The Slime Farmer

Chapter 7: The Hermit of the Little Treachery

Sarel's mornings were marked with specific events.

The rooster would crow precisely as the sunlight hit its eye, and no earlier. The door of her cottage would stick a little due to the morning moisture and needed a bit of jiggling to open. The redweb spider's intricate weave across the two apple trees that shaded her home would block her path and needed careful dismantling. The grubs that came out at night would still be wriggling in the shade, numerous enough to fill a jar large enough for an afternoon's fishing. The sun on her skin would warm her bones and energize her vitality, getting her ready for a full day.

That had been her routine for ten years, four months, and twenty-one days. It was a very comfortable routine.

That was why, when the corpse came flopping against the pilings of her creaky wooden pier one morning, she knew it was going to be the start of a troublesome week.

She stared at the body, floating on her patch of river, and looked up at the morning sky. Maybe she shouldn't have woken up so early? The river would then have washed the corpse downstream, nearer to the lake. It would have been the town's problem then.

The face of the corpse sank. A bubble popped on the surface of the river.

Sarel frowned harder.

Ah.

It was alive.

She walked to the shed, retrieved the rarely used fishing gaff, and hooked the unfortunate soul out of the water.

It was not the first time a body had floated down the Little Treachery. It happened several times a year, hence the name of this small tributary of the great river that sustained Ascharon, the Redelan. The Little Treachery was only a quarter the size of the shortest of the great river's branches, but it was ten times more dangerous.

The Overpool, connected to the great river itself, and the Lowpool, which was the small lake at the end, were the only calm parts of the Little Treachery. Between those pools, one may think the river was fighting itself and the whole world around it besides.

Sarel's home was located on the edges of the Lowpool, where it met the Treachery proper. She built it because few dared make their homes near the Treachery and the few that did knew to leave her alone.

She tapped the fishing gaff on the body's chest. The young man twisted, coughed river water out of his guts and onto the pier.

"I don't suppose there's a direction I could point you at, so you could go away?"

The body hacked out another helping of water.

No.

The young man was actually laughing, near to the point of tears. "D-death h-surely isn't this p-painful?"

He started to shiver involuntarily, curling into himself. His lips were blue.

"If you came down the Treachery, you should be thankful you have this much life in you." Sarel took hold of his shirt and hauled him upright.

He stumbled. Stiff limbs, half-unseeing eyes, unable to take a step without losing balance, and cold, so very cold, Sarel listed silently. How long had he been in the water?

She groaned, resigning herself to hosting the boy for a day. "I'll send someone to the Lowpool, they'll find whichever fool friends you decided to take on the Treachery with. If they're still alive."

He shook his head. "R-robbed. Th-the crew."

"Pirates came after you?" Not an uncommon occurrence on the great river. She nudged him to sit on one of the sitting stones near her house. It was fully in sun and, more importantly, less prone to water-rot than her house.

He shook his head again, more vehemently, a bright light of familiar darkness in his eyes. "The crew."

The two words were spat out like a dark promise.

Aha. Also not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately.

She tipped a flask of brunwine down his throat. He coughed. She poured more into him.

"Doesn't taste like vital water," he choked. He relaxed a little, though the shivering remained pronounced.

"It's not." Vital water? Hah. Her brunwine burned hotter than any water.

Sure enough he sat up and drew a long inward breath, eyes wide, as the effects started.

She studied him. Common enough clothes, a wide decorated belt buckled at his waist and...she lifted a brow at the leather straps wrapped around his feet. Some new-fangled fashion from the capital, she was certain. "I'm guessing you didn't hire through the river-patrol."

"Couldn't get to my boat," he grit out, eyes more lively than before. "Had to hire off the wharf."

He did have an accent, she concluded. She'd been wondering if the odd way he spoke the words was the effect of the river. "Half the runners on the great river are pirates, boy. Aren't newcomers warned by river patrol?"

She felt the sharp glance sent at her. "What do you mean?"

