But it wasn’t the cable that broke—it was the railing. Wood burst apart with cracks like explosions and the raft surged toward the whirlpool. As they began to swing about it in a circle, the horses screamed, fighting to be free.
“Hold their heads!” Geoffrey cried in agony. “If they leap from here, they shall slide down the funnel and be drowned!”
“Peace, peace, my beauties,” Alain soothed. He held all three reins tight in one hand and stroked the beasts’ necks with the other. “We shall not capsize, for we have two powerful wizards with us. Endure in patience. There now, beasts so brave in battle cannot be afraid of a little water!”
On and on he went, and his soothing tone calmed the horses at least a little. They stopped fighting, but their eyes still rolled in fear.
Resolutely, Alain drew his sword. “Cold Iron is the bane of all creatures of faerie! If I can wound it badly enough to make it stop stirring the waters, we may live to swim to the surface.”
“If we can strike it.” Geoffrey, too, drew his sword, holding his horse’s bridle with his left hand, eyes fixed to his enemy the afanc. “Creatures supernatural have ways of evading our blows.”
“ ’Tis so,” Alain said heavily, then turned to Gregory. “You who have studied so much of faerie lore—can you not destroy this creature with your mind?”
“I have been willing it to dissolve,” Gregory said, face taut with strain, “but some other power holds it bound in form.” He raised his voice, shouting above the roar of the whirlpool. “Spirit of this river, hear! Come before us, we pray—appear! Your stream is invaded by a spirit impure! Banish it swiftly so your river endures!”
“But surely the afanc is the spirit of this river!” Alain cried in despair.
The raft tilted sharply and water cascaded down upon them. The horses screamed and fought the reins. The only thing that kept them on their feet was centripetal force.
“Aroint thee, malignant spirit!” cried a rusty but vibrant voice, and a woman broke through the wall of the whirlpool—an old woman, withered and wrinkled, hands hooked to claw the afanc. Her skin was olive-colored and her hair like silvered seaweed, floating about her head and shot with sparks. Her trailing green gown seemed to be made of river-weeds, and her eyes burned with anger. “Begone, monstrous creature! Get you hence! Away from my waters; pollute them no more with your pestilential presence!”
The afanc made a ratcheting noise, gathering itself to pounce—but the water-wraith sprang first, nails growing into claws even as she plummeted to the bottom of the funnel, claws that sank into the afanc’s neck. It screamed and bit in a frenzy, whipping about, trying to shake the crone loose. Its huge incisors sank into her shoulder but she only laughed. “Can you hurt the water? Can you damage the foam? Forfend, foolish furball! Go away! Get you home!”
But the afanc kept trying to shake her loose, its whole body whipping back and forth. Its broad tail ceased to stir the waters, and with a roar the whirlpool fell in upon itself, burying wraith and monster both and drenching the men and their mounts. The horses’ screams ended in gurgling, but their owners grabbed frantically for their nostrils, covering the velvet noses. The horses kicked out, but the raft rose beneath them, bearing them all back up to the surface. It popped into the sunshine, pitching from side to side. It was all the three could do to keep their feet. The horses tossed their heads, gulping air, and fought the reins frantically, hooves slipping on the sodden deck.
“Gently, O Prince of Horses, gently!” Geoffrey crooned. “The monster’s buried in the tide; you have naught now to fear!”
“All is safe, they are gone!” Gregory assured his mount in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “The river-mother has ousted the afanc and we are safe.”
“Aye, gallant warhorse, you have every cause for pride,” Alain assured his steed. “You have borne up nobly, you have faced the river-demon with stalwart courage! Be at ease, be placid!”
Slowly the horses calmed, even though the waves rocked them, slowly subsiding, but moving them even more quickly than they had planned toward the far shore. The steeds were almost restored when the raft struck the riverbank, nearly jolting them off their feet. Hooves scrabbled and men clung frantically to reins, voices rising in assurance all over again. Quickly they led the horses off the raft and sagged against rocks and tree trunks, striving to catch their breath.
“I had thought we would certainly be drowned!” Gregory said in a tremulous voice.
“I, too,” Alain seconded. “How did you know the afanc was not this river’s true spirit, Gregory?”
“Because it so resembles a beaver, Alain,” the younger brother said, “and beavers never stay overlong in any one river. They build their dams, eat all the fish their ponds catch, hibernate, waken, and move on.”
“True,” Geoffrey said thoughtfully. “They are visitors to any stream.”
“Then too,” Gregory said, “I suspect the spirits of every stream it visited chased it away whenever they found it, just as this one did.”
“A point,” Geoffrey said, frowning. “Therefore it would be feign to attack anything living that came in or on the water, would it not?”
“There is sense in that,” Alain said judiciously. “If the creature were supernatural, a surprise attack might win, and if it were mortal, it would be good to eat.”
“What a charming beast!” Gregory said with a shudder.
“Let us be glad the water-woman was not beguiled.” Geoffrey gave Gregory a narrow look. “I had not realized you knew the habits of beavers. How came you by such knowledge of game, O Scholar?”
Gregory smiled. “When I was a lad, I wished to learn all I could about everything, O Hunter. Do you not remember chiding me for spending long hours gazing at the river and whole days wandering the woodlands?”
“Truly, I do not remember saying it,” Geoffrey said ruefully. “So that was study? And all these years I had thought you had gone off to brood!”
“To meditate, perhaps,” Gregory said with a smile, “but not to brood.” He glanced back at the water. “I had thought this stream was old, for it has many ox-bow curves—but I had not realized it was ancient!”
“Certainly its spirit was,” Alain agreed, “but nonetheless powerful.”
“Old or young, I bless that river-crone for safe deliverance.” Geoffrey raised his voice. “Dame of the waters, we thank you for kind rescue!”
“May your stream always be pure,” Alain called, “and your watershed well-forested!”
They watched the river, half expecting the water-wraith to rise from the stream to scold them for being so foolish as to take a raft that was far too convenient. The stream only flowed past them, though, still choppy, but with no sign of supernatural intervention.
“Do you think the afanc set the raft in place for us?” Alain asked, frowning.
“We should have realized that the mountaineers would not have left us the means of passage,” Geoffrey said, chagrined.
“But the afanc had no hands!” Alain protested. “How could it have bound the tree trunks together?”
They were silent, staring at one another for a few minutes. Then Geoffrey stated the logical conclusion: “It had help, of course.”
“Surely,” Gregory agreed. “If the mountaineers are willing to aid an invading army for the promise of land, why would not one of their number be willing to aid the afanc against us?”
“Only one?” Alain asked, frowning.
“A witch-moss crafter,” Gregory explained, “for that raft was not built before the afanc sensed us nearing.”
“Either that, or the mountaineers did use it and have for weeks or years,” Geoffrey objected, “and the afanc needed only to push it back to the near shore in order to set its trap.”