Chapter 22 #2
The Dervish eyed the bramble in question skeptically. “Do the berries taste like fish?”
“Not to my knowledge. They’re salmon-colored.”
“Red with silvery bits?”
“Errr … no. They’re orange. Like salmon meat.”
“It-seems-peculiar-to-name-a-berry-after-the-color-of-meat. By-such-logic-a-raspberry-could-be-called-a-mammalberry.”
Silence fell as three mammals contemplated this statement.
“Have-I-said-something-wrong?”
Edmund sighed. “Remember what we said about humans not liking to think about their meat?”
“I-apologize-for-any-offense.”
“No, no, it’s not offensive, it’s just not something we think about much.” Edmund, clearly casting about for a way to change the subject, pointed to another bush. “That one there is a huckleberry.”
“Is it the color of huckle meat?” the Dervish asked. “For that matter, what’s a huckle?”
“Uh…”
“I-too-am-curious.”
“A gnole wants to know now, too.”
“Do you know, I have no idea why they’re called that?”
The Dervish clutched his chest in mock despair. “You don’t know? You’ve whetted our appetite for berry knowledge, and now we’re left hanging?”
“When we get to Archon’s Glory,” Edmund said, “I promise you that I will track down what exactly a huckle is.”
“You’d better. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to sleep at night without knowing.”
“You have my word.”
“Well,” said the Dervish, “that’s a swamp all right.”
Edmund nodded. That was, indeed, a swamp.
Mosquitoes whined past their ears, and dragonflies with dark wings clung to swaying stems. In the distance, gnarled trees lifted their roots above the dark water like bent knees, framed by fans of something tough and green and serrated-looking.
At their feet, a lush green field of grass waved invitingly, dotted with pale purple flags of iris.
The draft horse stepped forward to take a bite and his dinner-plate-sized hoof sank in nearly a foot.
He pulled it back and shook it, looking startled and offended by the failure of solid ground.
Large Francis carefully unstrapped her music box and handed it to Edmund.
He took it reverently in both hands, nervous at the possibility of dropping the delicate instrument.
Francis removed her pack and walked forward into the swamp.
Her sharp little legs must be sinking in, Edmund thought, but the broad carapace was so lightweight by comparison that she seemed to float along the surface, leaving a trail of bent grass in her wake.
Francis reached a deeper spot, seemed to consider for a moment, then fell over.
“Shit!” The Dervish took a step forward, clearly concerned. “Get the rope—”
“No worries, knife-man. Francis-bug is fine.”
It rapidly became clear that Dog Violet was right and the pillbug was in no danger.
Quite the opposite. She was rolling on her back and wiggling, like a horse rolling in the grass.
Eventually she rose, dripping, her shell caked in duckweed, and began trundling back toward them.
Her antennae made happy arcs as she walked.
She extended three legs and took back the music box. “I-am-wet. I-have-been-dry-for-so-long-and-now-I-am-not.” Her carapace rattled in what would, in a human, be a full-body sigh. “I-was-not-in-danger-of-drying-out-but-my-spirit-itched.”
Despite his misgivings about leaving Large Francis alone, Edmund had to smile. “Will you be okay staying here? I’m sure we can find another way to get you to Archon’s Glory if we have to.”
“To-be-honest-friend-Edmund, I-will-welcome-some-time- alone. It-is-no-reflection-on-any-of-you, who-are-most-excellent-friends, but-my-people-do-not-often-spend-so-much-time-in-each-other’s-company.
” She reached out and patted him with one small leg in her imitation of human affection. “That-is-not-intended-to-give-offense.”
“No, no. We understand completely. As long as you think you’ll be safe here?
I promise that we’ll come back for you, or at least, someone will come back for you.
I’m not sure how they’ll arrange it.” He turned in a circle, trying to find a landmark.
“I just have to figure out how to give them directions…”
“There’s a mile marker over here,” said the Dervish, ambling over to it.
It was half hidden by weeds, but a few minutes of work revealed a white stone with an indistinguishable carving on it.
“If we tell these lawyer people to build a fire at the mile marker, it should be visible for quite a way. Would that work?”
“Indeed-that-should-work-most-admirably-friend-Dervish.”
Now that the moment had actually come for leave-taking, Edmund found himself at a loss. “Perhaps we should camp here tonight—”
“And be eaten alive?” The Dervish slapped a mosquito. “Our desiccated corpses aren’t going to bring help any faster.”
“No,” Edmund said heavily. “I suppose not.”
“Do-not-fret-friend-Edmund. I-shall-be-very-well.”
To his surprise, the Dervish took charge.
“If no one makes the rendezvous in … let’s say three weeks?
… assume something has happened. If you have to move, try to leave a cairn by the mile marker pointing in the direction you went.
If you can carve directions into a tree, that would be helpful.
Otherwise we—or they—will start a fire every half mile along the road.
As long as you can get to the road, we should be able to find you. ”
Edmund watched the Dervish, bemused, as he and Large Francis worked out contingencies. His hands moved as restlessly as the pillbug’s antennae, expressions passing swiftly across his face, one after another, all speed and light and quicksilver.
When they finally said their goodbyes and turned away, leaving Francis cavorting in the water like a mermaid in plate mail, Edmund reached out and clasped the Dervish’s hand. He wanted to hug him, but he didn’t want to overstep. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” The Dervish looked down at their joined hands, obviously bemused.
“For taking care of all that. All the things I wouldn’t think of.”
“Oh, that. It’s nothing.” He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “You run enough scouting missions, you learn to set timetables and plan for things to go wrong.”
“Still. I’m very glad we had you along.”
Their hands stayed clasped for a little too long, then the Dervish squeezed his fingers, warm and solid, and Edmund realized what was happening and let go.