The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 18

The trail of honey came not from a hive, but from the mouth of a man lying on his belly, chin propped on his fists and mouth open with his tongue out—and that tongue was three feet long and fragrant with the sweet aroma!

Well, food was food. The ant started toward the man. Obviously he had set his mouth as a trap for ants. Well, he had caught one.

The man looked just as surprised as the ant felt, but he grinned with hunger and his tongue leaped into the air, swinging sideways at the ant. It glittered as it came.

The ant danced aside and the tongue smacked the ground, then rose again with a dozen pebbles sticking to it. The ant realized it would have stuck just as firmly to itself, possibly even with its legs in the air, helpless, waiting to be dashed against a rock. But it dodged the tongue again and, before it could swing a third time, dashed in to counterattack. Startled, the anteater man rolled up on his side, swinging a fist—but the insect leaped onto the arm and scuttled up to the shoulder, remembering how it had dealt with the uniped. All these humans were built alike, after all, and the neck was always on top of the shoulders.

Under the circumstances, perhaps it was justifiable that the ant ate the anteater.

As they walked northward the land grew daily more arid; grass gave way to rock, and trees to low thornbushes, though there was still the occasional small, tortured pine tree—usually dead and dry. Finally, when they had been traveling a week, they topped a rise and saw, stretching away before them, a rolling beige wasteland where nothing grew and nothing moved, except dust-devils and blowing tendrils of sand.

Balkis stared. “How beautiful—and how terrible! What is this place, Panyat?”

“It is called the Sea of Sand, Balkis—and it is a sea indeed, though one without water.”

“A dry sea?” asked Anthony, who had never seen a body of water larger than a pond. “How can that be?”

“It seems still now,” Panyat said, “but look at it again tomorrow from this same place and you will see a completely different picture. Each dune will have moved a dozen feet or so; some will have changed their shapes, and others will have disappeared completely. The sand is always moving, though far slower than water. It swells into waves like the sea and is never still, always slipping, remounding, and being blown about like salt spray—or as the traders tell me seawater is blown.” He smiled sheepishly.

“It is beautiful.” Anthony stared, dazed. “But it is terrible, too. So vast, and without moisture! How are we to cross it? Even our feet will sink in with every step!”

“That much we can cure with the aid of yonder tree.” Panyat pointed to one of the dead pines. “We must cut wood, split it into planks, and tie them to our feet.”

“Of course!” Anthony cried. “If it is like the water of a sea, it is even more like snow! We must make sand skis!”

“If that is your name for them, of course.” But Panyat frowned. “What is 'snow'?”

Anthony and Balkis took turns explaining about the magical white powder that fell from the sky, mounded up into drifts, and pressed itself into ice by its own weight. Then they had to explain what ice was, and finished by telling Panyat that when spring came, the ice turned to water.

“Truly your mountains are lands of wonder!” the Pytanian responded.

Anthony laughed. “Your valley of apple trees seems just as magical to me, friend Panyat, as do your people. How wonderful would it be to survive on the aroma of our food alone in the dead of winter!”

When they had fashioned their skis, Anthony and Balkis made a meal of hardtack and dried pork, with Pytanian apples for dessert—they had each packed a considerably greater number than Panyat brought. He managed quite well by sniffing one of his own.

“It is amazing how long our stores have lasted,” Anthony said.

Balkis nodded. “We have been lucky to find game, and nuts and berries, so often.”

“And the hospitality of those we have met,” Anthony agreed. “Still, long though they have lasted, our supplies are very low.”

Balkis shrugged. “Scarcely surprising, since we have been on the road two months now. They should last until we have crossed this desert, though.”

They slept through the rest of the day in the shade of a boulder, then set out across the sand-sea at night. Very quickly, Anthony and Balkis lost their bearings. Balkis halted and asked, “How are we to know the way? Every dune looks like every other, when we are down here among them!”

