When the news media reported that a scientific computer had announced there was a God, there was a great revival in faith. . .with astounding consequences! The most amazing of all, to Jules Kincaid, was when Rittle, a major character in his popular fiction series, Bluewater, appeared – and took him to Bluewater!
Miral, Princess of Bluewater, had other startling news for him; their enemy, the Idge, had developed submarines!
It was a surprising notion because, before this, all Bluewater had used sails and oars -- enhanced at times by magics used to control the winds -- as their means to traverse their oceans and lakes.
“But since magic doesn't work on or below the waterline here, what propels their underwater craft?" Kincaid asked.
Rittle shook his head, the rueful look returning. "It's true we always thought so, and it remains so for the magic we've tried to use to combat them," he said. "As for what makes them work, I do not know. It was thought . . . well, hoped . . . that you would know."
“Perhaps I can figure it out. How do I get there from here to help?" Jules asked. "How did you get here?"
Rittle licked his lips. Picking up his glass, he held it under his nose and inhaled deeply. "Ah, but that we had a canteen between us!" he sighed. Then, regretfully putting the glass down, he removed a small leather bag from his right sleeve. A drawstring held it closed.
“Here. From Miral," he said, reaching the bag out to Kincaid.
Smiling, Jules Kincaid took it from him, and then walked with it to stand in front of the bar.
“Not having a canteen," he said, walking back to Rittle and holding out the Irish whiskey, "might I suggest we take the bottle?"
“You jest!" he said -- but, belying that, he quickly took the bottle and it disappeared into a sleeve.
From feeling the bag, Jules could tell that it held only one small object; he opened it carefully. Reaching in, he pulled out a magnificent heavy gold ring with a blue crystal mounted on it -- a crystal cut like a diamond that was at least half an inch across. He looked back at Rittle.
“Put it on," he instructed.
Jules slipped it on. It felt strangely warm.
“Now what?" he asked.
“Hold it up and admire it," Rittle replied, rising and coming across the room to stand beside Jules.
Jules held up his hand, toward himself so that he could look at the jewel. Held it closer. The blue crystal was beautiful, almost as beautiful as his vision of Miral.
Looking at it, Jules Kincaid instinctively found himself saying, "Miral."
“Yes?" came the reply.
The simple word held more sexuality than all the practiced sultry tones that the lovely and presumably single and willing Melanie had used on him only the night before; the pitch and quality of her voice had been intentional, with deliberate seduction in mind, whereas the voice he heard now was clearly just naturally that way -- altho, once again, it was also the way he'd heard it many times in his mind while in the process of creation.
Rittle and Jules were no longer inside; they were on a beach and Kincaid knew, once again instinctively, that they were now on Bluewater.
Jules Kincaid looked up from the blue crystal to see his vision, Miral, realized just a few feet away. Even tho he had only, to this point, "seen" her in his mind -- and had only reluctantly agreed that Linda Maguire was almost as beautiful as he had envisioned Miral to be and therefore had his consent to play her in the movies -- there was no denying her identity here. Rittle, catching the merest glimpse of her in the corner of his eye, squealed in fear and ran away, it being forbidden for any of her subjects to see her unclothed.
Miral was coming out of the blue water. Naked, as indicated by Rittle's flight. The drops sliding down her alabaster skin were the same blue as the crystal, and they sparkled, making Jules think of droplets of blue mercury chasing each other down the fine lines of her body.
She reminded him of his ex-wife, Eve, of course. They didn't precisely look alike, but each was slender, yet with curved hips and perfectly formed breasts. Eve was a dark brunette; Miral's hair was more a reddish brown, but just saying that was like saying that the sun, with its solar storms and flares, was yellow. Her long hair was wet and carried the browns of autumn leaves, chestnut, and mahogany. The midday sun caressed her hair and made soft and gentle highlights in it that were almost golden.
Her true beauty, however, was in her face. Like Eve, there was a high forehead with a widow's peak; slanted but distinctive cheekbones above a wide, sensuous mouth; a small but square chin. The way in which Miral was most unlike Eve was in her birds wing eyebrows that rose over the glory of her blue eyes. Blue, like the waters -- all blue; there was no white to them, as the pupils were only a darker shade of blue.
