Chapter 3
The path led down to a sand-covered beach nestled among dark, rolling hills. Several long-necked white birds were gliding across an expanse of water that stretched into the distance, with no opposite shore in sight. Barely a ripple disturbed the surface as the graceful birds moved about, their propulsion systems hidden below in the form of steadily paddling feet.
"This must be the Swan Sea," the Steed said.
Miss Ryder scanned the coastline as the horse stood at the water's edge. She blinked in shock. The dark hills really were rolling. They were alive. Some of them, at least.
Several large black whales were lumbering towards her, standing upright on their tailfins as they propelled themselves forward with a rocking motion. Miss Ryder marveled at their balance and agility, top-heavy as they were. She watched wide-eyed.
"I didn't know that whales could walk on their tails that way," she said.
"It's just a fluke," the Steed commented.
The oncoming whales made a daunting sight. Miss Ryder couldn't help but feel disconcerted; if one of the behemoths were to accidentally stumble forward, both she and the Steed would be crushed under tons of weight. Three whales positioned themselves in a line to block the way.
An imposing voice boomed, "Approach, bareback rider."
Miss Ryder guided the horse towards the whale in the center who had spoken. She certainly hoped the giant creatures were sympathetic to White. Then she remembered that she was wearing the black leather bodice and miniskirt; the whales might easily mistake her for the other side. The center whale spoke again, this time echoing her thoughts.
"You're riding the White Steed," he said, "but you're dressed in black. Which side do you serve?"
The whales were mostly black in color. Miss Ryder wondered if she should lie and pretend to be on the Black side, just in case. Perhaps it didn't matter; maybe the whales were neutral. She decided it would be best to tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Hopefully, the Steed would be fast enough for a hasty retreat should the leviathans attack.
"I'm the White Knight," she explained, "but I'm in disguise. I may have to do some espionage work." She remembered the Steed's warning from earlier. "I hope you won't try to hang me."
The whale shrugged his flippers and shook his head. "A spy's cool in Swan Sea. Besides, I'm not a killerwhale."
"What kind of whales are you?" Miss Ryder asked.
Another one spoke up. "We're Left Whales."
"Oh, is that right?" the Steed asked.
"No, Left. Most whales are Right Whales, because they use their right flipper when they write. We write with our left, so we're Left Whales, right?"
"If you say so," Miss Ryder said, confused.
The third whale shook his head sadly. "Southfins like us have always been discriminated against."
The center whale continued, "In spite of our color, we're descendants of the Great White Whale, so that's where our allegiance lies."
Miss Ryder noticed there were seven other whales sunning themselves on the beach. "Are you all together?" she asked.
The center whale nodded. "Ten whales to the pod."
Miss Ryder judged that a phalanx of whales would make a formidable fighting force. She was glad they were on her side.
"We're looking for the White King," she declared.
"Nothing could be simpler." The whale waved a flipper. "Just continue up the coast. The King's Palace is on the sea."
"Thank you," Miss Ryder said graciously, bowing forward at the waist as a sign of respect. She twitched her foot to signal the Steed to leave, but the center whale suddenly moved closer, looming overhead.
"When the time comes," he said mysteriously, "remember that the tapestry holds the secret."
Miss Ryder furrowed her brow. "The tapestry?"
He nodded. "When the time comes."
The whales turned and retreated back to the beach with their strange, lurching gait. Miss Ryder maneuvered the Steed sideways to stay well clear of the potential topple zone. She once again called out a thanks before urging the horse down the coast at a rapid pace. Within a few minutes, they had left the Left Whales far behind.
"Strange advice," the Steed finally spoke. "I suppose we should keep our eyes peeled for a tapestry."
"Peeled?" Miss Ryder echoed. There was something familiar in the word. "What an odd figure of speech."
The horse's heels were kicking up spray as he galloped between the sand and sea under the strange yellow sky. Miss Ryder could feel the surge of the Steed's powerful muscles as her hips moved in perfect unison with his. The two of them had become one, the rhythm of his stride transmitting sensation to a yearning part deep inside her.
She wondered how long she could continue riding the Steed. Before, she had worried that it might be too painful for an extended period of time. Now, thanks to her leather garments, it seemed just as likely she couldn't endure the intense stimulation. Why did it feel so right to have the Steed firmly between her legs?
