Changer (Athanor) (52 page)

The craft that Amphitrite has designed cannot really be dignified with the word “boat,” but it is quite a fine raft.  Using their machetes, the two athanor had chopped logs and lashed them together with vines.  

A prow has been trimmed to make steering easier.  They could have managed a mast, but without a sail, it would have been a useless gesture.  Even Vera cannot weave tight fabric from vines.

Amphitrite’s hands are swollen from unaccustomed friction—calluses are not survival needs under water.  Vera has done better.  Her fondness for martial arts and domestic crafts has toughened her hands, but she favors a slightly sprained wrist.

Both are scratched, sweaty, and filthy when they launch the craft.  They have had their share of insect bites—although neither has experienced a severe allergic reaction.  Despite, their aches and pains they are triumphant when the raft proves serviceable.

“What shall we call her?” Amphitrite asks.

“The
Vengeance
,” Vera suggests.

Amphitrite purses her lips.  “Too violent for such a little craft.  How about the
Pororoca
?  It means ‘the Big Roar’—that’s the local term for a specific type of tidal wave that occurs in the Amazon’s mouth.”

“The Big Roar,” Vera says.  “I like it.  A big roar is exactly what I plan to make when we get out of here.”

Amphitrite scoops out a handful of river water and sprinkles it over the bow.  “Be named, then,
Pororoca
.  Know yourself whole and essential.”

Vera raises her head, which she had bowed during the makeshift christening.  “Shall we load our earthly goods?”

“That won’t take long.”  Amphitrite grins.

To the supplies that Isidro and Oswaldo had left, Vera has added four spears with fire-hardened tips.  Coils of vines supplement their meager supply of rope, and a basket made from river reeds gives them a place to stow mangoes and other fruit.

“It isn’t much,” Vera says, “and I would give a lot to know how far we are from the mouth of the river, but it is a start.”

“Climb aboard, then.”  Amphitrite picks up one of the steering poles, wincing at the pressure on her sore hands.

“Do you want me to steer first?” Vera asks.  “You can navigate and rest your hands.”

“Let me get a feel for how the
Pororoca
handles,” Amphitrite says.  “Then I will do just that.”

As they push off into the river, monkeys scream mocking commentary.  An anaconda raises its head, vaguely disappointed that what it had perceived as dinner is leaving.  A caiman alligator slides off the bank, not so much hunting as hoping to be on hand if either of them falls in.

“She handles well,” Amphitrite says, “for a raft.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Vera replies calmly.  “She is a raft—she must do a raft’s work.  Where Isidro has made his mistake is in believing that we are like this raft—a tool to be turned to his purpose.”

She hefts her spear, her grey eyes studying the riverbank, her body adjusting to the motion of the raft on the water.

“But we are more than tools,” she continues.

Amphitrite, still fashion-doll pretty beneath the grime, laughs, a sound holding the relentless murmur of the sea.  “Oh, yes, my friend.  We are far more than that.”

The Changer and Shahrazad are waiting at the turnaround when Anson arrives in the van.  Some indication of how fast they must have journeyed can be guessed from the pup’s evident exhaustion.  She does not rise from where she is flopped beneath a shrub but waits for the Changer to lift her.

He has shifted human-form once again and is clad in the same clothes in which he had departed Arthur’s hacienda three days before.  His feet are bare.

Inspecting the other’s wrinkled attire, Anson chuckles: “I brought clothing for you, old one.”

“I cached these when we left,” the Changer answers.  “They will do for now.”

They spare each other idle chatter on the drive back.  Only once does the Changer speak.  “Did Eddie find me a way to Brazil?”

“He has chartered a jet,” Anson says.  “I will fly it.  We can make do without a copilot if you want to leave quickly.”

“I do.”

“Then we will.”

At the hacienda, the Changer carries Shahrazad into the courtyard, where she takes refuge under her lilac bush.  Then, without knocking, the ancient walks into Arthur’s office.

If the King had been inclined to protest this lack of courtesy, he is stopped by the cool expression in the Changer’s yellow eyes.  Instead, Arthur rises and offers his hand.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“You need me to negotiate with Duppy Jonah.”

“Yes.”  Arthur gestures toward a seat and takes his own chair.  He has not slept in close to twenty-four hours, and his blue eyes are unnaturally bright.  “There has been a hurricane off the coast of Florida, flooding in the Netherlands, and all manner of smaller marine disasters.  The meteorologists are coming up with excuses as wild as sunspot flares and a sudden acceleration in global warming.”

“Duppy Jonah is showing restraint.”

“I know.  His full fury would leave no coastal area untouched.  Still, I would prefer that he hold his temper until we know that Amphitrite is lost.”

The Changer nods.  “We are both family men, my brother and I.  I will speak to him.  What are your limits?”

“I cannot promise him anyone else’s life.  Otherwise, I am willing to grant him anything within my power.”

“What about your throne?”

“Would he want it?” Arthur’s expression is wry.  “If he does, he is welcome to it, remembering, as always, that kingship is subject to the Accord rule of the athanor.”

“Of course.  Do you have any threats to offer?”

