Ngangata awoke that evening, his eyes bleary. Perkar gave him a bit of water and some raw fish. Obtaining food—so long as it was fish—was not a problem. A hook cast into the water, baited or not, was soon heavy with their next meal. They had no way of cooking it, of course, but one could become accustomed to raw fish easily enough. On the islands, Ngangata recovered enough strength to set snares, and they had eaten rabbit, squirrel, and even deer once. The longer they remained on the islands, however, the more vivid and constant Perkar's dreams became. Ngangata, though healthier on land, always returned them to the boat when Perkar became incapable of doing anything from lack of sleep. He begged the halfling to leave him, but Ngangata refused.

Today Ngangata was lucid, propped against the side of the boat. He drew a deep, weary breath.

"My fever is gone again," he remarked.

"Good," Perkar said.

"I'm not much company."

Perkar frowned at him. "I've been thinking," he muttered.

Ngangata tried to smile. "That has been a dangerous thing for you to do, in the past."

He nodded his head in agreement. "Yes. But I've been thinking about you."

"Even worse," Ngangata pointed out.

"I've been wondering if you couldn't stay on one of the islands—if we ever see another. You would get stronger, perhaps strong enough to swim. He might let you swim to shore."

Ngangata nodded. "I've thought of that. More likely he would eat me up right away. The River has no love at all for Alwat, and he would probably mistake me for one."

"Ngangata, we've seen people bathing in the water, remember? They didn't seem to be in danger. It's me, only me he wants. It might not even be the River that abducts us; it might be this boat. It was, after all, a gift from Karak, not the most trustworthy of gods."

"It is the River," Ngangata replied. "I can feel it. And I believe he will not let me go."

"You could try. Otherwise, I'm afraid you will die. I don't want you to die, Ngangata."

"Very good of you," the Alwa-Man replied. "But if I am to die, I doubt that you can do much about it. Tell me about your dreams again."

Perkar was frustrated by this sudden change in topic. He wanted to argue longer, to convince Ngangata to try to leave the boat.

"I've told you already," he answered shortly.

"Yes. But I've been thinking about them since. Tell me again."

He sighed. "I dream about this River. But farther down, much farther down. As wide as he is now, there he is so broad that one bank cannot be seen from the other. And there is a city there, a city with more people than in all of the Cattle-Lands, in all of the valleys."

"You see them, these people?"

"Yes, I see them, massed along the bank, fishing in boats, bathing, so many of them."

"But the one girl you dream about?"

"She looks to be about twelve years old. Dark skin, very black hair, black eyes. Pretty, in a foreign sort of way. She seems…" He knit his brow together in concentration. "She is sad, worried. Frightened, I think. In my dream I always want to help her. I hear her call my name, but in some language I don't comprehend. Does that make sense?"

"It makes sense," Ngangata replied. "Of course it makes sense. It is a dream."

"Yes," Perkar muttered. "Her language, though, lately I have begun to understand it, or… I don't know, this part is very strange. It makes me sick, because it happens when I am awake, as well."

"What?"

He drew in a steadying breath, wished for the thousandth time that he had a flask of hot woti.

"I see a cottonwood," he said, gesturing out at the bank. "But I do not think 'cottonwood.' I think 'hekes.'" The strange word slipped off of his tongue and left a bad taste behind. "I see the sky, and I think 'ya.' It is as if the dreams are swallowing me up and leaving themselves in my place."

Ngangata looked evenly at him. "I'll tell you what I think. I think the River wants you to do something, something involving this girl. Or maybe it is the girl herself; maybe she is a goddess or some powerful sorceress. I think you have been compelled to go to this city down-River, summoned the way a shamaness summons a familiar or a god. I think I am caught up in this with you because the River is very, very powerful but not all that wakeful or discerning. Like the Forest Lord, he makes no great distinction between you and me. We entered the River together, that is all be knows. And then you woke him up by trying to go upstream, made him notice us."

"I'm sorry." Perkar sighed.

"You've said that so often that it is just a sound to me," Ngangata replied. "But, Perkar, I hold no ill will toward you— not anymore, at least. The River drew you to this, somehow, guided you."

"No," Perkar disagreed. "No, my stupidity was my own. Even if the damned River chose me somehow, that was my fault, too." He explained, then, for the first time, about the goddess, his love for her, her warning, his blood and seed loosed into the stream. Ngangata listened patiently, and when Perkar was done, he slowly nodded his head.

"I see," he said ruefully. "I have had the ill fortune to meet a hero, a lover of goddesses. Now everything comes clear. Had you told me this when we met, I would have ridden far away, avoided you for the rest of my life." He grinned sardonically. "It is my firm policy to avoid heroes," he confided.

"I'm not a hero," Perkar snapped. "I'm a fool."

"There is no difference," Ngangata answered. "A hero is merely a fool glorified in song. A hero is words woven around mistakes and tragedy to make them seem fine."

"I don't…"

Ngangata sighed. "Believe it or not, I heard the great songs as a boy, too. At first I loved them, imagined myself as the great hero Iru Antu or Rutka. But as I grew older, I knew myself. Knew that I would never be a hero; heroes are always Human, and whatever I am, I am not that. When I realized this truth, I began to hear the same songs in a different way, Perkar. I began imagining that I was not the hero, but one of his friends or companions. Or even an enemy." He glanced at Perkar meaningfully, to make sure he understood. He was beginning to, and though he had thought himself numb, Ngangata's words struck pain in him.

"What happens to the hero's companions, Perkar? Destiny cares little for them. They die so that he can avenge them, or they betray him so that he can punish them. The ground where a hero passes is littered with the bodies of his friends and enemies."

Perkar closed his eyes, remembering the dead faces of Eruka, Apad, the old woman in the cave whose name he had never known. The Kapaka without even the dignity of a burial. Ngangata, suffering from day to day, barely alive. And, of course, the goddess, who tried to stop him, save him from destiny.

"She wanted me to be a man rather than a hero," Perkar said, and to his horror discovered a tear trickling down his face. "She tried to make me into a man."

"Then she is a rare goddess," Ngangata replied. "The gods love making men into heroes. It is their nature. They do it without even meaning to, most of the time. It is in the nature of their relationship with us."

"This takes none of the blame from me," Perkar muttered.

"No. But if a song is ever made from this, it will take all your blame, place it on the shoulders of the gods."

Perkar looked up fiercely, though more tears were starting. "Such a song would be a lie," he snarled.

Ngangata snorted. "Songs are lies. That is their nature."

Night came, and Perkar lay on his back, studying the stars, lulled by the gentle motion of the boat but not yet willing to sleep, to turn himself over to River dreams. Ngangata was undoubtedly right. The city downstream, the girl, the River— something was pulling him there, against his will. When he got there, did whatever they wanted, would he be released? At the moment the only release he could conceive of that would give him peace was death. What he wanted more than anything was to see Ngangata escape, cut loose from him, no longer the companion of a hero. Ngangata did not deserve such a fate. If the "Ekar Perkar" were to be sung one day, it must not contain a stanza about Ngangata dying in his arms.