Sisters in Fantasy










Sisters in Fantasy

Edited by Susan Shwartz and Marin Greenberg

 

Hallahłs Choice

Jo Clayton

From the Drytowns to Leigh Brackett Hamiltonłs Mars, mercenaries and
assassins stride or skulk through exotic desert towns. They are violent and
sinister, and, no doubt, each one of them has a history that we would wonder
atwhen wełre not taking cover.

Hallah, Jo Claytonłs protagonist, has a history more painful than most. Is
she bent on revenge? Yes, but this is one assassin you can imagine singing a
lullaby.

1

Into the web

Languorous late afternoon.

Heatwaves and a haze of yellow dust.

The Shizałheyh of Yaanosin ride to the Betrothal Feast and Fealty Jubilee
with their guards and dependents, their wives and daughters and their eldest
sons, their equerries and orderlies and grooms, their harriers and farriers,
their agents and their clerks, their stooges and their sycophants, their bath
girls and bed-warmers, their tailors, their valets, their wardrobemasters,
their cooks and their cupbearers, their food tasters and wine tasters, their
scullions and slaveys.

The Shizałheyh Kihyaytiłan rides to the Betrothal Feast and Fealty Jubilee
with all this and his unmatched pair of matchless assassins.

Zisgade Neisser the Shadowsnake, unfeeling as the polished ivory blades he
wears up each sleevehe is a thin gray man, yellow with dust, riding at his
masterłs side.

Hallah Myur, with no epithet allowedsuch things are a foolishness she is
content to live withouta thin gray woman riding near the tail of the
procession, a little woman yellow with the rolling dust, dark eyes narrowed to
cracks. Sweat runnels cut through the dust plastered on her brow, baring streaks
of lined light brown skin. Wisps of hair straggle from under her loosely wound
headbands. She rides easily, slumped in the saddle of a dust-yellowed gelding,
a long-legged, rough-gaited, slab-sided beast with enough energy and humor left
to white his eyes at clots in the dust and shy at skittering shadows.

She is tired, hot, and bored, with no end of boredom in sight. For the next
week or so shełll be nothing more than an attendant, a body to dress up the
Shizałheyhłs entourage. Katiang the Boar-rider and the other cursemen deal
hardly with folk who break the Curse Truce, with the hand and the one-behind
who hires the hand. Even Shizałheyh Kihyaytiłan in his maddest moods would not
chance bringing the Curse on his head.

She expects to sleep a lot. She detests crowds, is bored by tumblers, street
mimes, magicians, and their like. She seldom gambles, doesnłt trust luck, only
skill. Clothes are to cover her body, food is for fueling it. She prefers the
tablewipe she buys for herself in hedge taverns to the delicate vintages the
Shizałheyh provides for his favored hirelings. Beyond the highs of her
workwhich are fewer with every year that passesher only real pleasure is a
hard-fought game of stonechess. Since Atwarima is a busy riverport and the
Jubilee/Betrothal should bring a flood of visitors from many realms, she hopes
to locate an adequate opponent.

2

The first shock

In the Bath of the Toyaytay GuestHouse Hallah Myur stripped and stretched,
sucking in the steamy air. She shook her head, her hair tumbling loose, fine
long hair kinking into frizzy curls. Her body was limber as a childłs but
terribly scarred, nodules of keloid with streaks of white and pink running
through the soft brown skin where her breasts had been; her back was laced with
whip marks.

She sat on damp sacking bound over the bench beside the tub and combed the
tangles and dust from her hair, singing softly to herself, clicking her tongue
at how gray she was getting. When she was finished, she set the comb aside,
twisted her hair into a knot atop her head, and slid with a soft purr of
pleasure into the water.

Clean and relaxed, she pulled on her second-best tunic and trousers, tied on
the gray silk formveil that masked her face eye to chin, bound her hair with
gray silk bands, covering it completely. She gathered her dusty riding gear,
paid the attendant, left the Bath and strolled toward the rooms assigned to the
Shizałheyh Kihyaytiłanłs entourage, humming a song shełd picked up somewhere,
enjoying the warmth of her body, the easy shift of her muscles.

Though sunset was still half an hour off, in that maze of corridors and
galleries within the massive walls of the GuestHouse, alabaster lamps were
already lit, and their painted oils spread perfume on the drafts that coiled
about her shoulders. She turned a corner.

A man walked toward her; his face and shoulders leapt at her as he passed a
lamp.

She stopped walking. Stopped breathing.

His eyes passed over her, dismissed her. Under the Curse Truce, assassinłs
fangs were pulled. She was nothing to interest him. Nothing.

His footsteps faded.

Shudder after shudder passed along her body; she hunched over, beat her
fists against her thighs, sucked in air in sharp, broken gasps. Shell twenty
years thick shattered in that instant, twenty years of discipline gone.

But twenty years do have weight and reach.

After a moment she straightened her back, quieted her breathing. Almost
running, drowning in memory, she hurried for the small private cubicle assigned
to her.

Rosalie Zivan, fourteen years of mischief, spoiled by a doting father, her
mother dead three years ago birthing Garro Zivanłs last son, the spring moon
like laughter in her blood, slipped into the Home-wood of Roka Membruda to
gather herbs for her Auntee Rosamundałs simples and specifics: Mutesł tongue,
love-at-ease, moonspurge, sowthistle, hop-over, bruisewort, poorfolks pepper,
bee thumb, sucklings tit, wet-a-bed, shut-your-ear, flickwhittle, whistling
fleabane, smartberry, creeping ninny, wart-weed, stinking willy.

Delighted by the edge of danger in her solitary windings through the wood,
she prowled along the deer paths and in the scattered glades, grubbing in the
thick black earth under the trees and along the noisy creek, knife flickering
through the greens, the tubers, the brambles, the grasses growing on the banks
and in the water, filling the gather sack she carried slung over her shoulder.

She ended her search when she reached the rowan pool in the heart of the
wood, where the water ran deep and silent through ancient twisted trees, a
place fragrant with the eddying sweetness of night-blooming jasmine and the
acrid bite of riveroak, a place where it seemed to her the dreefolk must dance
on their dreadnights.

She eased the sack onto rowan roots, careful to keep it from the damp dark
earth, stripped off her blouse, her skirt, and her camisole, hung them on a
rowan tree, then slipped into the water. The moon was a hair past full and
directly overhead, turning the water to tarnished silver. She sculled dreamily
about, watching the clouds swim by.

A young man came from the trees, blond hair blowing in an aureole about a
beautiful lean face. She knew him. Shełd seen him in the village, Membrudałs
Youngest Son. They said his name was Traccoar. “Rowan flower," he said to her,
his voice like a wind in the trees. “Come bless me."

When she reached her room, she paced back and forth, back and forth, wall to
door, around the end of the bed and back, shivering with reaction. After shełd
calmed enough so she could stay still awhile, she stripped off her clothes,
braided her hair, tied the ends, and slipped into bed.

Sleep came hard, and when she did at last drop off, the dreams came back,
the ones she thought shełd left with her name.

Rosalie Zivan lay with hands clenched into fists as Traccoarłs body moved on
hers, as he whispered that she was the loveliest, the most magical being hełd
ever known. Most women, he told her between grunts and other noises, are greedy
whores, selling themselves for money and power. Youłre different, he told her,
youłre like the earth, rich and powerful, warm and giving.

She was only fourteen, and virgin, but she knew lies when she heard them.
She lay like a stone, gathering herself to run when he rolled off her, before
he remembered that he had to kill her so she couldnłt put a Hammar Curse on
himthat was what they believed, those beasts in the Rokas.

The Hammar of clan Gyoker-Zivan had no curses, only wise women and
fast-fingered men.

He groaned, rolled over, and lay panting beside her.

She scrambled up, ran around a rowan tree when he leapt to his feet and
lunged for her. “Dirty pig," she shouted at him. “May you never get it up
again." She ran into the shadows and left him stumbling clumsily after her,
cursing her.

Hallah Myur stirred in her sleep, ground her teeth, and whined like an angry
cat; her hands moved up her body to touch the places where her breasts had
been. Tears gathered in her sleeping eyes and leaked from beneath her lids.

3

The second shock

The Oath Hall was a vast domed cavity with eight sides and hanging galleries
above a forest of arches. The walls shimmered with color, patterned tiles in
red, blue, green. The dome itself was white and gold; it rested on scrolled,
open arches, the morning sunlight streaming through them, gilded with dancing
dust motes. Polished gold stairs rose to a two-level dais at the western wall;
a plain, heavy chair sat on the highest level, made from what rumor said was
dragon bonesthe Alayjiyahłs Throne. In front of the dais was a square twenty
feet wide of ivory tiles in a golden matrix. On the north side of that square
were three backless ivory chairs with cushions of cloth of gold; on the south
side of the square were three moreset there for the Six Shizałheyh of
Yaanosin.

