Inwardly he thought, But Pa will kill me anyways.
If Galen the sot was still alive. The Gibber Plains appeared to be flat all the way to the horizon. In truth, they were crazed through with cracks, each one a wash that started in the Border Humps to the north and then wandered southwards to the Edge. There, the plain stopped in a ragged tear as if a giant had ripped it away. A brave man could walk to the edge of the tear and peer over to see the Giving Sea several hundred paces below, the rolling surf pounding the cliff face in relentless lines.
In the Time of Random Rain, before the rainlords commanded the clouds-or so the storytellers said-water would occasionally reach the Edge and fall over, to be wasted, evaporated into mist until the foot of the cliffs disappeared behind a skirting of white spindrift and the sea below was lost to sight.
At dawn on the morning after the bore swept through the settle on Wash Drybone, water once again reached the Edge and plunged down towards the sea. There was no one to see it, no one to exclaim over the waste or be moved by the rainbow beauty of colour playing across the spindrift. Yet somewhere deep in their souls, several people felt that water fall and felt the loss of its purity when it hit the sea. Far away in Breccia City, Cloudmaster Granthon cried out in his sleep and woke, the sadness lingering from his dream subsumed in a larger grief he could not name. In Wash Drybone, Shale Flint felt a wave of pain pass through him, and foundered in the residue of sorrow it left behind. Beside him, Mica stirred uneasily. Highlord Taquar of Scarcleft, already awake, left his bed and opened the shutters, wondering what he'd just felt. In other parts of the Quartern, some of the rainlords stirred, distressed by an event they sensed but lacked sufficient power to interpret. Shale and Mica had spent the night out under the stars. At sunset the water had still been running too high to cross the wash; later, when the water level fell, it was too dark to see. Once the sun had gone, the cold came, as always. Poorly clad and as wet as they were, they might have died in the open if it had not been for the myriapede. It curled its great body around them and although it lost heat as the night wore on, it trapped the boys' warmth within its encircling wall. Shale and Mica weren't comfortable, and Mica complained that all the water was making his head ache, but they were sheltered.
At first light they heard voices, and as they struggled to unwind themselves from a tangle of pede legs, a Reduner peered down on them. "Who the salted wells are you?" the owner of the face asked, in tones that were far from friendly. "What you doing with my pede?"
Shale felt his guts twist. The pedeman. He sat up saying, "We didn't hurt him!"
Beside him, the pede woke and, still sluggish with the cold, clicked its segments apart in an unhurried stretch.
The boys scrambled to their feet.
"Why, it's Galen's two lads!" another voice exclaimed. Rishan the palmier. "Your da thinks you two snuffed it." He turned to the Reduner in explanation. "They're just settle lads. They won't have harmed your pede."
The Reduner glared but didn't say anything. He was running his hand over his beast, checking for broken legs, frowning over a nick he found in the edge of a segment and fingering a torn embroidered fringe.
"He broke the tip of one of his feelers," Shale said.
The Reduner took a deep breath and Rishan hurriedly intervened. "Why don't you two lads run off. Your ma and pa'll be worrying."
Nodding, Mica grabbed hold of Shale and pulled him away. "Let's go," he muttered in his brother's ear. As they scrambled down the earthen bank to the sodden floor of the wash, he added, "You don't want t'come between a Reduner pedeman and his mount. They say that a caravanner w'druther lose his son than his pede. He probably thinks we wanted to steal it or somethin'."
"But we helped save it," Shale protested.
"Yeah, but he's not goin' t'believe that. Hey, look at all the water!" Mica looked around in amazement. A shallow stream trickled down the centre of the wash. The slots were all overflowing. Wherever there was a dip in the riverbed, water had pooled clean and clear, with the mud and sand sunk to the bottom. The crops were all gone, but most of the bab palms stood, battered but still anchored by their tortuous root systems.
Shale's eyes widened. "I never seen so much water lying round after a rush! And it's all goin' t'waste-just flowin' away."
"Tell you what, I'm going t'have the best drink I've ever had in all m'life."
"Me, too," Shale agreed reverently. He knelt at the edge of the flowing water, cupped his hands and drank deeply. When he finally looked up, chin dripping, he asked, "Do you think Pa saved enough water for the house?"
"In what? Our hut fell into the wash, remember? We must've lost all our jars. I wish Pa'd fallen in, too, and got washed all the way to the Edge." Mica smiled gleefully at the thought.
"You reckon Ma was worryin' herself 'bout us?"
"Her? Don't be daft. The bitch would be glad to get rid of us. 'Specially as she's having another brat soon." He wiped his face with a wet hand. "You know what I'm going t'do? Get in and wet myself all over."
Shale thought of the way the water had tried to swallow him up and frowned, doubtful. "Reckon we should?"
"Why not? Isn't no settle lower down the wash t'drink it." Mica waded out into the deepest pool he could find and sat down in water up to his neck.
Shale followed, but stopped when he was knee deep. This time it felt different. Not so overwhelming. Without the furious speed of the flood, the water was gentle, welcoming. The feeling of oneness was still there, but this time it didn't threaten; it was huge and immeasurable and it felt right. He waded in further and watched water swirl around his thighs.
" 'S good, right?" Mica asked.
"Cold, but wunnerful! Like… like… I don't know what it's like. Like being happy and full of water an' food an' everything good all at once." He stripped off what was left of his smock and threw it aside. Then he flung himself face down in the pool.
The shock of being surrounded by water, of having it come up over his head, of absorbing its oneness with him: it was too much. The pleasure of its touch-the sensuality of it-threw him. He sank into the depths of the pool and his body responded to the joy. Warmth spread through his loins, swelling his stick, but in a way he'd never felt before. He gasped at the wonder of that and choked. He spluttered, pushing the water away from his face in irritation without even being aware of the impossibility of what he did. He wanted to concentrate on feeling so… so good. On the rising pleasure, the spreading heat, the rushing of his blood, the unbearable, unbearable moment of exquisite pressure when everything stood still. Then the warmth burst inside him. He shuddered, and shuddered again.
Just as he was beginning to revel in the mind-boggling wonder of that, he found himself grabbed and hauled upwards, to break the surface. Mica, white-faced, still dressed and dripping wet, was holding his arm, yanking him into the shallows. "You dryhead-didn't I tell yer you can suffocate in water?"
He blinked, clearing his vision, and wondered what Mica meant. Suffocate? He hadn't been suffocating, or choking. He'd been breathing, just as usual. He'd pushed the water away from his face. He flushed, remembering the rest, enjoying the memory, the glow left behind, the way it made him feel. So that was what it was like. Embarrassed, he avoided meeting Mica's gaze.
Rivulets of water trickled down his body, and idly he rubbed at his forearm. Dirt dissolved, leaving his skin lighter.
Mica remarked uneasily, "Folk say washin' a lot makes you sick."
"I don't feel sick." He felt wonderful. He rubbed some more of the dirt away. "Makes me look more like ord'nary folk. Didn't know I got that colour underneath."
Mica grabbed a handful of wet sand and scrubbed his own arm. His skin lightened as well and he started to laugh. "Let's get back in and wash all the dirt away," he said.