-oOo-
In the distance, a reflection of sunlight glinted off four alabaster towers perched atop a high rock promontory. A zigzag trail with switchbacks provided access from the beach to the summit.
"That must be the Castle of the White King," the Steed commented. "Just a mile or two more, and..." His voice trailed off as the landscape came into view around the curve of the coast. The beach had disappeared and the path had turned sharply inland where a large river emptied into the Swan Sea, barring their way.
"The whales made no mention of this!" exclaimed the Steed.
Miss Ryder frowned. "They would be traveling by sea, so they wouldn't think anything of a river emptying into it." She slowed the horse at the end of the narrow strip of coast. The current was too strong here; there was no way that the horse could hope to cross. She might be able to swim across herself, but that would mean abandoning her mount. Even though she had just met the Steed, she had no intention of continuing her journey without him.
A large gray boulder marked the corner between river and sea. Miss Ryder dismounted the horse, thinking that if she stood atop the rock, she might get a good look upriver to see if there was any bridge. She was just about to wedge her toes in a shallow crack in its surface when a large eye opened above it and gave her a baleful stare.
Miss Ryder jumped backward as several large tentacles started pulling up from the sand with a sucking sound. She quickly ran back to the safety of the Steed's side, out of clutching range.
"It's alive!" she cried out.
The Steed did a quick limb count. "It's a septapus!" he declared.
"Heptapus," Miss Ryder corrected, now calm.
They both could see the reason for the deficiency. There was a ragged stump where one tentacle used to be. A second eye opened next to the first, defining an almost babyish face.
"I was an octopus," the large creature announced grumpily. "But that was before the accident. The horse is right; now I'm nothing more than a Septapus."
"Heptapus," Miss Ryder corrected.
"Can you imagine how difficult it is to buy sweaters?" he continued. "I always have to pin up one of the sleeves. All the squids pick on me because I'm so poorly armed."
Miss Ryder looked pitiably at the damaged limb. "How did it happen?"
"Ink explosion. I was firing across the bow of a Portuguese man-of-war when my magazine went up."
She shrugged. "So why don't you just grow another one?"
"You say that like it would work," the Septapus fired back with irritation. "Why don't you just grow another head?"
"It doesn't work that way for humans," Miss Ryder explained patiently. "But you're a cephalopod. You have the power to regenerate your appendages."
"I do?"
She nodded. "All it requires is concentration and focus."
The Septapus extended his partial arm and squinted his eyes. A faint blur enveloped the stump. Even as they watched, a new limb slowly grew forth until it was nearly the same length as the others.
"It worked!" he exclaimed. "Incredible! You should write for medical journals."
For some reason, Miss Ryder thought that just possibly, she had. At least there should be no danger of the heptapus blocking their way upriver after this favor.
The Septapus must have picked up on her thoughts. "It seems that now I must do something to pay you back."
She bowed. "Just tell us how we can get past this river to keep going up the coast, and we'll be on our way."
The cephalopod continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I'll have to give you a gift." There was a loud sloshing as he started rummaging through the sand. "A gift, a gift."
Miss Ryder wondered what the creature could possibly have buried away. It seemed more likely the gift would be useless, or worse, a burden. "I don't really require anything," she assured him.
"Not you. Something for your horse." He pulled a vial from the wet sand and tossed it at her with his new arm.
She caught the glass bottle in mid-air. It was filled with a glowing green liquid. She looked at the heptapus questioningly.
"It's a hoofoaccelerator," the Septapus explained. "I call it TrotFast."
Miss Ryder showed the vial to the Steed. A tattered label read "PROPELLANT 23," and below it in smaller letters, "Drink Me." The horse eyed it with suspicion.
"What's in it?" the Steed asked.
"Mostly green curry powder," the cephalopod answered, "but the ingredients are unimportant. The serum gets its properties from being exposed to the light of a full moon when the fish are running every six fortnights." The Septapus raised his tentacles proudly. "I call it the Cod Moon Effect."
The Steed sniffed at the vial. Miss Ryder patted his muzzle and turned her back to the heptapus, moving in close so that only the horse could see. She loosened the laces on her bodice and snuggled the bottle into the warm space between her breasts. "I'll keep it in here for you."