Formveil hiding her impatience, Hallah Myur stood behind the Shizałheyh
Kihyaytiłan, Zisgade Neisser the Shadowsnake at her leftwhich meant she was
the favored one today. She wondered vaguely what Zisgade had done to annoy
Kihyaytiłan this time. Quick work, but he was always doing it, eating his feet.
She didnłt care about favor, it was just a job and a tedious one at
thatstanding around and posing, reminding Kihyaytiłanłs hopeful heirs of the
sting in the tail of ambition. Her indifference jabbed at Zisgade; hełd do
anything he could to make trouble for her. She wasnłt worried; if she couldnłt
outthink that twynt, she deserved to go down. Besides, the Guild had
uncomfortable ways of dealing with treachery. Except She shifted uneasily.
Groensacker gets wasps in his cod when he thinks about me. Could be hełs hoping
IÅ‚ll get so antsy with this stint, IÅ‚ll walk out on it. Then he could fine me
some serious gelt and mark me unreliable. Viper.

She watched Zisgade a moment. He stood with his hands clasped behind him,
walking the muscles in his arms and torso, his tunic shivering with their
twitch. She suppressed a yawn, fingered the stonebox in her pouch. Get on with
it, blump! This is boring. Kihyaytiłan had promised his assassins a
free day once the rites were done, and she wanted a game, wanted it badly.

She glanced idly up at the northern gallery, which was filling with the
guests come for the Betrothal. She scowled as she saw Traccoar standing on the
edge of a cluster of men; their voices came down to her in a muted grumble, the
words lost in the echoes.

!Maytre! hełs gone to seed for sure. Look at the goat-son wag his tail and
grin like a fool.

A newcomer pushed through them and stopped beside Traccoar, a tall, faded
blonde whose hair had migrated from his head to a twin-tailed beard. Big brother,
looks like. So Old Goatface is finally dead. Yes, of course. He would be. Itłs
been more than twenty years, and he was older than the hills then. This one
was She dredged through memory. Ah yes, Ardamoar the Eldest.

Naked except for a leather clout and a pectoral of sehłki claws threaded on
strands of kihgut, their oiled bodies glistening in the sunlight streaming
through the dome-arches, the Ghost Drummers came clattering in, hauling their
tall drums on their backs.

They set the drums by the golden stairs, climbed on the stone stools, and
began beating out a heart rhythm; the boombahms filled the chamber.

In the gallery, the clot of men was breaking apart as the guests sought
their seats; behind them their dependents scurried about like startled waterbugs,
negotiating places to stand.

As Ardamoar lowered his long bony body into a chair, a woman emerged from
the throng and joined Traccoar, who was standing directly behind his brother.

Hair like new-minted copper.

Auntee Rosamundałs face on a long Lamenoor body.

Hallah swayed, clamped her teeth on her tongue.

Garro Zivan wept when Rosalie told him, warned her to say nothing to the
other Hammar. With a little luck, he said, naught will come of this and wełll
be as we were. That was how her father was, never a man to swallow bitters to
keep a fever off. But as the Gyoker-Zivan Hammar moved their wagons across
Membrudałs Range and the months slid past, her body swelled and there was no
hiding what had been done to her.

Auntee Rosamunda read the Weed Milk for her, but wouldnłt say what she saw
there. She emptied the bowl, shook her head. We have to leave her behind, she
told Garro Zivan. Membruda will burn the wagons if he learns his blood is here.

Rosalie Zivan lived peacefully in that small mountain village where her
people left her, supporting herself and her child with the box of medicines
Auntee Rosamunda left with her.

One evening when Spring was new and her daughter was eighteen months and seething
with curiosity and energy, Rosalie sat in deepening twilight on the doorstep of
her cottage, rubbing the papery skins off a heap of flickwhittle bulbs and
watching Rowanny toddle about, investigating toads and hoppers and stones and
anything that caught her roving mind.

When she heard the rattle of hooves, she set her abrading cloth aside and
went to snatch her daughter from the road.

Membrudałs youngest son, face contorted with a hatred close to madness, rode
at her, whip raised.

His brothers rode round and round her, yelling curses at her.

Her daughter was torn from her arms and thrown aside.

Her clothes were ripped off, Membrudałs youngest son raped her, rolled off
her, shouted his triumph, he was a man again. Cursing her, calling her dirty
beast, witch, demon, bloodsucking whore, he hacked off her breasts, tossed them
to one of his brothers.

After that the brothers stood in a ring about her, kicking at her,
lacerating her back with their cattle whips.

Rowanny wailed. Someone, not Traccoar, but it might as well have been, said,
“Shut the brat up, knock her head against a tree or something."

A bone flute played three notes over and over, the drumsounds came faster,
with brushes and slides and taps weaving a complex texture through the deep
resonant bahbooms. The drummersł bodies dripped sweat; their heads bobbed,
muscles in their shoulders, arms, legs danced with the music of their hands.

The cursemen stamped their bone-shod feet, shook their rattles, and clashed
the antlers strapped to their heads, chanting in their secret tongue. Katiang
Boar-rider danced in unbalanced spirals across and around the Ivory Floor, his
thin wiry legs moving in and out of the musk censers hanging on bronze chains
from the bone links of his girdle, never quite touching them; the streamers of
blue-white smoke circled with him, mingled with smoke from the larger censer
that sat atop the bronze cage he wore on his head.

Hallah Myur swayed with the music, flexed her toes, and began a muscle walk
along her body; she had to move or shełd scream.

Zisgade was watching her. His eyes were the brown-black of strong coffee; it
was always easy to tell where he was looking. !Maytre! Hełs smelled something.
Weasel-face. I mustłve made more noise than I

The Alayjiyah came in, a little round man with a sour face and thin hair
stiffened with gel and swirled to a point. He was mostly robes thick with gold
thread and embroidered with diamondsrobes and will; he was a hard man and
dangerous. He settled himself on the dragon-bone chair, clapped his little
hands, and six slave girls brought in his daughter.

The Yih Małyin Sałaetinn was a cloud of fine linen, layer on layer of the
translucent fabric, only her hands and feet snowing. Her hands were heavy with
rings, her feet were bare and elaborately jeweled.

Hallah sighed and set herself to endure a little longer, eyes on the floor,
mind going round and round as she tried to sort out what she was going to do.

4

Tangled in the web

Hallah Myur ran.

In the streets around the Toyaytay Gardens where the Festival was well
started, crowds were thick as clotted cream; there was noise and laughter,
shouts, growls, clangs, music from dozens of players clashing and competing,
smells of fried meats and hot bread, of candy and coffee, of perfumes and horse
droppings and sweat, bright primal colors everywhere, flags and ribbons
flapping from cords strung across the streets and between windows, the sequined
and embroidered holiday costumes of the revelers.

She pushed impatiently through the revelers, passed into the alleys and
winding ways of Atwarimałs working quarters, then she ran and ran, words
beating in her head to the beat of her feet. Mem bru dałs whore my Ro wan
ny Mem bru dałs whore my ba by Mem bru dałs whore

She ran until her edginess was drained away, until even the words had faded
and only the shift and play of her body was left. Ran until she was exhausted
and gasping.

Hallah Myur leaned on a rope stretched between bitts and watched the river
eddying below her. An aepha-gull dived past her, plunged into the dirty
littered water, emerged with a long skinny fish flapping wildly in its talons.

“If thatÅ‚s an omen, am I the fish or the gull?" She shrugged and went
looking for a tavern and a game.

Hallah Myur walked into the Seven Spinners, stepped aside to clear the
doorway, smiled behind the formveil at the familiar noises, the smoke and murk,
the nosebite of homebrew. Two caravanners were armwrestling by the bar; a
beamdancer gyrated to a tinny out-of-tune lute; a group of men and women sat
around three tables pushed together, shouting at each other in a tongue she
didnłt recognize.

A tall vigorous woman with masses of blue-black hair and large but shapely
arms threaded through the busy tables and stopped in front of Hallah; her green
eyes snapped with disfavor as she took in the assassinłs gray and the veil.
“IÅ‚m Thonsane, and this is my House. If youÅ‚re on business, no-name, take it
and yourself away."

Hallah untied the strings, pulled the veil away, and tucked it down her
shirt. “Not working," she said. “ItÅ‚d take a fool to break Truce, and I hope
IÅ‚m not that." She took the box from her pouch. “By your favor, IÅ‚m looking for
a game. I am Ivory cusping Silver."

Thonsane relaxed. “By whose favor, eh?"

“Hallah Myur, Mistress."

“Hallah Myur, working or not, youÅ‚re apt to make my patrons nervous. IÅ‚ll
tuck you in an alcove mmm over there, I think."

Thonsane plowed through the crowd, grabbed a snoring caravanner by his
collar and belt, hauled him to the door, and dropped him on the steps outside,
came striding back, waving a Pot Girl to her. She watched with a judging eye as
the girl cleaned off the table, fetched a lamp, filled it with redeye oil, and
lighted the floating wick. As the light brightened in the alcove, she rubbed a
forefinger beside her nose. “If I canÅ‚t scare you up a better, IÅ‚ll give you a
game myself, awhile on, say half an hour or so should you care to wait that
long. IÅ‚m new Ivory looking to better myself. Wine, ale, or shag?"

