Hern stood up too, showing himself again much larger—not that this daunted Kars Adon. “That’s more like it,” Hern said. “Then what’s keeping you here?”
Kars Adon glared at Hern. “The River. The River drowns anyone who tries to go inland. Tell Kankredin from me that he must leave the River alone.”
“I shall do that with pleasure,” said Hern. “We’ve already spoken to the River. You’ll find the waters are going down.” He could not stop himself from smiling as he said this.
Kars Adon smiled, too. He was so pleased that he put out a damp knuckly hand and wrung each of our hands in turn. “Thank you,” he said. “I wish I could offer you a reward or something to eat or drink, but—” He paused a little blankly. I think the Heathen notion of gratitude was to shower food and drink on people, and possibly gold and silver, too, and it seemed to hurt Kars Adon that he could not do it. “I give my protection and friendship freely to all three of you,” he said, rather lamely. “I suppose you’ll go to Kankredin when the tide starts running out?”
It was lucky he said that. We still had no notion about the tides. I turned to Hern and said knowingly, “Now, the tide turns when?”
“Um,” said Hern, pulling his chin wisely.
“It’ll be around sunrise tomorrow,” Kars Adon said obligingly, “won’t it?” He knew all about tides. His people came from the sea. It was odd that he knew so little of the River.
“We’ll set off at sunrise,” Duck said, as wise as
Hern.
“And so will we,” Kars Adon said eagerly. “I shall have them strike camp tonight.” His flags and trumpets were back. “We should be many miles inland by tomorrow night,” he said.
After that we said good-bye with great politeness and went back to our island. Arin and his flag bearer did not come beyond the edge of the camp with us. They were too anxious to get back and find out what had been said. That was fortunate, because when we reached the channel, no one would have believed Ked and I had nearly drowned in it. It was nothing but a ditch of wet brown sand. They would have known we were not mages.
We could see the One’s fire flaring beyond the hill of our island. “I hope Robin’s all right,” said Hern.
“And the One,” I said. “Hern, what got into you?”
“I could see he liked straight dealing,” said Hern. “And I took a risk. I wanted to find out about this Kankredin. And we did. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind tomorrow.”
“But,” I said, “you’ve sent him off—Kars Adon and his Heathens—to get slaughtered inland. Just those few of them can never last.”
“We’ve done our people a service,” Duck said complacently.
But Hern said, as we trod across the brown ditch, leaving pale footprints, “It was better than sitting on a sandhill dreaming dreams. If I was him, I’d never have gone there in the first place.”
9
Sunrise next day came with a fine itching mist of rain. I was woken by miserable wet cats trying to get under my blankets. My clothes, which I had hung on the boat to dry, were wet as ever, and Robin, while she was no worse, was not better. And in spite of the rain, the One’s fire was by no means out. It had fallen inward to a flat heap of charcoal, in which blackness and redness came and went as the rain met it, but it was as hot as it was the night before.
This was a serious difficulty. When the One is newly out of his fire, he is at his strongest, and I knew we should take him with us to meet Kankredin. The One signifies that he is ready to come out by putting the fire out and appearing among the ashes. He was not ready. We argued about what we should do. The argument was made more urgent by the sound of the tide racing seaward on three sides of us.
Hern said, “There’s no need for anyone to go but me. You two aren’t reasonable enough, anyway.”
Duck and I refused to stay behind. Duck said he had bound himself to go, too. I wanted to confront Tanamil. “And suppose you’re not back when the One is ready to come out?” I said. It had to be Hern, as head of the family, who took the One from the fire.
Then Hern suggested pouring water on the fire and taking the One out at once. That is Hern all over. I would not hear of it. Neither would Robin. By this time Robin had realized what we were intending to do. She started croaking—her voice had become like a raven’s, as ugly as her face—on and on at us that we were not to go out to sea, that Mother would not like it, that we were not to go without her, and a dozen other objections beside.
She annoyed me. I am sure the reason we are stuck in this old mill, having failed at everything, is that I got so annoyed with Robin that morning. We should have waited until the One was ready to go with us. The Lady and the Young One were not strong enough alone. But I still think we were right not to take Robin. I do not think her soul would have been safe.
I jumped up. “Let’s go,” I said to Hern. “If the One doesn’t want to come, it’s his bad luck. He can stay with Robin.” Robin sat up, with blankets sliding off her shoulders. “Lie down,” I said to her. “You can’t come. I’m wearing your skirt.”
Robin was too ill to stand up to me. Normally she has a long, weak persistence, so that I end up losing. But she just lay down and cried.
“Now she’s crying!” I said. “She cries like a weapon. Lie down, Robin.” I was really horrible. Duck and Hern looked on, subdued. They wanted to see Kankredin too much to interfere. “Let’s build her a shelter to keep the rain off,” I said to them, “and then go.”
The cats got into the shelter gladly. We put food and water in it, and Gull. Nobody argued about Gull. We knew he must stay. Robin was still tearful, but I am almost sure she was glad to be staying, too. We tucked her up where she could see the One’s fire before we ran the boat down to the brown racing tide.
Though we put the sail up, it was the tide which took us and snatched us toward the sandbanks at the Rivermouth. It snatched so fiercely that I took up the Young One. I was afraid already. Duck had the Lady in his hands the moment the boat was in the water. Hern smiled scornfully, but he was shaking whenever I looked at him.
It was impossible to see far in the whiteness and grayness of the rain, but I think the River goes into the sea through many channels, among banks of sand and marsh. The place is miles wide, and low and wet. It was lucky Kars Adon had mentioned the tide because the place where our boat went through was shallow enough as it was. Without the race of the water, we would have run aground. We could not see any distance. Our boat drew on swiftly, drawing with it, as it were, the circle of what we could see. At first we saw water; then, on both sides, there was sticky, shiny marsh, sometimes like wet sand, sometimes covered with brown plants. Even in our small circle, there were more birds than I could count. I saw herons wading, River birds swimming and diving, geese, ducks, grebes, coots, and more gulls than I thought possible, glimmering white through the white rain. Everywhere came cries and squawks, splashings, and the beating of wings. And with every yard, our fear grew.