Maia

Of course, she thought, it would not have occurred to Zenka (as it would unthinkingly to herself) that, having just come down a length of swift water full of heavy flotsam into a relatively still reach, he was in danger of being rammed astern. It was her own fault for having left him alone: she should have known better. One of Zenka's strongest characteristics, she had come to realize, was his unfailing assumption of confidence, which made people implicitly believe in and go along with him, usually without reflecting just how wise it might be to do so. Zenka-and this was no small part of why she had fallen in love with him, why she still loved him and could never love anyone else-believed in all honesty that any gap between what he knew to be possible and what he wanted to achieve could be bridged by sheer courage and determination. It was this buoyant, indomitable serenity in adversity which made him so attractive; ah! and so dangerously easy not to doubt, an' all. By implication he'd convinced her, at a time when she'd been too overwrought not to swallow it, that valor and resolution were enough to steer a boat in

a timber-strewn flood-race. Well, it had probably done for them; there were still plenty of other things to hit, and now the boat was out of control.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Couldn't be helped," she answered rather absently. She was trying to think what, if anything, could be done. "Much my fault as yours."

The boat was turning all ways at once now; sometimes stern foremost, then spinning in a cross-current only to veer away again on the instant. She felt more horribly in danger than at any time since they had set out.

"Zenka," she said, trying to speak calmly, "bring me an oar, quick, as you can."

There was no time to go looking for a length of rope. She hadn't seen any on board and wouldn't know where to start looking. The stern anchor rope would have to do. At least it was long enough and about the right thickness; and they'd still have the bow anchor.

As Zenka came back with the oar she drew her knife, cut the anchor rope and hitched it round the rudder-head.

"Now lash the oar to the rudder-head, Zenka," she said. "Like this, look; over and under and round and round. Only you'd do it better'n me, 'cos it's got to be real tight, see. I'll support the oar while you lash it; mustn't lower it into the water till you're done."

Despite the continual lurching of the boat he was deft and swift, pulling the lashing tight with his full strength at each turn, trapping it closely and finishing, as she showed him, with another hitch to hold all firm. She had never before used a stern oar for steering and was surprised, when they were done, to find how well it answered. She had not foreseen that oar and lashing together would pivot easily about the rudder-head without working loose: the oar could be turned as far as a right angle to the boat, to check and turn it almost instantly. Its only disadvantage was that its length, together with the force of the current, made the sheer effort of working it for any time more than she could manage.

"You'll have to help me, Zenka," she panted, having righted the boat and recovered the midstream channel. "This'U do fine as long as we're careful, only I just haven't got the strength. See if you can get us round this bend that's coming up."

He could. Hedid. Or rather, she provided the judgment,

leaning this way and that on the handle of the oar, but relying on his greater physical strength to reciprocate and carry out what she wanted. As the boat rounded the bend without mishap, they broke into simultaneous cries of excitement. The trees were less dense and no more than five hundred yards ahead, as near as she could judge in the failing light, lay open water-the further edge of the forest. "Anda-Nokoniis!" she called. "We're through!"

102: THE FRONTIER

Anda-Nokomis, turning in the bow, raised his hand in the traditional Beklan gesture of acknowledgment to the winner of a contest. At this same moment, as they still stood side by side with the oar between them, Zen-Kurel, as naturally as a bird might alight on a branch, put his free arm round Maia, drew her to him and kissed her.

She clung to him, both arms round his neck, now laying her face against his soaking wet hair, now returning his kiss again and yet once more as the rain ran down their faces and mingled between their lips. At last, releasing him, she gasped, "The boat, my darling! We've still got to get to Katria."

"I know. But at least tell me one thing now. I want us to be as we were in Melvda-Rain. I want you to marry me. Will you?"

"Yes, of course! Further to starboard; hard over, quick!"