"But that might not necessarily--" He stopped. "Well, but even if--I mean, how can I--after all that's happened--"
Suddenly they both sprang to their feet, Zen-Kurel nearly falling his length on the drenched, slippery planking. The boat was swinging round in the current, rotating by the bow.
For the next few moments they were at a total loss, with no idea what could have happened or what to do. Then the boat, having turned stem to stern, fetched up with a jerk in the running flood as the bow anchor rope went taut and held.
Maia woke instantly. The first thing of which she was conscious was the wet. She was wet through from head to foot--hair, ears, eyelids, hands, sandals. She was lying in a soaking wet hollow the shape of her body. For some reason, however, the rain no longer seemed to be blowing in upon her, though she could hear it beating on the planking above her head.
Something was wrong. That jerk; she'd felt that all right-- that was what had woken her. But they were not aground; they were at the full extent of a rope, as she could feel by the wavering of the boat. What in Cran's name was going on?
Without stopping to put on her tunic or cloak, she elbowed her way out into the little well astern and stood up, facing forward. Immediately she felt the rain full in her face. So they must be pointing upstream.
"Anda-Nokomis, what's happened?"
"We'd stopped for a rest, Maia. We had both anchors down, and I think the stern one must have pulled out."
Quickly she turned, found the stern anchor rope in the dark and pulled on it. At least the anchor had not carried away. It was still on the other end, though not touching bottom.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"I can't say: three or four hours, perhaps."
"And the river's been rising all the time," she said.
"That's why the anchor came adrift: likely it never had a proper grip of the bottom to start with. We must raise the other one and then turn her downstream again."
Yet try as they would, they could not pull up the bow anchor. All three of them hauled until they had actually dragged the heavy boat two or three feet upstream against the current, but still the anchor would not budge.
At length Zen-Kurel stood back, panting, and at once the boat drifted back downstream and fetched up at the full extent of the rope.
"We'll have to cut it, Maia."
"No!" she said. "Not till I've been down to have a go at freeing it."
Zen-Kurel took her by the wrist. "Maia, I won't allow it."
She turned on him with icy anger. "Will you please let me go?" He did so. "Thank you. Now listen. If I know anything about it, it's probably hooked itself under a log or something o' that. If I do manage to clear it, you'll feel the jerk as the boat lifts, 'cos she's down by the bow now: that's on account of the river rising. Then she'll start to drift, and you'll have to pull me back. Not too sharp, though, or you'll catch me with the anchor like a fish on a hook."
"Shouldn't we drop the other anchor first?" asked Anda-Nokomis.
"No," answered Maia decisively. "We're not risking this happening twice. You shouldn't have anchored at all, Anda-Nokomis: not in this current, with the river rising. You should've tied up to the bank."
Without another word she slipped off her sandals, leaned well out over the bow, gripped the taut rope with both hands, took a deep breath and went overside.
At once she felt the strength of the current. It fairly jerked at her arms. Her hair streamed backwards and she could feel the flow over her shoulders and along the length of her back. Lose the rope and you're done for! Hand over hand, down and down. Eyes shut, free hand feeling ahead. Pain across the forehead and under the eyes. I'll get the basting thing up if it kills me! She found the shank of the anchor and felt soft, water-soaked twigs brushing against her face and shoulders like a swarm of long-legged insects.
Then--ah! just as she'd supposed--a thick branch; absolutely unyielding, yes, and therefore sticking out from a sunken tree-trunk, probably, but no need to find out about that. One fluke of the anchor neatly under it, snug as fingers round the handle of a basket. Hadn't even pierced the wood. O Cran, I can't hold my breath any longer! I can't!
Push it down by the shank, turn it away from you--I'm drowning, drowning, I can't hold my breath: let it out then, girl, but once you do there's no more--it's clear, it's free!
She almost lost hold of the rope as the anchor leapt upward, jerked by the buoyancy of the released boat above. With the last remnant of her consciousness she got both hands to it and felt them pulling her up. Give me air, O Cran, just give me some air and I'll never ask for any least thing else, ever again!
Her head and shoulders came clear of the surface and she drew in her breath. It was over. She could breathe.
They gripped her under the arms and dragged her aboard. For a good half minute she lay prone on the planking, vomiting water and drawing one breath after another.
At length she stood up.
"What's happening? Who's got the tiller?"
"I have," answered Bayub-Otal from the stern. "I've turned us downstream and I'm keeping as near in to the bank as I can."
"You're too brave for your own good, Maia," said Zen-Kurel. "Please don't try anything else like that."
She was about to answer when she became unthinkingly aware that something was still amiss. The boat, though now free, was lower in the water and moving very sluggishly. She made her way aft. She could hear the bilge slopping in the dark. Gods! she thought. No wonder the damned mattress was sodden to pulp!
The well of the boat, astern of the cubby-hole, was awash with the rain. She put one foot into it. It was over her ankle and halfway up her shin.
"Zenka!" she called. "Come and help me bail!"
He was beside her in moments. She felt so angry and harassed by all that had been allowed to go wrong that she simply put one of the wooden bailers into his hand and herself took up the other without a word.
Can't take your eye off them for a minute. Silly bastards sit there for hours in this rain and never even think of bailing! Why the hell did I ever come? They deserve to drown.
The rain was falling yet more heavily now, pouring over them, rattling on the boat and hissing on the w
ater. Every time she turned to empty the bailer overside it stung her ear and cheek, so that at length she could stand it no longer and asked Zen-Kurel to change places: but soon it felt as bad on the other cheek.
There seemed no end to the bailing. In all seriousness-- for there was still very little to be seen--she began to wonder whether the rain could actually be gaining on them and filling the boat. Her right arm grew so tired that she had to change the bailer to her left hand and work that much more clumsily. She knew her pace was slackening, but there was no pause in the steady rhythm with which Zen-Kurel bent and flung.
"Here, let me take over, Maia," said Bayub-Otal from behind her. "You go and steer for a bit."
At that moment the bow struck full tilt against something hard and unyielding. There was a shuddering thump of wood against wood,.
Zen-Kurel, first to collect himself, stood up and went forward.
"We've hit the bank!"
"But that's impossible! The bank's here on my left," called back Bayub-Otal.
"I can't help it. It can only be the bank. It's revetted with wooden stakes."
Maia felt herself giving way to bewilderment and near-desperation. The darkness and rain were like a curse, destroying whatever they tried to do. The bilge water was inexhaustible. She was aching in every muscle. Now, to crown it all, the bank had apparently become bewitched and altered its position in the dark. Another knock like that would probably stave in the bow. I must keep my head and think straight, else we're going to drown and that bitch Terebinthia'll have been proved right.
"Zenka!" she called. "Is there soft ground behind the stakes?"
"Too soft! It's all mud."
"Hook the anchor in behind the stakes, then, and hitch the rope as short as you can. We'll just have to wait for daylight. We can't risk another bang like that."
Zen-Kurel did as she had said. Once more the boat pivoted, the stern swung over to fetch up against the bank and sure enough Maia found at her left hand a line of thick, wooden stakes, driven side by side into the bed of the river. Their tops were only an inch or two clear of the surface. She plumbed again with the oar, but this time could find no bottom. So the stakes--which were stout and firm--must be something like ten or twelve feet long at least. Each one was nearly as broad across the top as the width of her hand: a stout structure, whatever it might be.