Gigi Makes a Vow

Chapter Thirteen

Sharane looked down upon him again from her deck.

Time had gone by since she had stood there mocking him. Time had gone, but how measured in his own lost world Kenton had no means of telling, meshed as he was in the ship’s timeless web. Sleep after sleep he had lain on his bench, watching for her. She had kept to her cabin—or if she had not, she had kept herself from his sight.

Nor had he told the Viking that he had broken the spell of the sleep horn. Sigurd he trusted, heart and soul. Yet he was not sure of the Norseman’s subtlety; certain that he could feign the charmed slumber as Kenton could. Trust Sigurd as he did, he could not take that risk.

And now again Sharane stood and looked down upon him from the platform close to the emerald mast. The slaves slept. There was none at watch on the black deck. There was no mockery now in Sharane’s face. And when she spoke she struck straight home to the heart of her purpose.

“Whoever you are, whatever you may be,” she said, “two things can you do. Cross the barrier. Remain awake when the other—slaves—must sleep. You have told me that you can break your chains. Since those two things you can do—I find belief within me that of the third you speak the truth. Unless—”

She paused; he read her thought.

“Unless I lied to you about that as I lied to you before,” he said levelly. “Well, those were no lies I told you. But—go on.”

“If you break your chains,” she said, “I will give you your sword—if with it you will slay Klaneth. If you can break your chains—something tells me you can slay Klaneth with that sword which certainly is Nabu’s own. If you will.”

Again she paused, searching him with wide eyes.

“Will you?” she asked.

He feigned to consider.

“Why should I kill Klaneth?” he asked at last.

“Why? Why?” Scorn tinged her voice. “Has he not set his chains upon you? Had you whipped? Made you slave?”

“Did not Sharane drive me forth with javelins?” he asked. “Did not Sharane pour salt in my wounds with her mockery—her laughter?”

“But—you lied to me!” she cried.

Again he feigned consideration.

“What will this liar, weakling, and slave gain if he kills the black priest for you?” he asked bluntly.

“Gain?” she repeated blankly.

“What will you pay me for it?” he said.

“Pay you? Pay you! Oh!” The scorn in her eyes scorched him. “You shall be paid. You shall have freedom—the pick of my jewels—all of them—”

“Freedom I shall have when I have slain Klaneth,” he answered. “And of what use to me are your jewels on this cursed ship?”

“You do not understand,” she said. “The black priest slain, I can set you on any land you wish in this world. In all of them jewels have value.”

She paused, then: “And have they no worth in that land from whence you come, and to which, unchained, it seems you can return whenever danger threatens?” Her voice was honeyed poison. But Kenton only laughed.

“What more do you want?” she asked. “If they be not enough—what more?”

“You!” he said.

“Me!” she gasped incredulously. “I—give myself to any man—for a price! I—give myself to you! You whipped dog!” she stormed. “Never!”

Now, up to this Kenton’s play with her had been calculated; matchery of her mockery with his own, to dissolve in the acid of her rage that film of contempt for him which, well he knew, still dwelt within her mind; but now he spoke with wrath as real and hot as hers.

“No!” cried Kenton. “No! You’ll not give yourself to me! For, by God, Sharane, I’ll take you!”

He thrust a clenched, chained hand out to her.

“Master of this ship I’ll be, and with no help from you—you who have called me liar and slave and now would throw me butcher’s pay. No! When I master this ship it will be by my own hand. And that same hand shall master—you!”

“You threaten me!” Her face flamed wrath. “You! You dare threaten me!”

She thrust a hand into her breast, drew out a slender knife—hurled it at him. As though it had struck some adamantine wall, invisible, it clanged, fell to her feet, blade snapped from hilt.

She paled, shrank back; one look of hate she threw him; then fled to her cabin.

“Hate me!” jeered Kenton as she ran. “Hate me, Sharane! For what is hate but the flame that cleanseth the cup for wine of love!”

With no soft closing of her door did she go within the rosy cabin. And Kenton, laughing grimly, bent his head over his oar; was soon as sound asleep as the Norseman snoring beside him.

There came another time when, as he lay luxuriating in the full new tides of life within him, listening to the rush of waves past the ship, the hum of a warm and scented wind playing through the stays, he heard a stir upon Sharane’s balcony, a cooing welcome from her doves. Out upon it she stepped, the handmaiden Satalu at her side.

