The Walrus and the Warwolf

Faint hearts were heartened by this bluff, and through the night the Warwolf ran. Jon Arabin slept little, yet thrice dreamed his ship wrecked.

The weather eased further overnight. Come morning, they were cruising in a moderate breeze amidst herds of brisk white horses that were champing across the seas toward the western coast of the Gulf of Drangsturm, which lay in plain view maybe twenty leagues away.

About three leagues south was a considerable mass of land which might have been either a peninsular or an island. It terminated in a rugged cape.'Is that an island?' asked Drake Douay, pointing south.'It surely is,' said Arabin, hoping he was right.'What's it called?''It has no name as yet.'

'Then I name it Island Tor,' said Drake. 'Yes. Tor, in honour of the king of Stokos. How about those mountains on the western shore? Do they have a name?'Not as yet,' said Jon Arabin, amused.'Then. . .'

Drake thought about naming them the Zanya Klieder-vaust Ranges. But that sounded clumsy. He cast around for a better name, and soon had one: the Dreldragon Teeth. Perfect!

Sight of land put new life into the crew. They worked with a will, and, shortly, the Warwolf rounded the cape Jon Arabin had seen to the south.

An ironbound coast slanted away to the south-west for about a dozen leagues, terminating in a second cape, which they rounded at mid-morning. From here, the eastern coast of Tor slanted away to the south-east.

Was Tor an island or a peninsular? The difference was vital. If a peninsular, then it adjoined the terror-lands of the Swarms, and was probably infested with monsters. If an island, it might be safe. Providing the legends of giants, basilisks and such weren't true . . .

The sun broke through the clouds. The wind dropped. They cruised in the lee of the putative island through a blue-green sea of idle wavelets. It grew hot. The damp decks steamed. Men stripped to the waist, soaking up the sunlight. This was more like it! This was how the Gulf was supposed to be in summer!

A league along the coast, they came upon a bay of beauty. Sailing close inshore so Jon Arabin could check it out, the Warwolf 'lost the last of the wind. She floated in a delicious calm. The crew crowded the larboard railing, staring at paradise. A lean white beach of crisp clean sand. Behind the beach, rough grasses of a brilliant green. Inland from that, deep cool forest of a darker green. Jon Arabin gazed long on that forest. The wood itself was wealth.

He heard the rattle-cackle of staccato bird-talk coming clear across the water. A flight of parrots burst to the sky, hustling across the heavens like splashes of animated rainbow. There was a disconcerting arthritic crackling in the background. What? He'd heard it before, hadn't he? Yes, years ago, in Quilth. Cicadas, that was all. Millions of them. They'd do no harm . . .

At the southern end of the beach, a stream ran swift and bright. Good water! The rocks of the southern headland were of limestone. There would be caves in such rock. Arabin felt a pang of heartbreaking nostalgia and homesickness, for limestone was the ruling rock of Ashmolea; he had loved its landscapes dearly in his youth. How many years since he last saw Ashmolea? Many!

'This looks great!' said Drake, admiring the pale sands, the grass, the forest. Dry land! Dry land! A bare rock covered with seagull dung would have looked sweet to him at that moment.

'Aye,' said Arabin. 'It's a good place. What do you want to call it?'

'Zanya Bay,' said Drake promptly, for he owed his true love that much.'Jon!' cried Baltu. 'Is this the island you promised us?''It surely is,' called Arabin.'Then tell us about it!' yelled one of the men.

Other voices took up the cry. They wanted to know where they were, how long they'd be here, when they'd see the fleshpots of Narba. Jon Arabin gestured for silence.

'Men!' said Arabin. 'This is Island Tor. It's named for the king of Stokos, a fearless ogre who explored these lands in his youth. The father of young Drake Douay voyaged here with the king, and brought Drake proof of the truth of his story.

'This place of beauty here is Zanya Bay, where the king careened his ship. A good careenage it is, too, as you can tell at a glance.''Good, sure,' cried a pessimist. 'But for the Swarms!'

