two-handed lunge straight at Peter Lake’s heart. Peter Lake parried it, and it cut off a large part of Humpstone Johns beard.
“Crap!” said Humpstone John. “Get to it already. I love my beard.”
“All right,” said the young Peter Lake, and moved the razor-sharp broadsword in a quick stroke up, cutting deep into his opponent’s left arm. That seemed to awaken something in him, for he made several other moves, so fast that they were nearly invisible, so graceful that they seemed to be one motion, and came very close to disemboweling the attacker, who dropped his sword into the shallows and stumbled toward the cloud wall—which then obliged him as either ambulance or undertaker (no one ever knew).
“Shall I fish up his sword, John?” Peter Lake asked, still shaking, but enormously proud that he had survived his first combat.
“Whose sword?” Humpstone John, who had returned to fishing, wanted to know.
“The man I just fought.”
“Oh, him. What, his sword? Crap, it’s tin. Leave it where it lies.”
Peter Lake could, just barely, outrace the cloud wall when it oscillated across the sand flats, and he knew that he would never go without food or shelter as long as there were reeds standing upright in the water, and fish, clams, and crabs swimming, scuttling, and lying at rest among them. He could recite tolerably well in Bay, while the elders stared into the dying fire, satisfied with his skill. He had just begun, like all the Bay children of that age, to sleep with his sister. The Baymen practiced this (which was why Abysmillard was what he was) without thinking for a minute that it might not be a good idea. Peter Lake was set upon his sister, Anarinda, very early on. He was not really her brother, and, anyway, she did not conceive—no one would have at first. Anarinda was very beautiful, and Peter Lake was delighted. He asked Abysmillard and Auriga Bootes how long one could keep on doing what he had just learned. Abysmillard did not know of such things, and Auriga Bootes referred Peter Lake to Humpstone John, who replied, “Oh, four or five hundred years, I guess, depending upon your virility, and upon what it is that you call a year.”
Caring little for definitions, Peter Lake thought that he was in a really fine position, since whatever a year was, it seemed like eternity, and Anarinda’s nakedness and the way things went when they rolled about together in the warmth of the hut were greatly diverting. If this would last for another four or five hundred years... well, what more could anyone ask? That spring he grew quite smug, and thinking that this state would span half a dozen centuries, he sang, danced, and walked about humming to himself little ditties that he made up about Anarinda, such as:
Oh, Anarinda, breasts as round as clams,
Thighs as smooth as flounder’s soul,
Hair as gold as hay.
In you my bell shall toll,
Anarinda, Anarinda, darling of the bay.
But this happiness lasted nowhere near five hundred years. In fact, it lasted not even a week, for Humpstone John informed him that he had to leave. He would not be able to stay with the Baymen, because he had not been born a Bayman. They had taken good care of him for twelve years. Now he was on his own.
A year or two later and he would have been dying to go across the bay, as were all the boys of that age. But he was still young enough to feel that the marsh was everything there was of the world, and to be happy that there seemed to be little more, which is exactly why they sent him packing. They knew that to survive in Manhattan he would have to know something of bitterness before he arrived. And bitter he would always be at the thought of how they decked him out before he paddled across. They gave him a shell crown and a feather necklace (their symbols of manhood), a good broadsword, a new net, a bag of fish wafers, and a jug of clam beer. They told him that with these things he would be well prepared for the city. He had never
“Crap!” said Humpstone John. “Get to it already. I love my beard.”
“All right,” said the young Peter Lake, and moved the razor-sharp broadsword in a quick stroke up, cutting deep into his opponent’s left arm. That seemed to awaken something in him, for he made several other moves, so fast that they were nearly invisible, so graceful that they seemed to be one motion, and came very close to disemboweling the attacker, who dropped his sword into the shallows and stumbled toward the cloud wall—which then obliged him as either ambulance or undertaker (no one ever knew).
“Shall I fish up his sword, John?” Peter Lake asked, still shaking, but enormously proud that he had survived his first combat.
“Whose sword?” Humpstone John, who had returned to fishing, wanted to know.
“The man I just fought.”
“Oh, him. What, his sword? Crap, it’s tin. Leave it where it lies.”
Peter Lake could, just barely, outrace the cloud wall when it oscillated across the sand flats, and he knew that he would never go without food or shelter as long as there were reeds standing upright in the water, and fish, clams, and crabs swimming, scuttling, and lying at rest among them. He could recite tolerably well in Bay, while the elders stared into the dying fire, satisfied with his skill. He had just begun, like all the Bay children of that age, to sleep with his sister. The Baymen practiced this (which was why Abysmillard was what he was) without thinking for a minute that it might not be a good idea. Peter Lake was set upon his sister, Anarinda, very early on. He was not really her brother, and, anyway, she did not conceive—no one would have at first. Anarinda was very beautiful, and Peter Lake was delighted. He asked Abysmillard and Auriga Bootes how long one could keep on doing what he had just learned. Abysmillard did not know of such things, and Auriga Bootes referred Peter Lake to Humpstone John, who replied, “Oh, four or five hundred years, I guess, depending upon your virility, and upon what it is that you call a year.”
Caring little for definitions, Peter Lake thought that he was in a really fine position, since whatever a year was, it seemed like eternity, and Anarinda’s nakedness and the way things went when they rolled about together in the warmth of the hut were greatly diverting. If this would last for another four or five hundred years... well, what more could anyone ask? That spring he grew quite smug, and thinking that this state would span half a dozen centuries, he sang, danced, and walked about humming to himself little ditties that he made up about Anarinda, such as:
Oh, Anarinda, breasts as round as clams,
Thighs as smooth as flounder’s soul,
Hair as gold as hay.
In you my bell shall toll,
Anarinda, Anarinda, darling of the bay.
But this happiness lasted nowhere near five hundred years. In fact, it lasted not even a week, for Humpstone John informed him that he had to leave. He would not be able to stay with the Baymen, because he had not been born a Bayman. They had taken good care of him for twelve years. Now he was on his own.
A year or two later and he would have been dying to go across the bay, as were all the boys of that age. But he was still young enough to feel that the marsh was everything there was of the world, and to be happy that there seemed to be little more, which is exactly why they sent him packing. They knew that to survive in Manhattan he would have to know something of bitterness before he arrived. And bitter he would always be at the thought of how they decked him out before he paddled across. They gave him a shell crown and a feather necklace (their symbols of manhood), a good broadsword, a new net, a bag of fish wafers, and a jug of clam beer. They told him that with these things he would be well prepared for the city. He had never
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