Free Wine of the Gods 1: Exiles and Gods by Pam Uphoff Page A

could concentrate on . . . now.

Chapter Six

1 August 2117

The Lake, Exile
     
    Old Wolf's boat was a totally impractical huge speed boat with a huge fuel-guzzling engine. It was longer than the Owens they'd sold when they'd moved from California to Connecticut. Chris remembered days and weekends out on the bay, up the river, trips up the coast when the sea was calm. His Dad teaching him navigation . . . He blinked back tears, and concentrated on the boat and trailer. Fortunately, Old Wolf has thought to take this bubble outside before he popped it. Chris suppressed a smile, thinking about it in the attic.
    They borrowed Leo's truck and backed it s trailer into the stream where the bank sloped into deep water. It bobbed in the current, fairly begging to be taken for a spin.
    Chris swung aboard and checked it out. "Fuel tank is full, wow, an auxiliary tank. Should have a cruising radius of several thousand miles, if we don't blow it all trying to see how fast it can go. How about it, Harry? Want to visit your fellow gods to the east?"
    Harry limped up and shook his head at it. "What an insane thing to bring here!"
    "You could check out what they're doing, with spells and so forth, without straining your leg." Chris pointed out. "By the time we get back, you'll be even further along magically, and practically all healed." It's as healed as it will ever be; Harry needs to learn about boats. "And as it happens, I know about boats, and will be pleased to take you anywhere you want to go." And hope I remember the navigating by the stars stuff.
    Wolf chuckled. "Go, Harry. I'm tired of watching you constantly trying to do too much. Keep the speed down and you'll have plenty of fuel to get to Cairo and back."
    The corners of the older god's mouth twitched up. "All right. But when I get back, I'm damn well building a sail boat."
    They packed, loaded a minimum of food and fishing gear into the tiny cabin, and left at dawn. They dawdled down the lakeside, then, more confident of the boat, turned north to find the other shore. The wind got chilly, and they started seeing floating icebergs. Small, but Harry stayed well away from them. Near sunset they found the glacier, filling a valley and running back into the tall peaks. A few hardy pines found root space in the rocky coast , but there was nothing else to be seen. They turned southeast and motored until full dark, then drifted. In theory, at about the same pace as any icebergs, so any encounters would be slow, and probably do no damage. Chris tossed a line over and pulled in a huge bass. He filleted it, while Harry looked for a way to cook it.
    "Nothing. Big fancy boat without even a hot plate." Harry eyed the fish, then held out his left hand. Hesitated. "Wait. Put the fillets on this o ar, and hold it out over the water."
    "Fireball?" Chris tried to not twist the oar and dump the fish. "Is this a good idea, Harry?"
    "I'm hungry." Harry grinned and tossed a modest sized fireball. There was no pressure when the fireball hit the oar, but the fish sizzled and the oar darkened and charred around the edges. Chris brought it all back, and Harry scooted the fish onto plates. Steam hissed, as Chris plunged the oar into the lake.
    "Perhaps we ought to go ashore to cook." He sniffed the fish, hot and flaky. perfect.
    Harry nodded. "If you insist."
    "Yes. Then you can teach me how to do that without me accidentally blowing up the boat."
    "Good point."
    They traded off the watch, flash ed the big battery powered spotlight around occasionally. No icebergs. The next night they slept on the south shore and dined on some sort of lake salmon. The third day they anchored offshore. Harry wasn't very agile, with his wounded leg, but Chris decided to swim. He climbed back aboard in haste at a large shadow moved purposefully toward him.
    "Crocodile." Harry watched it carefully as it surfaced. "The snow and glacier melt from the north keeps the deep lake cold, but the shallow southern shore . . . It looks a