Hallah Myur straightened her legs, slid down in the seat, cuddling the glass
on her stomach, sipping at the dark brown shag whenever the glow it threw round
her subsided a little.

There was a noisy surge as a mob of seamen came in and pushed toward the
bar. A gap opened in the crowd, and she saw Zisgade Neisser sitting on a bench
near the door; hełd shed his grays and was wearing nondescript laborerłs
clothing, his long hair was stuffed up under a knitted cap, though a ragged
fringe was combed forward, sweeping across his eyes. Hallah looked quickly
away, grinned down at the empty glass.

Another glass of shag and a pewter tankard in one hand, the other closed on
the shoulder of a smallish man she urged along ahead of her, Thonsane came
pushing through the crowd. The manłs face was an assemblage of stains and
bruises, wrinkles folded in on wrinkles, as if it has been lived in for several
lifetimes, none of them easy, a hammered-thin, sun-faded, trouble-worn copy of
her teacher.

Thonsane set the glass in front of Hallah, the pewter tankard across the
table from her. “Aezel. Gold," she said. “Hallah Myur. Talk. Game or not,
whateverłs your choice." Shouting broke out across the room.

Muttering curses, Thonsane strode off, elbowing through the gathering
spectators.

Aezel slid along the bench, gulped at the wine, set the tankard down. “Who
taught you, Hallah Myur?" His voice was slow, soft, with an accent she couldnłt
place, a hint of a hit in the words.

She opened the chess box out into the chessboard, set aside the cubbies with
the stones, said, “Tarammen tai Peli, who earned his Mastery in Klymmavar from
Ruska tyan ta Marssa, who earned hers from Zongari of Prena, who earned his
from Andan Jarna." She smiled, her second genuine smile since shełd come to
Atwarima. “I can go on for another half hour with the pedigree. Tarammen tai made
sure I knew it. For three years I had to recite the list for him before hełd
lift a stone." She touched the board with her fingertips, moved it across the
table so he could see it. “The names are graved in the ivory squares, thereÅ‚s
his" she reached across the table, touched the tip of her forefinger to the
penultimate name, then slid her finger to the last“and thatÅ‚s mine; he passed
the set to me as a Death Gift."

Aezel touched the ancient wood and the yellowed ivory with gentle fingers.
“A fine thing," he said, pleasure husking his soft voice. He pushed the board
into the middle of the table so both could reach it without straining, then he
sat back, laced his fingers across his hard little paunch and began a litany of
his own Masterline.

When he finished, they set up the game and began.

At first she was too aware of the noise around her, of the other customers
drifting over to watch, of Zisgade moving in, his coffee eyes boring into her,
of the circling memories. But as the game went on, all that vanished and she
saw nothing but the stones and their patterning. Twice before shełd tipped into
a state where her stones moved in a wave that built and built, sweeping the
other stones away before them, but shełd never felt it so strongly as now.

It was not a slow game; there were no long, labored pauses on either side.
Aezel was her match and more, a Gold in truth, keeping pace with her, doing all
he could to check the wave and turn it aside.

And he did it. Her wave beat against his wall and fell away.

Shełd overwhelmed him almost everywhere, yet he managed to preserve a
handful of stones and herd them into the rare and powerful pattern called the
Gorfellay, the ultimate defense of an ultimate Master.

Hallah Myur rubbed at her back and sighed; she could go on playing, hoping
to catch him in a mistake, but the mistake would most likely be hers. She
lifted her hand, let it fall. “Draw?"

“Agreed." He went limp, yawned, lay back with his eyes closed, exhausted but
content.

Hallah looked around. The watchers that had collected about the alcove were
scattering, stretching, yawning, wandering toward the bar, talking avidly about
the game. Zisgade was gone; no doubt he left when he saw the game was going to
last awhile. Stone-chess gave him hives, he said; he hated the times when
Kihyaytiłan made him watch the play. She began tucking the stones into their
cubbies. “Hah-hey," she said. “I loathe crowds."

“Ah." Aezel sucked up the last of his wine, raised a shaggy brow. When
Hallah nodded, he summoned a Pot Girl to refill the tankard. When shełd gone,
he tapped his thumbnail against the pewter in a monotonous clack clack clack
clack

Hallah Myur shuddered. “Stop that, will you?"

“You want something."

She scowled at him. His eyes had an odd shine to them, a fugitive green phosphor.
“Another game," she said warily. “By your favor, gold Aezel."

“ThatÅ‚s not it."

“I donÅ‚t understand."

“I offer a trade, silver Hallah. What you want for what I need." His
thumbnail tap tap tapped against the pewter.

She leaned forward, her eyes on the thumb then lifting to meet his. She said
nothing, but it was clear enough that Curse Truce or not he was going to lose
that thumb if he kept on.

He flattened his hand on the table. “Will you trade?"

“Swear faith."

“By Koaysithe, I"

“No! Swear by Stone."

“Why not." He laid his hand palm down on the ancient chess box. “I swear by
Stone and my Masterłs Grave, what I say is true, what I say I do." He took his
hand back, shifted his wrinkles in another smile. “Well, silver Hallah?"

“Why not." Whatever she did, she was up to her neck in carrion with the
crows coming at her. “I have a daughter." To her annoyance, her eyes stung and
her jaw started to tremble. She took a gulp of shag, set the glass down with a
thump. “I lost her. Thought she was dead. She wasnÅ‚t even two yet. I saw her
today. At the Swearing. I want to know if shełs happy no thatłs not right if
shełs" She rubbed her thumb along the heavy glass, but didnłt drink this time;
things were ragged enough. “I need to know without intruding I need to know
because" She wiped at her mouth with a shaking hand and finished in a rush.
“Because how she is, thatÅ‚s the fulcrum my future turns on, do you understand?"

“Yes." He sipped at the wine, wrapped his hands around the tankard. “I can
do that. I can show you your daughterłs state."

“WhatÅ‚s the price?"

“You."

“My soul?"

He laughed, a deep rumbling chuckle. His eyes flattened, and his hooky nose
grew more prominent. “A shapeless drift of smoke? I want you. Hands and head."

“ThereÅ‚s the Truce."

“We know. ThatÅ‚s not it."

“We?"

He lifted a hand, let it fall.

“Stone Oath binds you." Hallah slid along the bench until she was near the
end. “Only you."

“I and we"he waggled his hand“same thing. Up to you. Yes or no?"

She was tired. That was bad. She got impatient and reckless when she was
tired. Take it slow, she told herself. A step at a time. “One for one," she
said finally. “Find out for me how my daughterÅ‚s doing, and IÅ‚ll cede you one
serviceyour call. We can go on from there."

“Done."

5

The last strands of the snare

Thonsane appeared at the alcove, waited without a word until they slid from
the booth, then led them up the stairs at the end of the bar and into what at
first seemed an ordinary bedroom, perhaps a little cleaner than most, lit by a
single candle on a battered table beside the bed.

When Thonsane pulled the door shut, the room changed.

The candle vanished. Points of light exploded about the dark undefined
space, expanded into fist-sized globes that swam and bobbed about, clustering
and moving apart like fireflies on a summer evening.

The walls were gone; trees marched to infinity on every side, merging in the
distance into a murmuring darkness. A stream appeared from near where the door
had been, spread into a pool, narrowed again and meandered on to vanish under
the trees. Rowan trees bent over the pool, dropping their blossoms onto the
quiet water.

There was the smell of woodlands, of grass and leaves and damp earth,
punctuated by sharp peaks of pine and oak.

Aezel crouched on a hummock of grass, a wide shallow drum on his hairy
thighs; brown-brown brindle hair, stiff, straight, and thick covered him from
just below his ribs to the split hooves where his boots had been. He tapped at
the drum with nails like claws and drew an odd, whispery rattle from the
parchment head.

Thonsane laughed; it was a wild, eerie sound, deep-throated, frightening,
and disconcertingly infectious.

Hallah turned.

Like Aezel, Thonsane had shed her clothes. Her hair was loose, long black
tresses shifting about her body as she moved. Wide curving horns spread from
her temples, alabaster horns glowing like the crescent moon.

“Look into the pool and think of her," Thonsane said, her voice a braiding
of echoes.

Hallah shivered. They were showing her too much. She felt trapped. Stone
Oath, that was her anchor, her one point of stability, and she clung to it as
she took the two steps to reach the water. She was going to kneel, changed her
mind, and squatted.

Something like a breeze brushed past her face and blew ripples on the pond,
sending the rowan flowers scooting to the far bank. The water steadied,
smoothed into a mirror.

She saw a bedroom with narrow windows set high in the walls and alabaster
lamps sending out soft yellow light.

