Chapter XXIII: The Storm

On the little stern seat of the boat Mercer and Anina sat side by side, the girl steering by a small tiller that lay between them. They were well out in the middle of the river now, speeding silently along with its swift current. They made extraordinary speed. Both banks of the river were visible in the twilight--dim, wooded hills stretching back into darkness.

The stream widened steadily as they advanced, until near, its mouth it had become a broad estuary. They followed its right shore now and soon were out in the Narrow Sea.

“We’d better go right on across,” said Mercer. “It’s too early for Alan to be at the end of the trail. He won’t be there till to-night. We can reach the Great City before he starts.”

They decided to do that, and headed straight out into the sea. They had been cold, sitting there in the wind, and wet to the skin. But the boat contained several furry jackets, which the men had left in it, and in the bottom, near the stern, a cubical metal box which lighted up like an electric radiator. By this they had dried and warmed themselves, and now, each with a fur jacket on, they felt thoroughly comfortable.

Mercer was elated at what they had accomplished. He could see now how fortunate a circumstance it was that we had set the men free. He would not have stumbled upon this other party, and the invasion of the Light Country would have begun, had we not released them.

He talked enthusiastically about what we were to do next, and Anina listened, saying very little, but following his words with eager attention. Once he thought she was more interested in the words themselves than in what he was saying, and said so.

“Your language--so very easy it is. I want to learn it soon if I can.”

“Why, you know it already,” he protested. “And how the deuce you ever got it so quickly beats me.”

She smiled.

“When you say words--very easy then for me to remember. Not many words in spoken language.”

He shook his head.

“Well, however you do it, the result’s all right. I’m mighty glad, too. Why, when I get you back home on earth--” He stopped in sudden confusion.

She put her hand on his arm.

“Miela says your earth is very wonderful. Tell me about it.”

She listened to his glowing words. “And opera--what is that?” she asked once when he paused.

He described the Metropolitan Opera House, and the newer, finer one in Boston. She listened to his description of the music with flushed face and shining eyes.

“How beautiful--that music! Can you sing, Ollie?”

“No,” he admitted, “but I can play a little on a guitar. I wish I had one here.”

“I can sing,” said the girl: “Miela says I can sing very well.”

He leaned toward her, brushing the blue feathers of her wing lightly with his hand.

“Sing for me,” he said softly. “I’ll bet you sing beautifully.”

It may have been their situation, or what they had been through together, or the girl’s nearness to him now with her long braids of golden hair, the graceful sweep of her blue-feathered wings that matched the blue of her eyes, her red lips parted in song--but whatever it was, Mercer thought he had never heard so sweet a voice. She sang a weird little song. It was in a minor key, with curious cadences that died away and ended nowhere--the folk song of a different race, a different planet, yet vibrant with the ever unsatisfied longing of the human soul.

She sang softly, staring straight before her, without thought of her singing, thinking only of her song. She ended with a tender phrase that might have been a sigh--a quivering little half sob that died away in her throat and left the song unfinished. Her hands were folded quiet in her lap; her eyes gazed out on the gray waste of water about the boat.

Mercer breathed again.

“That is beautiful, Anina. What is it?”

She turned to him and smiled.

“Just love song. You like it, my friend Ollie?”

“It’s wonderful. But it’s--it’s so sad--and--and sort of weird isn’t it?”

“That is love, my mother says. Love is sad.”

Mercer’s heart was beating fast.

“Is it always sad, Anina? I don’t think so--do you?”

There was no trace of coquetry in her eyes; she sighed tremulously.

“I do not know about love. But what I feel here”--she put her hand on her breast--”I do not understand, Ollie. And when I sing--they are very sad and sweet, the thoughts of music, and they say things to the heart that the brain does not understand. Is it that way with you?”

Unnoticed by the two, a storm cloud had swept up over the horizon behind them, and the sky overhead was blotted now with its black. They had not seen it nor heeded the distant flashing of lightning. A sudden thunderclap startled them now into consciousness of the scene about them. The wind rushed on them from behind. The sea was rising rapidly; the boat scudded before it.

“A storm! Look at it, Anina, behind us!”

There was nothing in sight now but the gray sea, broken into waves that were beginning to curl, white and angry. Behind them the darkness was split with jagged forks of lightning. The thunder rolled heavily and ominously in the distance, with occasional sharp cracks near at hand.

“Look, Anina--there comes the rain! See it there behind us! I hope it won’t be a bad storm. I wouldn’t want to be out in this little tub.”

The wind veered to the left, increasing steadily. The sea was lashed into foam; its spray swept over the boat, drenching them thoroughly.

The waves, turning now with the wind, struck the boat on its stern quarter. One curled aboard, sloshing an inch or two of water about the bottom of the boat. Mercer feared it would interfere with the mechanism, but Anina reassured him.