The Sword of the Wormling (7 page)

Hungry as he was and as mouthwatering as smells from the kitchens were, Owen collapsed into bed and did not awaken until late morning. Watcher was already up and rubbing her swollen stomach after a hearty breakfast. Kimshi had saved a plate for Owen, and as soon as he had eaten, he suggested to Watcher that they get their things together. “We might make it to the shore by nightfall.”

Kimshi and the other women loaded them down with foodstuffs that wouldn't spoil for months. The group gathered for a song about the book and also a farewell ditty, which made both Owen and Watcher brush away tears. Owen could hardly believe how close he felt to these tiny creatures, having been here less than one whole day.

“You will always be part of our family,” Erol said, “always part of our music. And we stand ready to join you in any battle.”

Owen rushed the embraces and good-byes to try to maintain his composure, and soon he and Watcher had descended to the ravine. New striations showed on the rock walls from the recent torrent, and the ground bore a new layer of soft silt.

At the end of the narrow canyon they searched and searched for the skiff, and Owen decided it had long since been washed away.

“I'm not giving up,” Watcher announced. “We can't swim to the islands, after all.”

“We'd better go back and ask Erol for help building a new craft,” Owen said.

“That would take days. Let me keep looking.”

Owen felt like a sloth, sitting in the sun while Watcher scampered about, and he nearly dozed again. By late afternoon he was feeling miserable and impatient, but Watcher had shamed him by doing all the work. He almost hoped she
wouldn't
find the boat so he could justify having done nothing all day while she wasted time.

As the sun began to descend beyond the peaks in the west, Watcher whooped from a tiny alcove.

Owen rushed to her side as she kicked away branches to reveal a flat, broad platform anchored to the rocks. The skiff!

It consisted simply of a dozen large saplings bound together over two support beams. A crude rudder was attached to the back for steering, and Owen fashioned an oar from wood he found. The whole thing was lighter than Owen expected, and they were able to hoist it onto their shoulders.

Owen pulled the vial Erol had given him from his pack. “This is jargid musk. It—”

“You don't need to explain that to me,” Watcher said, turning up her nose. “Jargids are the most horrid creatures in the land.”

He told her of the traveler and his belief that the musk would ward off the Kerrol.

“It would sure ward
me
off,” Watcher said. “How in the world was he able to milk that thing?”

They built a small fire on a black dune, propping up the skiff to shield them from the blowing sand. As darkness settled, Owen studied the three faint silhouettes on the horizon, the islands of Mirantha. “If Mordecai is there, how did he make it and how did he elude the Kerrol?”

Watcher shivered and held up the vial. “I do not want to meet that beast in the water or on land.”

“We'll slather ourselves with the musk and wait for the tide,” Owen said.

Watcher's ears went rigid as something moved in the water. Then came a splash as if a whale had surfaced and dived back in. A hideous call echoed toward the caves of Erol.

“We'd better wait till morning, when we can see,” Watcher said.

“The oil will protect us,” Owen said, as if he knew it would work. In truth he could only hope.

If you remember, at the end of the first installment of our story, Watcher told Owen that the picture of his mother looked like a woman Watcher knew from a distant village. Now, with the water lapping at the shore and Owen listening to Watcher's even breathing as she slept, he dug through his pack for a morsel Kimshi had wrapped for him and came upon this picture once again.

Ever since he could remember, Owen had been told that his mother had died giving him birth, and though he knew better, he could never shake the feeling that
he
was responsible for her death.

He stared at the picture as he munched his breakfast, running a finger over her face. Could it be that the woman Watcher knew was a relative? No. From what he could tell, the only people who slipped from one world to another were Wormlings.

Except for Mr. Page.

And the Dragon.

Watcher stirred. The fur above her eyes had a way of creeping down her forehead and covering her eyes as she slept. When she awoke, she stretched and scratched at her hair until it rested comfortably above again. It was cute, Owen thought, and he knew she had no idea he was watching her.

She stood and saw the picture. “Thinking of home?”

“I'm thinking we've come a long way from everything I've known, and I've no idea how much farther we might need to go.” He put the picture down and tossed her some dried fruit. “You won't want to eat after we've applied the oil.”

After she ate, Watcher helped pack the skiff and drag it closer to the water, watching for any sign of the Kerrol.

“The woman I told you about,” Watcher said, “she lives in a different direction from here. Maybe after the initiation—”

“It's all right,” Owen said. “There's probably no connection.”

“But there might be. If we could find her . . .”

“Let's just get this oil on and get going,” he said, overcome with an anxiousness he couldn't explain.

“I didn't mean to upset you, Wormling.”

Owen uncorked the bottle and poured a little oil into his palm, trying to hold his breath.

“Are you sure we can't dilute it with water?”

“It doesn't come with directions,” he said, slathering it onto his arms and behind his neck. He couldn't imagine ever getting used to the stench. “Let me put some on you.”

Watcher gave him a death stare. “I don't think I could stand going all the way to the islands smelling like that.”

“You're going to smell me anyway. Or would you rather be devoured?”

“I'd rather stay here and wait for you,” she said, coughing. “You must understand—my sense of smell is more acute than yours. This would go straight from my fur to my brain.”

