Later, some one hailed them from the bank and threatened to shoot if they did not pull in. Then there was a loud scream that died in a weltering gurgle. They heard a splash as something hit the water—and then all was still. They waited. A peculiar little whistle sounded three notes from the darkness.
As though reassured, Piper took up his oars.
“That was the last guard,” Gunnar whispered. “It took a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg to get him killed. Oh, well, blame Grim Hagen. He shouldn’t have gouged these people so hard—” And then, to Piper: “You’re bright enough, I guess, but you don’t know how to row a boat. Give me the oars.”
He took them and slid them into their hole-pins. “Now, give Gunnar room.” He bowed his broad head, leaning forward almost to his toes. Then he dug the oars into the water and straightened up and bent backward like a machine. Noiselessly the oars came up again. He bent forward and dipped them into the river again. And as he worked faster he began to count to himself in a panting whisper: “Huh—huh—huh—huf!”
The boat streaked across the river’s surface like a water-bug.
At last they slid into some thick cat-tails. Gunnar got a hand-hold and propelled them forward until the prow grounded in the shallows.
“This is as far as I can go,” Piper told them in a sweating voice. “Over there is the tomb.”
Odin and Gunnar scrambled ashore. Piper pushed the boat back into the river and was gone. Three thin sickles of moons were cleaving their way across the sky. A few unfamiliar stars were out. There was enough light now for them to see Maya’s tomb not far away. It seemed to be fashioned of moonbeams. It was such a perfect copy of the Taj Mahal that here both death and sleep were brothers—and a nirvana of peace hung over it in an aura of silver light.