A woman was stretched out on a divan, propped up by pillows. She was sipping
from a heavy, opaque glass, her face flushed, her coppery hair straggling loose
from the elaborate braided crown shełd worn to the Oath Swearing. When the
glass was empty, she fumbled among the pillows, pulled out a square bottle, and
filled it again, tilting the bottle and shaking it to get out the last drops.
She gulped at the liquid, shuddered, coughed, went back to sipping.

A door opened and a girl came in, a tall, tender girl still on the childłs
side of puberty, with red-gold hair fairer than the womanłs hanging down past
her waist.

Hallah gasped, closed her hands into fists. Her daughterłs daughter.
!Maytre!

The girl stopped, clamped her wide mouth into a grim line as she saw
Rowanna. “You promised," she said, her voice trembling, angry. “You said you
wouldnłt. Hełll do it, you know he will. You want to get put out the door?"

Rowannałs hand started shaking, spilling the liquor on her hand. She set the
glass on the table beside the divan, spilling more in the process. “You" she
cleared her throat, wiped her mouth“you donÅ‚t understand, Bree. Baby" She
started crying, held out her hand. “Baby, heÅ‚s going to" The girl didnÅ‚t move,
so she pulled her hand back, got clumsily to her feet, and stood swaying. “HeÅ‚s
sold you, Briony."

“What?"

“He told me this morning. He dangled you on the ship, and the Vramheir took
the bait. The Bridegroom." She laughed unsteadily. “DonÅ‚t you think thatÅ‚s
funny, Bree? All the way from the Pearl Isles to meet his bride, and he picks
up a trinket for himself on the way."

The breeze blew again and broke the mirror.

A moment later the bedroom was back. Aezel was sitting on the bed looking
tired and sleepy, Thonsane was standing with her arms folded, her back against
the door. Hallah Myur got to her feet.

Aezel cleared his throat. “Was it enough?"

“Yes. What do you want from me?"

He smiled, the wrinkles of his face spreading and sliding back. “We can look
into the Toyaytay if wełre careful, but we canłt get past the Curse." He
shrugged, spread his hands. “And thereÅ‚s no one we could trust whoÅ‚s inside
right now. We want you to carry something to the Yih Małyin Sałaetinn."

“Is she apt to scream at shadows?"

“No. She has asked a question. She awaits an answer."

“Do you have a plan of the Toyaytay or must I jump blind?"

“We have. YouÅ‚ll see it."

Iłm a fly in a spiderłs web, she thought, and I can see only a little of it.
I donÅ‚t like this. Do I have a choice? No. “One for one," she said aloud. “That
was a joke, wasnłt it. !Maytre! Iłm a fool. Let it be done. Hands and head. If
you get my daughter out of there, and my daughterłs daughter, and swear to keep
them safe and in comfort, I swear by Stone I will serve you till my lifełs
end."

“And if we ask you to do something you donÅ‚t like?"

Hallah laughed. It was a hard unhappy sound. “Considering how IÅ‚ve earned my
bread, therełs not much I find beyond me. Distasteful, yes, impossible no." She
moved impatiently, clasped her hands behind her. “IÅ‚m not a puppet to dance to
your strings; if you want work done well, youłll let me do it my way. Set me
goals and turn me loose."

“There might be complexities that canÅ‚t be explained, complexities that
require a certain style of act."

“Tchah! You couldnÅ‚t choose a needle to pry up a stone. Use me right and the
job is done, wrong and I break and ruin the work."

“Yes. I see. Speaking of ruin, you have a choice before you, Hallah Myur.
Pay Membrudałs Son for what hełs done to you or bring your daughter out. You
canÅ‚t do both." He held up his hand to stop her protest. “We arenÅ‚t being
arbitrary; itłs a matter of what we can do, not what we want."

Hallah stared past him at the dull gray wall, shadows from the candle
dancing on it. “MembrudaÅ‚s son," she said softly. “As a matter of abstract
justice, the blat needs his throat cut." She shook her head, wiped her hands
down her sides. “HeÅ‚s gas on the belly; one fart and heÅ‚s gone." She managed a
small smile. “My daughterÅ‚s more important. So. Show me the plan of the
Toyaytay and letłs get started."

6

The first delivery

Feltsoled busks groping for a toehold, Hallah Myur wriggled backward through
the small window over her cot. She found one of the cracks between the courses
of stone shełd seen from the outside, worked the rest of her clear, and started
moving cautiously along the wall.

Clouds were thickening across the face of the moon, and she could smell damp
on the air; she spent a thought on hoping it wouldnłt rain until she got down,
then concentrated on working around the nearest corner and up the turret wall.
When she reached the roof, she rolled over the parapet and went swiftly along
it, bent over to keep her head from showing, until she came to the lacy iron
spires that marked the family gardens of the Alayjiyah.

She pulled on her leather palms, caught hold of the top crossbar, and swung
over, then went cautiously down the wall, shifting from crevice to crevice,
dropping the last dozen feet into the soft loam of a flower bed. She scratched
the earth over the marks of her busks, rearranged the flowers, then flowed
along the wall until she reached a window.

“I mean no harm to anyone within," she whispered before she touched it. “I
am only a messenger."

Say that to yourself and to the air, Aezel told her. Over and over. And
believe it. And the Curse will slumber while you work.

A slide and wiggle of a thin blade took care of the catch; she eased the
casement open and slipped inside. For several breaths she stood listening
intently while her eyes adjusted to the increased darkness. No problem. Aezel
was right. Once she was past the outer walls of the Toyaytay, there wasnłt much
security to worry about. Except the Curse. Always excepting the Curse. She
crossed the room, a sewing room the plan called it, charging the blowpipe with
black kumunda dust as she moved.

“I mean no harm," she whispered to the dark. “I am only a messenger."

She eased the door open a hair and pressed the bulb. A moment later she
heard a muted thump. She nodded, pressed filters into her nostrils, and left
the room.

She stepped over the last guard, tried the door.

Locked.

She ran her fingers around the latch, located the lock plateand the key
protruding from it. Key on the outside. !Maytre! Joyful betrothal, this. I
begin to smell a pattern. She turned the key and eased the door open, slipped
inside, collapsing the blowpipe and sliding it into a pocket.

The Yih Małyinłs breathing came soft and steady from behind curtains
yellowed by the glowcandles on the bedstead. Her busks soundless on the stone
floor, Hallah hurried across the room, pushed aside the bed curtains, and bent
over the sleeping girl.

The Yih Małyin had her fatherłs nose, which was not a blessing, but shełd
found the rest of her bones in another place; and while she wasnłt pretty,
Hallah suspected she was attractive enough when she was awake. She slept
clenched in a knot. Stubborn, angry maiden, ready to run from a wedding she
didnłt want. Hallah pressed her palm over the girlłs mouth, pinched her
earlobe. “Wake up," she whispered. “IÅ‚m sent by friends. You know who."

The Yih Małyinłs eyes snapped open, and she managed a nod, her head moving
under Hallahłs hand.

“DonÅ‚t say anything, just listen." Hallah took her hand away, peeled the
spelled khihy leaves from the small white pebble Aezel had given her. “Put this
in your mouth and walk out. No one will follow you. The tastełs the guide.
Sweet means youłre on trail, sour means youłve strayed. Itłll take you where
you want to go." She set the pebble in the Yih Małyinłs hand, folded her
fingers over it. “Count twenty after IÅ‚m gone. Safer for you that way, less
chance guards or a curseman will light on you by accident. Oh yeah, herełs your
door key." The Yih MaÅ‚yinÅ‚s eyes glinted as Hallah dropped it on the bed. “Lock
the door and leave the key in it, maybe theyłll think youłre still inside."

Hallah Myur left, pulling out the sections of the blowpipe as she went,
chanting Aezelłs litany under her breath: I mean no harm, I am only a
messenger. Around the litany she thought: Itłs going to be one holy mess when
they find her among the missing. !Maytre! And on my head. Weasel facełll make
sure of that.

A guard stood at the entrance to the GuestHouse, but a puff of kumunda dust
sent him folding gently to the floor.

“I mean no harm, I am only a messenger."

Hallah Myur hauled him up, propped him against the wall, his iron-bound
batoule laid across his thighs. With a little luck, hełd wake confused and keep
quiet about his lapse; guards who slept on duty got nine stripes from the kou
and swelled like blowfish from the nettle soup the lash was soaked in. Shełd
seen it often enough. Kihyaytiłan was fond of applying kou discipline to anyone
who annoyed him.

She slipped inside, moved swiftly and silently through the maze of halls
until she reached the suite where the Membrudas were staying. The lamps had
burned low, some of them were out in this back-of-behind area of the
GuestHouse, and there were no Toyaytay servants about. The guests out here were
barely important enough to be invited; they certainly werenłt going to be
cosseted at the Alayjiyahłs expense.

Her mouth twitched into a smile as she knelt and inspected the lock.
MembrudaÅ‚s Sons must be sore as snag teeth at treatment like this. “I mean no
harm, I am only a messenger." She inserted a pick into the lock and began
feeling for the wards.