In all his early B.B. writing (the "B.B." standing for "before Bluewater"), Jules Kincaid had consciously steered himself clear of the untruth that eyes, in and of themselves, were somehow expressive. Eyes do not show love or anger, it is the features around them -- eyelids, eyebrows, the surrounding skin, other parts of the full face -- that show the emotions many writers tend to attribute to the eyes of their characters.
Not so with Miral.
Miral's eyes could glow, could glisten, could express all manner of feeling. She spoke more with her eyes than most do with their mouths. The blue eyes of magic.
Eve's eyes were also blue, to be sure -- and extremely expressive, as normal eyes go, when set against the backdrop of her other beautiful features.
Miral's face reflected simultaneous naïveté and sophistication -- blended, without the contradiction one might expect to see in those two opposing qualities -- as well as both artistic beauty and sensuous sexuality, a combination of innocence and wisdom with innocence remaining the ultimate authority. Eve shared some of that in that she had a sweet innocence about her as well.
The great similarities between the two women was certainly no surprise to Kincaid -- they were, and always had been, quite consciously deliberate. But then, he'd been deeply in love with Eve when he wrote the first Bluewater story -- and altho the end product had been highly idealized, Eve had been the real-world inspiration for his ultimate vision of Miral.
All this flashed thru his mind in a second and, at the same time, he found himself thinking and wondering, She's naked -- should I be looking?
Sexy as all get out, his alter-ego responded. I created her. Why shouldn't I look?
Because this is not a work of fiction standing before me. this is a real person, his conscience responded.
Miral had been born in his mind, but he realized on an instinctual level that it was the belief of her -- well, okay, their -- millions of fans that had fleshed out this marvelous creature who now walked out of the water and came toward Jules.
He didn't feel in the least bound by Rittle's concern, who'd run away in fear because it was a punishable offense for any of Miral's subjects to see her unclothed. But Jules Kincaid was not one of her subjects; he had created her, she knew that, and he knew that she knew that.
Nonetheless, he turned aside and looked at the shore rising away into bushes and trees to their left. Rittle was somewhere up there.
“A towel. And my gown," Miral said to Jules calmly. "They are both there on the beach, near your feet." He could hear her walking closer, out of the water. He picked up the towel and held it out behind himself; when she took it, he reached down for her gown, something so light and flowing it made silk seem like burlap, and held it behind him as well. When she took it, she didn't return the towel. After a few seconds, she said, "I'm clothed now."
“Eve, I'm gl--" Jules caught myself and stopped. "Sorry about that. I mean Miral. I'm glad you sent for me."
Miral, not in the least discomfited, smiled. "No apology needed, Jules Kincaid -- I know I am a romanticized projection of Eve, your wife at the time when you created Bluewater. I am quite pleased with your depiction of me." She looked behind him.
“Rittle!" she said raising her voice. She didn't shout; it was more like an actress on stage projecting her voice, not so much nudging the volume control as speaking from the diaphragm and placing greater emphasis on perfect diction to pitch what she was saying at just the right level to be heard at the back of the house. "You can come out now."
Bushes rustled. Rittle's voice inquired, "You are certain, milady?"
“Certain and sure," Miral said, a deliberate humor sounding in her voice. "You bear no blame, Rittle."
Kincaid turned and smiled wryly at this princess of Bluewater. "Especially inasmuch as it was you who brought us here, at this time," he said, keeping the tone of his voice soft.
Miral looked up at him; she didn't have to tilt her head up nearly as far as Rittle had, since she was fully six feet tall herself. “You knew that," she said, a touch of embarrassment tinging her voice, but then she nodded, smiled brightly to herself and added, "Of course you would know, Jules Kincaid."
The material of her gown, tho quite light, was opaque enough to pass the censure of any prude -- but it caressed the lines of her body that did nothing to detract from her figure.
"You are, justifiably, proud of your body," Jules said with a shrug. "There was no reason for you not to set a spell that would bring us to a time and place where I could also appreciate it."
Miral had sent the ring. Miral controlled the magic. Their appearance could not have surprised her.
Choosing to dismiss the subject, Miral said, "We need your help, Jules Kincaid. And yes," she added before I could speak, "I know you also seek mine. Let us deal with first things first."
He opened my mouth to object, to say what the first thing of the first things they would deal with should be, but she held up a restraining hand.
