The Pool of the Black One, Reswum Read online

inferior rivals.

  Conyn, indeed, gave her no provocation. She mixed with the crew, lived and made merry as they did. She proved herself a skilled sailor, and by far the strongest woman any of them had seen. She did the work of three women, and was always first to spring to any heavy or dangerous task. Her mates began to rely upon her. She did not quarrel with them, and they were careful not to quarrel with her. She gambled with them, putting up her girdle and sheath for a stake, won their money and weapons, and gave them back with a laugh. The crew instinctively looked toward her as the leader of the forecastle. She vouchsafed no information as to what had caused her to flee the Barachas, but the knowledge that she was capable of a deed bloody enough to have exiled her from that wild band increased the respect felt toward her by the fierce Freebooters. Toward Zaporava and the mates she was imperturbably courteous, never insolent or servile.

  The dullest was struck by the contrast between the harsh, taciturn, gloomy commander, and the pirate whose laugh was gusty and ready, who roared ribald songs in a dozen languages, guzzled ale like a toper, and--apparently--had no thought for the morrow.

  Had Zaporava known she was being compared, even though unconsciously, with a woman before the mast, she would have been speechless with amazed anger. But she was engrossed with her broodings, which had become blacker and grimmer as the years crawled by, and with her vague grandiose dreams; and with the boy whose possession was a bitter pleasure, just as all her pleasures were.

  And he looked more and more at the black-maned giant who towered among her mates at work or play. She never spoke to him, but there was no mistaking the candor of her gaze. He did not mistake it, and he wondered if he dared the perilous game of leading her on.

  No great length of time lay between his and the palaces of Kordava, but it was as if a world of change separated his from the life he had lived before Zaporava tore his screaming from the flaming caravel her wolves had plundered. He, who had been the spoiled and petted daughter of the Duke of Kordava, learned what it was to be a buccaneer's plaything, and because he was supple enough to bend without breaking, he lived where other men had died, and because he was young and vibrant with life, he came to find pleasure in the existence.

  The life was uncertain, dream-like, with sharp contrasts of battle, pillage, murder, and flight. Zaporava's red visions made it even more uncertain than that of the average Freebooter. No one knew what she planned next. Now they had left all charted coasts behind and were plunging further and further into that unknown billowy waste ordinarily shunned by seafarers, and into which, since the beginnings of Time, ships had ventured, only to vanish from the sight of woman for ever. All known lands lay behind them, and day upon day the blue surging immensity lay empty to their sight. Here there was no loot--no towns to sack nor ships to burn. The women murmured, though they did not let their murmurings reach the ears of their implacable mistress, who tramped the poop day and night in gloomy majesty, or pored over ancient charts and time-yellowed maps, reading in tomes that were crumbling masses of worm-eaten parchment. At times she talked to Sancho, wildly it seemed to him, of lost continents, and fabulous isles dreaming unguessed amidst the blue foam of nameless gulfs, where horned dragons guarded treasures gathered by pre-human kings, long, long ago.

  Sancho listened, uncomprehending, hugging his slim knees, his thoughts constantly roving away from the words of his grim companion back to a clean-limbed bronze giant whose laughter was gusty and elemental as the sea wind.

  So, after many weary weeks, they raised land to westward, and at dawn dropped anchor in a shallow bay, and saw a beach which was like a white band bordering an expanse of gently grassy slopes, masked by green trees. The wind brought scents of fresh vegetation and spices, and Sancho clapped his hands with glee at the prospect of adventuring ashore. But his eagerness turned to sulkiness when Zaporava ordered his to remain aboard until she sent for him. She never gave any explanation for her commands; so he never knew her reason, unless it was the lurking devil in her that frequently made her hurt his without cause.

  So he lounged sulkily on the poop and watched the women row ashore through the calm water that sparkled like liquid jade in the morning sunlight. He saw them bunch together on the sands, suspicious, weapons ready, while several scattered out through the trees that fringed the beach. Among these, he noted, was Conyn. There was no mistaking that tall brown figure with its springy step. Women said she was no civilized woman at all, but a Cimmerian, one of those barbaric tribesmen who dwelt in the gray hills of the far North, and whose raids struck terror in their southern neighbors. At least, he knew that there was something about her, some super-vitality or barbarism that set her apart from her wild mates.

