The transition from tall grass to short to none at all was seamless, and yet one day Perkar was watching the wind's footsteps bending waist-deep prairie and not many mornings later he realized that the River was surrounded by desert. Desert, he could see, was more aggressive than prairie. The plains had crept up to the banks of the River often enough, but more often a thick screen of willow, cottonwood, oak, and bamboo buffered the two from one another. Now, however, the screen of trees was a thin green shadow, a billowy olive veil easily penetrated by vision. The distance that beckoned was vast and empty, and seemed to Perkar like another vision of hunger, perhaps as great as that of the River. He wondered how bitterly the two gods of water and sand might hate one another, or whether they might be allies. Or even two shadows of the same presence, like the Huntress and Karak.
Bludgeoned though he was, Perkar felt a spark of wonder, still. Wonder that any land could be so very different from his own.
The River had actually contracted a bit. Perkar suspected that the fierce sun was drinking thirstily from the god, and it pleased him slightly to think that something was capable of causing the River pain. Of course, the sun was not particular, and drank greedily from Perkar and Ngangata, as well.
Ngangata lay in the meager shade of a deerskin Perkar had finally had the sense to stretch as a sunscreen between some willow saplings he lashed to the sides of the boat. The Alwa-Man was consequently improving, though he still hovered near the edge of fever. Perkar forced him to drink as often as he could, though the River water had a bitter, even salty taste. Almost like blood, Perkar reflected, remembering his dream of the River flowing red.
Near noon one day, he saw that they were approaching an island. He took hold of the tiller, and, as usual, it allowed him to steer just that much, so that they ran aground on the sandy strip. Once the island had been merely a bend in the River, but he had eaten right through the land, so that the channel now flowed on both sides.
He dragged the boat up into the thick reeds, starting involuntarily when he nearly stepped on a snake as long as he was tall. Without even thinking, he began a little chant to the Snake Lord—to beg pardon for frightening one of his people—and then he remembered: Here, there was only the River. Harka, his sword, was certain about that.
"At first," Harka had told him, one day, "I could at least hear the gods in the distance. They did not crowd to his banks, but they were there, just beyond. Even in the grassland I could sense them watching from afar. Now I don't know how far you would have to go to even hear a whisper. It's true what they say about the Changeling. He eats them."
As if he had any doubt of that, after seeing her.
He lifted Ngangata out of the prow and sloshed farther inland, hoping that the entire island was not marsh. After fifteen steps or so he was relieved to feel his feet on firmer ground. Barefoot, he winced a bit at the barbed burrs that assailed his tender feet. Still, he sought the middle part of the island; Nu, said his dream voice. There he could make out the odd swaying trees that resembled—as much as they resembled anything familiar—tall ferns.
Ngangata stirred awake in his arms, looked muzzily around him. "Oh," he said. "Let me try to walk, Perkar."
Perkar set him on his feet, caught his companion when his knees buckled. But then, with teeth gritted, Ngangata took one and then two trembling steps without leaning on him. He continued to walk, slow and wobbly, until they reached the trees.
Perkar was astonished at what they found there. The thick, brushy undergrowth of the island had been cleared back to form a yard of bare, sandy soil. At the far edge of the clearing stood a house made of what appeared to be bundled reeds lashed to a willow framework. Fish were drying on a raised stage, beneath which a faint wisp of smoke timorously sought the sky. An old man and a dog watched their arrival with apparent interest.
"Dubu? Du' yugaanudün, shiheen?" the old man croaked. His dog—a yellow mutt spotted brown—cocked its head at him as if listening.
Perkar held out his palms, to show that they were empty. "I don't understand you," he said. This wasn't his dream language, and it certainly wasn't the language of his own people.
"Oh," the man replied, in a heavily accented version of Perkar's tongue. "I was just asking my dog who you were."
"Huuzho, shutsebe," Ngangata said weakly.
"Huuzho, shizhbee," the old man replied, smiling. "So you, at least, know the real speech."
"My name is Perkar, Clan Barku," Perkar told him. "My companion is Ngangata."
The old man shook his head in bemusement. "Such names!" he mused. "I was never able to keep them straight!" He came to his feet—it seemed quite a struggle—and gestured for them to join him. "I forget myself," he said cheerfully. "Join Heen and me. I will make us some tea."
Perkar was uncertain, but Ngangata nodded. The two of them crossed the clearing, Perkar walking, Ngangata stubbornly stumbling along. The old man, meanwhile, disappeared into his strange hut and emerged with a copper kettle. He filled it with water from a rainbarrel at one side of the house, and after adding some herbs to the pot and a bit of wood to the flagging fire, came back to join them. He walked bow-legged, on limbs as spindly as those of a spider.
"Now," he said, as he returned to his seat. "Please sit down."
Perkar and Ngangata folded their legs beneath them. The old yellow dog appraised them briefly with half-lidded eyes, then returned to sleep.