Panyat pointed at the sky. “In the desert, you can always see the stars—and though they move through the night, they turn like a wheel, and its hub is one star that moves very little. It lies in the north; therefore, as long as we keep it before us, we march toward the land of Prester John.”

“So that is what the caravan drivers mean when they say they follow the North Star!” Anthony exclaimed.

“You have seen it before?” Panyat asked.

Anthony nodded. “There is little else to see, in a mountain winter—but the cold makes the sky clear and the stars bright. We can tell the hour by their positions.”

Panyat grinned. “Then there is little chance of your becoming lost, so long as you remember where to find the center of your clock.”

They shuffled on through the night, and the sand-skiing was hard enough work that there was little breath to spare for conversation. They halted to rest at midnight, though, and Balkis asked, “Where shall we spend the day?”

“At an oasis I know,” Panyat told them. “During my wander-year, I traveled with the traders all the way across this desert. They knew how to follow a line of oases so that they never had to go more than three nights without fresh water.”

“That,” said Anthony, “has the sound of an underground river that comes to the surface now and again.”

“Perhaps it is,” Panyat replied, “but legend says the first caravan master told a djinni where to seek the most lovely djinniyah in the world, and in return the djinni dug him a string of wells from here to the northern edge of the desert. The oases sprang from those wells.”

“As well the one explanation as the other.” Balkis rose, dusting her hands and taking up her curving pine ski-poles. “But dawn will come and find us nowhere near your oasis, Panyat. Let us walk.”

They shuffled rather than walking, but made surprisingly good time for so slow a mode of travel, reaching the first oasis when the east had begun to brighten with dawn. There, they washed their faces and hands, refilled their waterskins, and made a breakfast of hardtack and jerky. Panyat watched with amusement, sniffing his apple. They took turns telling stories as they ate, and Balkis was fascinated to discover how easily and naturally Anthony's speech fell into meter and rhyme. They fell asleep in the shadow of palm trees before the sun rose, and slept through the day.

They rose as the sun was setting, ate again, and set out on their night's journey. Thus they traveled from one oasis to another. Anthony and Balkis could see the fear in one another's faces when they had camped for two nights in a row and their water was growing low, but Panyat always led them to another oasis before that third dawn.

Still, he noticed their anxiety, and as they pitched camp at the fourth oasis he told them, “Sleep a little longer today, and when the sun has set I shall show you how to find food, even in this desert.”

“Where?” Anthony looked about at the waste around them, totally confounded.

“You shall see,” Panyat promised, “and there is no point in my telling you, for you would never believe me without seeing it.”

He was right—they never would have believed him. They had trouble enough taking him seriously when he showed them how to weave nets of palm fronds and bury them in the sand sideways, with one handle sticking up. When the handle trembled, Panyat said, “Now! Pull it up!”

Anthony yanked as hard as he could, Balkis caught the rim of the basket as it surfaced and threw her weight against it, and the basket sailed clear of the sand. In it was a flat, foot-long fleshy slab, about an inch deep and four wide, and pointed on each end. It thrashed and leaped.

“Hold it up by its tail!” Panyat directed.

“Which end is that?” Anthony cried in dismay.

“The end without the eyes!” Balkis answered, and caught it as Panyat meant. She had to use both hands to hold it up, head pointing downward, while Anthony hovered, ready to catch it if it slipped through her fingers, but the creature rapidly stilled. Then Anthony was able to make out two spots a bit darker than the tan of the rest of its body, but nothing he would have called eyes.

“Hanging like that freezes them, for some reason,” Panyat said. “Now you may chop off its head, grill it, and feed upon it.”

He turned away with a shudder.

Balkis stared at him in distress, but Anthony said, “Unlike him, we must eat,” and took the creature, to prepare and cook it.

From her earliest days, when Balkis had been saved by nixies, she had not eaten fish, out of respect for the water-spirits. But these fish surely had little to do with water, and with her hunger now, she looked forward to eating.