"That's a clever secret pocket," the Steed observed.
Miss Ryder murmured in the horse's ear, "It would have been more useful if he'd given us something to get across the sea."
The Steed addressed the heptapus. "Can you tell us how to continue up the coast?"
The Septapus pursed his chitinous beak. "This is the River Tweed. To cross it, you'll need to go upriver two miles."
"Is there a bridge?" asked Miss Ryder.
"No, but there's a ferry, and someone who runs it."
"Like a ferry godmother?" the Steed asked.
"No; there's a Hermit. He runs the Mercy Ferry." The heptapus was happily flexing his new limb. Miss Ryder nodded as she remounted the Steed.
"Thank you for your help," she said formally. When dealing with strange and potentially threatening creatures such as these, the value of politeness could never be underestimated. "This Hermit," she added, "is he dangerous?"
"Hard to say," the Septapus replied. "He thinks he's a poet."
-oOo-
The Steed followed a dirt trail along the bank of the river while Miss Ryder adjusted his bowler to make sure he could see the low-hanging branches as well as the roots underfoot. Off to her right, a forest formed a sylvan wall with splashes of green and red that were inappropriately-colored for normal vegetation. The air was filled with the sound of frogs croaking in a ragged harmony.
As much as the travelers would have liked to avoid the woods, the path soon gave them no choice, forcing them away from the riverbank and into the foliage. The horse picked his way between immense green spears and crimson stalks. Miss Ryder brushed her hand against nearby trunk in wonder.
"These trees... are asparagus," she observed.
"And the thickets are made of rhubarb," the Steed added. "That accounts for the unusual colors."
She nodded. "Feels like we're traveling through a vegetable platter."
"I've heard about this place," the horse said. "They say that during the rainy season, several inches of cream falls."
Miss Ryder reflexively looked up to the sky to see if any clouds were starting to clot. A single, faint rustle from the nearby rhubarb leaves brought her attention back to ground level. Sunlight reflected off a glass lens; a man was hiding in the foliage. She guided the horse over to the figure, who remained completely motionless, perhaps in the hope that this rendered him invisible. He was crouching behind one of the larger vegetables, a fork clutched in one hand.
Miss Ryder gave him a gentle smile. "Waiting for the cream to fall?"
The man was tensed for action, but he had nowhere to retreat to. "I prefer hollandaise myself," he answered coolly.
"Do you live here?" the Steed asked.
He eyed the horse suspiciously. "My home is nearby."
"No place like home for the hollandaise," the Steed quipped.
Miss Ryder smacked her bare foot into the horse's flank. "What's your name?" she asked.
The man moved with the suddenness of lightning, his hand dipping into the pocket of his rumpled coat. Miss Ryder was too slow as she reached for the whip; he had the drop on her. She found herself looking down at a cylinder of cold steel. Reluctantly, she raised her hands in surrender before realizing that it wasn't the barrel of a weapon, but a small flashlight. The man clicked on the beam and adjusted his spectacles as he peered at the strange visitors.
Miss Ryder lowered her hands and crossed her arms. "So you're the Hermit?"
The man didn't answer, just nodded his head.
"I was expecting a wise man in a hooded robe carrying a lantern, not an accounting clerk with a pocket torch," she said.
"You can't be too careful in this game," the Hermit answered. "There are the chaps in the white hats, and then there are the chaps in the black hats."
"But I'm not wearing any hat," Miss Ryder said.
"I have one," the Steed bragged.
The Hermit wrinkled his mouth. "You're wearing black, and the horse is white. You can understand my confusion." He stood up and approached the horse. "My name's Herman."
"You can call me Steed," the horse answered.
"Mr. Steed, you've got a lovely rider."
"Her name's Miss Ryder," the horse said proudly.
The Hermit led the travelers down a path to the water's edge. "You must want to ferry across."
Miss Ryder dismounted the Steed and ventured towards a large wooden raft moored on the bank. It looked sturdy enough to hold the horse. The ripples in the passing current formed a herringbone pattern. "I see now why it's called the River Tweed," she observed. "Is there any toll?"
"You'll have to listen to my latest poem," the Hermit answered.