"My name is Yushnene, or at least it was when I was younger. That means 'Wolf-Minded.' They called me that because I was such a terror in battle." He chuckled to himself, as if at some small joke. "After that, they called me Gaan, because I was a shaman—that's what that means—but now, when I see anybody they just call me Old Man or something like that. But when I used to go up into your country, to trade, up there your people called me Brother Horse. You can call me whatever you want."
Despite himself, Perkar felt a smile drawn from him by the old man's manner. "Any of your other names would make me sound as if I were sneezing," he admitted. "May I call you Brother Horse?"
"That's fine with me. I always used to laugh when they called me that, because it had to do with a misunderstanding. I didn't speak your language very well, and someone asked me my horse's name. I didn't know how to say 'He is Dog-Chaser, my second cross-cousin on my father's side,' and so I just tried to tell them he was my cousin. What came out, though, was 'brother.' By the time I realized my mistake, the name was stuck to me. Anyway, I like it well enough, and I thought of Dog-Chaser as a brother anyway."
"You are Mang then?" Perkar blurted. "I've heard you share lineage with your mounts."
"Mang? Yes, that's what you people call us. My own tribe is really the Sh'en Dune, the South People, but foreigners always call us Mang."
"The Mang are the chief tribe in their confederacy," Ngangata explained. "The ones your people are usually at war with."
The old man nodded. "Yes. I've never been to war against you Cattle People, though, so I hope there are no grudges."
Perkar shook his head. "No. Mang attacked my father's damakuta many years ago, but I hold no enmity against brave warriors."
"Well, that's good," Brother Horse replied. "It would be a shame if Heen and I were forced to kill you both." His eyes crinkled merrily in his square, dark face. His hair still had some black amongst the white, but Perkar thought he must be older than any other man he had ever met.
"How long have you been on this island?" Perkar asked, not wanting to speak any further about warriors or battle.
"Heen and I have been here for five winters. But what you mean to ask is why I'm out on this island, don't you?"
"He marked you," Ngangata observed. Perkar nodded sheepishly.
"Well, it's a tragic story," Brother Horse told them. "If I did not mention it, I will tell you that I am quite an old man. Did I mention that?"
"I'm not sure," Perkar replied.
"Well, I am," Brother Horse stated carefully. "I have outlived my sons and daughters, and all of the horses of my line. My grandchildren and great-grandchildren are fond enough of me, of course, but they don't want to have to look after an old man like me. They would, of course, but they wouldn't like that and I'd know it. My last wife died a good while ago, too, and so I thought I might find me a new wife—to look after me, you know. I even thought I might find one, for a change, who could outlive me, and a pretty one hopefully. I heard about this girl Ch'an De'en—that's 'Pretty Leaf—up in the north foothills. She was supposed to be daughter of Nuchünuh, the Woodpecker Goddess—ah, wait a moment." He rose back up and took the kettle off the flames; the water in it was boiling. He ambled back into the house and returned with three porcelain cups. "Got these from a down-River trader," he confided. He poured a bit of the tea into each cup and handed one to Ngangata, one to Perkar, and kept one for himself.
"There. Where was I?"
"You were going after this girl."
Brother Horse nodded. "I took along presents, of course, the kinds of things gods like—beer, wine, incense—"
"You were going to marry a goddess?" Perkar interrupted.
"Her mother was a goddess. Her father was some Tiger People man. So, I went up there, and the old woman said no."
"The goddess?"
"Right. She said I was too old for her sweet daughter. And she was sweet, very beautiful, just past sixteen and never seen a man before. So, well, I knew this little song that I thought would make Nuchünuh sleep, and after I sang that, I thought I would convince the girl to go with me. She was willing enough—it must have been boring for her up there in the mountains. We were just 'trying each other out'—she thought I might be too old, you know, for marriage. So we were doing that when Nuchünuh woke up. She wasn't too happy about things. I managed to hide myself with another song and get back home, but when I got there I found the Woodpecker Goddess had been there before me, looking for me. There aren't too many places you can be safe from a goddess like that, but out here in the River is one of them," he finished. "None of them dares come within sight of him. So here I sit, wondering how long she'll stay mad. A few more years, maybe." He took a long sip of his tea. "People come out here, now and then, and bring me presents. I told everyone that I had decided to become a hermit and meditate, so they come out here to ask me questions about things. I guess I can tell you the truth, though, since you aren't Mang." He smiled crookedly, raised his cup, and took another drink.
Ngangata seemed to be regaining some of his strength, as he usually did when they were on land. He finished his tea and then asked if he might get more. The old man nodded at the kettle.
"Well," Brother Horse said after a time. "My people always considered me a little too talkative, and I've only gotten more garrulous and nosy since I've been living alone. Heen is a slow talker, you see. But Heen was wondering what brings the two of you so far from your forests, pastures, and cattle."
Perkar noticed that Heen seemed to be snoring, but didn't feel it was politic to mention that fact.
"Well," Ngangata said, before Perkar could respond. "To explain that, I would have to tell you the tale of Perkar, and that would be too long in the telling. I think Heen would be bored."
"Heen can suffer through almost any tale, the more long-winded the better," the old man responded.