“What are these called?” Anthony asked Panyat as the tantalizing aroma rose into the night.

“The traders call them sandfish,” the Pytanian answered, still with his back turned. “After all, if this is a sea of sand, why should it not have fish? They come to the surface about an hour after sundown. Only then can you catch them, for they swim too deeply during the day.”

It was surprisingly tasty, a savory flavor with a smoky overtone, though that could have been the result of the dried palm fronds that made their fire. Every night thereafter, Balkis and Anthony caught three or four of the fish, and found there were many different kinds, from half a foot long to two feet, with many different flavors. Apparently, they weren't the only ones eating them, for several of the larger fish had smaller ones in their stomachs. Panyat always refused to look until they assured him that the meal was already cooked. The strips of crisp flesh bore so little resemblance to the whole fish that he could watch them eat without having to remember from where the food had come.

When they came to the fifth oasis, though, they found trouble. The pool teemed with water snakes, and Balkis drew back with a cry of distress. Anthony came at the run, saw, and blanched. “Quickly, away! They might squirm out onto land!”

They backed quickly, then watched warily, but the snakes seemed quite content in their watery home, darting and coiling and flashing about to feast on their smaller cousins.

“How can we dip up water?” Balkis asked, at a loss.

“We dare not,” Anthony said, tight-lipped. “There are so many that we cannot hold a waterskin under long enough to fill before one of them bites us—and they might be poisonous! Indeed, their very presence may have contaminated the water.”

Panyat stared at the pond, appalled. “These snakes were not here when I came by with the caravan last year!”

Balkis turned to him with narrowed eyes, thinking. “Someone may have brought in a mating couple,” she said after a moment, “but surely so many could not have grown from one gravid female in a year! Someone has polluted this pool deliberately.”

“Who, though?” Panyat asked.

Anthony gazed at Balkis and read her face. “Whoever did it could not have had us in mind, sweet lady. How could they have known we were coming?”

“A good question,” said Balkis, “and I would dearly love to know the answer.” She turned to Panyat. “Perhaps we should not stay here today.”

The Pytanian looked out over the desert to their north. “It is only false dawn, and we could march another mile before the sun rises—but what if there is no shelter?”

“They we shall have to fashion a tent of our cloaks and our staves,” Anthony told him, “but I think Balkis is right. I could not sleep with so many vipers nearby. Let us go.”

They set out across the desert again, but Anthony was unusually silent. Finally Balkis asked, “What are your thoughts?”

“Hm?” Anthony looked up with a start. “Oh, only wondering how snakes would taste, and if there is any way to be sure their poison does not infect their meat.”

Balkis smiled. “We lack time to experiment, sweet friend. Yonder is a dune with a face to the north; it should shade us for most of the day. Come, let us make a tent.

The day was a torment of thirst. Fortunately, they were able to fall asleep through the worst of it, but when they woke in the twilight, they were parched. Balkis and Anthony took only two swallows of water each, then asked Panyat, “How far to the next oasis?”

“I fear this is one that is three days distant,” he said mournfully.

“Three days!” Balkis's mouth already felt like cracked leather. “How shall we last so long?”

“We shall have to ration the water very strictly,” Anthony said grimly, “only one mouthful an hour.”

But Balkis had to remind him to take even that. Several times in the next few nights, she caught him pretending to drink when he really did not. “I shall endure as well as you ” she scolded. “Do not save your water for me! If we meet danger, we most both be able to fight!”

Anthony drank.

But three nights later, they still had not found the oasis.

“I am sure we have traveled in the correct direction!” Panyat said, on the verge of panic.

“Then we shall come to it.” Balkis clasped his shoulder. “Fear not, friend. We go more slowly when we are thirsty, that is all.”

They dared not eat salt beef when they had so little water, and the hardtack was almost gone. That evening, their traps caught no fish.

“I fear that even the sandfish do not like to go too far from water,” Anthony sighed.