Arthur frowns.  “You mean punitive measures I would take?”

“Yes.”

“No.  He has been wronged.  I am not asking him to accept injustice without striking back.  I am asking him to reserve his wrath for those who deserve it.”

“I see.  Do you want me to try to find Vera and Amphitrite and take them from their captors?”

Arthur’s mouth drops open.  “Are you serious?  Yes!”

“Would I have offered otherwise?”

“I suppose not.”  Arthur regains some of his composure.  “From what Lovern recalls, they were stranded somewhere in the rain forest near the river.  He has tried to divine more precisely, but whatever they did to him is still restricting both his powers and those of his familiar creature.”

“The Amazon River has many branches,” the Changer says.  “That isn’t much to go on.”

“His impression was that it was a main branch of the Amazon.  They flew from Belém for several hours before landing the plane at a wide spot in the river.”

“That’s still not much.”

“I understand that you might not be willing to attempt the journey on so little information,” Arthur begins, sincerely trying to save face for the ancient.

“I didn’t say I was not going to find them,” the Changer says.  “I said that was not much to go on.  I understand that Anson is going to be my pilot.”

“Yes, he has volunteered.”

“Good.  I will ask him to go ahead to Belém and see what he can learn.”

“Anson?”

“You still underestimate the Spider after all this time, Arthur.  He is a wise, dangerous, old soul.”

“Perhaps.  He has been helpful since Eddie was hurt—helpful and patient.”

“We understand each other somewhat, the Spider and I.  I believe that we can find our two lost ones.”

“And when they are no longer hostage…”

“Then you may decide how next to act, but I should warn you that Duppy Jonah will probably want the South Americans dead.”

“Yes,” Arthur looks sad.  “I know.  I even understand.”

The Changer rises.  “I will do what I can.  Mind my daughter for me.  I place her in your keeping.”

“Mine?” Arthur asks, then nods sharply.  “I accept.”

“I am no kinder than my brother when my dear ones are endangered,” the Changer says, opening the office door.  “And I doubt that he would negotiate with me for you.”

“I understand.”

The Changer strips and shifts shape into coyote form.  He wishes with all his heart he could use words more complex to tell the pup where he is going.  All he can do is try to promise her that he will return, that she is not being forsaken.

Shahrazad seems willing to accept his leaving.  His last sight of her shows her standing at the door of the courtyard, her brush held low but striving valiantly to wag.

The jet that Anson proudly takes possession of a few hours later is a speedy fuel hog.  It lacks the elaborate interior appointments of the plane on which Vera and Amphitrite left Albuquerque, but is comfortable enough.

“We will be our own flight attendants,” Anson says, “and I will teach you enough to let you copilot in an emergency.”

“I am overjoyed,” the Changer says.

“I have raided the kitchen,” Anson continues tranquilly, “and we have supplies enough to sustain us.”

“Good.  More than just sweets, Spider?”

“An entire ham,” Anson says, flipping switches and checking clearances, “three pounds of different cheeses, some pasta salad, a few apples, a loaf of fresh Italian bread, butter…”

The Changer glances over at him.  “You did more than raid the refrigerator.”

“Oh, maybe I went to a grocery with Arthur’s credit card, eh?  He can afford it.  There is a herring, too, smoked.  A chocolate cake and a box of those little strudels.  Some milk, apple juice, and a gallon of lemonade, in case we get thirsty.”

And, during the hours of flight, they consume a great deal of the supplies that Anson has laid in.  Like most natural shapeshifters, their metabolisms are high, making great demands for rejecting the usual demands of mass and structure.

When they arrive in the vicinity of Belém, Anson lands the plane at a small airstrip whose owners have been paid well to overlook the unauthorized craft.

“A flourishing drug trade,” Anson comments, “has its uses.  We are within an hour of the ocean.  A car—actually, something jeepy with four-wheel drive—awaits.  What is your request?”

“Drive me to the shore, I will go from there on my own.  Can you find where the South American contingent reside?”

“Easily.  Isidro invited me to visit and discuss revolutionary politics.”  

Anson’s expression turns solemn.  Once they are in the jeep and bouncing down rutted roads, he comments, “They are not evil, Changer.  Isidro Robelo is a passionate advocate of his cause.  Cleonice has known almost all her life about the heritage her father gave her.  She believes it is wrong that we do so little to affect our world.  Oswaldo is a dreamer and a shaman.  They are not cruel.”

The Changer shrugs.  “I will not present them as such to Duppy Jonah.  He values Amphitrite more than he does his own life.  In attempting to use her, they were attempting to use him.  Water is not evil, either, but people get drowned.”

“Still…  I am a sentimentalist.  I hate to see dreamers die.”

“Perhaps.  But I don’t think that idealism is an excuse for stupidity.  I saw a tee shirt on the kiosk at the airport in Florida.  It read, ‘
Evolution in Action
.’  I suspect that evolution is about to act once again.”

“Humor?”

“No, seriousness.  I have seen entire species die out because they could not adapt.  If our people cease to accept the cost of killing our own, then we will have lost one of the few checks on our actions.”