“What happens here is out of and entirely separate from your world." She made a moue of apology, then went on with her explanation and justification, "Aside from stating the obvious, I mean to impart to you the fact that the laws which govern magic ensure that, when you are returned to your world, you will arrive back at the precise moment of your departure. Nothing will be lost -- whatever length of time it may take us to solve our problems here, it will not steal an instant of time from you when you return to your home world.
"Did I explain sufficiently?" she finished, one slender eyebrow raised.
“Clearer than blue water," he told her. "We solve your problem, after which we can work on mine -- which will not worsen by the delay, as my world will have no delay."
“You got it!" Rittle said, bouncing happily beside them. "Let's get on with it!"
Looking down at himself, Jules said, “But there is one thing; I can’t greet your people in my bathrobe and pajamas!”
Miral looked him up and down. “It looks quite impressive, to me; a dragon robe for a leader!”
“Impressive, maybe,” Jules agreed, “but I would be uncomfortable!”
Miral nodded. “Very well,” she said. She turned her back to Jules. It seemed to him she flickered a moment, then she turned back – and in her outstretched arms were his favorite jeans and white polo shirt, all folded neatly.
“Will these do?” Miral asked, impishly.
“Perfectly!” Jules said, taking them from her. “But. . . how. . . ?”
“It was something I can do for myself, but not for others. My power is not great enough to endow anyone else with that ability. I compressed time, went to your apartment, and gathered them.” She paused, an uncertain look on her face. “Did I do wrong?”
“Wrong?” Jules said. “Wrong? I could kiss you!”
“I would not object,” Miral said, standing close, face turned up.
He could not resist.
When they separated, Jules stood straight and took a deep breath. “I could make a habit of that,” he said. Then he added, “But now I have to change.”
“There are those bushes over there,” Miral said, smiling. “Change, and we will ‘get on with it.’”
Get on with they did. Like closing a book, Jules put away all thought of Earthly problems. For the time being.
“How many Idge have you captured?" he asked Miral. “You assume we're holding some in captivity?" she asked.
It has already been stated that Miral's eyes were expressive, and they were: What they were saying to Jules Kincaid in this moment was that she was not denying that Idge were in captivity, she was only asking him to explain the process which led him to his assumption.
Miral nodded, looking satisfied. "Such assumptions are all true and such reasoning is no less than I would expect of Jules Kincaid." She said his name as if it were a title.
“Please," he responded, "just 'Jules.' Okay?"
Again she nodded. "Since you request it, I will try. I may have difficulty. 'Jules Kincaid' is the way we always think of you."
“I assure you that I will appreciate the effort," he said. "Now, as to those prisoners?"
“Three," Miral said. "They are in the garrison, under guard."
“Learn anything from them yet?"
She shook her head in the negative. "I have not even questioned them," she explained. "I thought it best to wait until you arrived."
“Then let us go."
The nature of the magic of Bluewater precluded her from using a spell to dry her hair. Instead, she let it down as we walked, ran her fingers thru it occasionally, and waited for the natural air to do its work. Even tho magic does not work on the blue water of Bluewater, she submerged herself in it on a daily basis; in some contradictory way, it strengthened her own magic. Magic, in this world, supported magic.
They walked, since transportation by magic would have required more effort than walking the short distance to the garrison. Rittle bounced along with them, sometimes at their side, at others ahead or behind them, like an eager puppy on an invisible leash.
In a very short time, they all covered the distance along the beach to the town of Bluewater; as the capitol and largest town on the west coast, it shared the name of the country, which in turn was also their word for their world.
“In there," she said with a nod.
The walk hadn't been long but it had been long enough for her hair to dry out and it now hung below her shoulders, some of it swinging forward as she nodded.
Scurch was standing guard at the door. His blond hair hung down to his narrow shoulders. A scraggly moustache stretched over his thin lips. His muscular arms, longer than normal, ended in long-fingered hands, one of which held a small crossbow. He had pale blue eyes.
Abruptly Jules Kincaid found himself wondering why he'd ever chosen to give Scurch pale blue eyes, inasmuch as Jules usually didn't trust anyone whose eyes were that color. Scurch was sneaky, yes; sly, to be sure, but -- untrustworthy? Well, whatever he was, he was ever loyal to Miral -- that had been his defining characteristic, so there was no questioning it. And right now, his eyes and his mouth were both set firmly in anger.
“Just let me at them," he said to Miral with fierce intensity as the three approached, "and I guarantee they will tell us everything we want to know."