His eyes dwelt upon her sweetly amorous, scarlet mouth, the tiny chalice for kisses at her throat. She paid no heed to him, gaze far away upon the mist girdled waters. She leaned far out over the balcony on white and rounded arms; softly began to sing. And this was Sharane’s song:

“In Babylon red roses blow,
All who list may kiss and wear them;
Wide to all their hearts they throw,
Ev’ry vagrant wind may share them;
King or slave may be their lover,
Any bee above them hover
Sipping from their lips the dew—
Roses—roses—wanton roses!
I am not like you!”

The golden voice ceased. And Kenton, sensing well the hidden meaning of her song, reddened with mingled shame and remorse. Again she sang:

“Honey sweet with heart of fire
Hides a white rose in a bower,
’Tis the rose of Heart’s Desire,
Only one may pluck its flower;
Bold and strong must be the lover
Who its wonder may uncover,
Pass the wanton roses by—
Rose—rose—hidden rose!
Rose like you am I!”

Echoes of her song still sighing, she turned; still with no glance for him swept back into her cabin.

And Kenton was filled with such longing for her that for the first time black despair touched him. After all—could he break his chains? Would ever again he find himself plucked from the ship, spun through the interlaced atoms of these two worlds and come to rest upon his own? Free! And with power to summon the ship, board it once more—and now he knew what he would do to safeguard himself against chains and black priest if that chance would but return.

But would it return? It must! Resolutely he shook off the despair.

Other sleeps went by. And stronger and stronger grew Kenton, with a body like tempered steel and arms and broad shoulders that now could swing the oar as easily and tirelessly as Sigurd himself.

Again he awakened to a stirring and humming through all the ship. On ivory deck and black the ship’s folk stood, pointing, talking, gesticulating. A flock of birds, the first he had seen in this strange world, hovered above him. Their wings were shaped like those of great butterflies. Their plumage shone as though lacquered in glowing vermilions and pale golds. From their opened beaks came a shining tumult as of little tinkling bells.

“Land!” the Viking exclaimed. “We run into harbor, Kenton. Food and water must be low.”

There was a brisk wind blowing and the oars at rest. Careless of Zachel’s lash, Kenton leaped up on the bench, looked over the bow. The overseer gave no heed, his own eyes intent upon what lay before.

It was a sun yellow isle, high and rounded, and splashed with craters of color like nests of rainbows. Save for these pansied dapplings, the island curved all glowing topaz, from its base in the opalescent shallows of the azure sea to its crest, where feathered trees dropped branches like immense panaches of ostrich plumes dyed golden amber. Over and about that golden isle shot flashes of iridescences from what seemed luminous flying flowers.

Closer drew the ship. At the bow the damsels of Sharane clustered, laughing and chattering. And upon her balcony was Sharane, watching the isle with wistful eyes.

Now it was close indeed. Down ran the peacock sail. The ship rolled slowly and more slowly to the shore; not until the curved prow had almost touched that shore did the steersman shift the rudder and bring the ship sharply about. As they drifted, the plumes of the strange trees swept the deck with long leaves, delicately feathered as those the frost etches on the winter pane. Topaz yellow and sun amber were those leaves; the branches from which they hung glistened as though cut from yellow chrysolite. Immense clusters of flowers dropped from them, lily shaped, flame scarlet.

Slowly, ever more slowly, drifted the ship. It crept by a wide cleft that cut into the heart of the isle. The sides of this vale were harlequined with the cratered colors, and Kenton saw that these were fields of flowers, clustered as though they filled deep circular amphitheaters. The flashing iridescences were birds—birds of every size from smallest dragon flies to those whose wingspread was that of condors in the high Andes. Large and small, on each glittered the lacquered butterfly wings.

The isle breathed fragrance. Of green upon it there was none, save for the emerald glintings of the birds.

The valley slid behind them. Ever more slowly the feathered trees brushed the deck. The ship slipped into the mouth of a glen at whose end a cataract dropped rain of pearl into a golden ferned pool. There was the rattling of a chain; an anchor splashed. The bow of the ship swung in; nosed through the foliage; touched the bank.