When she was in, she stood for a dozen breaths with her eyes closed to
regain her nightsight, then went looking for her daughter and her daughterłs
daughter.

7

The second delivery

Briony lay curled up on a pallet in a cramped cubicle with three serving
maids; she slept like a small neat kitten, her mouth opening and closing in
tiny sucking movements, her hands kneading at the pallet.

Hallah edged past the maids and knelt beside the child. “I mean no harm, I
am only a messenger." Once again she peeled a pebblea gray one striped with
blackfrom its khihy leaves, then slipped it into Brionyłs mouth, easing it
under her tongue. “Come," she murmured. “Come away, come away, baby." She
shivered as she took Brionyłs hand. It was small and hot and a little sticky.
She pushed away the things it made her feel and eased the spelled child onto
her feet, led her out the door.

It will be as if they walk in their sleep, Aezel said; keep them calm, talk
to them as you would a fractious horse, and theyłll follow wherever you lead.
But be quick about it. These całoęin arenłt like the Yin Mał-yinłs cało. They
could trip alarms if the cursemen are awake enough. So hurry.

“Wait," she murmured when she reached MembrudaÅ‚s bedroom. “Wait until I call
you, Briony."

“I mean no harm, I am only a messenger." She peeled the leaves from the last
pebble, pushed it into her daughterłs mouth, wrinkling her nose at the stink of
black rum. “Come," she whispered. “Come away, baby. Follow and be free."

She stepped back, watched Rowanna crawl clumsily from the bed. No clothes.
!Maytre! It only needed that. “Stay, baby," she said. “Stand there while I"

Ardamoar grunted, mumbled, and groped about for Rowanna, not awake yet, but
close

Hallah ran on her toes around the bed, laid her sap neatly alongside his
head, muttering, “I mean no harm, I am only a messenger." He grunted again,
went limp. Hastily she thrust her fingers under his jaw, relaxed as she felt
the pulse beating strongly. “Wait. Be quiet. No need to fuss." She darted
around the bed again, heading for a chest by the door and almost tripped as her
foot caught in a pool of cloth. She swept the thing up, shook it out. Bedrobe.
Thick wool and dark. No wonder I didnłt notice it. !Maytre! itłs amateur time

Rowanna was more than three spans taller than she, but she got the robe over
her daughterłs head, her arms in the sleeves, and tugged her down so she could
tie the lacings at the neck, her fingers faltering as memories fought to surface.
She forced them down and finished the job. “I mean no harm," she murmured
again, “I am only a messenger. Good. YouÅ‚ll do for now. Come, baby, come,
follow me, come, sweetee, Mamałs going to take you home"

There was tension in the air as she tolled the two through the hallways of
the GuestHouse. The Curse was stirring, they were an irritant inside it. She
hurried as much as she dared, murmured words flowing in a muted stream to draw
the sleepers after her.

Yawning and scratching her head, a maid stepped into the hall just as Hallah
came ghosting along. The girl gaped, started to yell, collapsed in a heap on
the floor as Hallah used the sap again.

Witnesses everywhere! !Maytrełs Nails! even when I was a greenling, I never
laid a trail like this.

“As soon as youÅ‚re out," Aezel had said, “go straight east through the
Gardens until you reach the river. Wełll be waiting for you there."

“Come, babies, come, steady now, step and step, one foot swings, the other
follows, come babies come" Hallah Myur had no magic in her, only dry precision
and an obsession with detail, but it didnłt take magic to smell the Curse or
feel it seeking them. A long time ago, just after shełd started Guild training,
shełd been trapped underground with a huge cave spider, white as death and
blind. Shełd never forgot the way it turned and turned on those hideous white
legs, searching for her.

They moved through the heavy, oscillating shadow beneath the trees, shadow
broken by the tall lamps set at intervals throughout the Garden. “Come along,
babies," Hallah murmured. “Quiet and quick, come along, babies, come ah come"

The pressure from the Curse grew stronger; the air was thick with the stink
of threat. The bubble was close to popping. Any minute, something could happen

Hallah Myur rounded a large thorny bush, whipped up the blowpipe, and puffed
the black dust at the curseman before he got his bones lifted; in almost the
same move, she flung a waxy breakstone at his middle. It caught him in the
diaphragm, knocked the wind out of him, forced him to breathe in the dust.

The Curse twanged.

Hallah swore and dropped to her knees as a sudden gust of wind blew the
cloud of dust back at her. She switched ends and scrabbled for Rowanna, but she
was too late. Her daughter got a whiff of dust and folded gracefully to the
grass. Briony was off to one side and farther away; the backblow missed her.

The twanging increased enormously, the soundless sound hammered at Hallah.
Briony trembled, blinked blind, blank eyes. She started away, hands groping before
her.

The drums in the drum tower began sounding. Men were shouting; there was the
clank of metal on metal.

“!Maytre!" Hallah ran after the girl, brought her back to RowannaÅ‚s limp
body. “Stay there." She caught hold of RowannaÅ‚s wrists, hauled her up until
she was sitting. Grunting and straining, she got her daughter over her shoulder
and staggered to her feet. She bent her knees, straightened, bouncing her
daughter on her shoulders, shifting the weight to a marginally better balance.
“Come along, baby," she sang, and reached for the childÅ‚s hand. “Come, baby,
come with Mama and Gramma, come baby, come gods, daughter, you weigh a ton,
come, baby, come, easier to carry you last time we were together, come, baby,
come, I wish, I donłt know what I wish, come, baby, come, quiet and quick,
sweet and saucy, come, baby, come"

The smell of the garden changed to the wild forest odors she remembered from
the tavern bedroom. Grey-white forms flitted through the trees; elongated and
eerie, they circled around her. She kept moving and tried to ignore them.

The drums grew muted, all sounds were muted, the trees turned translucent
and insubstantial; she might have been moving through a dream.

Her knees hurt, her back hurt, she was straining for breath, sweat dripped into
her eyes, and the dream went on and on; she didnłt know how long, time was
elsewhere.

Aezel stepped through the ring of shades. He lifted Rowanna from Hallahłs
shoulder, cradled her in his arms, her red hair like a fall of fire. He smiled.
“ItÅ‚s only a few steps more."

8

Fly on a long leash

The river flowed around the sandy spit, silent and powerful, black ink in
the clouded moonlight. A single oak leaned out over the water, roots exposed,
the earth washed away on the riverside. Rowanna lay on the sand; Briony stood
beside her.

The moonwraiths wavered in the shadow of other trees, nervous pillars of
mist, their features smudges of gray on curdled white.

Aezel and Thonsane stood together, hand in hand, spoke together. “Hallah
Myur, you must be behind us. What comes is not for you."

Weary in body and mind, Hallah walked into the shadow of the oak. She
lowered herself onto one of the roots, sat with her hands on her thighs,
waiting for the thing to be finished.

Their braided voices riding on the rising/falling drone of the moonwraithsł hum,
Aezel/Thonsane intoned, “You who walk the Dark Ways, I and I are the Opener of
Doors, I and I call to you, O Sulkahayn, O Pathspinner. Open the GhostWay. I
and I call to you. Show the DarkPath to this mother and child."

A knot of darkness deeper and blacker than the night expanded into a tall
oval, and a path black on black shone without light.

Hallah shivered as Rowanna rose to her feet and with Briony turned to face
the Door.

“The Way is open," Aezel/Thonsane sang. “Go into it."

Rowanna and Briony stepped into the dark and glided away.

Hallah watched, thumb rubbing nervously across her fingers; it seemed to her
they took only a single step, then they were out the far side, standing on a
mountain slope in early morning sunlight, looking down into a valley filled
with springtime. A small neat village was tucked into a bend of a blue,
bouncing river winding through the valley. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and
children were bringing in cows for the morning milking.

A tall woman stepped from behind a tree, held out her hand to Rowanna,
spoke. Hallah couldnłt hear the words, but she could see Briony smiling.

The Dark Way closed.

The wraiths faded into the trees.

Thonsane left without speaking.

Aezel came to squat beside her. “Is it well-done, Hallah Myur?"

“I suppose. TheyÅ‚ll be cared for?"

“Yes. Did you want to go with them?"

“No. What I am, IÅ‚m not ashamed of it, but" She shook her head. “What now?"

“ThereÅ‚s a ship waiting out there"he nodded at the river“itÅ‚s sending a
boat for you. Itłll take you to a city called Gorjo Xil. Wait there till we
call you to service."

She thought briefly about asking him why he and his had worked to bring war
on this landbecause it would be war when the Vramheir of the Pearl Isles found
his bride had run out on himbut she was too tired to care. “The Guild will be
hunting me."

“ThereÅ‚s gold waiting on ship; use it to dig yourself a hole."

Wearily she shook her head. “No hole would be deep enough. ItÅ‚ll take them
awhile to sort things out, so I should be safe for a month or two. After that,
IÅ‚ll have to keep moving."