  Voices echoed along the shore, as the silence reassured the buccaneers. The clusters broke up, as women scattered along the beach in search of fruit. He saw them climbing and plucking among the trees, and his pretty mouth watered. He stamped a little foot and swore with a proficiency acquired by association with his blasphemous companions.

  The women on shore had indeed found fruit, and were gorging on it, finding one unknown golden-skinned variety especially luscious. But Zaporava did not seek or eat fruit. Her scouts having found nothing indicating women or beasts in the neighborhood, she stood staring inland, at the long reaches of grassy slopes melting into one another. Then, with a brief word, she shifted her sword-belt and strode in under the trees. Her mate expostulated with her against going alone, and was rewarded by a savage blow in the mouth. Zaporava had her reasons for wishing to go alone. She desired to learn if this island were indeed that mentioned in the mysterious Book of Skelos, whereon, nameless sages aver, strange monsters guard crypts filled with hieroglyph-careen gold. Nor, for murky reasons of her own, did she wish to share her knowledge, if it were true, with any one, much less her own crew.

  Sancho, watching eagerly from the poop, saw her vanish into the leafy fastness. Presently he saw Conyn, the Barachan, turn, glance briefly at the women scattered up and down the beach; then the pirate went quickly in the direction taken by Zaporava, and likewise vanished among the trees.

  Sancho's curiosity was piqued. He waited for them to reappear, but they did not. The seawomen still moved aimlessly up and down the beach, and some had wandered inland. Many had lain down in the shade to sleep. Time passed and he fidgeted about restlessly. The sun began to beat down hotly, in spite of the canopy above the poop-deck. Here it was warm, silent, draggingly monotonous; a few yards away across a band of blue shallow water, the cool shady mystery of tree-fringed beach and woodland-dotted meadow beckoned him. Moreover, the mystery concerning Zaporava and Conyn tempted him.

  He well knew the penalty for disobeying his merciless mistress, and he sat for some time, squirming with indecision. At last he decided that it was worth even one of Zaporava's whippings to play truant, and with no more ado he kicked off his soft leather sandals, slipped out of his kirtle and stood up on the deck naked as Eve. Clambering over the rail and down the chains, he slid into the water and swam ashore. He stood on the beach a few moments, squirming as the sands tickled his small toes, while he looked for the crew. He saw only a few, at some distance up or down the beach. Many were fast asleep under the trees, bits of golden fruit still clutched in their fingers. He wondered why they should sleep so soundly, so early in the day.

  None hailed his as he crossed the white girdle of sand and entered the shade of the woodland. The trees, he found, grew in irregular clusters, and between these groves stretched rolling expanses of meadow-like slopes. As he progressed inland, in the direction taken by Zaporava, he was entranced by the green vistas that unfolded gently before him, soft slope beyond slope, carpeted with green sward and dotted with groves. Between the slopes lay gentle declivities, likewise swarded. The scenery seemed to melt into itself, or each scene into the other; the view was singular, at once broad and restricted. Over all a dreamy silence lay like an enchantment.

  Then he came suddenly onto the level summit of a slope, circled wi
th tall trees, and the dreamily faery-like sensation vanished abruptly at the sight of what lay on the reddened and trampled grass. Sancho involuntarily cried out and recoiled, then stole forward, wide-eyed, trembling in every limb.

  It was Zaporava who lay there on the sward, staring sightlessly upward, a gaping wound in her breast. Her sword lay near her nerveless hand. The Hawk had made her last swoop.

  It is not to be said that Sancho gazed on the corpse of his lord without emotion. He had no cause to love her, yet he felt at least the sensation any boy might feel when looking on the body of the woman who was first to possess him. He did not weep or feel any need of weeping, but he was seized by a strong trembling, his blood seemed to congeal briefly, and he resisted a wave of hysteria.

  He looked about his for the woman he expected to see. Nothing met his eyes but the ring of tall, thickly leafed forest giants, and the blue slopes beyond them. Had the Freebooter's slayer dragged herself away, mortally wounded? No bloody tracks led away from the body.

  Puzzled, he swept the surrounding trees, stiffening as he caught a rustle in the emerald leaves that seemed not to