When fee otters came back aboard, Buncan weakly suggested they try spellsinging themselves free of fee Sprilashoone’s grip. Though the otters improvised and rapped enthusiastically, it did not affect their situation in fee slightest.
The fact that Buncan regularly interrupted each attempt with a desperate rush for the boat’s railing certainly did nothing to enhance the consistency of their spellsinging.
“Why don’t you get out o’ those clothes an’ join us for a swim, Bunc?” Squill suggested. “Might do you good.”
“I can’t swim like you.” There seemed to be six otters in his field of vision. “You know that.”
“We’d keep an eye on you, Bunklo,” Neena assured him. “Wouldn’t let you drown. Anyways, it’s got to be better for you than ‘angin’ on up ‘ere, watchin’ this bloomin’ water go around an’ around as this boat goes up and down, up and down, twistin’ an’ turnin’ and bobbin’ an’ . . .”
Buncan made a peculiar noise and shuffled hurriedly toward the bow.
“Now see wot you’ve gone an’ done,” her brother told her.
“Me?” Neena spread both arms wide, whiskers bristling. “I didn’t do nothin’, I didn’t. ‘E were already tryin’ for the Bellwoods’ all-time upchuck record for ‘umans.”
“Oi, an’ ‘e didn’t need your ‘elp goin’ for it. All that chatter about the boat goin’ up an’ down an’ back an’ forth an’ down through this bleedin’ corkscrew . . .”
Unable to ignore this cogent analysis of their present condition, Gragelouth stumbled forward to join his young human companion in misery.
The Sprilashoone had more surprises in store. A corkscrew of water thrust mem out into blue sky and open air, only to plunge them down afresh into the watery tunnel which had become their home. When it happened a second time they were prepared for the phenomenon, and by the end of an awful night the river was presenting them to the outside world with increasing frequency.
By the dawn of their third day upon the psychotic watercourse, the tunnel had collapsed completely. No more corkscrews pierced its depths, no integral curls tormented its surface. They found themselves drifting downstream at a modest rate atop a broad stream that seemed determined to act, perhaps by way of compensation for the ordeal they had endured within its upper reaches, in as placid a fashion as possible.
Trees and electric-blue bushes lined both banks, while reeds sprang like unruly green hair from the shallows. As they continued, signs of habitation and farming became visible.
Buncan received this information from his companions with admirable equanimity. He was still too weak to rise from his pallet and look for himself. As for Gragelouth, the merchant seemed to have made a more rapid recovery, which did nothing to improve Buncan’s waterlogged self-esteem.
While their friends regained their strength, the otters steered the boat away from the banks and carried out necessary minor repairs and cleanup. When not thus occupied, Squill could be found perched atop the mast, studying the shore while keeping alert for any rocks or snags that might be positioning themselves for ambush.
Though he found the whole notion of food abhorrent, Buncan made an effort to eat. When the first few tentative bites stayed down, he found that both his outlook and condition improved. Subsequent offerings by Neena were consumed gratefully, if not enthusiastically. Sooner than he believed possible, he was once more participating fully in the operation of the boat.
“I don’t understand.” She stood close to him one afternoon as he took his turn at the tiller. “ ‘Ow can you get so sick just from watchin’ the water go past an’ around an’—”
Buncan put a finger to her muzzle. “Not only can that make a human sick, sometimes words alone are enough to set it off.”
“Oi, I gets it. Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” He smiled. “Just don’t do it anymore, okay?”
She nodded apologetically.
“This is fine country,” the sloth observed. “I think soon we will come upon a place to refresh ourselves.” He glanced skyward. “In any event, the river seems to have changed course. We have been traveling due east for nearly an entire day now, and if we do not soon find ourselves once more sailing more to the north, we will have to abandon this craft and strike out overland again.”
Several large birds soared past overhead, their conversation drifting down to the waterborne travelers. They glanced at the river but chose not to drop down for a chat.
The Sprilashoone continued to flow resolutely eastward. Modest riverbank dwellings began to appear, and people in small boats. Not long thereafter larger vessels manifested themselves, their mixed-species crews seining the deep waters for all manner of seafood.
Gragelouth called out to one such vessel as they passed close inboard its port side. “Hanging aboard! We have been some days upon the river and need to reprovision. Is there a town close downstream where this can be effected?”
Two fisherfolk, a raccoon and a brightly clad muskrat, exchanged a bemused glance before the muskrat leaned out to reply. “Friends, I can’t imagine where you’ve come from not to know of Camrioca, but you’ll find all you need there.”
“How far?” Buncan shouted as the boats slid past each other.
With one hand the raccoon held on to the net he was splicing and with the other pointed downriver. “At your speed, another half day.”
There was no mistaking it when they swung ‘round a bend in the Sprilashoone. Camrioca was a city, not a town, a true riverine metropolis that hugged a fine deep-water bay. Hundreds of homes and two-story buildings clustered side by side along the quays, jetties, and beaches, while the central portion of the sprawling connurbation featured a walled inner city filled with structures six and even seven floors high.
After Hygria, it was most reassuring to note that Camrioca’s architecture featured incomplete walls and ceilings and a riot of color. Repeated sniffs as they searched for a vacant dock at which to tie up indicated that the town was both earthy and inviting. In other words, comfortingly and typically fetid.
Buncan found himself wondering what his parents must be thinking by now. With the privacy spellsong shielding them, Jon-Tom wouldn’t be able to track him through magic. If he and the otters had done their job well, even Clothahump would be unable to penetrate their tightly woven mask of protection.
He forced himself to concentrate on the bustling, odoriferous quays. Being seasick had been debilitating enough. Now was not the time to surrender to homesickness. He straightened. Let his classmates laugh at him when he returned from this adventure.
Assuming he did return, he reminded himself.
Gragelouth was gesturing energetically in the direction of a small, unoccupied wharf. “Put in there.”
No sailor, Buncan steered as best he could, and they bumped up against the wooden pilings rather hard. No one in the surging, preoccupied crowd paid mem the slightest attention, their indifference serving as further confirmation of Camrioca’s cosmopolitanism.
Squill queried Gragelouth as the sloth set about securing their craft to its new mooring. “Say, guv, shouldn’t we leave someone ‘ere to guard the boat?”
The merchant considered the rabble as he tightened a final knot. “I think it will be all right. There is sufficient foot traffic here to discourage the casual thief.” He indicated then- worn, battered craft. “Besides, with so many better boats moored here, who would be eager to steal this?”
Squill nodded understandingly and turned to contemplate the town. After their many days of isolation on the river, it felt odd to be around so much activity.
“Doesn’t look like another Hygria,” Buncan opined.
“Nope,” Squill agreed. “Looks like a regular town, she does.”
“If we have to head northwestward from here, what are we going to do about overland transportation?” Buncan wondered.