light, and a big, bearded man shouted, “There she is!”
“Scatter!” Joe shouted. “The usual places!” He held out his hand. It was time to call upon the great magical sword named after his son. “Irving, to me!”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Not you,” he growled, as the men streamed out with blood in their eyes. “I said for you to scatter! The sword, damn it!”
“Oh!”
Frustrated, he drew his great sword just barely in time as the first of the men came at him. Using mostly the flat, he banged heads and sent men sprawling. Some fell back and there was the crack of rotting wood and then yells and splashes.
A knife whizzed past his ear and he decided it was time to beat a retreat himself. He waited until they surged forward, then quickly backed up, causing the mob almost to Ml over each other. Satisfied, he turned, there was a cracking sound, and in a few more seconds he felt himself fall into the river.
It wasn’t terribly deep right in there, and he hit the mud bottom and kicked off, encumbered by his necessary grip on his sword. The river water here was static, due to the piers and construction, and smelled like raw sewage, which was what got dumped into it by the town anyway. Struggling, he made his way in under one of the piers to where his head and shoulders were above water when he stood and managed to sheath the sword.
As much as he wanted out of that river at that point, he’ decided to stay in and try and make his way down, away from the port itself, cloaked by darkness and by the natural unwillingness of anybody up there voluntarily to jump in this fetid mess. He didn’t like it, either, but anything he was going to catch from it he most certainly already had.
Like almost all river ports, the town was situated at a bend where the river slowed and deposited its silt, creating a flat, swampy land mass that none the less allowed for the docking of boats and the laying of foundations on pilings in the muck. At the far end the harbor stopped, as the water was far too shallow to be useful, leaving a good quarter of a mile of broad mud flats. Here, untouched by man’s attempt to control the land, was a slippery quagmire that, nonetheless, he could manage, although the scabbard of his sword dragged in it and occasionally made him lose his balance. By the time he reached firmer land, he was totally covered in sticky brown mud. He hauled himself up and sat in the harder mud near shore and coughed a bit. After a few minutes, he heard someone else, a woman, coughing as well.
“Who’s there?” he challenged.
“Joe? Is that you?”
“Ti? What the hell are you doing here in this mess?”
She made her way over to him. “Same as you, I guess. I tripped over something on the pier and the next thing I knew I was in the water. This seemed like the only way out.”
He laughed and soon she laughed with him. Finally he asked, “Irv?”
“Oh, he went in between the buildings. He’ll be fine. He knows where the camp is and he’s pretty street-wise, so I don’t think he’ll get in any real trouble.” She chuckled. “God! I must look a fright. As bad as you do! It’ll take me a week of washing to get this gook out of my hair!”
“Yeah, it’s almost a shame. Here we are alone together and free for the first time in a long time, and look at us! By the time we got anyplace decent the mud would dry us into statues.”
She thought about it. “Then maybe the trick is to make sure the mud doesn’t dry.”
“Huh? You meanover there? In the mud?”
“Why not? Kinky, huh?”
He thought about it. “Well, why not? We can’t get any muddier.”
He was definitely wrong about that.
Still, it was a night to remember. Caked with the gooey stuff, they made their way to the edge of the flats, where the river made the full curve and began to pick up again, cleansed now. They were able to swim about and get as much off as they could, and it turned into one of those rare magical nights when it felt good to
“Scatter!” Joe shouted. “The usual places!” He held out his hand. It was time to call upon the great magical sword named after his son. “Irving, to me!”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Not you,” he growled, as the men streamed out with blood in their eyes. “I said for you to scatter! The sword, damn it!”
“Oh!”
Frustrated, he drew his great sword just barely in time as the first of the men came at him. Using mostly the flat, he banged heads and sent men sprawling. Some fell back and there was the crack of rotting wood and then yells and splashes.
A knife whizzed past his ear and he decided it was time to beat a retreat himself. He waited until they surged forward, then quickly backed up, causing the mob almost to Ml over each other. Satisfied, he turned, there was a cracking sound, and in a few more seconds he felt himself fall into the river.
It wasn’t terribly deep right in there, and he hit the mud bottom and kicked off, encumbered by his necessary grip on his sword. The river water here was static, due to the piers and construction, and smelled like raw sewage, which was what got dumped into it by the town anyway. Struggling, he made his way in under one of the piers to where his head and shoulders were above water when he stood and managed to sheath the sword.
As much as he wanted out of that river at that point, he’ decided to stay in and try and make his way down, away from the port itself, cloaked by darkness and by the natural unwillingness of anybody up there voluntarily to jump in this fetid mess. He didn’t like it, either, but anything he was going to catch from it he most certainly already had.
Like almost all river ports, the town was situated at a bend where the river slowed and deposited its silt, creating a flat, swampy land mass that none the less allowed for the docking of boats and the laying of foundations on pilings in the muck. At the far end the harbor stopped, as the water was far too shallow to be useful, leaving a good quarter of a mile of broad mud flats. Here, untouched by man’s attempt to control the land, was a slippery quagmire that, nonetheless, he could manage, although the scabbard of his sword dragged in it and occasionally made him lose his balance. By the time he reached firmer land, he was totally covered in sticky brown mud. He hauled himself up and sat in the harder mud near shore and coughed a bit. After a few minutes, he heard someone else, a woman, coughing as well.
“Who’s there?” he challenged.
“Joe? Is that you?”
“Ti? What the hell are you doing here in this mess?”
She made her way over to him. “Same as you, I guess. I tripped over something on the pier and the next thing I knew I was in the water. This seemed like the only way out.”
He laughed and soon she laughed with him. Finally he asked, “Irv?”
“Oh, he went in between the buildings. He’ll be fine. He knows where the camp is and he’s pretty street-wise, so I don’t think he’ll get in any real trouble.” She chuckled. “God! I must look a fright. As bad as you do! It’ll take me a week of washing to get this gook out of my hair!”
“Yeah, it’s almost a shame. Here we are alone together and free for the first time in a long time, and look at us! By the time we got anyplace decent the mud would dry us into statues.”
She thought about it. “Then maybe the trick is to make sure the mud doesn’t dry.”
“Huh? You meanover there? In the mud?”
“Why not? Kinky, huh?”
He thought about it. “Well, why not? We can’t get any muddier.”
He was definitely wrong about that.
Still, it was a night to remember. Caked with the gooey stuff, they made their way to the edge of the flats, where the river made the full curve and began to pick up again, cleansed now. They were able to swim about and get as much off as they could, and it turned into one of those rare magical nights when it felt good to
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