“WeÅ‚ll work that out." He touched her arm, stood. “The boatÅ‚s here. ItÅ‚s
time to go. Farewell, silver Hallah. Wełll play again."

“IÅ‚d like that, gold Aezel." She gathered herself, stood without touching
the hand he held out, and walked down the sand to the boat with its dark
oarsmen. Before she waded over to it, she turned, saluted him. “Farewell and
take care," she called. “I will win one of those games. One day."

Wayfinder

Janny Wurts

In heroic and high fantasy, the questing hero has a counterpartthe questing
heroine, who seeks not only help for her people, but a value for herself.
Tough, unselfish Sabin, apprentice to a hard life, is an excellent example of
the breed. But, as you might expect, having set up that pattern, author Janny
Wurts transcends it, liberating Sabin to find her own way.

Ciondo had blown out the lanterns for the night when Sabin remembered her
mistake. Lately arrived to help out on the sloop for the summer, she had
forgotten to bring in her jacket. It lay where it had been left, draped over
the upturned keel of the dory; wet by now in the fog, and growing redolent of
the mildew that would speckle its patched, sun-faded shoulders if someone did
not crawl out of warm blankets and fetch it up from the beach.

The wind had risen. Gusts slammed and whined across the eaves, and moaned
through the windbreak of pines that lined the cliffs. Winter had revisited
since sundown; the drafts through the chinks held the scent of northern snow.
The floorboards, too, were cold under Sabinłs bare feet. She looked out through
the crack in the shutter, dressing quickly as she did so. The sky had given her
a moon, but a thin, ragged cloud cover sent shadows chasing in ink and silver
across the sea. The path to the harborside was steep, even dangerous, all rocks
and twined roots that could trip the unwary even in brightest sunlight.

Stupid, she had been, and ever a fool for letting her mind stray in
daydreams. She longed to curse in irritation as her uncle did when his hands
slipped on a net, but she dreaded to raise a disturbance. The household was
sleeping. Even her aunt who wept in her pillow each night for the son just lost
to the sea; Sabinłs cousin, who was four years older than her undersized
fourteen, and whose boots she could never grow to fill.

“A girl can work hard and master a boyÅ‚s chores," Uncle Ciondo had summed up
gruffly. “But you will never be strong enough to take the place of a man."

Yet the nets were heavy and the sloop was old, its scarred, patched planking
in constant need of repairs. A girlłs hands were better than going without, or
so her mother insisted. Grudgingly, Uncle Ciondo agreed that Aunt Kala would do
better if an empty chair no longer faced her through mealtimes. Sabin was given
blankets and a lumpy cot in the loft, and cast-off sailorłs clothing that
smelled of cod and oakum, poor gifts, but precious for the fact they could ill
be spared.

Her lapse over the jacket could not go unremedied.

She fumbled and found her damp boots in the dark. Too lazy to bother with
trousers, she pulled on the man-size fisherłs smock that hung halfway to her
knees. The loose cuffs had to be rolled to free her hands. She knotted the
waist with rope to hold it from billowing in the wind, although in the deeps of
the night, no one was abroad to care if she ran outside half-clothed.

The board floor squeaked to her step, and the outer latch clanged down as
she shut the weathered plank door. “Sabin," she admonished as she hooked a heel
on the door stoop and caught herself short of a stumble, “DonÅ‚t you go tripping
and banging, or someone will mistake you for trouble and shoot you in the back
for a troll."

Except that no one in her village kept so much as a bow. The fisherfolk had
only rigging knives and cutlery for the kitchen, and those were risky things to
be throwing at trolls in the dark. Given any metal at all, and a troll will
someday do murder with it; or so her mother used to threaten to scare out her
habit of mislaying things. Sabin sighed at her failure, since her jacket was
not hanging as it should to dry on the hook by the hearth.

Cloud cover smothered the moon. Past the garden gate, the trail to the sea
plunged deep into shadow. She stubbed her toes on corners of slate, and cursed
like a fishwife, since her uncle was not there to scold. The path switched back
once, twice, in tortuous descent. Westward it was faced by sheer rock cliffs,
moss-grown, and stuffed with old bird nests in the niches. The moon reemerged.
The pines that clawed foothold in on the lower slope moaned in the lash of the winds,
their trunks in stark silhouette against silver-lace sheets of spent breakers
as they slid in fan curves back to sea. Sabin tossed tangled hair from her
eyes. The night was wild around her. She could feel the great waves thud and
boom over the barrier reefs even through the leather of her bootsoles.

A night to bring boat wrecks, she knew, the sea in her blood enough now that
her ear had attuned to its moods. She hurried as the slate path leveled out and
gave way at last to sand, ground of the same black stone, and unpleasant with
chill in the dark. The last fringe of trees passed behind, and she started
across the crescent beach. The moon went and came again. Out on the reefs, the
high-flying spindrift carved up by the rocks tossed like the manes of white
horses; great herds there seemed to be, galloping with arched necks, the surf
roll became the thunder of churning hooves. Sabin forgot the folly of the
daydreams that had forced her out of bed. As if someonełs voice had addressed
her, she stopped very still and stared. For a second the horses seemed real.
There, the red flare of nostrils in the moon-whitened planes of wedged faces,
and now, a ringing neigh on the wind that tore past her ears.

Impossible, she insisted, and yet

A cloud scudded over the moon. Her wonder vanished, and she chided herself.
There was nothing. Only the tide-swept sand of the beach and herself, a
scarecrow figure of a girl with mussed hair and no sense, gawping at a span of
wild waters. The village idiot knew horses did not run in the sea. Sabin
shivered and felt cold. The dory lay beached above the tide-line, a brisk walk
distant up the beach. She turned that way, determined to fetch back her jacket
without another lapse into silliness.

But before she had gone half the distance, something else caught her eye in
the surf. Not a horse, but a dark clot of rags that at first she mistook for
flotsam. Then the crest of a wave rolled it over, and she saw a man. He was
floundering to keep his face above water, and only a hairsbreadth from
drowning.

Fear and memory drove her. She spun and plunged into the sea. Cousin Juard
had been lost to the waves, ripped from the decks of her unclełs boat during
the fury of a storm. As the racking, retching coughs of the man who struggled
reached her, she wondered if Juard had died as miserably, his body bent into
spasms as the cold salt water stung his lungs.

Then the swirl of a comber cascaded over her boot-tops and foamed up around
her chest, and her gasping shudder killed thought. The castaway born along by
the tide tumbled under, and the weight of him slammed her in the knees.

She dropped, clutching at a shoulder whose shirt was all tatters, and skin
underneath that was ice. As the rough sands scoured under her shins, she hooked
his elbow, and braced against the drag of the ebb.

Her head broke water. Through a plastering of hair, Sabin huffed what she
hoped was encouragement. “This way. The beach."

His struggles were clumsy. She labored to raise him, distracted by a chink
of metal: iron, she saw in the flash of bared moonlight. He was fettered in
rusted chains, the skin of both wrists torn raw from their chafing.

“Mother of mercy," she blasphemed. He had found his knees, an old man,
white-haired and wasted of body. His head dangled with fatigue. She said,
“Nobody could swim pulled down by all this chain!"

“DidnÅ‚t," he husked; he had no breath to speak. He thrashed in attempt to
rise, and fell again as the water hit and dashed in fountains around his chin.

She gripped him under his flaccid arms and dragged mightily. Despite her
best effort, his head dipped under the flood. He swallowed a mouthful, gagging
on salt, while she grunted in tearful frustration. The wave sucked back. He
dragged his face free of its deadly, clinging currents with the dregs of his
failing strength. His feet seemed fastened to the shoaling sands as if they
were moored in place.

Belatedly suspicious, Sabin kept tugging. “Your ankles. Are they in irons
also?"

He made a sound between a laugh, a sob, and a cough. “Always."

His floundering efforts managed to coordinate for a moment with hers.
Together they stumbled a few yards shoreward, harried on by flooding water.
Again the wave ebbed, and he sank and bumped against the sand. Panting, Sabin
locked her fingers in his shirt. She held him braced against the hungry drag of
the sea, desperate, while her heart raced drumrolls with the surf. Something
was not quite right, she thought, her stressed mind sluggish to reason. The
incoming tide carried no flotsam, not a stick or a plank that a shipwrecked man
might have used to float his way ashore. “You never swam," she accused again,
as he regained the surface and sputtered.

Weak as he was, her sharpness stung him. He raised his chin, and eyes that
were piercingly clear met hers, lit by the uncertain moonlight. “I didnÅ‚t." His
voice held a roughness like harpstrings slackened out of tune. “I begged help
from the seaborne spirits that can be called to take the shape of horses. They
answered and drew me to land, but they could not see me safe. To lead one even
once from the water dooms it to mortal life ashore."

The interval between waves seemed drawn out, an unnatural interruption of
rhythm like a breath too long held suspended. Even disallowing for chains, his
weight was too much for a girl; but it was a spasm of recognition like fear
that locked Sabinłs limbs and tongueuntil those cut-crystal eyes looked down.
As if released from bewitchment, she blurted, “Who are you?"