“Fine. If you don't want to go, stay. I'll find Mordecai myself.” He jammed the cork into the bottle.

Watcher extended a foreleg. “Wait. I'd never forgive myself.”

“You don't have to come,” Owen spat.

She trotted to the other side of the dune and brought back a dollop of clay from the hillside, shoving it into her nostrils. “There. I can breathe through my mouth.”

She closed her eyes as Owen applied the oil to her. He just hoped the Kerrol had her same sense of smell.

Owen could barely keep his breakfast down. “Better give me some of that clay.” It helped but not much. He had to smile at how they must look. A young boy and a furry Watcher, clay stuffed in their noses, boarding a wood skiff, smelling of jargid.

The water was cold and clear, and Owen saw small fish dart away as he helped Watcher push. When they reached a row of waves, the surf crashed over the skiff and turned it around, nearly knocking Owen off his feet.

After several tries, Owen finally climbed on and paddled hard as Watcher worked at keeping her balance. Then a wave knocked him from the skiff like a man waving a fly from a picnic basket.

Watcher leaped in, holding Owen above the water until they could recover the craft.

Climbing on again, Owen put his head down and rowed with everything in him as Watcher swam and pushed from behind. “Here it comes!” Owen yelled as another huge wave began to form.

“Keep paddling!” Watcher shouted.

The skiff rose and Owen felt 10 feet above the water. Finally he rode down the other side, sliding into the ocean toward the islands! “Yeah!” Owen hollered. “We did it! We made it!” He turned to help Watcher from the water, but she wasn't there. He yelled for her and frantically scanned the pounding surf behind them.

“Looking for something?” she said with a mischievous smile, head resting on the front of the skiff.

Owen helped her on and assigned her to the rudder. His rowing seemed to help, but he knew they were at the mercy of the tides now. A passage from
The Book of the King
came to mind:
Nothing good is ever easy.

And a parallel saying:
We learn most from that which is most difficult.

If that's true,
Owen thought,
I'm learning a lot.

If you are a casual reader who cruises through a book picking out snippets of the story, the Kerrol may appear to you much the same as the Slimesees who lived near the portal under Owen's home. But if you are one who pays attention to details, you will note that while the Slimesees may have been effective against one who had stumbled onto the portal, he was no match for Owen once he had breached it and had in his possession the most powerful weapon against the enemy of souls,
The Book of the King
. In the end, Owen had the King's authority, which made the Slimesees shriek.

The Kerrol, however, had a different
agenda
than his counterpart in Owen's world. And the Kerrol weighed as much as one and a half killer whales—about 21,000 pounds (though he had eaten a great white shark the day before and added a few thousand pounds). Neither did he care about dieting. He swam around the islands, often showing his great fin to scare anyone bold enough to think they could reach the islands from the shore. His greenish body blended perfectly with the rock formations around him.

Now the Kerrol floated deep below the surface, his stomach full but not satisfied. It was never satisfied, never knew when to stop eating. Schools of fish swam past, but they were too small to bother with. He didn't even bat a scaly eyelid. He shifted and floated down to the deck of one of the many ships that lined the ocean floor. The Kerrol had sunk many, devouring crews and passengers along with contents of their galleys and mess halls. One slash of his mighty tail would open a hole in most vessels. And when years would pass without a ship's captain having the courage to test the waters, the Kerrol would be forced to forage for his usual cuisine—anything in the water.

But eventually people would grow brazen again, calling the stories nonsense. They would venture out, flouting the danger until they saw the hideous head rise from the water. The ocean would engulf them, and the razor-sharp claws or the pointed teeth would tear their flesh.

The Kerrol was not above toying with his prey. Once, just for sport, he had allowed a ship to dock and waited under the rickety bridge that tied two of the islands. In the moonlight, when a couple of the two-legs went for a stroll, the Kerrol silently rose and suspended himself next to them. He plucked them both from the walkway and enjoyed them as appetizers.

Others from the boat came looking for them, and the Kerrol picked bits of cloth from between his teeth and positioned them along the beach. The others carried long sharpened knives on their hips as they called for their friends.

The Kerrol followed them at a distance, watching and waiting, picking off a lone searcher who got too close to the water, then two more who dared cross the rickety bridge. It was going well until a child screamed, alerting the others. It was most difficult to hide from a child. The others climbed back on their boat, only to cross the path of the Kerrol in deep water.

It was that very ship's bell on the deck of the mangled vessel that the Kerrol played with now as shafts of light pierced the water. And then, as if it had every right to be there, a flat object blocked the sunlight, and the Kerrol twisted to get a better look. With a mighty swish of his tail, the Kerrol rose, sucking water through his gills, sniffing for anything that might pass for food.

The Kerrol studied the square object that seemed familiar and remembered who had piloted this vessel before—the sole two-leg who did not scream and thrash and attempt to flee but looked him in the eye and made strange sounds that pierced his heart.

The Kerrol flew faster toward the surface, his great webbed feet clawing at the water. Despite the white shark in his belly, it rumbled for more.

All the Kerrol could think about was the curse of the only two-leg who had ever eluded him. The stench. The courage. The falling back into the water with the waves pushing the vessel toward shore.

The Kerrol wanted revenge. And his hatred propelled him.