Over the rail climbed the women of Sharane, upon their heads great baskets. From her balcony Sharane looked after them with deeper wistfulness. The women melted within the flower spangled boskage; fainter and fainter came their voices; died away. Sharane, chin cupped in white hands, drank in the land with wide and longing eyes. Above her red gold hair streaming through the silver crescent a bird hovered—a bird all gleaming emeralds and flashing blues, chiming peals of fairy bells. Kenton saw tears upon her cheeks. She caught his gaze, dashed them away angrily. She half turned as though to go; then slipped down woefully behind one of her balcony’s tiny blossoming trees where he could no longer see her weeping.

Now her women filed back along the bank, their baskets filled with plunder; fruits, gourds purple and white, and great clusters of those pods he had eaten when first he had broken fast upon the ship. Into the cabin they trooped, and out again with baskets empty. Time upon time they came and went. At last they bore away skins instead of the woven hampers; water bags which they filled from the pool of the cataract. Time upon time they brought them back, swollen full, upon their shoulders.

They trooped out once more, burdenless; darted joyously over the rail; doffed their scanty enough robes and plunged into the pool. Like water nymphs they swam and played, the pearly flow caressing, streaming from delicately delicious curves—pale ivory, warm rose, soft olive. They sprang from the pool, wove flower crowns and with sprays of the fragrant lily blooms in arms clambered, reluctant, over the side and into the rosy cabin.

Now crawled over the rail the men of Klaneth. They slipped on and off the ship with their burdens, poured the last water skins into the casks.

Again there was stir upon the ship. The chains rattled, the anchor lifted. Up and down flashed the oars, drawing the ship from the bank. Up rose the peacock sail. The ship veered, caught the wind, swam slowly through the amethystine shallows. Faster swung the sweeps. The golden isle diminished; was a saffron shadow in the mists; vanished.

On sailed the ship.

And on and on—by what signs or reckonings or to what port Kenton could not know. Sleep after sleep it sailed. The huge bowl of silver mists whose edge was the horizon contracted or expanded as those mists thickened or thinned. Storms they met and weathered; roaring storms that changed the silver of the mists to lurid copper, ambered jet, darkness deeper than night. Sudden storms threaded with lightnings weird and beautiful. Lightnings that were like the shatterings of immense prisms, the breakings of rainbows of jewels. Storms that trod on feet of thunder. Thunder that was metallic, tintinnabulatory; hurricanes of clashing cymbals following showers of multi-colored flame.

Steadily strength of the sea poured into Kenton up his oar blade, even as Sigurd had promised; remaking him, hardening him, turning all his body into a machine as finely tempered as a rapier and as flexible. Often he wondered what was happening in that room of his where rested the jeweled bark, the mysterious symbol of this ship on which he sailed, the enigmatic ferry between two worlds. How long had he been away from that room by his own world’s time?

Between sleeps Sigurd whispered to him Viking tales. Sagas unsung, epics of the Norse heroic and forgotten. Steadily their friendship, their brotherhood, grew.

Twice the black priest sent for him; questioned him, threatened him, cajoled him—vainly. And each time with blacker, more venomous face had sent him back to his chains.

Strife of god and goddess there was none. And Sharane during the sleep time of the slaves kept to her cabin. Awake, he could not turn his head to seek her without inviting the bite of Zachel’s lash. So often he let the horn of sleep have its way—what use to keep awake while Sharane hid?

There came a time when, lying awake, he heard steps coming down the pit’s stair. He turned, face against the back of his bench, as though in troubled slumber. The steps paused beside him.

“Zubran,” it was the voice of Gigi, “this man has become a young lion.”

“Strong enough,” grunted the Persian. “It is a pity that his strength be wasted here—driving this ship from one place of weariness to another as bad.”

“I think as you,” said Gigi. “Strength he now has. Also he has courage. You remember how he slew the priests.”

“Remember!” There was no boredom in Zubran’s voice now. “Can I forget! By the heart of Rustum—could I forget! It was the first draft of life given me, it seemed, for centuries. I owe him something for that.”

“Also,” went on Gigi, “he has loyalty where his heart turns. I told you how he shielded with his own back the man who sleeps beside him. I liked him well for that, Zubran.”

“As a gesture,” said the Persian, “it was magnificent! A trifle florid, perhaps, for perfect taste. But still—magnificent!”

“Courage, loyalty, strength,” mused the drummer; then, slowly, a hint of mirth in his voice. “And wit. Unusual wit, Zubran. Since he has found a way to shut his ears to the sleep horn—and lies here now wide awake, pretending to us that he is asleep!”