She thought the wind took her words. Or that they were lost in the grinding
thunder of the sea as she scrabbled the last yards to dry sand. But when, safe
at last, he collapsed in bruised exhaustion, he answered. “I am a wayfinder,
and the son of a way-finder." His cracked tone broke to a whisper. “And I was a
slave for more time than I care to remember." He spoke nonsense, she determined,
and said so. He was a madman and no doubt a convict who had fled in the
shallows to hide his tracks from dogs. A denial she did not understand closed
her eyes and her heart against the logic that argued for him: that the road ran
high above the cliffs, and those few paths that turned shoreward were much too
steep for a captive to negotiate in chains. Had he come that way, he should
have fallen, and broken his legs or his neck. Through teeth that chattered,
Sabin waited. Yet the refugee stayed silent. She poked him in the ribs with her
toe and found he had succumbed at last to the beating the sea had given him;
either he slept or had dropped unconscious. The wind bit at wet flesh, made
cruel by driven spray. The tide rose still, and the sand where he lay would
very soon be submerged. Forced by necessity, Sabin arose. The jacket she had
left on the dory would have to serve the old man as a blanket until Uncle
Ciondo could be fetched from his bed.

Sabin awakened to sunlight. Afraid of her unclełs gruff scolding, she shot
straight, too fast. The blood left her head. Dizziness held her still and
blinking, and she realized: Uncle Ciondo was shouting. His voice
drifted up through the trapdoor to the ladder, though he probably stood in the
kitchen by the stove, shaking a fist as he ranted.

“A condemned man, what else could he be! Or why should anyone have chained
him? Those fetters were not closed with locks. They were riveted. We cannot
shelter such a man, Kala."

The castaway, Sabin remembered. She pushed out of bed, and tripped in her
haste over the wet smock she had discarded without hanging last night. From the
clothes chest she grabbed her only spare, and followed with the woolen britches
every fisherłs lad wore to sea. She left her boots. Even if they were not
drenched and salt-stiff, they would make too much noise and draw notice.

Masked by the murmur of her auntłs voice, declaiming, Sabin set bare feet on
the ladder. At the bottom, the door to Juardłs room lay cracked open, beyond
the stairwell, which tunneled the bellow of her uncleÅ‚s protest. “Kala, thatÅ‚s
daft and you know it! He could be dangerous, a murderer. I say we send him
inland in the fish wagon and leave his fate to the Kingłs bailiff."

Sabinłs uncle was not hard-hearted, but only a sailor, and the sea rewards
no man for sentiment. Ciondo would care very little if the rescued man could
hear the rough anger in his voice. But as a girl not born to a fisherłs trade,
Sabin flinched. She tiptoed down the hall and slipped through the opened door,
a ghost with mousy, tangled hair and a sailcloth smock flocked at the cuffs
with the rusty blood of gutted cod.

The man the sea had cast up was asleep. Chain lay on him still, looped at
wrists and ankles with spare line that tied him spread-eagled to the bedposts.
Ciondo had taken no chances, but had secured the refugee with the same half
hitches he might use to hold a dory against a squall. Still, the undyed wool of
the blankets hung half kicked off, as if the prisoner had thrashed in
nightmares. His rags were gone. Daylight through the opened shutters exposed a
history of abuse, from the salt-galled sores left by shackles to a mapwork of
dry, welted scars. He was not old after all, Sabin saw, but starved like a
mongrel dog. His skin was sun-cured to teak and creases, and his hair bleached
lusterless white. He looked as weatherworn as the fishing tackle on the sloopłs
decks, beaten by years of hard use.

Aunt Kalałs voice filtered through the doorway, raised to unusual sharpness.
“Ciondo, IÅ‚ll be sending no man on to the bailiff before he finds his wits and
tells his name! Nor will any needy stranger leave our roof hungry, the more
shame to you for witless fears! As if anybody so starved could cause harm while
bound up in metal chains! Now, be off! Go down to the beach with the rest, and
leave me in peace to stir the soup."

A grumbling followed, and a scrape of boots on the brick. Few could stand up
to Kala when she was angry, and since Juardłs death, none dared. She was apt to
weep when distressed, and if anyone saw her, she would throw cooking pots at
them with an aim that could flatten a pigeon.

Cautious in the quiet after the door slammed, Sabin crept to the window. The
sun threw slanting bars of yellow through gently tossing pines. Yet if the
vicious, tearing winds had quieted, the sea mirrored no such calm. Beyond the
spit off the point, the breakers still reared on the reefs, booming down in
tall geysers of spray. The surge rushed on untamed, through the harbor gates
where the round-bottomed boats rolled at anchor, an ominous sign. Sabin bit her
lip. She squinted against the scintillant brightness of reflections and saw
wreckage scattered amid the foam: the sundered masts and planking of ships
gutted wholesale by the reefs.

No one had shaken her awake at dawn because today the twine would not be
cast out for fish. When the wrecks littered the beach, men plied their nets to
glean a stormłs harvest from the waves. Custom barred girls and women from such
labor, lest the nets bring up dead bodies, and the sight of drowned flesh sour
the luck of their sons, born and unborn, and curse them to the horror that had
befallen cousin Juard, to be taken alive by the sea.

The man on the bed had escaped that fate, just barely. He had come in on a
ship that was now ripped to fragments, Sabin knew for a surety. He had not
swam; not in chains. And horses did not run in the sea. Unwilling to risk
misfortune by looking too closely at the waves, or what tossed and surfaced in
the whitening tumble of foam, Sabin spun away from the window. She shivered in
the sun that fell on her back, and shivered again as she saw that the man on
the bed had awakened. He studied her, his eyes like fine flawed crystal broken
to a razorłs edge.

“You do not trust me," he said in his rusty whisper. He flexed one wrist,
and immediately grimaced in pain.

“My uncle thinks youÅ‚re a murderer."

He ground out a bitter, silent laugh. “Oh, but I am, though my hand has
never taken life."

She frowned, a plain-spoken girl who dreamed, but had always hated riddles.
“What is a wayfinder?"

Riddles came back in answer, as he regarded the beams of the ceiling. “One
who hears the sea. One who can read the earth. One who can travel and never be
lost."

“I donÅ‚t understand." She stepped back, and sat on the clothes chest that
had once held the shirt she was wearing, when it had been Juardłs, and she had
spent days spinning thread for her fatherłs loom. Now her hands had grown horny
and tough, and fine wool would catch on the callus. But the incessant lapses of
attention had not left her; she forgot to mind sheet lines as readily as she
had faltered at spindle and wheel. She curled her knees up and clasped her
hands to bury that recognition. “Anyone can be lost."

He stirred in the faintest impatience, jerked back by the cut of his chains.
“Inland to the east, there is a road, a very dusty road with stone markers that
winds through a forest. Beyond lie farmlands, and three villages, and lastly a
traderłs town. Beyond brick walls are wide sands, called by the desert people
who live there Deiłehłvikia." His head tipped sideways toward Sabin. His eyes
now were darkened as gray sapphires, and he considered her as though she should
be awed.

She was not. “You could have spoken to someone who passed that way," she
accused. “Perhaps you lived there yourself." But she knew as she spoke that he
did not. His vessel had broken on the reef, and never sought harbor in these
isles. Few ships did, for the rocks gave hostile greeting to mariners from
afar.

He looked at her in sadness or maybe pain, as if he had offered riches to
the village halfwit who had use for no coin at all. He kept staring until she
twisted her fingers together, embarrassed as if caught at a lie. For all his
foreign accent, he had pronounced the place-name as crisply as the
nomads who made the desert their home. Townsmen and traders slurred over the
vowels and called it Daaviki, in contempt for the troublesome native speech.

He perceived that she knew this. He saw also that stubbornness kept her
silent.

He looked at her still, his gaze heavylidded, almost glazed as a drunkłs.
The angle of his neck must have pulled at his shoulders and wrists, but he shed
any sign of discomfort as he said, “Sabin, outside this room, there is a
passage covered with braided rugs. It leads to a stairway that winds around
itself twice. Downstairs, to the right of the kitchen lies a door that leads to
a springhouse. Purple flowers grow by the path, and seven steps to the left
lead to the sea cliff where there is a little slate ledge. You like to sit
there on sunny mornings, in what you call your chair seat. But the people who
inhabited these coasts before yours used the site as a shrine." His grainy
voice was almost gentle as he finished. “They left carvings. You have seen
them, when you scratched at the moss."

Sabin jumped up with her mouth opened like a fishłs. He had been carried
into this house, unconscious. Ciondo had brought him through the front door.
Someone might have mentioned her name in his hearing, but there was no way he
could have seen the springhouse, or have known of her fondness for that ledge.
Her aunt and uncle did not know, nor her own mother and father.

“I am a wayfinder," he said simply, as if that sealed a truth that she
realized, shivering, could not be other than magic. Her need to escape that
room, and that compelling, mesmerizing gaze came out in a rush of speech. “I
have to go, now."

