutely no idea where it was going.

Above its head, far above, Panyat walked south under the moon, now and again sniffing the apple in his hand.

Matt studied the valley below and said, “Funny how from this height all the people look like ants.”

Stegoman glanced down and informed him, “Those are ants.”

“Impossible!” Matt scoffed. “If those are ants, that castle down there must be a mile high!”

Stegoman looked more closely and said, “Perhaps we should fly lower.” He banked, dove, and passed over the castle again at a much lower altitude.

Matt stared. “There are people on the walls!”

“So I see,” said Stegoman.

“They can look over the crenels! That castle can't be more than five stories high!”

“I would estimate fifty feet from the moat to the tops of the towers,” Stegoman said.

“But that can't be! Those ants would have to be the size of foxes!”

“Perhaps there are no such predators, and they have … how did you explain it? 'Evolved to fill an ecological niche'?”

“Ants that size would certainly be all the predators you'd need.” Matt shuddered. “In fact, one would wonder why there would be anything else left alive in that valley.”

“In truth,” Stegoman said, “I see no other animals—only the humans.”

“Yeah, and they're penned up in the castles. No wonder, with wildlife like that running around.” Matt frowned. “Wonder why they stay there?”

“You have told me of people who dwell in frozen wastes, and we have seen desert nomads,” Stegoman reminded him. “Why do they stay?”

“Because it's home.” Matt nodded. “I see your point. But I also see cultivated fields. Either the people find some way to come out now and then, or those are mighty smart ants.”

“I would not wish to test them,” Stegoman said.

“Neither would I.” Matt frowned. “Wait a minute! I wondered why the snakeman was so open about telling us where to go!”

“Of course,” Stegoman said slowly. “He knew what we would find here—or what would find us.”

Matt shuddered. “He was very insistent that we show up in the middle of the day. Wonder why?”

A wailing cry made him look up—just in time to see Di-metrolas plunging toward him, all claws out. Matt shouted with anger, but Stegoman only sideslipped in the air, and Di-metrolas plunged past them. She cupped her wings; air boomed as she slowed, then circled back up to them. “Someday, overgrown newt, I shall see the same shock and anger on your face that I have seen on your friend's!”

“I am somewhat larger than he,” Stegoman said, unperturbed. “How came you here, maiden?”

“How came I? Forsooth! I flew, overbearing worm!”

“To see rare sights?”

“I will own I have never seen ants so large,” Dimetrolas admitted, “though it could be that the people are very small. Shall we land among them and learn?”

“Uh, thanks, but I think I'll pass on that,” Matt said quickly. “Somehow I suspect those people are a little taller than one inch.”

“No sense of adventure,” Dimetrolas scoffed. “Well, if you are so sure of the people, perhaps you will take pity on them and find ways for them to sally forth.” She turned to Stegoman. “What say you, snake? Would it not be tempting to dive and torch a few of those anthills so that the people could go free during the daytime for once?”

“I had considered it.” Stegoman sounded surprised.

So was Matt. Dimetrolas was being a lot nicer than she had been—nicer, but still tart enough for the transformation to not be suspicious; which meant Matt automatically was.

“Then let us go!” Dimetrolas cried.

“Be not so hasty, slender beauty.”

Dimetrolas stared in surprise at the compliment.

Stegoman, however, ignored it completely, plowing ahead. “I have, as I said, considered the proposition, and bethought me that if the people have not fled this valley, they must have need of these ants in some way—or at least benefit from their deeds.”

It was an interesting idea, Matt thought. He wondered if his friend were quick on the uptake, or quicker at improvising to keep the pretty one—at least in dragon terms—talking.

“A point worth considering.” Dimetrolas sounded surprised at finding a brain inside that hunk of a dragon. “I have flown over this valley before in my wanderings and have seen that when the ants go back into their hills at sunset, the people come out to harvest some sort of crop from the sands of those very hills. They load it on elephants and camels to haul it away.”

That also explained when they did their farming, Matt thought, and wondered what kind of crop the ants provided that was worth hauling away by the elephant-load. “The ants come out again at sunrise?” he asked.

“No—mid-morning,” Dimetrolas replied.

Stegoman turned his head to fix Matt with a glance. “That explains why the traveler who told us of this valley bade us come at noon.”

“At noon!” Dimetrolas cried. “Those ants would have minced you in minutes!”

“I believe that is what the stranger intended,” Stegoman agreed.

“Strange indeed! Show me him, and I will torch him for you!”

“I thank you for the thought, lass.” Stegoman sounded surprised, but he inclined his head gravely. “However, his employer already did that.”

“Employer?” Dimetrolas stared.

“How I know not, but he burst into flame before our eyes. It would seem that, when Matthew cast a spell that made him tell what he knew, his employer had to silence him before he told all.”

Dimetrolas shuddered. “How could such a one command any loyalty?”

“Surely not mine,” Stegoman said.

“Nor that of these people below us.” Dimetrolas looked down. “They are well-guarded, after all, for no invader could besiege their castles for long.”

“True,” Stegoman said agreeably. “It seems the ants may be the jailers, but they are also protectors.”

“Still, there is no one seeking to invade at the moment.” Dimetrolas' mouth spread wide in a dragon's grin; she lashed her tail. “Let us torch just the one anthill nearest that castle below, so that its people may be free for one single afternoon.”

“A charitable thought,” Stegoman said, “but I fear I must not join you. I do not know enough of the way of life here. By doing what I think is a kindness, I might truly upset some sort of delicate balance, inviting disaster.”

“Disaster!” Dimetrolas scoffed. “What disaster could you bring by fusing the sands of this one hill to glass? You would not even kill many of its ants, for they are doubtless deep underground.”

“But other ants might come to defend them,” Stegoman pointed out, “besieging the castle by thousands instead of hundreds, and keeping its inhabitants closed in even by night. I must not act where I do not know.”

“Stodgy old prig!” Dimetrolas' lip curled in disdain. “Must you withdraw from any act that might prove frolicsome?”

“I am indeed boring,” Stegoman acknowledged. “I see little to amuse me in this life. Far better for you to seek the company of someone more gamesome.”

“Oh, you are impossible!” Dimetrolas snapped and peeled off to dive-bomb an anthill, her fire roaring out fifteen feet ahead of her.

Stegoman looked down with regret.