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TP's gear was stowed in the bow of the boat while he sat on a padded chair in the stern. Glorious sat on a bench in the center, facing him, manning the oars. He wasn't a talkative fellow, which suited TP just fine. His mind was focused on the challenges ahead, not on idle chit-chat with a stranger. He certainly wasn't about to ask the man questions like where he lived or what he did besides ferry people around the swamp, because he really, really didn't want to know. The less he knew about him, the better. But he did ask one thing.
"So, ah, Mr. Beginnings, how long of a journey is this?"
Glorious didn't break his steady rhythm with the oars, only turned his one eye on TP and stared at him silently.
Growing uneasy and irritated, TP said, "Did I say something wrong?"
"Nobody's ever called me mister before."
TP forced himself to gaze back at the face in front of him, though it was almost physically painful. Why didn't he have the growth removed, for heaven's sake? Surely Doc could take care of it.
"You can call me Glory." He lifted his head as if sniffing the air. "Time depends on what route we take. Two to two-and-a-half hours."
"Oh? What are the choices?"
"Going through the mud flats takes longer. The water's only two or three inches deep for a half mile or so, and I have to pole through it. If we take the cypress grove route it shaves off at least half an hour. But it's full of stingles and snakes. And the Sharnhorn gang doesn't like strangers coming through there. Think they own the place." This last was said with disgust. "Bunch of idiots. But I can deal with them if that's what you want. I know where their traps and stashes are."
"Let's take the mud flat route." TP wanted this whole thing over as quickly as possible, but the cypress grove sounded ghastly. Minglemist didn't have mosquitoes, but it did have stingles - nasty, hummingbird-sized flying lizards with long, whip-like tails that could raise angry red welts on the skin. They hung out in swarms in the trees, diving down on people and lashing them with their tails, emitting clouds of purple fog that stained clothing. They were noisy too, shrieking, chortling and braying like a whole army of farmyard animals. They were the bane of barnicane pickers because they not only stung, but ate the fruit as well.
Then there were the snakes. TP wasn't afraid of them - he'd handled plenty in his day, but the thought of cottonmouths dropping from the cypress trees into the boat wasn't exactly enticing. Even more troubling was this Sharnhorn gang...did they shoot trespassers or drown them, or both?
"Mud flats it is," said Glory, maneuvering through a maze of channels lined with thick vegetation so tall in places it arched over the water on either side, forming leafy tunnels. How he kept his sense of direction was a mystery, but he seemed entirely in his element, handling the boat with ease.
They sat in silence a good while. TP could feel jolts of energy as the chimera stirred in him. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm, breathing into the heartbeat of the swamp, feeling it thrum all around him and through his veins, subduing his jitters. Its rhythm carried the subtle rustle of reeds as the boat pushed through them, the thump of the oars, the sluicing sound of the water, and all the croaks, splashes, squeals, quacks, and hums of life forms moving to its beat, flying, floating, hopping or swimming, sucking in water or air and letting it out again so breath and bone were inseparable. It was like the meditation on the dot in the circle, TP mused. When you focused on the dot, it grew and expanded until it contained the circle, and eventually you realized they were one and the same.
The mud flats proved to be a welcome change from the claustrophobic channels. The vegetation was mostly short clumps of grasses and water lilies, and one could see islands rising in the distance. They passed other boats, rafts and waders up to their shins in muck digging freshwater clams and spatterdock roots. TP stood up in the stern and asked for a paddle so he could help pole, but Glory wouldn't hear of it.
"Save your energy," he said. "Sounds like you're going to need it."
They exchanged a look, then Glory said, "Doc told me you've got a dragon and are going into the mist to try and get rid of it." He shook his head. "Hell of a thing."
TP nodded and sat down, feeling useless while Glory poled through the muck, his shirt soaked with sweat but his movements tireless and steady. Finally they hit deeper water.
"Lots of springs here," Glory said, resting a moment as he drank deeply from a flask. "They boil up in spots." He pointed with an oar at a disturbance sending ripples outward. "You have to be careful going through them. They can flip your boat."
Up ahead were two islands with a narrow channel of water between them. As they drew closer, they could see men in boats attaching buoys to nets stretched across the passageway, fastened to stout poles driven into the banks of either island.
Glory blew out an angry breath. "Sharnhorns," he muttered. "Pardon me, Mr. Dunlap, but it looks like we've hit a snag. Hold tight."
He rowed toward one of the boats and pulled alongside. The men had stopped to stare at him with hostile eyes.
"This is public water, Wert Sharnhorn," said Glory, addressing the lone man standing in the closest boat. He was large and burly, with a broad face, thick black hair and a bushy beard. "I've got a paying passenger and I need to get through the channel."
"Well, you'll just have to go around the island," the big man said, "because as of now these waters is closed. And they'll stay that way till after barnicane season." His small grey eyes dared them to pass. Those eyes, TP thought, looked familiar.
