按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
the ghants dragged themselves higher up into the tree。 Resisting a fit of shivers； Tiamak calmly but deliberately poled his flatboat toward the center of the watercourse； out from beneath the low…hanging limbs。
The sun； which had been only midway up the morning sky when he noticed it last； had moved shockingly far past the meridian。 He must have fallen asleep sitting up； despite the early hour。 His fever had taken a great deal out of him。 It seemed to have abated； at least for the present； but he was still dreadfully weak； and his injured leg throbbed as if it were aflame。
Tiamak's sudden laugh was raw and unpleasant。 To think that two days ago he had been making grand decisions about where he would go； about which of the mighty folk clamoring for his services would be lucky enough to get him and which would have to wait！ He remembered that he had decided to go to Nabban as his tribal elders had requested； and to let Kwanitupul go for now； a decision that had caused him many hours of worrying deliberation。 Now his careful choice had been reversed in a freakish instant。 He would be lucky if he even made it to Kwanitupul alive： the long journey to Nabban was simply inconceivable。 He had lost blood and was sick with wound…spite。 None of the proper herbs to treat such an injury grew in this part of the Wran。 Also； just to insure his continuing misery； a nest of ghants had now spotted him and made him out as soon…to…be easy pickings！
His heart raced。 A gray cloud of weakness was descending on him。 He reached a slender hand down into the rivercourse； then splashed cold water onto his face。 That filthy thing had actually been touching him； sly as a pickpocket； trying to dislodge his knife so its brethren might drop on him unresisted。 How could anyone think that ghants were only animals？ Some of his tribesmen claimed that they were nothing but the overgrown bugs or crabs they much resembled； but Tiamak had seen the terrible intelligence lurking behind those remorseless jet eyes。 The ghants might be products of They Who Breathe Darkness rather than She Who Birthed Mankind…as Older Mogahib so often proclaimed…but that did not make them stupid。
He swiftly surveyed the contents of his boat to make sure nothing had been taken by the ghants before he had awakened。 All his meager lot…a few rags of formal clothing； the Summoning Stick from the tribal elders； a few cooking things； his throwing…sling； and his Nisses scroll in its oilskin bag…lay scattered in the bottom of the flatboat。 Everything seemed as it should be。
Lying in the hull nearby were the skeletal remains of the fish whose capture had begun these latest troubles。 Some time during the last two days of chills and madness he must have eaten most of it； unless birds had picked the bones naked while he slept。 Tiamak tried to remember how the fever…time had passed； but all he could summon were visions of poling endlessly down the watercourse while the sky and water shed color like glaze running from a poorly…fired pot。 Had he remembered to make a fire and boil the marsh…water before washing out his wound？ He seemed to have a vague recollection of crying to lay a spark to some tinder piled in his clay cooking…bowl； but had no idea whether a fire had ever caught there。
Trying to remember made Tiamak's head swim。 It was useless to fret over what had or had not happened； he told himself。 He was obviously still sick； his only chance was to make his way to Kwanitupul before the fever returned。 With a regretful head shake he dropped the fish carcass overboard…the size of the skeleton confirmed that it had indeed been a splendid fish…then donned his shirt as another bout of shivers ran through him。 He slumped back against the stern of the boat； then reached for the hat he had woven from sand…palm fronds during his journey's first day。 He pulled it down low in an effort to keep the harsh midday sun out of his smarting eyes。 After dabbing a little more water on his eyelids； he began to push with the pole； laboriously forcing the flatboat along the wide channel while his aching muscles protested with every stroke。
The fever did return sometime during the night。 When Tiamak escaped its clutches once more； it was to find himself floating in lazy circles； his flatboat becalmed in a marshy backwater。 His leg； although swollen and tremendously painful； did not seem markedly worse。 With luck； if he could get to Kwanitupul soon he would not lose it。
Shaking loose the cobwebs of sleep； he offered yet another prayer to He Who Always Steps on Sand…whose existence； despite Tiamak's generally skeptical nature； had e to seem a great deal more conceivable since the misadventure with the crocodile。 Whether this weakening of his disbelief was due to the mind…dizzying fever； or to a resurgence of true faith brought on by the nearness of death； Tiamak did not much care。 Neither did he scrutinize his feelings about the matter very deeply。 The fact was； he did not want to be a one…legged scholar…or worse； a dead scholar。 If the gods did not help him； then there was no resource available to him in this treacherous marsh other than his own fast…failing resolve。 Faced with those simple alternatives； Tiamak prayed。
He poled himself out of this latest backwater； at last reaching a place where several waterways came together。 It was hard to tell exactly how he had wandered to this point； but using the newly…kindled stars as a reference… especially the Loon and the shining…pawed Otter…he was able to orient himself toward Kwanitupul and the sea。 He kept his barge…pole moving until dawn； when he could no longer ignore his weary mind and wounded body crying out for rest。 Fighting to keep his eyes open； he floated down the watercourse a little farther； poking m the muddy bank until at last he located a large stone which he levered free。 This he secured to his fishing line and dumped it over the side to act as an anchor so he could remain moored in an uncovered section of the waterway as he took his desperately…needed sleep； safely away from tree…clinging ghants and other unwanted pany。
Now able to preserve the gains made by his poling； Tiamak made better time。 He lost half of the next afternoon （his eighth or ninth since leaving home； he guessed） to another resurgence of fever； but was able to push on a bit during the evening； and even continue after dark in order to make up some of his lost time。 He discovered that there were far fewer biting and stinging insects once the sun had vanished into the western swamp； this and the oddly pleasant blue glow of twilight made such a nice change from his sun…battered afternoons that he celebrated by finally eating the rather forlorn…looking river…apple he had found on a branch overhanging the watercourse。 River…apples were usually gone by this late in the year； those which had escaped the birds falling free at last to drift on the eddying water； bobbing like fisherman's floats until their seeds wound up at last in some mud…dam or root…tangled clump of soil。 Tiamak had considered the find a good omen。 He had put it aside after many expressions of thanks to beneficent deities； knowing he would enjoy it more if he savored the thought of