Miss Ryder shrugged. "Sounds reasonable," she said, thinking that with such a light price, perhaps it might not be reasonable after all.
She watched the Steed step onto the raft next to her and eye her outfit admiringly. It dawned on her that since she spent most of her time mounted on the horse, he didn't get the chance to see her often; only feel her and hear her. Miss Ryder flirtatiously adjusted the rear hem of the miniskirt, knowing it was the view that would appeal to the horse the most. She allowed herself a smirk of satisfaction when the Steed exhaled an appreciative whinny.
The Hermit seemed oblivious to her charms or skimpy apparel; he simply grabbed a ten-foot pole from the soft mud and pushed away from shore. Miss Ryder momentarily clung to the hope that she would be spared the poetry reading, but knew that all was lost when she heard the Hermit clear his throat.
"I call it The Kitten and the Doggerel," he began.
...
A Kitten with a leather whip snuck into town to spy
When she came upon a Doggerel who blotted out the sky;
His fearsome fur, his hirsute paws, his megalithic head
Filled the minxious Kitten with a foreboding sense of dread.
...
"What's a Doggerel?" the Steed asked suddenly.
"Why, I should think the poem would make that self-evident," the Hermit retorted. "Give it time."
...
"Answer me my riddles three!" the Doggerel ingrued,
"You'll give me rightsome answers, or I'll have you for my food!"
"You can munch to viter's end," the clever Kit begun,
"But you must let me go my way if you miss my riddle one!"
...
The Hermit paused for effect. "What do you think so far?"
"Interesting," Miss Ryder said diplomatically.
The Steed gazed into the water. "The river doesn't seem so deep here. Perhaps we could ford it the rest of the way."
...
The Doggerel was hubric and loath to being beat,
"Pose your fractious puzzle and I'll soon be eating meat."
The Kitten merely licked a paw and with stylish nonchalance
Fix'd him with her twinkle-eyes and tentured this response:
...
"There was a fencing Poodle who could never be outdone,
But for a Tabby dueler who would have him on the run.
The canine struck two clicks ahead on every single thrust;
The feline moved twice as quickly, to leave him in the dust.
When clashing swords en passant, each would posture hard
To stab one smidgen lower—below the other's guard:
Two seconds sooner, two times faster, both steels flashing 'round;
When the two blades finally met, which was closer to the ground?"
...
"How about now?" the Hermit prompted.
The Steed frowned. "I'm not sure domesticated animals should be allowed access to sharp-edged weapons."
...
With puckered eyes and furridged brow, the Doggerel pondered deep
To examine all the data and forecipher logic's leap;
'Til like a sanguine Buddha he spread his paws apart,
And said, "The dog's blade would be lower, due to his head start!"
...
The Kitten purred, "A vaultrous choice, but the battle wasn't so;
True—one passed over, one passed under, as each dueler sought his foe.
But where the two blades finally meet, their height must be the same;
So of which of two was lower, you must answer neither name!"
...
The wolfsome Doggerel gnarred his teeth and groared in his dismay,
And halrued for his missing meal as the Kitten danced away.
" S' wordplay!" he protested. "You foiled me with a riposte!"
But to the wiles of that minxious Kitten, he knew that he had lost.
...
The dramatic silence was broken only by the creaking of the pole as the Hermit pushed against the current of the Tweed.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Miss Ryder hesitated, "Well... I—"
"I liked it," announced the Steed. Miss Ryder's eyes widened in surprise.
"Oh yes?" Herman asked excitedly. "Which part was best?"
"The ending," the Steed said with conviction.
"What was good about the ending?"
"The way it was so thorough, so complete, offering no possibility for a sequel or further development."
"But, I am writing a sequel!" the Hermit bubbled on. "It's called The Anapestic Baby and the Dactylitic Pup..."
"Oh, look!" the Steed announced pleasantly. "We've reached the other side." The raft scuffed up against the riverbank and the horse quickly scrambled off.
"Thanks for the lift!" Miss Ryder called out as she hurriedly slung herself onto the horse's back. Leaning forward, she whispered a single word into his ear.
"Gallop."
The horse and rider sped in silence along the River Tweed, not stopping until they had once again regained the seashore.
"Well," the Steed commented wryly, "at least now we know why he's a Hermit."
-oOo-