A Pleasant Swim
- Location:
Eastern Ocean (Near Collinsel)
- Participants: Stubb, Angus, Hactor
Waves of spray fly with gusto over the madding sea. Clouds of hateful gray cluster in gravid armies above; drums resound from within. The swells grow deeper until they resemble abyssal maws of hungry dark, frothing at the edges. Up and down they rise and fall, as if moving earth and land and life were a matter simply of shrugging. Powerless to resist these shrugging swells, a weasel and lizard cling to the sundered bottom of a wrecked skiff. Stubb's wiry arms are drawn thin, their contours sharpened by the water soaking his fur. He looks miserable. Still, he clings, muscles alternately tensing and falling slack as the motions of the sea strain at his limbs.
The lizard is mostly submerged; its grip on the battered craft limited to a rigid fist, its snout propped tentatively above the water. He experiences the joy of drowning with each abusive swell: Eyes blinded and nostrils burned by the saline onslaught, lungs partially inundated. But his hold on the boat is firm; the water recedes just in time, and Angus lives to flirt with peril once again. "Stubb, mate? Ye' still with me?" he manages to sputter, unable to spy his pal amid the briny spray.
The splash of water seems to have restored some of Stubb's cognitive faculties, even if at the expense of his more tangible ones. He blows water from amidst the furs of his muzzle and mumbles an affirmative reply to his buddy. "Aye, ma'e." The water laps at the base of his neck, and the weasel clutches still tighter to the sorry fragment of wood. "Jes'..."
"Who's 'Jes'?" In the face of death, Angus jests. There is little time to chuckle at his own genius, however, as a gob of seaweed smacks into his snout. He snorts the slimy leech away, and pulls his bulk a notch higher on the skiff. The vessel dips precariously, so he promptly eases off. "Hope she ain't like that Lilah lass," he chides, again, in spite of the watery pounding. "A doll at first, mate. But then she straight tried t' roast us. Lucked us inna' church an shi--" The dragon is engulfed, and falls to a fit of choking.
Stubb squints, struggling to hear the monitor over the clamor of waves and wind. Flickers of lightning dart among the thunderclouds. "Don' know wha' yore on abou', ma'e," he gasps, attempting unsuccessfully to hoist his weight onto the flotsam. "Fink we ought a be gettin' ourse'ves ashore afore i' storms." His bleary eyes jump skyward, then in terrified earnest to Angus.
Angus finishes hacking up fluid in time to gather Stubb's plea. "Aye," he concedes, but resists the urge to clamor upon the remnants of the boat. The lizard, too, narrows his eyes, scanning the horizon for evidence of this elusive 'shore' the weasel mentions. "An', er. Where be that, mate? Shout th' way an' I'll start kickin'." And then something dawns on him. "For that matter--any sign of th' others?"
Stubb's dark, frantic eyes are framed in sad soaked strands of fur and enlarged by the narrow angles of his head. He seems sickly, weakened, resigned. "'Jes' now go' moi wi's back, 'Gus." He snuffles and tries to dry his wet nose on a likewise wet arm. "Fink oi saw somefin' down a ways." They've fallen to the nadir of a wave, so that all about them is dark green. "Wait a momen'..." says the weasel, as their makeshift craft begins to rise again.
- , acclimating to the undulations of the sea, shuts his eyes and inhales a sharp breath before plunging below the water. When he resurfaces, the dragon shakes the excess wet from his head, and tries to follow his chum's gaze. "What, mate?" he grunts, preparing for the next inevitable plunge.
Angus, acclimating to the undulations of the sea, shuts his eyes and inhales a sharp breath before plunging below the water. When he resurfaces, the dragon shakes the excess wet from his head, and tries to follow his chum's gaze. "What, mate?" he grunts, preparing for the next inevitable plunge.
As the storm builds, Stubb begins to recognize the uselessness of pitting his voice against its. He gestures instead, holding an arm aloft above the gnawing waters, then begins, as mightily as he can muster, to paddle in the indicated cirection.
Angus affixes both hands to the edge of the expiring craft, and, with a pallid surge of strength, he begins to kick. The skeletal skiff lurches in the water, protesting their intent to coax it from its tidal course. Reluctantly, it yields to their effort, but the callous sea ensures that progress is slow and wavering.
Stubb awkwardly hugs the wooden ribcage as he maneuvers himself closer to Angus, the better to coordinate their efforts as much as their conversation. "Now 'ow in tha blazes did we end up in tha bloody sea, ma'e? Oi take a bloody nap, an you lo' ge' yourse'ves an me damn near drownded!"
A cascade of furious bubbles anounce Hactor's sudden gasping form. He to grasps onto the wood, giving Stubb an exasperatred look.
"Ain't exactly th', er, time 'r place for extensive details, mate. But," the dragon brokenly relates, panting as he pushes against the capricious waters. "Found yer oblivious rump in some temple, brought ye' t' the inn, an' ole' 'friend' of yers showed up. Ye' mentioned her before. Pretty thing, but she tried t', er. Well. I've come t' question yer choice in women, mate." The dragon stops for a breath, and Hactor triumphantly bursts from the surf. "Dear toads!" he shouts, almost detaching from the wreckage. "Oh. Look, Stubb. The fox survived," he comments, then continues: "In any event, mate. We run out our welcome at th' inn, had t' high tail it outta' town. Found a boat, but not a particularly grand one." Thumping the skiff affectionately, Angus coughs.
Stubb seems incapable of following the story. His attention, already limited by the exigencies of the situation, visibly struggles to maintain a grasp on the flow of Angus' words. Hactor, though, he does notice. "An yore still taggin' along wif us, ye one-armed dog?" Stubb says with raucous pleasure. "Imagine i'. Warlord. King a Redwall Abbey, still followin' me abou' when oi'm good as dead." His laughter is forestalled by a hearty slap in the face by a watery peak.