Kenton’s heart stopped; began to beat furiously. How did the drummer know? Did he know? Was it only a guess? Desperately he strove against quivering nerves; forced his body to remain inert.

“What!” exclaimed the Persian, incredulously. “Awake! Gigi—you dream!”

“Nay,” said Gigi quietly. “I have watched him when he saw me not. He is awake, Zubran. Listening.”

Suddenly Kenton felt his paw upon his breast, pressing upon his pounding heart. The drummer chuckled; withdrew the hand.

“Also,” he said, approvingly, “he has caution. A little he trusts me—but not too much. Nor does he know you well enough as yet, Zubran, to give you any trust at all. Therefore he lies quiet, saying to himself: ‘Gigi cannot really know. He cannot be sure as long as I open not my eyes.’ Yes, he has caution. But see, Zubran, he cannot keep the blood from stealing up into his face, nor slow his heart to the calm rhythm of sleep.”

Again he chuckled, half-maliciously.

“And there is other proof of his caution, in that he has not told his comrade that the horn has no power over him. Hear him snore? No mistaking that for wakefulness. I like that too—he knows that a secret shared by two runs constant risk of remaining no secret at all.”

“He seems sound asleep to me.” Kenton felt the Persian bend down over him, doubtfully.

His eyelids fought to rise; by sheer will he kept them down, breathing regularly, motionless. How long would they stand there looking at him? How long could he keep up this semblance of sleep under their gaze?

At last Gigi broke the silence.

“Zubran,” he said, quietly, “like you, I tire of the black priest and this fruitless strife between Ishtar and Nergal. Yet bound by our vows neither you nor I may come to grips with Klaneth, nor may we harm his men. It matters not that by trickery were those vows gotten from us. We made them—and they bind. As long as Nergal’s priest rules Nergal’s deck we may not give him battle. But suppose Klaneth no longer ruled—that another hand thrust him to his dark master?”

“A mighty hand that! Where on these seas could we find such a hand? And if found, how persuade it to close on Klaneth?” jeered the Persian.

“I think—it is here.” Kenton felt again the drummer’s touch. “Courage and loyalty and strength, quick wit and caution. He has all these. Besides—he can pass the barrier!”

“By Ahriman! That is so!” whispered the Persian.

“Now I would make another vow,” said Gigi. “A vow in which you would join. If this man’s chains were—broken, easily then could he pass to Sharane’s cabin; easily now, I think, regain his sword.”

“Well, what then?” asked Zubran. “He would still have Klaneth to meet and all his pack. And we could not help him.”

“No,” answered the drummer. “But neither would we hinder him. Our vows bind us not to fight for the black priest, Zubran. Were I this man—with chains broken and sword regained—I would find way to release this comrade sleeping beside him. He, I think, could keep off the pack while this wolf cub, who is now no longer cub but grown, could match himself against the priest.”

“Well—” the Persian began doubtfully; then changed to cheerfulness—“I would see him loosed, Gigi. At the least, it would give break to this cursed monotony. But you spoke of a vow.”

“A vow for a vow,” answered Gigi. “If broken were his chains, if he regained sword, if he met Klaneth and we fought not against him at Klaneth’s side, and if he slew Klaneth, would he vow comradeship with you and me, Zubran? I wonder.”

“Why should he make that vow to us,” asked Zubran, “unless—we also loosed his chains?”

“Exactly,” whispered Gigi. “For if he made that vow—I would loose them!”

Hope sprang flaming up in Kenton. Cold doubt followed. Was this all a trap? A trick to torment him? He would take no chance—and yet—freedom!

Gigi again bent over him.

“Trust me, wolf,” he said, low. “Vow for vow. If you accept—look at me.”

Suddenly doubt fled. The dice were offered him. Were they straight or weighted, he would cast them. He opened his eyes, stared straight for an instant into the twinkling beads of jet so close. Then he closed them tight; resumed his slow breathing; his semblance of deepest slumber.

And Gigi rose from him, laughing. He heard the two move away, up the pit’s steps.

Freedom again! Could it be true? And when would Gigi—were it true and no trap—when would Gigi loose his chains? Long he lay between fiery hope and chilling doubt. Could it be true?

Freedom! And—

Sharane!