The Wildside Book of Fantasy: 20 Great Tales of Fantasy by Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah
Authors: Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah
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meant to surface beside us instead of under us. She has followed all this way to ask our pardon.”
I studied her in the water, remorseful, pleading, and yet without obsequiousness, a proud being humbled to ask forgiveness. If she told the truth, she had done her best to atone for the blunder.
I leaned over the bulwark. “Nice girl,” I said in the tone of a man coaxing his favorite dog. “Would you like to lead us?”
Astyanax whispered in my ear, “You mustn’t call her ‘girl.’ She is five years old—for a dolphin that’s as old as you are. Call her Atthis.”
I looked into her face and saw, for the first time, the dignity of a beak and an airhole. I had treated her like a child or a pet. She was neither, she was indefinably yet incontestably a woman, with pride and high intelligence.
“Atthis,” I said. “You will honor us by becoming our pilot.”
She opened her mouth and uttered a series of barks. “She says yes,” Astyanax interpreted.
“What else?”
“She says, ‘I will pilot Bear and serve him as he deserves.’”
The words were ambiguous, but I took them to be a compliment. “She actually called me Bear?”
“There isn’t a word for bear in her language. She had to improvise. She called you ‘The Furry Prowler’—two barks and a trailing squeak.”
“Now,” I began, “we shall—“
“Go to find Circe,” cried the brothers.
“And supplies,” said Astyanax. “And dinner.”
Our escape, after all, had not been difficult. It was only men who had tried to stop us. The women—and the woman—were still to come. Except Atthis.
III: OUT OF THE INNER SEA
In Agylla we took on supplies and I paid Aruns for the purchase of his ship.
“Remember,” I said, “she still belongs to you.”
We sailed north, hugging the coast of Hesperia. Fishermen rose in their skiffs and stared enviously at our red sail, which caught the sun like a net, and our blue, unbarnacled hull. They saw that a luck-bringing white dolphin not only accompanied but led us, and to share in our luck they shouted the blessings of the sea-god Nethuns, whom the Romans call Neptune. Astyanax manned the sweeps to hold us on course, and carefully scanned the waves, hoping to find his parents or other Tritons. The brothers tended the sail, a square of canvas divided into smaller squares by leather webbing and secured by forestays and afterstays; they set the yards with braces and reefed when a squall blew up, and we came about, tacked or ran with the wind. Aruns was lookout and I, as captain, moved freely about the ship and coordinated my crew. Atthis, of course, was pilot. With a skill beyond any man’s, she kept us from hidden shoals, which the Greeks call “Ants,” and nosed out currents that might increase our speed.
Late every afternoon we moored in a river mouth or a cove, triced the sail, and sent the brothers to bargain with local farmers for the produce of the land—figs, pomegranates, goat’s milk, eggs, chickens—or, in the wilder country, to hunt for boars and gather chestnuts. We built a fire on shore to cook our dinner, ate like seasoned adventurers, and afterward returned to the ship. While a pine-knot torch blazed above our heads, Aruns played double-pipes and the brothers danced, throwing their chins back, curving their hands, and in spite of their size brushing the deck as lightly as deer or conies. Atthis, who listened to the pipes through her tiny earholes, rolled on the surface in rapture. Sometimes Astyanax dove in the water and clung to her dorsal fin. More often he stayed on deck and, with touching wistfulness, watched the feet of the brothers. One of the boys might lift him and leap to the music and Astyanax would sway his arms with the grace of a practiced dancer.
One night, when Aruns had tired of playing the pipes, he bowed his head in thought. We quickly fell silent and hoped for a story, for he knew both Homer and Hesiod, the lore of Tages, the legends of Isis and Set. He had
I studied her in the water, remorseful, pleading, and yet without obsequiousness, a proud being humbled to ask forgiveness. If she told the truth, she had done her best to atone for the blunder.
I leaned over the bulwark. “Nice girl,” I said in the tone of a man coaxing his favorite dog. “Would you like to lead us?”
Astyanax whispered in my ear, “You mustn’t call her ‘girl.’ She is five years old—for a dolphin that’s as old as you are. Call her Atthis.”
I looked into her face and saw, for the first time, the dignity of a beak and an airhole. I had treated her like a child or a pet. She was neither, she was indefinably yet incontestably a woman, with pride and high intelligence.
“Atthis,” I said. “You will honor us by becoming our pilot.”
She opened her mouth and uttered a series of barks. “She says yes,” Astyanax interpreted.
“What else?”
“She says, ‘I will pilot Bear and serve him as he deserves.’”
The words were ambiguous, but I took them to be a compliment. “She actually called me Bear?”
“There isn’t a word for bear in her language. She had to improvise. She called you ‘The Furry Prowler’—two barks and a trailing squeak.”
“Now,” I began, “we shall—“
“Go to find Circe,” cried the brothers.
“And supplies,” said Astyanax. “And dinner.”
Our escape, after all, had not been difficult. It was only men who had tried to stop us. The women—and the woman—were still to come. Except Atthis.
III: OUT OF THE INNER SEA
In Agylla we took on supplies and I paid Aruns for the purchase of his ship.
“Remember,” I said, “she still belongs to you.”
We sailed north, hugging the coast of Hesperia. Fishermen rose in their skiffs and stared enviously at our red sail, which caught the sun like a net, and our blue, unbarnacled hull. They saw that a luck-bringing white dolphin not only accompanied but led us, and to share in our luck they shouted the blessings of the sea-god Nethuns, whom the Romans call Neptune. Astyanax manned the sweeps to hold us on course, and carefully scanned the waves, hoping to find his parents or other Tritons. The brothers tended the sail, a square of canvas divided into smaller squares by leather webbing and secured by forestays and afterstays; they set the yards with braces and reefed when a squall blew up, and we came about, tacked or ran with the wind. Aruns was lookout and I, as captain, moved freely about the ship and coordinated my crew. Atthis, of course, was pilot. With a skill beyond any man’s, she kept us from hidden shoals, which the Greeks call “Ants,” and nosed out currents that might increase our speed.
Late every afternoon we moored in a river mouth or a cove, triced the sail, and sent the brothers to bargain with local farmers for the produce of the land—figs, pomegranates, goat’s milk, eggs, chickens—or, in the wilder country, to hunt for boars and gather chestnuts. We built a fire on shore to cook our dinner, ate like seasoned adventurers, and afterward returned to the ship. While a pine-knot torch blazed above our heads, Aruns played double-pipes and the brothers danced, throwing their chins back, curving their hands, and in spite of their size brushing the deck as lightly as deer or conies. Atthis, who listened to the pipes through her tiny earholes, rolled on the surface in rapture. Sometimes Astyanax dove in the water and clung to her dorsal fin. More often he stayed on deck and, with touching wistfulness, watched the feet of the brothers. One of the boys might lift him and leap to the music and Astyanax would sway his arms with the grace of a practiced dancer.
One night, when Aruns had tired of playing the pipes, he bowed his head in thought. We quickly fell silent and hoped for a story, for he knew both Homer and Hesiod, the lore of Tages, the legends of Isis and Set. He had
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