Miral gifted him with the warmth of her gentle smile. "Patience, friend Scurch, we'll achieve our ends easily," she said and added, "This is Jules Kincaid."
“Of course. I know who he is," Scurch said, still looking at Miral, which is to say refusing to look at Jules. "Why would I not? You dispatched Rittle to get him, after all. Is he going to get them to talk by threatening to write them out of Bluewater?"
His sarcasm wasn't lost on Jules or on Miral, for that matter, but she only shook her head. "They will talk," she said with quiet assurance.
Scurch looked at her for a full moment, his expression almost a glare, then he lowered his eyes, turned and stalked away, to stand by the door.
“They will talk for me," Rittle said.
They were shorter than Miral's people and tended to be stocky; they were also inherently cruel and did not believe in mercy (Kincaid was reflecting that he'd had to make them villains in some way, or their defeats wouldn't have made good reading). All had shaven heads, since Idge tradition demanded warriors keep their heads shaven until they achieved either victory or death. They could let it grow if they were victorious; they of course had no choice about it growing once they died.
They glared defiantly at Rittle, as if to redeem themselves for what they'd shown upon seeing Miral.
"Watch!" Rittle said to them, reaching a hand up into the air. From nowhere, it seemed, a dove appeared in his hand. Of course, the bird actually came from his puffy sleeve, but his sleight of hand was so skillful that no one could detect it. Next he placed the dove on his wrist, stroking its back. It cooed and rubbed its head against the palm of Rittle's hand.
“See this lovely bird?" he asked the Idge.
They nodded, but only as if to confirm that they were not blind.
“If you don't tell us everything we wish to know," he continued, “this will happen to you!" He widened his hand over the dove, closed his fingers, made a fist, and opened his hand again to reveal, in his palm, an egg-sized stone. "You see?" he asked, moving his hand in front of them.
One prisoner swallowed nervously, but another chuckled.
“That would do you no good," he said. "Rocks, like Idge warriors, are bald and do not talk."
The other Idge smiled and seemed to take heart at this display of bravery and wit.
Rittle turned to Miral, his disappointment dragging down both his form and spirit. "I am sorry, milady," he said.
“Do not be concerned," Miral said sympathetically as she touched his shoulder gently. To the Idge, she ordered, opening the door to their cell wider, "You may come out here."
Cautiously, the three came out of their cell, making themselves do it even tho their strongest desire was to remain inside and out of her immediate reach.
“You have interesting boats," Jules said to the three Idge.
They turned to consider him for the first time.
"You are to be congratulated on your ingenuity," Jules added.
Surprised, they smiled at each other and nodded.
“How do you make them go?" he asked.
The smiles disappeared; they stiffened. There was silence.
"You will answer," he said.
Miral stepped forward. They'd had time to steel themselves and so did not flinch back, altho their body language could not completely hide their desire to do so. "Do you know who this is?" she asked.
Three shaven heads shook together in the negative.
“This is Jules Kincaid," she said. Their mouths dropped open. "You will answer him," she said in a determined tone.
“Jules . . . Kincaid?" one of them asked in awe.
It was flattering -- well, much more so than Scurch's response -- but over all Kincaid felt a bit like an imposter. A feeling he did his utmost not to let the Idge detect.
“Answer," he repeated sternly, "or your hair will grow down to your bellies." As far as Jules knew, he had absolutely no magic powers here, certainly none to rival Miral's -- but they didn't know that. Their mouths dropped open in dismay at the thought of having such long hair while still alive as captives and therefore far short of victory.
Without hesitation, the one who had spoken said quickly, "Two heavy wooden boats, atop each other. Much caulking, much tar, to keep the water out."
“Weapons?" Kincaid asked.
“Iron arrows," the Idge replied. "There are holes they fit tightly into."
“One of our men was wounded by one," Miral agreed. "Because it was made of iron, his healing has been greatly delayed."
Iron was useful; pots, pans, strips on shields, nails, sledges, hammers, axes. An iron knife or sword with a magic edge could slice thru rock. It could also accommodate bad magic; an edge of that sort could penetrate all but the strongest magic fields, and not just wound but poison any flesh it sliced into.
"Some of your men were in the water?" Jules asked Miral.
