Three

 

            Thistlepouch Doorringer was bored.  The Sea King’s island had been wonderfully fascinating, unfamiliar, a chance to explore and find out more about this wonderful story-book land beyond the place she’d always called home.  Sure, there had been some unpleasant bits, and she’d been frightened more than once, but this was far, far worse.  They’d been on the boat for what felt like forever, and it seemed to be shrinking as the days progressed.  Bob had appeared after the first day and spent three days in delirium before he could explain his disappearance -- he claimed to have woken up to find them gone and after running from some big scary wights escaped on a tree.

            Admittedly, there had been some bright spots to the journey.  She’d always wanted to learn to read better in All-Speak but never really had the patience to do something so apparently useless.  Trapped on a boat with nothing better to do with her time had given her ample opportunity -- and Mica and Tusit and the girl were trapped and bored, too, which helped a little; she had willing teachers, though limited materials.  And so they’d passed the days, Mica in prayer, Tusit with his book (or scraping the paint and figurehead off the boat) , Bob making friendly with the local fish and other marine life, the girl singing quietly (Thistlepouch had tried to teach her sea chanteys she’d picked up in the slaves’ hold but she’d been mortified and refused to listen) or staring out to the horizon, Thistlepouch learning to read better or taking care of the sailing, and Grog helping her with the heavy stuff and listening to her chattering stories.  Tusit had even gone fishing once, using “old man bits” he scraped off his shirt for bait.  Thistlepouch thought it was past disgusting, but it caught a couple fish, which they’d dried and eaten.

            But even those occupations had gotten old after a while.  Now it was morning-ish, the others were asleep, and she wanted off the boat so badly she’d begun to think she was seeing land big enough to support life.  And that Tusit was shouting about it.  And Mica was shaking her with a huge grin on her face.

            Waitaminute.  If the others saw it.  .  .

            Thistlepouch jumped up, leaning over the side of the boat for a better view.  She felt somebody grab her shirt to prevent her from falling overboard.

            After the initial excitement passed, Grog rowed them into shore and dropped anchor.  Mica said they’d landed on Dennik -- Thistlepouch, however, pointed to the map and declared it Ventris.  Not that it really mattered, she supposed, not right now, anyhow.  Thistlepouch jumped out and wobbled off to the nearest trees.  Land, wonderful, firm, unmoving (at least, she was pretty sure), and the first chance in a small eternity to relieve herself without five other people around.

            A couple minutes later she returned to the shore, began strolling along the beach collecting driftwood (for a fire) and pretty shells and pebbles (for her pouches).  Tusit, Mica, and Bob went out to hunt for food; Grog and the girl stayed behind.  The kita, once bored with the beach, made a brief foray into the woodland for a walking stick, forked at one end, and brought it back to the fire to begin fashioning it into a weapon.  It wouldn’t be the greatest, but she doubted she’d see her homeland anytime soon to purchase one.

            It was a quiet day, all told, but Thistlepouch didn’t mind.  She had things to keep her occupied, and Tusit, Mica, and Bob returned with a sheep for dinner -- a feast, to be certain, even if a little burned around the edges.  Even sitting up alone for the last watch didn’t bother her.  A ship passed by the cove just before dawn -- she woke Tusit but he told her not to worry unless it came towards them.

            They set out again in the late morning, sailing along the coast until they reached a town.  They put in; Bob and the girl stayed to watch the boat while the others went out for supplies.

            Thistlepouch frowned slightly; she smelled blood and new char.  She was about to say as much to Tusit but found that he and Mica were talking to a local man with a careworn face, heavily lined.

            “Well, we do have some supplies,” said the local, “but I doubt the elders will be willing to part with much what with all the pirate raids.”

            “Oh, I understand completely,” Tusit assured him.  “But if there are any extra weapons.  .  .  ”

            “Well, we had a few losses today, which would free up a few weapons.  .  .  ”

            “That.  .  . would be most helpful,” Tusit replied, “though I am sorry for your troubles.  Is there.  .  .  anything we can do to be of assistance?  I have healing skills, and my companion is a Priestess of Athena.”