Oh? That he attempted the elongated syllables of the Alamet mountain people in the south was instantly recognizable, but still a bit too clipped, too abrupt. Her mind whirled. A foreigner running from pursuers, someone else procured his boat for him, nave enough or desperate enough to trust a wharfman

Sarel stopped herself. It wasn't her business. The Alamet mountain accent was credible enough. It wasn't like most people here in the central mountains would know.

"Don't trust the wharf rats, is what I mean. River patrol's usually honest. Mostly."

"You saidtreachery?"

She snorted, a corner of her lips lifting in a half-smirk. "This tributary of the great river's called the Little Treachery. I tell you now, you likely gave up one of your three lives to the Bridge-maker to survive that."

"Definitely feels like it," the boy grumbled. He downed the last of the brunwine in the bottle, before tucking his hands under his arms.

He wasn't dripping anymore, so Seral waved him into the house even as she inwardly sighed at herself. At least her mother wasn't here to beam at her for taking in another of the pitiful life-forms the woman was prone to collecting. "You can't let those clothes dry on you. I have old things here somewhere."

"Thank you." Then a spasm of realization crossed his face. He stopped on the threshold. "I cannot repay you."

"I'll have you run a few boatloads downriver for me." The zaziphos had ripened again, to her ire. Why hadn't she chosen to plant trees that didn't need so much harvesting all year round?

Well, she did have a willing slave for the day didn't she. She eyed the boy who was looking around her cottage with carefully subtle interest. He looked lively enough. Her mood lightened. Any reprieve from the monthly fruit-picking was a good thing.

She smiled.

It didn't last, of course. After the picking baskets had been filled and the sun edged into the mid-afternoon heat, she was readying the boat for a run down to the Lowpool when her companion collapsed like a stage-puppet with strings cut.

She stared for a long moment. Childhood stories of corpses moving, due to an excess of vitality, long after the body died suffused her mind.

She mentally kicked herself in annoyance and then gingerly took his wrist. His heart beat strong enough. She pressed the back of her palm to his temples, like people did to children. His forehead felt a little heated. She frowned, bent over to check his breathing.

It rattled a little.

She cursed.

Seven colors forsake her, did the boy catch a cold?

From a little dip in the river?

Of all the pampered, weak-constituted lordlings, what in creation were his parents thinking? There were some idiots who disdained the vitality of the world, but she didn't think she'd get to meet...

She paused.

Of course. He was a foreigner, likely from some place not familiar with Ascharonian mystic cooking. A snippet of conversation from the morning struck her.

"Chelua," Sarel groaned in realization. "do you damn me to the lightless dark? He's still on vital water, isn't he?"

His body had not the vitality of even the average Ascharon commoner. He definitely had a cold.

She grumbled under her breath. Her power curled around her in a subtle orange glow as she maneuvered his limp form over one shoulder. This was too much trouble. Tomorrow she was definitely sending him down the river, debt or no debt.

To her aggravation, the boy didn't wake up for three days.

*

*

The river current was strong. Defi lifted his chin above the waters, arms flailing and legs kicking, and took a desperate breath.

He was not a strong swimmer. Why should he be? Ontrea was land-locked. For swimming, he only needed to be proficient enough not to shame the family by drowning in the communal soaking pools. Ontrea was known for its great baths, not the swimming prowess of its people.

There was a roaring in his ears, and the faint sound of laughter as he fought the river. Rage, he felt rage. He went under once more.

The river, for all its shimmering violence under the sunlight, was calm and dark under the surface. He struggled toward air and freedom.

There was someone calling him?

Dark hair, dark eyeskeen gaze and a gentle smile. The rage died down, replaced by longing. The voice urged him forward, and he struggled more.

Callused hands tender on his face. A soothing breeze accompanied warm hands.

Joy, pervading joy.

"Mother"

"I surely hope not." The voice seethed with frustration.

Defi opened his eyes.

**

**

*

Notes:

Brunwine a liquor distilled from fermented fruit juice. Basically means 'burnt wine'.

Chelua - one of the names of Tirralod, the deity of rainbows, the primary divinity of Ascharon. Also known as the Seven-Colored, the Bridge-maker, the Harmonium as patron of music and wine, and the Weaver as the one who makes the clothes of the sun and stars, etc.

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