Our ship coasted up to the rickety dock, the sailors moored her, and we went ashore to have a look at the Mrin prophet.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone quite so dirty. He wore only a crude canvas loincloth, and his hair and beard were long and matted. He was wearing an iron collar, and a stout chain ran from the collar to the thick post set in the ground in front of his kennel - I’m sorry, but that’s the only word I can use to describe the low hut where he apparently slept. He crouched on the ground near the post making animal noises and rhythmically jerking on the chain that bound him to the post. His eyes were deep-sunk under shaggy brows, and there was no hint of intelligence or even humanity in them.
‘Do you really have to chain him like that?’ Polgara asked Dras.
Bull-neck nodded. ‘He has spells,’ he replied. ‘He used to run off into the fens every so often. He’d be gone for a week or two, and then he’d come crawling back. When we found out just who and what he is, we decided we’d better chain him for his own safety. There are sink-holes and quicksand bogs out in the fens, and the poor devil doesn’t have sense enough to avoid them. He can’t recite prophecy if he’s twelve feet down in a quicksand bog.’
She looked at the low hut. ‘Do you really have to treat him like an animal?’
‘Polgara, he is an animal. He stays in that kennel because he wants to. He gets hysterical if you take him inside a house.’
‘You said he was born here,’ I noted.
Dras nodded. ‘About thirty or forty years ago. This was all part of father’s kingdom before we went to Mallorea. The village has been here for about seventy years, I guess. Most of the villagers are fishermen.’
I went over to where the three scribes on duty were sitting in the shade of a scrubby willow tree and introduced myself. ‘Has he said anything lately?’ I asked.
‘Not for the past week,’ one of them replied. ‘I think maybe it’s the moon that sets him off. He’ll talk at various other times, but he always does when the moon’s full.’
‘I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn’t there some way you can clean him up a little?’
The scribe shook his head. ‘We’ve tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty.’
‘Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to make much sense out of what he’s saying, Belgarath,’ one of the other scribes told me.
‘That’ll come later. I’ve got the feeling that I’m going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things? The weather or maybe how hungry he is?’
‘No,’ the first scribe replied. ‘As closely as we’re able to determine, he can’t talk - at least that’s what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don’t have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important.’
We stayed on board Bull-neck’s ship that night. We needed the cooperation of the villagers, and I didn’t want to stir up any resentments by commandeering their houses while we were in Braca.
About noon the following day one of the scribes came down to the dock. ‘Belgarath,’ he called to me, ‘you’d better come now. He’s talking.’
One of the young Drasnians had been teaching Pol that sign-language, and he didn’t look too happy when she suspended the lesson to accompany Dras and me to the prophet’s hovel.
The crazy man was crouched by that post again, and he was still jerking on his chain. I don’t think he was actually trying to get loose. The clinking of the chain seemed to soothe him for some reason. Then again, aside from the wooden bowl they fed him from, that chain was his only possession. It was his, so he had a right to play with it, I guess. He was making animal noises when we approached.
‘Has he stopped?’ I asked the scribe who’d come to fetch us.
‘He’ll start up again,’ the scribe assured me. ‘He breaks off and moans and grunts for a while every so often. Then he goes back to talking. Once he starts, he’s usually good for the rest of the day. He stops when the sun goes down.’
Then the crazy man let go of his chain and looked me directly in the face. His eyes were alert and very penetrating. ‘Behold!’ he said to me in a booming, hollow voice, a voice that sounded almost exactly the same as Bormik’s. ‘The Child of Light shall be accompanied on his quest by the Bear and by the Guide and by the Man with Two Lives. Thou, too, Ancient and Beloved, shall be at his side. And the Horse-Lord shall also go with ye, and the Blind Man, and the Queen of the World. Others also will join with ye - the Knight Protector and the Archer and the Huntress and the Mother of the Race that Died and the Woman Who Watches, whom thou hast known before.’
He broke off and began to moan and drool and yank on his chain again.
‘That should do it,’ I told Dras. ‘That’s what I needed to know. He’s authentic.’
‘How were you able to tell so quickly?’
‘Because he talked about the Child of Light, Dras. Bormik did the same thing back in Darine. You might want to pass that on to your father and brothers. That’s the key that identifies the prophets. As soon as someone mentions the Child of Light, you’d better put some scribes nearby, because what he’s saying is going to be important.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘The Necessity and I spent some time together when we were on the way to Mallorea, remember? He talked about the Child of Light extensively.’ Then I remembered something else. ‘It might be a little far-fetched, and I don’t know if it’ll ever happen in our part of the world, but we might come across somebody who talks about the Child of Dark as well. Have people take down what he says, too.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The ones who talk about the Child of Light are giving us instructions. The ones who mention the Child of Dark are telling Torak what to do. It might be useful if we can intercept some of those messages.’
‘Are you going to stay here and listen?’
‘There’s no need of that. I’ve found out what I wanted to. Have your scribes make me a copy of everything they’ve set down so far and send it to me in the Vale.’
‘I’ll see to it. Do you want to go back to Kotu now?’
‘No, I don’t think so. See if you can find somebody here with a boat who knows the way through the fens. Pol and I’ll go on down to Algaria and then on home from there. There’s not much point in backtracking.’
‘Is there anything you want me to do?’
‘Go back to Boktor and get married. You’ll need a son to pass your crown to.’
‘I don’t have a crown, Belgarath.’
‘Get one. A crown doesn’t really mean anything, but people like to have visible symbols around.’
Polgara was scowling at me.
‘What?’ I asked her.
‘The fens, father? You’re going to make me go through the fens?’
‘Look upon it as an educational experience, Pol. Let’s go gather up our things. I want to get back to the Vale.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Let’s just say I’m homesick.’
She rolled her eyes upward with that long-suffering look she’s so fond of.
The fellow with the boat was named Gannik, and he was a talkative, good-natured fellow. His boat was long and slender - more like a canoe than a row-boat. He occasionally paddled us down through the fens, but most of the time he poled us along. I didn’t care much for the idea of having someone standing up in that narrow craft, but he seemed to know what he was doing, so I didn’t make an issue of it.
I did want to get back to the Vale, but my main reason for leaving Braca so abruptly had been a desire to get Pol away from the young Drasnian who’d been teaching her the secret language. I could retain my equanimity so long as Pol’s suitors gathered around her in groups, but seeing her sitting off to one side alone with one of those young men made me nervous. Pol had uncommon good sense, but -
I’m sure you get my drift.
I brooded about that as Gannik poled us on south through that soggy marshland. Polgara was eighteen years old now, and it was definitely time for me to have that little talk with her. She and Beldaran had grown up without a mother, so there’d been no one around to explain certain things to her. Beldaran quite obviously did know about those things, but I wasn’t entirely certain that Pol did. Grandchildren are very nice, but unanticipated ones might be just a little embarrassing.
The border between Drasnia and Algaria wasn’t really very well defined when it passed through the fens. The Drasnians called that vast swamp Mrin-Marsh, and the Algars referred to it as Aldurfens. It was all the same bog, though. We were about three days south of Braca when Pol saw one of those aquatic creatures that live in such places. ‘Is that an otter or a beaver?’ she asked Gannik when a small, round, sleek head popped above the water ahead of us.
‘That’s a fenling,’ he replied. ‘They’re like otters, but a little bigger. They’re playful little rascals. Some people trap them for their fur, but I don’t think I’d care to do that. It just doesn’t seem right to me for some reason. I like to watch them play.’