“It is not that,” Panyat sighed. “It is only that they stay close to the rim of the desert, and we have traveled beyond their range.”

“The oasis cannot be too far away now,” Balkis said, and they marched hungry that night.

About midnight, they drank their last swallows of water. Anthony turned his waterskin upside down with a moan, catching the last few drops in his palm and licking them up.

When they stopped to rest an hour later, Panyat took out one of his apples, sniffed it, and held it out to them with a sigh. “Take and eat it, friends. There is moisture in it, and food enough to keep you another mile.”

Anthony stared at the apple and swallowed convulsively but said, “Thank you, good Panyat, but I could not. You will need its aroma for many miles yet.”

“Nor can I.” But Balkis couldn't tear her gaze away from the lovely fruit. “Your health and vitality are far more important to us now than food, for without you we would be completely lost.”

Panyat took the apple back, looking unhappy, but he tucked it back into his pouch with a sigh of relief. “We might have to go another night before we come to the next oasis,” he warned. “I have lost my sense of time, for I can no longer judge our pace.”

Small wonder that he couldn't—their feet dragged, and Balkis had begun to feel as though she were climbing a steep hill when she was walking on level ground. Anthony leaned heavily on his staff, his face drawn and pale under his suntan. On they went, forgetting why, only knowing that they had to raise each foot, swing it ahead, and set it down, following Panyat, who walked straight, sniffing now and again at an apple—but even he had begun to lean more heavily on his staff, weighted down by responsibility and the guilt they had told him he should not feel.

In spite of his warning of a fifth night, the sky's eastern glow showed them the silhouettes of palm trees.

Anthony ran toward them with a glad cry and an aching, waddling gait, but Balkis caught him and cried, “Not yet!”

They leaned together for a minute of sheer exhaustion. Pan-yat turned back and said, “She has the right of it. Those palms are a mile and more away.” But his eyes glowed, and his face seemed to sag with relief.

On they slogged, mouths and throats dry, their steps wobbling now—but they managed to struggle to the palms before Anthony tripped on his own feet and fell. Balkis knelt to help him, but before she could pull him up, Panyat came to her with cupped hands holding an ounce or two of water. “Quickly, drink! Before it trickles away.”

Balkis sipped the water gratefully, then held the last mouthful on her tongue and, with a supreme act of will, pressed her lips against Anthony's. They stayed obdurately closed, so she levered them a little apart with her tongue and let a little water trickle in against his teeth. His whole body stiffened; then his lips opened, and she let the water pour into his mouth. He licked her lips to draw the last drop, froze, then kissed her in earnest.

A minute later, she lifted her head with a gasp, then a shaky laugh. “What a pity that I am too weary and too thirsty to enjoy that as I should!”

“I am not.” Anthony gazed up into her eyes with adoration. “Angel of mercy, who brings water in the desert!”

“In the oasis, rather, and it was Panyat who brought it.” She turned away, feeling the need of a change of subject, and shrugged her flacid waterskin off her shoulder. “Please fill this, good Panyat, for I fear my companion will not go to the water yet.”

“I shall crawl if I must “Anthony insisted.

“That would not be good for you,” Balkis told him. “Your clothes are worn thin as it is.” She managed to prop him up against a huge boulder that rose out of the sand like an exclamation of surprise.

It was only a minute or two before Panyat brought the waterskin back, bulging and wet. Balkis gave it to Anthony, but after a single swallow, he gave it back to her. “Strange—it had the taste of cherries.”

“Strange indeed!” Balkis drank a single swallow too, then handed it to him again with wide eyes. “Stranger still, my drink tasted like a pear!”

Anthony took another mouthful, swallowed, and said, “Pomegranate.”

Balkis took back the skin, drank, and said, “Lemon.”

“I pray you, do not drink too deeply!” Panyat said, alarmed. “A horse in the caravan did that, and he foundered!”

“I have no wish to become sick from too much water after too little,” Balkis agreed. “Only one more.” She drank, raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Mint!”

