He turns and starts away, and I trudge dutifully after him, drawing on some source of energy I did not know I had. I have some reservations about what lies ahead, but none at all about what happens if I do not go with him.
“How did you find me?” I ask as we approach the water. “You said you don’t live here.”
“I am a Watcher for my people, and this is my territory. This, and some of the country that is my homeland on the other side of the Roughlin. I come here periodically to make certain our enemies do not make incursions beyond the shoreline. If they keep to the interior of the wastelands, we let them be. But sometimes they forget their manners and I have to remind them.”
“That seems very dangerous. Why do you do it?”
He looks confused. “It is what I am meant to do.”
He offers nothing more, so we walk in silence until we reach the shores of Roughlin Wake. The water is choppy.
“How are we going to cross?” I ask.
“I have a boat.”
A boat? I decide I am about to discover if I am susceptible to seasickness. I don’t remember ever being on water, but I know what can happen if your stomach betrays you. Already I am experiencing queasiness just from imagining the crossing.
“How far is it to the other side?” Once again, I cannot seem to help myself. “Is it a long way?”
He gives me a quizzical look. “You’re worried?”
I nod. “I’ve never been on water of any kind. Sometimes, heavy motion makes Humans sick. I worry I’m not strong enough for this. I’ve been walking in the heat for two weeks, and I do not feel like I am ready for any more rough travel.”
“I will help you.”
A promise spoken with such conviction that I don’t say another word. He glances around, giving a lingering look back the way we came, then has me sit down at the shore’s edge. He sits cross-legged before me and I adjust myself, mimicking his position. He reaches out for my hands and—after a momentary hesitation—I give them to him. His fingers are long and narrow, his nails a deep emerald. I don’t know what texture I expected from his green skin, but it is soft and supple, the same as mine. He holds my fingers loosely, his own moving gently, warmth from his hands extending into mine. A discernible pulse travels up my arms and into my body, and my eyes close in response to the instant sense of relief it offers.
He begins to sing, then. The words are soft and wholly unintelligible. They might not even be words, only sounds—but whatever he is doing, it is restoring strength to my damaged body. I feel myself healing, and my emotions—which have been in a tumult—start to settle and grow calm. The entire time we sit like this, he feeds me his strength—I call it strength because I have no other word for it—in order to mend me. I am at peace.
When he is finished, he releases my hands. “You should be much stronger now, and you will not become sick when we make our crossing. All will be well, Auris. I did not rescue you only to lose you again.”
It is a simple enough expression of reassurance, and yet I find myself thinking that it means something more. “I am grateful,” I say in response, still dazed from his ministrations. “For everything you are doing for me.”
When my eyes open again, I find his bright, amber gaze fixed on me, and I shiver in response. “Do you not see what this is? My finding you as I have? This is the way fate works to shape our lives. Everything happens for a reason, though we might not always know what that reason is. I was meant to find you and bring you to safety. My inish whispers it is so.”
I come down to earth with a jolt. Not only does this sound crazy, but it raises more questions than it answers. What does he think is happening here? And what in the world is inish?
But there is no time and this is not the place to pursue the matter because he is already standing at the edge of the lake on a small beach, calling out into the empty expanse of the waters. Overhead, the sky is still clear and now a deeper blue as the sun sinks slowly toward the western horizon, its heat lessened but its intensity still strong. A breeze comes off Roughlin Wake, and its cool touch feels like freedom. I breathe in the pungent lake air, tasting it; it tantalizes me with the promise of new life. I am on my way to something so much better. How can I not be, given where I have been?
Something appears out on the water then—a bit of movement that slowly begins to take shape. The minutes pass, and soon it is revealed: a boat indeed, neither small nor large. It rides the waves smoothly and without effort, coming steadily toward us. There is no one aboard, yet it seems to sail as if crewed. I glance over and see Harrow directing its progress with movements of his arms and hands. I have no idea how he can manage this, but I am entranced.
When the boat is in the shallows, he leads me into the water and out to where it rocks back and forth. Hands about my waist, he lifts me aboard and onto the more forward of two wooden planks that serve as seats. Then a quick leap from the water and he is sitting behind me on the second. I look around appraisingly. The boat is constructed of wooden staves fastened to a curved frame with wooden dowels. A single mast sits fixed to the centerboard. The boat is perhaps twenty feet in length, the prow and stern higher than the sides and curved upward. There are no oars, but there is a tiller fastened to a rudder. A sail is wrapped about the mast, which he loosens and lets flap open into the wind. Then with a quick motion of one hand he brings the boat about, and we are off, cutting across the deep blue of the lake.
It is a joy watching him maneuver this strange craft, even though I have no idea exactly what it is he is doing. His hands direct our progress some of the time, and at other times he simply uses the rudder. He does this almost without thinking, his motions smooth and assured.
We travel without incident until we are so far out that the shoreline behind us disappears and no land is visible. The waves are choppy and sometimes very rough as we progress, but we are never knocked about or in danger. Nor do I get seasick. Whatever Harrow did back on shore must have worked. I travel in complete comfort and with a confidence I did not expect. I glance over at him now and again to watch what he is doing, but it remains mysterious enough that I cannot quite figure it out.
At one point the wind shifts in a way that blows the tangle of my soiled, sweat-soaked hair directly into my face, and I am ashamed of how bad I smell. I wish I had washed myself, if only marginally. But there is no help for it now, and I can do nothing more than promise myself a good bath at the first opportunity.
We sail for perhaps an hour in our little craft, and then I catch Harrow looking off to the north, his expression suddenly intense. When I follow his gaze I spy another craft on the water—one noticeably bigger and heading our way. I look over at my rescuer. “Who is that?”
He shakes his head. “Goblins.”
The same Goblins that run the prisons I escaped? Or something else, something entirely different? I want to ask more, but the intensity of his expression suggests it would be best to just let him get on with it. The way he looks at the other boat does not feel reassuring. Watching it come closer, I can see why. It is much larger than ours, and it is marked by a series of huge jagged spikes protruding from its prow. There are two masts from which dark pennants flutter, and what appear to be catapults are mounted both port and starboard. A warship, I think.