“Yes. My people were astounded, of course, when they saw one of the ships surface to let their attackers out -- but while they were caught off guard, when they realized the attackers were Idge, they launched two canoes with warriors of our own to 'greet' them." She nodded in the direction of the captives. "These three were the raiding party who had come out of their boat and begun to swim for our shore. Others were about to follow -- but when our men shot arrows at them, they ducked back into their craft, closed the top-most opening after them and then began to slip beneath the water's level again. When our canoes neared where they had been, a hail of iron bolts came flying up out of the water, one of them hitting one of my men in his leg. These three were captured, and my man was taken ashore for treatment. The bolt was removed, but the damage had been done. He's being treated with magic poultices which are, at least, keeping him alive and helping to ease his pain."
“Where did all this happen?" Jules asked.
“Near a fishing village these Idge had attacked the previous night. As is the Idge way, they killed them all."
“They attacked at night!" Rittle's tenor exclaimed in righteous indignation.
Nighttime had always been a time of peace on Bluewater, as had been the custom with many societies on Earth. No battle – at least, none that Kincaid had written about – had ever continued after the sun went down, and the earliest custom allowed it to resume was in the early morning, shortly before sunrise, when both moons were in the sky. The Idge were not above seeking any advantage they could find in battle, but this was not the sort of thing that would naturally occur to them. Someone in the leadership of the Idge was either deliberately breaking tradition -- or, as seemed more likely, neither knew nor cared that any such tradition had ever existed.
None of this had ever happened in any of Jules Kincaid's books, nor was any element of it anything he'd even been plotting in the back of his mind for future stories. None of it was from his imagination. Something had brought about a major change to the world he had envisioned, even considering that the innovation of submarines and sneak attacks at night might be only the tip of the iceberg. No telling what other surprises might still be in store.
Kincaid returned his attention to the captives. "What other weapons do you have on your boats?" he I asked.
“The anchor -- it can be used to sink enemy ships," he was told.
“The anchor? Please clarify."
“Our anchor is on the bow. A shaft sticks inside, and rests on a long slot. We crank up something like a big crossbow. It shoots the anchor out. If we tilt the boat back while under water, with the anchor in the crossbow facing the surface, the anchor shoots up and puts a large hole in the bottom of any boat that gets in our way."
“Before they destroyed the village," Miral acknowledge, "three of our boats were sunk like that. That is how we first became aware of their new ships -- they sank our boats, then surfaced to kill the few survivors who were still alive in the water."
Kincaid nodded grimly. "How do you make your boats move under the water?" he asked.
“Oars," was the immediate answer. "There are six oars."
“Six?" he asked. "How many crewmen?"
“The same -- six. We do not need many warriors if we destroy a boat from beneath or fall on a village unawares."
“Yet your boat retreated when the three of you were attacked while you were outside?"
“The oars are hooked up together. Even one strong man could operate them alone -- the boat just wouldn't move as fast."
Jules paused to think for a moment. "Then, even when all six are there, it would be a simple matter for one of you to get up, now and then, to work the air pump -- right?"
The eyes of all three Idge warriors widened. Then the speaker shook his head in amazement and said, "Of course you would know; you are Jules Kincaid. Yes, you are right."
It had nothing to do with him being the author of the series; it was simply obvious that air would have to circulate.
“Two tubes go to the surface -- one to expel the bad air, the other to bring in the good. Now," Jules said, "answer this one: Who is your new leader?"
Now the three men were puzzled. They looked at Kincaid, back at each other, then at Kincaid again.
“I don't mean just within the last month or two," Jules explained. "I want to know who came along, maybe even within the last year, with these new ideas -- the boats, the night attacks and everything else. Who?"
Their puzzlement only deepened. At last, the one who seemed to have appointed himself spokesperson for the group said tentatively, "Surely, as a namesake, you know. . .?"
Even as the Idge spoke, the answer came to him. It wasn't mind reading or magic. There could be only one possible response -- and, frankly, Jules was a bit surprised at his own denseness in not coming up with it sooner.
“Lock them back up," he said to Rittle. Jules stepped back, put his right hand on the wall to lean his weight on it, since he felt that otherwise he just might fall over, while with his left he covered his eyes and supported his bowed head.
"Surely," the Idge repeated, "you know--"
“Yes, I think I do," he cut in. "Of course. I know." He knew, all right, but was finding it hard to say. "Your new leader is Jules Verne."
They relaxed as Jules Kincaid sagged.