Anthony took the skin and rolled his last sip around his mouth as he handed the skin back. “Almond. What manner of pool is this, friend Panyat, that changes flavor with every sip?”

“Whatever kind it is, it is welcome,” Balkis said, but she hid misgivings. She pressed the waterskin back into Panyat's hands. “You must keep this for us awhile, my friend.”

Panyat took it reluctantly. “I cannot understand how this oasis came to be here. I do not remember one where the water was so various in flavor.”

“Perhaps it was only that we took so much longer in coming to it,” Balkis offered.

Panyat shook his head and pointed to the boulder behind Anthony. “That was not there on my last trip—not in the sixth oasis or in any other. I saw several like it as I rode with the caravan, but none were anywhere near an oasis.”

Balkis felt a chill down her spine, but she forced a smile. “Perhaps some djinni took pity on us and made it for us.”

“Perhaps,” said Panyat, “but if so, he must have stolen away the oasis I thought to reach two nights ago.” His expression became somber/'Either that, or I have lost my way and know not where we are, or where we are going.”

“You have not lost your way,” Anthony assured him. “I have watched the stars as closely as you have. The North Star is still before us, and at midnight, if I lift my left arm straight out from the shoulder, my fingers still point at the Archer.”

“I thank you, Anthony.” Panyat looked relieved, “It would seem this oasis is magical indeed.”

“Magical or not, I feel as though I am made of sand myself, so encrusted is my skin,” Balkis told them. “Avert your eyes, gentlemen—I mean to bathe.”

“That will be mean to me indeed,” Anthony sighed, but he turned to look out at the sunrise and said to Panyat, “Is it not amazing how the brightest stars may still be seen even in the sun's glow?”

“That is why we call that one the morning star.” Panyat pointed. “We call it the Apple Maiden.”

“My folk call it Aphrodite, for the goddess of love,” Anthony replied, and they engaged in an earnest discussion of astrology while Balkis went down to the pool, took off her robes, scanned the water anxiously for snakes and, not finding any, waded in. The water was a blessing on her skin, and as she luxuiated in the bath, her thoughts drifted to the puzzle of its presence. She wondered who had really ordered her kidnapping, and if someone else had intervened to send her to Anthony. If so, the kidnapper might have filled the fifth oasis with snakes to stop her, and her invisible guardian might have directed their steps to this, an oasis Panyat hadn't known.

Her skin was parchment drinking up moisture, but she knew the sun would rise to bake her in minutes, so she stayed only long enough to wash away the dust of the trip, then came out, wrapped herself in her outer cloak, and told Anthony, “You may bathe now.”

“Do I smell so strongly as that? But I know I must.” Anthony made no request for privacy, but Balkis gave it to him anyway, feeling almost prim as she resisted the temptation to peek. Truth to tell, the thought also frightened her a little.

She ignored it and discussed their route with Panyat, guessing at landmarks that of course would have been buried by shifting sand during the last year. It was only minutes till Anthony rejoined them, again decently clad, though he grumbled, “Not much use to sluice the dust from my body, when I cannot purge it from my clothes!”

“Perhaps we shall find clean garments at the desert's edge,” Balkis cajoled. “For myself, I feel remarkably refreshed.”

“So do I, to tell the truth.” Anthony stretched and sighed with pleasure, then froze, frowning. “How odd! I look within myself and find no hollow. I am no longer hungry, though I have not eaten!”

“Perhaps you have drunk too much, after all,” Panyat said nervously.

“Perhaps,” Balkis agreed, “or perhaps this water is more blessed than we think. My appetite, too, is sated. Come, let us fill our skins. If this water has such virtues as it seems, we must take as much as we can!”

They filled the skins, then lay down in the shade of the boulder and slept deeply and well, then woke in the twilight—and stared about them in disbelief. It was Anthony who spoke it first. “Where has our oasis gone?”

The sand stretched wide and empty for miles around.