"Zenka, what's happened?"
Zen-Kurel was standing up, facing the stern and holding the tiller-bar in both hands.
"Rudder's smashed, Maia."
"Smashed? How?"
"I was looking out ahead--I never thought of looking astern as well. We'd just come through that last fast patch into this pool when a log overtook the boat and rammed us from behind. It's still out there, look--see it?"
"Oh, Shakkarn!" she said. "Here, get out of the way! Let's have a look, see how bad it is."
It was as bad as could well have been feared. The log had split the rudder along a jagged line from top to bottom. Almost the whole blade had carried away. The stern-post, though splintered, was still in position, as were the rudder-head and tiller, but naturally, with the rudder-blade gone, these were useless.
Of course, she thought, it would not have occurred to Zenka (as it would unthinkingly to herself) that, having just come down a length of swift water full of heavy flotsam into a relatively still reach, he was in danger of being rammed astern. It was her own fault for having left him alone: she should have known better. One of Zenka's strongest characteristics, she had come to realize, was his unfailing assumption of confidence, which made people implicitly believe in and go along with him, usually without reflecting just how wise it might be to do so. Zenka--and this was no small part of why she had fallen in love with him, why she still loved him and could never love anyone else--believed in all honesty that any gap between what he knew to be possible and what he wanted to achieve could be bridged by sheer courage and determination. It was this buoyant, indomitable serenity in adversity which made him so attractive; ah! and so dangerously easy not to doubt, an' all. By implication he'd convinced her, at a time when she'd been too overwrought not to swallow it, that valor and resolution were enough to steer a boat in a timber-strewn flood-race. Well, it had probably done for them; there were still plenty of other things to hit, and now the boat was out of control.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Couldn't be helped," she answered rather absently. She was trying to think what, if anything, could be done. "Much my fault as yours."
The boat was turning all ways at once now; sometimes stern foremost, then spinning in a cross-current only to veer away again on the instant. She felt more horribly in danger than at any time since they had set out.
"Zenka," she said, trying to speak calmly, "bring me an oar, quick, as you can."
There was no time to go looking for a length of rope. She hadn't seen any on board and wouldn't know where to start looking. The stern anchor rope would have to do. At least it was long enough and about the right thickness; and they'd still have the bow anchor.
As Zenka came back with the oar she drew her knife, cut the anchor rope and hitched it round the rudder-head.
"Now lash the oar to the rudder-head, Zenka," she said. "Like this, look; over and under and round and round. Only you'd do it better'n me, 'cos it's got to be real tight, see. I'll support the oar while you lash it; mustn't lower it into the water till you're done."
Despite the continual lurching of the boat he was deft and swift, pulling the lashing tight with his full strength at each turn, trapping it closely and finishing, as she showed him, with another hitch to hold all firm. She had never before used a stern oar for steering and was surprised, when they were done, to find how well it answered. She had not foreseen that oar and lashing together would pivot easily about the rudder-head without working loose: the oar could be turned as far as a right angle to the boat, to check and turn it almost instantly. Its only disadvantage was that its length, together with the force of the current, made the sheer effort of working it for any time more than she could manage.
"You'll have to help me, Zenka," she panted, having righted the boat and recovered the midstream channel. "This'll do fine as long as we're careful, only I just haven't got the strength. See if you can get us round this bend that's coming up."
He could. Hedid. Or rather, she provided the judgment, leaning this way and that on the handle of the oar, but relying on his greater physical strength to reciprocate and carry out what she wanted. As the boat rounded the bend without mishap, they broke into simultaneous cries of excitement. The trees were less dense and no more than five hundred yards ahead, as near as she could judge in the failing light, lay open water--the further edge of the forest.
"Anda-Nokoniis!" she called. "We're through!"
102: THE FRONTIER
Anda-Nokomis, turning in the bow, raised his hand in the traditional Beklan gesture of acknowledgment to the win-ner of a contest. At this same moment, as they still stood side by side with the oar between them, Zen-Kurel, as naturally as a bird might alight on a branch, put his free arm round Maia, drew her to him and kissed her.
She clung to him, both arms round his neck, now laying her face against his soaking wet hair, now returning his kiss again and yet once more as the rain ran down their faces and mingled between their lips.
At last, releasing him, she gasped, "The boat, my darling! We've still got to get to Katria."
"I know. But at least tell me one thing now. I want us to be as we were in Melvda-Rain. I want you to marry me. Will you?"
"Yes, of course! Further to starboard; hard over, quick!"
The river, as it emerged from the forest, was broader, though flowing no less swiftly, for here, as far as they could make out in the falling dusk, it had not yet burst the distant, stony dykes on either side. They were in less danger now, for the trees had gone, there seemed to be no obstacles ahead and for the moment at all events little or no heavy debris in the main channel. The boat, however, had filled with so much rain and grown so heavy that it was actually hanging in the current--moving, certainly, but Maia, looking overside, could see sticks and leaves passing them at twice their speed. They had very little freeboard, too.
"Darling,
yes will have to do for now."
"It'll do very well," he answered. "You'd better bail again, I suppose."
"Anda-Nokomis," she called. "Come and help me!"
"Do you think it's safe to leave the bow?"
"Yes: we're moving so slow. Only we got to bail this water out, else we'll never get there 'fore dark."
They both set about bailing, while Zen-Kurel remained at the steering-oar. Maia, in spite of the great flood of joy filling her heart, knew now that she was undoubtedly ill-- ill enough to need to go to bed as soon as she could. Her head ached, her throat and ears were horribly painful and she was feeling even more light-headed than when they had entered the forest.
"D'you mind if I have a go at the djebbah, Anda-Nokomis?" she asked, shivering. " 'Fraid I'm took bad: it's the wet and bein' s' tired out. I'll be better once we c'n get warm and dry."
He nodded and passed her the flask, and she took a good, long pull. She could feel the fumes rising consolingly to dull her pain. Leaning forward, she kissed Anda-No-komis on both cheeks. "You've been the best of friends to me, Anda-Nokomis, that you have! When you're back in Melvda-Rain--when you really are Ban of Suba--can we come and be your guests, Zenka and me?"
"Yes," he answered, "you shall. And no one shall speak a word against you."
Yet as he spoke he looked so downcast and low that she felt ashamed, and very sorry that in her happiness she had spoken with so little consideration for his feelings.
"Dear, dear Anda-Nokomis, I'm so sorry about--you know; honest I am! Oh, sometimes, I just about wish I could split myself in two!"
"It would have to be a thousand and two, I think, Serrelinda," he answered with a smile. It was the only joke she ever heard him make.
"Anda-Nokomis," she said (bail and fling, bail and fling, oh Cran! don't I feel bad?), "do you know there was one time when I cursed you, and swore that if ever I could harm you I would? Doesn't seem possible now, does it? Live and learn, that's about it. Fools don't know who their friends are, I reckon."
"When was that?"
"After you'd made me dance the senguela at Sarget's party in the Barons' Palace; that was when."