“There is one that is ten feet across,” Anthony explained, “and wider in the spring, when the melt-waters swell it. We cannot avoid it, either, since it lies between our homestead and the upper pasture. We have to drive the cows across it twice a day, so I have become used to finding fords and bracing myself against the current.”
“A stronger current than this, I would guess.”
“It is indeed,” Anthony said, “especially in spring.”
That easily, they were back into their old friendship, chatting and exchanging experiences—but there was an undercurrent that hadn't been there before, an awareness of the other and the other's feelings, and Balkis realized that they could never again be simply friends, companions, and nothing more.
When their feet were dry, they pulled their shoes on again and set off down the road. Meadow quickly gave way to forest, and as it grew darker, Balkis muttered a spell, ready to recite the last line at sight of a wolf or bandit, but neither appeared. After an hour's time, Balkis paused and frowned. “Is there another river near?”
“It sounds as though there is,” Anthony said. “I hear the sound of rushing waters … but is that shouting mingled with it?”
“People in peril of drowning!” Balkis hurried past him. “Quickly, we must see if we can aid!”
Anthony ran after her. As they went farther down the track, the water-sound became more distinct; they heard separate notes, and the shouting began to sound angry.
“Do the people fight the waters?” Balkis wondered.
Then they burst out of the woods into a field filled with grape arbors, posts linked by ropes upon which vines had climbed, bearing bunches of dark red fruit. But they scarcely had time to notice, for a horde of birds wheeled and hovered above the field, calling and warbling and making a sound like a waterfall as they dove, seeking to steal the fruit. They had little luck, though, for every aisle was filled with people scarcely higher than the posts, perhaps four feet tall, fighting with bows and arrows, spears and shields, to defend their crop.
“No doubt those people have watered and tended those vines,” Balkis cried, “and now that the harvest is near, the birds have come to steal the fruits of their labors!”
“We cannot permit that to happen.” Anthony drew his dagger and started forward.
“No, wait!” Balkis caught his arm, suddenly afraid she might lose him. “You can fight them far better by helping me craft a verse to send the birds away!”
Anthony frowned, turning back. “But it is you who are the wizard, you who knows the spells.”
“For a hundred flocks of birds come a-stealing? I have never learned a spell for that, nor do I believe there is one! I shall have to make it up as I go, and you know what happens when I come to the end!”
She said it with a wrench of embarrassment, for she hated to admit her failing to Anthony—but with his great inborn tact, he only nodded and said, “You are right. I can do more good here with you.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, then said, “Hold my hand! Perhaps we shall craft a verse better so!”
Anthony clasped her palm and turned to her expectantly.
“By vine and root and purple grape,” Balkis began, and hesitated.
Anthony took that as his signal, and added, “By rain and earth that grew their state …”
“Close now those beaks that catch and gape!” Balkis commanded.
Somehow the birds sensed what they were doing; a squadron broke off and wheeled toward them.
Anthony said quickly, “Find flies and worms of interest great! Far from these fields go seek your bait!”
Balkis marveled at his facility, then clasped his hand more tightly in alarm. “Anthony! They are still coming for us!”
Anthony stared in alarm and awe. Sure enough, the whole avian army seemed to be banking to follow the squadron that was already bound toward the wizards, their beaks snapping shut as commanded—but all the sharper and stronger for that.
“These are not lovely songsters, but living arrows!” Balkis cried.
“Quick! Into cat-form!”
Balkis instantly felt panic at the thought of leaving Anthony to face the angry flock alone, but some perverse urge made her say instead, “When not a one of them but holds a grudge against cats? How shall I fare alone against them?”
“How shall we fare now?” Anthony returned. “What would you say to them if you were a cat?”
Without a thought, an angry yowl tore from Balkis' throat. She turned it into words:
She stammered to a halt, confounded by the need to rhyme. Anthony, thinking it his signal, called out,
“That is where you wished me to improvise, is it not?” he asked anxiously.
“None better.” Balkis clung to his arm with a sigh of relief.
Sure enough, two extravagantly plumed, flame-colored birds soared into sight, all trailing pinions, flowing crests, and undulating tails. They came flying from above the forest, calling out in musical tones that penetrated the sounds of battle.
The birds gave voice in a sound like a cataract and swirled in a huge half-circle to join the royal couple, surrounding them on all sides, some even flying on ahead, trilling a warning to all who encountered them.
The little people stared, letting their nets and weapons fall, eyes wide, drinking in a sight they had never seen, no doubt memorizing every detail to relate to their grandchildren.
The birds filled the sky now, and Balkis realized that others were streaking in from all points of the compass. Toward the east they flew, away from the sunset, darkening the earth below, but the sinking sun backlighted them in a golden glow. Then the sky began to clear as the huge flock soared away over the horizon. In its center, the king and queen of birds flew on, glorious song spilling from their throats, calling more and ever more of their kind to them.
Anthony stood transfixed, and Balkis was no better; the royal birds were so glorious that she had no thought for anything else in the world, all her mind devoted to drinking in the sight and engraving it upon her memory.
Then they were gone, the spell broken, and they were left two strangers in a foreign vineyard, surrounded by natives two-thirds their size but armed with spears and bows, slowly turning toward the two bigger people who had invaded their land.
CHAPTER 16
But the little folk dropped their weapons as they approached. They were all sweating and some were wounded, scored with the red trails left by birds' beaks, but grinning and bowing their thanks. They saluted the companions, and like the women warriors and the ant workers, they spoke the language of Maracanda with a heavy accent.
“Welcome, strangers!” said a gray-headed man. “I am Bunao, hetman of this village. Our great thanks for banishing the birds as you did!”
Anthony protested, “Surely we had little to do with—”
Balkis elbowed him in the ribs, and the hetman, grinning, said, “Be not so modest. Never before have the birds left us with so brief an attack—or so many grapes. We saw you pointing at them and chanting—but how did your call summon the yllerion?”
Anthony stared, and Balkis explained, “We only called for the king and queen of birds.” She, at least, knew enough to accept her due credit in a strange land.