KEETHRO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The amenable nature of their river voyage ended abruptly when the rains came. They had storms just as fierce in the Northluns, but those carried only snow. In the summer months they would receive rain, but those were always gentle and welcomed. The weather in which Keethro and Titon now found themselves was neither.

The thatching they had duplicated from their previous boat had proven inadequate, unable to shelter their bodies or their fire, and with their fire went their spirits. Violent gusts blew a horizontal deluge, spraying them in the face and making safe travel downstream an impossibility. The once calm waters of the river had swollen and rushed with force.

“To shore, before these rapids swallow us.” Titon had not so much as finished speaking when Keethro had the long pole in hand, attempting to push them toward the riverbank. Titon paddled with a wide piece of wood that had come loose from the shelter.

With considerable effort, shouts, and cursing, the men were able to land their raft, pulling it partially ashore. “How is it so fecking cold?” Titon bellowed to the sky.

“We need shelter from the wind and rain, a fire is out of the question.” A nod from Titon showed he was of like mind. “We can tilt the raft and use brush to fill any gaps between the logs,” Keethro added.

Their grunts and heaving was met with no success as they tried to lift an edge of the raft. Though they’d once carried it into the water under their own power, the giant they had constructed had become saturated with water and was simply too heavy. The exertion brought Keethro some minor warmth, but he still shook from a dangerous chill.

Titon laughed like a man deranged. “Two Northmen, to die frozen in the heart of the South.”

The temperature was not near so cold as they regularly endured in the North, but this combination of wind and rain was an unfamiliar foe. More clothing would do them no good, so long as it was soaked. Some method of shelter was essential before their fingers became useless.

Frantically they built more thatch structures with hearty bracings, cannibalizing their raft for horsehide binding. After a time, they each had a curved shield of fronds and branches large enough that they could sit together, overlapping their sections to keep the wind and rain at bay. They exchanged nods, agreeing that this would do for the time being.

Though they were still drenched, it was much warmer without the wind stripping them of all their heat. They could have been warmer still, had they sat closer, but Keethro knew Titon’s pride would only allow so much. Keethro was content to remain where they were, a ways up the riverbank and safe from the water, convinced they could survive provided the storm did not persist through the night.

But the waters of the river continued to rise. With no cordage to spare to tie it off, their raft would soon be swept away if they did not abandon their shelter and drag it further aground—a task that would cost them what little warmth they’d just gained. The loss of the raft meant little to Keethro so long as they kept their lives, but he knew Titon had grown attached to their creation.

“We should save it,” said Titon, confirming Keethro’s fears.

This man’s stubbornness will be the end of us.

“You stay here while I—”

Just as Titon began to speak, his head jerked backward as if struck in the face.

“What the bloody hell?” he shouted. “Who is out there?” Even Titon’s monstrous voice sounded somewhat weak as it was drowned out by the heavy rains.

Before Titon could lower his barrier in search of their attacker, they received a response—a response that could not have come from a mere man. The noise of the rain was accompanied by what sounded like hundreds of rocks plummeting from the sky. Keethro saw in Titon’s eyes a strange emotion. It could not be fear, of course—it must have been confusion. But even Keethro, who had no superstitions, felt ill at ease in the presence of whatever power may summon a shower of stones.

“Gods of the River, the Mountain, and the Dawnstar,” cried Titon. “It was with no irreverence that we flung our coats into your waters. Know that the urine upon them was not our own, not that that is any excuse. It was a grave error, and we humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Keethro had never known Titon to speak directly to his gods, and seeing him do so in desperation was frightening in its own right. Out of instinct Keethro sought the void, clearing his mind so he may think of a way to calm his friend.

“We offer you our raft in sacrifice,” Keethro yelled, hoping Titon would accept the idea.

It took only a few moments before the raft was swept away by a sudden rush of water, and Titon’s face shone with naked relief. Even Keethro was awed by the timing of it, but the sound of the rocks falling continued, and several made their way through the thatching.

“Ice,” said Titon, first with wonder then with joy. “Gods be merciful, they have turned stone to water!”

Keethro began to laugh, and Titon soon followed. Nothing cheered the man quite like believing he had again escaped certain death. Merciful and exploitable, Keethro thought, though it would be some time before he could be fully removed from the disquiet that lingered after seeing the raft be taken just moments after having offered it—to those gods in which he held no belief.