Angus smirks at the fox, idly contemplating how the fellow must have battled with the sea, given his lack of various limbs. But he shakes the rumination with a short laugh, and then tells Stubb, "Ye' shoulda' been some sort of prophet, mate. Ye' ain't even gotta' try and ye' got droves o' fools followin' ye'. What if ye' were actually trying t' sell somethin'?" The subsequent grin is knocked from the dragon's face as the skiff rams another chunk of drifting debris. The jolt is intense; he almost slips beneath the waves.
Stubb keeps up his kicking. Fortunately, the tide is still with them; the vessel, such as it is, continues inexorably toward a barren stretch of coast. It looks distant, colored a misty brown by the humid air, but it lilts drunkenly closer.
Angus frowns subtly at the weasel's silence, but also continues to pedal the craft toward the hazy suggestion of land. As the shore approaches and the squall threat recedes, their voyage eases. The ocean is barely battling the trio, permitting smooth passage.
Stubb leaves off tormenting the breathless old fox, who paddles as well as his enfeebled condition allows. The weasel glances skyward. "Fink da storm's clearin' up. Blowing norfward, oi reckon." He snuffles and traces with upturned face the armies of brooding gray that indeed march northwest now. "Oi feel bloody awful, 'gus," he says after a long pause marked by the splash of hind paws and the vestiges of aeolian fury. "'Ow long oi bin out?"
All though frail, the additional thrust of vulpine kicks permits Angus, quite winded now, to ease. His lower half wends absently in the water; more attention paid to steering than propulsion. "Eh," the lizard grunts, lifting his chin to inspect the sky. "Honestly ain't quite sure, mate. S'all kinda' a blur. Less than a fortnight, at least. But ye' were in sorry shape. Surprised ye' snapped to it so quick--we shoulda' dumped ye' in the ocean days ago." He grins impishly at the weasel. "Mighta' saved us a few close calls."
"Strange dreams, oi 'ad." The weasel kicks, arms crossed atop the slippery slab of wood. The waters, still lively, caper around his head; they sometimes rearrange his fur in rakish tufts. In other places, his fur is shorn almost to the skin. His attention now falls to these patches. "Someone done me up funny whoile oi were ou'. Amos been takin' scissors to moi precious hair?" He grunts. "What'll Deloilah fink if she sees me loike dis."
"I can assure ye' it weren't Amos who done it, mate," is the dragon's pledge, but, before Angus can expand the thought, the relative tranquility breaks at the cawing of a bird. The dragon squints against shards of noon sun, barely able to decipher the grimy crow among peppery, retiring clouds. It cackles at the shipwrecked trio, berating their arrogance. "Bloody bird." A short survey of the upended skiff offers Angus nothing to lob at the crow, so he just grunts and paddles, muttering unmentionable things.
"Wouldn' be sayin' bloody birds if you'd been a seafarer, ma'e," Stubb chuckles, following the direction of his friend's outburst. "Mean's tha land is close."
Angus locks a cold look on the weasel. His upper lip lifts lopsidedly; the commencement of many dire truths, which, at the last moment, he decides against spilling--for now. "Perhaps, mate. Can't claim t'be anything but a lowly river scamp, an' ain't never had much love fer birds. Bloody birds." He skips a glance to Hactor, scowl softening in tow. "Can't believe this one's still splashin'."
Stubb fixes his gaze on land, now quite close. "Can' believe oi am, eiver. Oi feel loike wood. Loike a pieace a wood soaked frough. An moi stomach's gonna eat i'self. Mouf tastes loike retch." His head tumbles woozily atop his spindly shoulders; it seems a wonder that it doesn't go bobbing off into the sea.
Angus props his temple against one of the timber protrusions of the pounded skiff, face angled at Stubb. "What, mate? Ye' mean t' tell me ye' kin taste anything but salt? That's more of a miracle than yer kickin', wood or not." He swishes a leg below. Squirming toes hope to embed in a shoal, but no such luck. "Just a bit farther, right? We kin prolly' get a fire goin', perhaps even dredge up a fish 'r two in the shallows. Wait fer th' others t' surface. Ain't seen 'em float past yet, an', given th' tide, must mean they're on shore all ready."
"Makin' me stomach go, ma'e. Talkin' up a storm. I's no' takin' well to tha sea wa'er wha's sloshin' about in dere." Stubb chuckles, then coughs. "Oh!" he shakes. "Fink moi paw jes' struck somefin'." He squints into the roiling depths. "'ope i's jes' tha ground comin' up. Oi don' fancy any more adventures. Jes' a--" he splutters a bit as a wavelet strikes his face--"pleasant swim."
"A bit burnt out on adventures m'self, mate. S'been a wild .. well. We kin talk it over on th' shore." Again, the dragon plunges his foot, and, this time, claws catch the comfort of wet sand, the crags of a reef. "Bless th' toads on their mossy, divine thrones," he murmurs, releasing the little boat. The water remains high, almost to Angus' neck, but he trudges the sea floor, shouldering their chariot forth. "We did it, mates." A glance surfs the desolate beach ahead. "Not sure where it got us, but we did it."
Stubb is a few lengths shy of finding solid purchase on the seabed, but he covers the distance all the more swiftly when Angus relinquishes the remants of their craft. The sopping weasel essays to feel the bottom again. He hoots triumphantly and throws his paws up. "O--" his head bobs under the water, and reappears briefly thereafter, held parallel to the sea so that his face barely crowns the surface. "Oi can... jes'..." He grits his teeth against the onslaught of water, then begins, half-walking, half-swimming, to maneuver shoreward, now under his own power.