Glory kept his voice even, but TP could see he was furious. "You don't own the water or the islands or the barnicanes growing on them. Let us through. Now."
"Not going to happen, Beginnings. What reason you got to cross the channel anyway? Nothing on the other side but cypress and snuffle hogs."
"That's none of your business. I wonder what the queen will have to say about this."
The big man guffawed, showing blackened teeth. "Big fat nothin' is what she'll say. Because who's gonna tell her?" He wagged his head at Glory. "We both know it's not gonna be you, Purple Face. These is our islands and our barnicanes. Sharnhorns been living here for generations and everybody knows it.
"Squatting, you mean," muttered Glory. He turned the boat and rowed to the island on the right, hugging the bank where tangles of vines hung over the water. When he was no longer in sight of the Sharnhorns he pulled into a narrow runnel of water barely as wide as the boat.
"Don't worry, we'll get around them," he told TP. Slowly and as quietly as possible he moved the craft down the runnel - really no more than a ditch with a foot or so of water in it. It cut in towards the center of the island, through brush so thick Glory had to hack it back in spots with a machete. After a short stretch of rough going, the ditch widened and veered out again to the island's bank, emptying into the channel past the nets and buoys. But just off the bank was a very large disturbance in the water, apparently one of the underground springs Glory had mentioned. TP eyed the boiling ripples nervously. Were they really going to go through it? He opened his mouth to ask, but suddenly the air above them erupted with raucous noises and a flock of stingles flew out of the trees, lashing their tails angrily, intent on defending their territory. Glory cursed under his breath, swatting at them with an oar as they whirled and chattered. TP felt a sting on his neck, another on his shoulder. But he was an old hand at dealing with stingles. Last summer on a field trip in Minglemist he'd discovered a good trick.
Pulling a dog whistle out of his pocket where he'd stashed it this morning before leaving home, he blew on it as hard as he could. Immediately the stingles fell back, circling around in confusion, then flying off with piercing shrieks. Glory watched with an open mouth.
"What the heck is that?"
"A special whistle. I bought it last year for dealing with some nasty dogs. Turns out it works for stingles too. It emits an ultrasonic sound they can't stand."
"Hah! That's the darnedest thing I ever saw. But we've got to get out of here fast. The Sharnhorns will surely have heard the ruckus."
Glory studied the boiling water one moment, two, then sat down, grabbed the oars and shot into the channel.
TP scrunched up his face, closed his eyes and gripped his chair tightly as the boat bucked and shuddered, rocking dangerously, spinning once, twice, then rocketing forward. TP drew a breath and dared to open his eyes. They were through the turbulent circle of water, moving at a good clip in an unseen current. Glory's one eye sparkled and a small smile curved his lips. He'd enjoyed this! Reckless fool, TP thought darkly, but he couldn't suppress a tiny smile himself. He was thinking of Madeline; picturing her cheeks flushed red and her eyes gleaming with exhilaration on this wild ride.
But his smile faded as a sharp crack sounded behind them, and he looked back to see two men in a boat, one rowing, one standing up holding a long gun.
"Bastards," said Glory. "They'll never catch us. We've got the current here."
TP fervently hoped he was right. He crouched in his chair, but there were no more shots, and soon the other boat gave up the chase and turned around.
"Would they really have shot us?" TP asked.
"If it were Wert, I'd say no. He's just a big blow bag. But the one with the gun? That's his son - they call him Mud Puppy, and he's downright nuts. Killed a man in a knife fight and spent ten years in jail. Just got out, but the way he's going, he'll be back in before long. The whole pack of Sharnhorns are animals, if you ask me."
"How many are there?"
Glory snorted. "More than there should be. Wert's sister owns the Wiggle Hop."
"Oola?" Of course. Those small pale eyes, the same as Wert's.
"That's the one. She's maybe the scariest one of the lot." He threw TP a wry grin. "Sorry you've had a rough ride, Mr. Dunlap. It won't be much longer now." Glory glanced over his shoulder. "See that big cloud of haze up ahead to the right? That's the Widow."
TP's stomach lurched. It looked so benign from here - the soft green shoreline, the puffs of mist spiraling upwards, sparkling a little in the noonday sun.
"Have you ever gone ashore there?"
Glory nodded. "I pick barnicanes on the north side of the island every year. Some of the best I've ever seen. Easy picking and no competition. The Sharnhorns won't go near the place. They think it's haunted."
TP thought it very possible. The closer they came, the more ominous it looked. He could see ghostly arms of mist reaching outward from the main mass, as if grabbing for whatever was in reach.
Glory beached the boat in a small cove, jumping out into ankle deep water and pulling it onto the rocky bank.
Well, this was it. No turning back now. TP stepped out of the boat, took a big breath and squared his shoulders, eyeing the rough terrain.
"What's the best way to approach it," he asked.
"Glory handed him his backpack and lifted out the suitcase. "Follow me."
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