            “Well, sure, any help we can get, though I don’t know as there’s much you could do.  .  .  ”

            Thistlepouch followed along as the man led Mica, Tusit, and Grog to the town hall.  She saw Tusit whisper something to Mica and cocked her head curiously, but they’d already busied themselves, so there was nothing for her to do but help where she could, Grog lifting and reaching and carrying what things were beyond her capabilities.  Mostly helping where they could consisted of fetching water or other supplies when asked.  Which isn’t terribly interesting -- but it didn’t take long for matters to improve.

            “Fear not good woman, for I am favored of the Goddess Athena, and I will beseech her to heal this good husband of yours.  .  .  if that’s okay with you,” Mica added hastily.

            Thistlepouch grinned as Mica laid her hands on the wheezing, supine man.  .  .  but her grin soon changed to a jaw-dropped gaze of wonder as Mica began to glow with a holy light.

            Time stopped except for Mica’s plea to the Goddess -- which flowed over the kita in a jumble of words her mind refused to latch on to.  When the kita could tear her eyes away from Mica she saw an awe-struck look on the gnome’s face as well.  Mica removed her hands from the formerly injured man -- his sucking chest wound had healed completely.  Mica’s eyes glowed with inner light as she strode to the next man -- a head injury victim.  The light flickered and flared -- Mica swooned -- Grog caught her just before she hit the floor.

            The kita and the gnome rushed to her side.

            “Nice act,” Tusit whispered, then addressed the public.  “Please, good people, stand back, give her some air; the power of the Goddess Athena has overwhelmed her Priestess, she will recover shortly -”

            Thistlepouch listened to him with half an ear and couldn’t help but smile a little.  His showmanship was indeed impressive, and he seemed to be having a great time hamming it up.  The kita strongly suspected he saw it as some sort of challenge; he’d been as polite to Athena as befitted a mortal’s respect for a Goddess, but Thistlepouch was pretty sure he venerated his book more.  With the rest of her attention she tended to Mica.

            “You okee?” Grog asked the human as the kita fanned her.

            Mica slowly opened brown-green eyes.  She looked tired, but there was a kind of wonder and strength there, too.  “Wow.”

            “Yeah,” Thistlepouch had to agree.  “Tusit’s talking up the crowd.”

            “Help me up,” she requested.

            A bit dubiously, the kita gave her friend a hand up -- admittedly, Grog did most of the work.

            “I have to set up an altar.  .  .  ” she murmured, distracted, and Thistlepouch helped her out the door, still half-listening to Tusit’s grandiose praises.

            The altar, Thistlepouch soon discovered, was to be made primarily of gathered stones, which the kita helped locate and transport.  When she got bored watching Mica pray she left her with Grog and went back to join Tusit, who was just wrapping it up.  He had managed to procure a bow, she’d noticed. On spotting her, he waved theatrically in her direction.

            “Be assured, your town and the miracles that occurred here will be heard far and wide through the stories of our bard -”

            Thistlepouch lost the rest of the sentence in a surge of surprise and wonder and possibility.  Bard.  The word echoed in her mind.  Bard bard bard bard.

            “-ch?”

            She shook herself back to reality, tried to look attentive.  “Yes?”

            “Are you ready to go?  Where’s the Priestess?”

            “Mica -- um, the Priestess -- is outside praying to her Goddess.  What’s the name of this town, anyway?” she asked as they made their way outside.

            “Jackiton,” Tusit informed her. “On Dennik.”

            She nodded; they gathered up Mica and Grog.

            “Got you a bow,” Tusit told Mica, offering up the weapon.

            “Thanks!”

            “Did you get me a bow?” asked Bob when they reached the boat.

            “No,” Thistlepouch said.  “Grog, head west.”

            “Okee.”

            “Well, can I have that one?”

            “No!” Mica frowned.

            “Well, I’m a Ranger; I’m really good with -”

            “Bob?” Mica glared at him.

            “Yes?”

            “Get your own.”

            “Okay, okay.  I just.  .  .  ”

            Thistlepouch sighed as Grog cast off.  It was shaping up to be another looong trip.

 

Disclaimer: No religious fanatics were harmed

during the creation of this chapter.