'This is an island,' insisted Arabin. 'No monsters tread these forests. And look west! You see the west of the Drangsturm Gulf, some twenty or thirty leagues away. See those mountains? Those are the Dreldragon Teeth, famous in the legends of Stokos. Such heights are far too bitter-cold for the Swarms. We're safe! So now, boys – to work!'

'Aagh, you can slag work up your poke-hole!' shouted a dissident, anonymous in the crowd. And others shouted similar.

Exhausted by weather, labour, nightmare, fear, short rations, seasickness and wakeful nights, they had no taste for work. The very last thing they wanted was to careen the ship. If the shore had been grim, barren, bitter and stony, Jon Arabin might have won their cooperation – but, as it was, paradise beckoned. Arabin found himself facing a seething, shouting mob. His crew was on the edge of mutiny.

'Men!' shouted Arabin. 'Let's talk money! Let's talk wealth! There's treasure on this island!'

'What treasure?' yelled Raggage Pouch. 'I see nothing but trees!'

'Man!' shouted Jon Arabin. 'And how much is lumber worth in Narba? Eh?'

And he began to talk money. When he had finished, Quin Baltu backed him up:

'It's true what Jon says. Timber's a good price in Narba. If we patch the ship proper, we can leave with riches.'

But the men still refused to careen the ship. So they struck a bargain. The ship would stay afloat. Divers would make emergency repairs to the leaking hull from the outside; other men would work from the inside. Meantime, the rest of the crew would work the forest for a cargo of timber to enrich this voyage. In return for Arabin's concessions, the crew swore to overhaul the Warwolf properly once back at the Greaters.

An anchor was fashioned from a net filled with ballast blocks. Divers were nominated and repair parties chosen. Hunters were put ashore to kill fresh meat – even parrots would be welcome. A boat went for fresh water, so the Warwolf would have ample supplies of such if she had to leave without warning. Suzilman volunteered himself as an expert on timber, and was given charge of forestry operations.

By noon, everyone was working at their tasks with confidence.

But Jon Arabin was desperately anxious. What was this place? An island or a peninsular? He had to know! He called together his three most expendable men: Harly Burpskin, Raggage Pouch and Drake Douay.

'Boys,' said Jon Arabin, 'I've got you together quietlike so we can talk in confidence. When my greatgrandfather sailed these waters, he was a fearsome pirate. Aye. And he buried great treasure on an island in these waters. Mayhap it was this one . . .'

And Arabin described the treasure-burial place. It was in a cave set in a headland on one side of a sandy bay. A cave lined with emeralds.

'The treasure sits in an iron box which is enchanted,' said Arabin. 'It cannot be moved unless you say the magic word: Ponk!'

'Ponk,' said Drake, savouring the word. Then: 'Is there another magic word needed to open this treasure chest?'

'There is,' said Arabin. 'But only I know that word. But … if you find the treasure, we'll split it. Equal shares.''What about the emeralds?' demanded Raggage Pouch.

'Ah, those,' said Arabin. 'Well. . . what you can hack out of the walls of the cave is yours to keep.''Why are we so privileged?' said Drake.

'Because the rest of my crew deserves no share of treasure,' said Arabin, 'for they have come far too close to mutiny. Aye. Whereas I never saw any of you in that mutinous mob.'

All three, in fact, had shouted against the hard labour of careening: but none of them confessed as much to Jon Arabin. Instead, they congratulated themselves on his trust, and began dreaming of how they would spend their share of the treasure.

Thus it was that Drake Douay, Raggage Pouch and Harly Burpskin provisioned one of the Warwolf 's boats and then, by oar and by sail, began to circumnavigate Island Tor.

Drake was intensely proud to have been chosen for this expedition. The honour confirmed his own high opinion of himself. All eagerness and expectation, he stared at the lush green shore, on the lookout for headlands and caves.

A few leagues south-east of Zanya Bay, the explorers came upon a U-shaped harbour perhaps two leagues