“The show was cursed, because of me.”
Semele stood beside him. “This was for the both of us,” she said in a voice that she probably meant to be comforting. “These curses were fashioned for you and me both.”
Act II, Scene VII
THE WAGON-RAFT SPUTTERED UPSTREAM. Rownie sat on the edge of the roof, dangled his feet over the side, and watched the River go by. The city was out of sight already. The Fiddleway Bridge disappeared behind a bend. Rownie could not remember any place other than Zombay, and now he could no longer see it.
Nonny stood in the back and steered the raft by poking her paddle contraption with a pole.
Patch and Essa sat beside Rownie and dangled fishing lines in the water. They hadn’t caught anything. Nonny’s paddles scared all the fish away.
Semele sat up front, in the driving bench. Thomas sat with her, invisible beneath a big, black hat pulled low. Rownie didn’t think the old goblin could see anything other than the inside of his hat, but then he pointed forward with his cane and shouted directions.
“There are rocks ahead! Nonny, kindly steer us tostarboard. Otherwise we are going to crash and sink and return the River’s own face to the watery floor of its home. Then nothing could possibly prevent floodwaters from tearing down all of Zombay—which would suit my mood just fine, actually, so go ahead and steer for those rocks if it pleases you to do so.”
Nonny steered around the rocks.
“What’s he talking about?” Rownie whispered.
“The floods are coming,” said Essa. “I mean, the floods are always coming, but they happen to be coming in a soon-and-immediate kind of way. Listen. I bet you can hear it.”
Rownie listened to the River. He had heard it every day of his life, underneath and around all other noise. He knew its voice—and the timbre of its voice had changed. It spoke low and angry as the water flowed.
“There,” said Essa. “You noticed.”
“Maybe this is what it usually sounds like so far upstream,” said Rownie.
“Nope,” said Essa. “This is what it usually sounds like before a flood comes howling down the canyon. We should probably have warned more people on the docks. We didn’t have very much time, I suppose, before our performance exploded, but I meant to tell a few skippers that they should maybe send their crew and cargo ashore, and up into the hills. Even a little bit of flooding will make things messy atthe docks, and we’re in for more than a little bit.”
“I have already told such barge captains as will listen to Tamlin warnings,” said Semele from the front bench. “They will spread the news. But we may yet be able to speak for the city, and thereby save Zombay from drowning.”
“I am not presently inclined to bet on our success,” said Thomas from under his hat. “There are more rocks ahead, Nonny. You may hit them if you’d like. Otherwise, steer to port.”
Nonny steered to port.
Very little of this conversation made any sense to Rownie, but he didn’t bother to ask clarifying questions. He felt surrounded by gloom and wished he had a big, black hat of his own to pull down over his face.
Graba had cursed the troupe and all of their doings. Grubs would follow wherever they went. Burning birds would fly screaming down at them until the stage and wagon caught fire, and they all burned with it—unless the River rose up in a flood before Graba had the chance to burn them. Bad things were coming—in water or in fire or both at once.
Semele pointed to a spot on the southern side of the ravine. “There,” she said. “That is the place we should be aiming for, yes.”
Nonny steered them to where Semele had pointed. Shetossed a grappling hook, grappled riverside tree roots with it, and roped the raft to shore. Then she stopped the spinning paddle contraption and climbed inside the wagon. The raft drifted at the end of its tether.
Rownie looked around. The place did not seem in any way special. “Why this
Semele stood beside him. “This was for the both of us,” she said in a voice that she probably meant to be comforting. “These curses were fashioned for you and me both.”
Act II, Scene VII
THE WAGON-RAFT SPUTTERED UPSTREAM. Rownie sat on the edge of the roof, dangled his feet over the side, and watched the River go by. The city was out of sight already. The Fiddleway Bridge disappeared behind a bend. Rownie could not remember any place other than Zombay, and now he could no longer see it.
Nonny stood in the back and steered the raft by poking her paddle contraption with a pole.
Patch and Essa sat beside Rownie and dangled fishing lines in the water. They hadn’t caught anything. Nonny’s paddles scared all the fish away.
Semele sat up front, in the driving bench. Thomas sat with her, invisible beneath a big, black hat pulled low. Rownie didn’t think the old goblin could see anything other than the inside of his hat, but then he pointed forward with his cane and shouted directions.
“There are rocks ahead! Nonny, kindly steer us tostarboard. Otherwise we are going to crash and sink and return the River’s own face to the watery floor of its home. Then nothing could possibly prevent floodwaters from tearing down all of Zombay—which would suit my mood just fine, actually, so go ahead and steer for those rocks if it pleases you to do so.”
Nonny steered around the rocks.
“What’s he talking about?” Rownie whispered.
“The floods are coming,” said Essa. “I mean, the floods are always coming, but they happen to be coming in a soon-and-immediate kind of way. Listen. I bet you can hear it.”
Rownie listened to the River. He had heard it every day of his life, underneath and around all other noise. He knew its voice—and the timbre of its voice had changed. It spoke low and angry as the water flowed.
“There,” said Essa. “You noticed.”
“Maybe this is what it usually sounds like so far upstream,” said Rownie.
“Nope,” said Essa. “This is what it usually sounds like before a flood comes howling down the canyon. We should probably have warned more people on the docks. We didn’t have very much time, I suppose, before our performance exploded, but I meant to tell a few skippers that they should maybe send their crew and cargo ashore, and up into the hills. Even a little bit of flooding will make things messy atthe docks, and we’re in for more than a little bit.”
“I have already told such barge captains as will listen to Tamlin warnings,” said Semele from the front bench. “They will spread the news. But we may yet be able to speak for the city, and thereby save Zombay from drowning.”
“I am not presently inclined to bet on our success,” said Thomas from under his hat. “There are more rocks ahead, Nonny. You may hit them if you’d like. Otherwise, steer to port.”
Nonny steered to port.
Very little of this conversation made any sense to Rownie, but he didn’t bother to ask clarifying questions. He felt surrounded by gloom and wished he had a big, black hat of his own to pull down over his face.
Graba had cursed the troupe and all of their doings. Grubs would follow wherever they went. Burning birds would fly screaming down at them until the stage and wagon caught fire, and they all burned with it—unless the River rose up in a flood before Graba had the chance to burn them. Bad things were coming—in water or in fire or both at once.
Semele pointed to a spot on the southern side of the ravine. “There,” she said. “That is the place we should be aiming for, yes.”
Nonny steered them to where Semele had pointed. Shetossed a grappling hook, grappled riverside tree roots with it, and roped the raft to shore. Then she stopped the spinning paddle contraption and climbed inside the wagon. The raft drifted at the end of its tether.
Rownie looked around. The place did not seem in any way special. “Why this
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