The Wayfinder let his head fall back on the pillow. At a word from him, she
would have fled; she waited, tautly poised on one foot. But he made no sound.
He closed his eyes, and curiosity welled over her fear and held her rooted.
“Still there?" he murmured after a while.

“Maybe." Sabin put her foot down, but quietly.

He did not open his eyes. “You have a piece of the gift yourself, you know,
Sabin."

She quivered again, as much from anger. “What gift!"

His hands were not relaxed now, but bunched into white-knuckled fists. One
of his sores had begun to bleed from the pressure; he was trying her unclełs
knots, and finding them dishearteningly firm. “You came to the beach at my
call."

She stamped her foot, as much to drive off uneasiness. “You called nothing!
I forgot my jacket. That was all."

“No." His hands gave up their fretting. “You have given your jacket as the
reason. But it was my call that caused you to forget it in the first place.
When I asked the spirits for their help, you heard also. That was the true
cause of the forgetfulness that drew you outside in the night."

“IÅ‚ve been scolded for carelessness all my life," she protested, “and my
jacket was forgotten at twilight!"

“And so at that hour I called." He was smiling.

She wanted to curse him, for that. He seemed so smug. Like Juard had been
when he teased her; and that remembrance called up tears. Sabin whirled violently
toward the doorway and collided headlong with her aunt.

“Sabin! Merciful god, youÅ‚ve spilled the soup." Kala raised the wooden tray
to keep it beyond reach of calamity, and her plump face dimpled into a frown.
“What are you doing here anyway? A sick man has no need for prying girls."

“Talk to him," Sabin snapped back. “HeÅ‚s the one who pries."

“Awake, is he?" Kala stiffened primly. She glanced toward the bed and
stopped cold, her chins sagging beneath her opened mouth, and the tray
forgotten in her hands. For a moment she seemed to breathe smoke as she inhaled
rising steam from the soup bowl.

Then she exploded. “My fool of a husband! Rope ties! The cruelty and the
shame of it." She stepped sideways, banged her tray down on the clothes chest,
and in a fit of total distraction, failed to bemoan the slopped soup. “Sabin,
run out and fetch our mallet and chisel." She added to the stranger on the bed,
“WeÅ‚ll have you free in just minutes."

For an instant, the Wayfinderłs cut-crystal eyes seemed to mirror all of the
earth. “Your good man thinks IÅ‚m a murderer."

“My good man is a fool who thinks in circles like a sand crab." Kala noticed
that Sabin still lingered in the doorway. “Girl, must you always be idling
about waiting for speech from the wind? Get along! Hammer and chisel, and
quickly."

Kala had matters well in hand before the last fetter was struck. “YouÅ‚re
taking up no space thatłs needed," she insisted with determined steadiness.
“JuardÅ‚s bed is yours, heÅ‚s dead and at rest in the sea, and if you care to
lend a hand at the chores, we could use the help, truly. Sabin belongs home
with her family."

She ended with a strike of the mallet. As the last rivet sheared away, and
rusted metal fell open and clanged in a heap on the floor, the Wayfinder raised
his freed wrists. He rubbed at torn skin, then looked up at Kala, who stood
over him gripping the tools with both fists braced on broad hips. In profile,
Sabin saw the stranger give her aunt that same, heavy-lidded gaze that had
earlier caused her the shivers.

“HeÅ‚s not lost, your Juard," the broken voice announced softly.

Kala went white. She dropped the tools with a clatter and clapped her palms
behind her back to distract bad luck, and avert the misfortune of hearing false
words. “Do not spin me lies! Respect our loss. Ill comes of wishing drowned men
back from death, for they hear. They rise in sorrow and walk the sea bed
without rest for all of eternity."

The Wayfinder cocked up his eyebrows in sad self-mockery. “I never lie. And
no such lost spirits walk the sea, nor ever have." At Kalałs shocked stiffness,
he thumped his marred fist on the mattress in frustration. “Your boy is not
dead, only washed up on a beach, as I was."

Aunt Kala turned her back, which was as near to an insult as anyone ever got
from her. The Wayfinder glared fiercely, his ice-gray eyes lit to burning. Then
his jaw hardened until the muscles jumped and his speech scraped out of his
throat. “Your son fetched up on the Barraken Rock, to the west. At this moment,
he is gutting a fish with a knife he chipped from a mussel shell."

“My son is dead!" Kala snapped back. “Now say no more, or when Ciondo comes
back, you will go trussed in the wagon to the bailiffs. IÅ‚ll hear your word."

The Wayfinder sighed, as though sucked down in a chasm of weariness. “Woman,
youłll get no word from me, but neither will you hear any, either, if that is
your desire."

“It is." Kala stamped out through the doorway without looking back. “Sabin,"
she yelled from the threshold at the head of the stairwell. “YouÅ‚ll see that
yon man eats his soup, and bring down the tray when hełs finished."

But Kalałs bidding was impossible to carry out, Sabin found. On the bed, the
Wayfinder had closed his eyes and fallen deeply asleep.

The house stayed quiet for the rest of the morning, with Kala beating quilts
with a ferocity that outlasted the dust. At noon Uncle Ciondo returned from the
beach, swathed in dripping oilskins, his boots caked to the ankles with damp
sand. The bull bellow of his voice carried up through the second-storied window
where Sabin kept vigil with the invalid. “Kala! Where is that man?"

The thwack of the broom against fabric faltered. “Where else would he be,
but in bed? The shame on you, Ciondo, for leaving him trussed like the felon he
certainly isnłt." Smack! went the broom at the quilts.

When only the cottage door hammered closed in reply, Sabin gripped her knees
with sweaty hands. She all but cowered as her unclełs angry tread ascended the
stairs; bits of grit and shell scattered from his boots and fell pattering
against the baseboards as he hurried the length of the hall. The next instant
his hulking shoulders filled the bedroom doorway, and his sailorłs squint fixed
on the empty shackles that lay where they had fallen on the floor.

“Fool woman," he growled in reference to his wife. He raised hands scraped
raw from his labors with net and sea, and swiped salt-drenched hair from his
temples. Then he noticed Sabin. “Out, imp."

Her chin jerked up to indicate the man on the bed. “I found him."

“So you did." CiondoÅ‚s grimness did not ease as he strode closer, but he did
not send her away. Sabin watched as he, too, met the uncanny gaze of the
stranger who had wakened again at the noise. The sword-edged clarity of that stare
arrested her uncle also, for he stopped, his hands clenched at his sides. “Do
you know that all morning we have been dragging in bits of burst ships? Not
just one, but a fleet of them."

The Wayfinder said a touch tartly, “Karbaschi warships."

“So you know them." Ciondo sighed. “At least you admit it." His annoyance
stayed at odds with his gesture as he noticed his boots, and the sand left
tracked in wet clumps. Hopeful as a miscreant mongrel, he bent and scuffed the
mess beneath the bed where Kala might not notice. He dusted his fingers,
ham-pink and swollen from salt water, on the already gritty patches of his
oilskins. “You were a criminal? Their prisoner perhaps?"

The WayfinderÅ‚s Up curled in a spasm of distaste. “Worse than that."

Ciondo straightened. “YouÅ‚d better tell me. Everything. Our people fear such
fleets, for where they go, they bring ruin."

The man propped up by the pillows seemed brown and wasted as stormwrack cast
up and dried on the beach. In a whisper napped like spoiled velvet, he said, “I
was their Wayfinder. Kept bound in chains to the flagshipłs mast, to guide them
on their raids. When I refused to see the way for their murdering, or led them
in circles at sea, they made sure that I suffered. But by the grace of your
kindness, no more."

Uncle CiondoÅ‚s square face looked vacant with astonishment. “You!" He took a
breath. “You? One of the inÅ‚am shealdi, the ones who are
never lost? I donłt believe it."

“Then donÅ‚t." The Wayfinder closed his eyes. His lashes were dark at the
roots, and bleached white at the tips from too much sun. “Your wife named me
liar also."

“Storm and tide! SheÅ‚ll fling any manner of insult at a man, if she thinks
it will help make him listen." Ciondo shifted stance in disgust. “And I did not
say you spoke falsehood, but only that I canłt believe you."

At this, the Wayfinderłs eyes flicked open. Though he tensed no muscle,
Sabin felt warning charge his presence that swept the room like cold wind. “Is
it proof you want? You shall have it. Leave me blindfolded on any of your
fishing sloops, and give me the tiller, and I will set you an accurate course
for the spit called the Barraken Rock."

“A wager?" Ciondo covered uneasiness with a cough. Thoughtfully, he added,
“The trial would have to be at night, or the sun on your face might guide you."

“Be it night, or in storm, I care very little," the Wayfinder challenged.
“But if I win, IÅ‚d have your promise: not a word of my gift shall go beyond
this village. Your King, if he found me, would send me back as a bribe to plead
for an exemption from tribute. Greedy traders anywhere would sell the secret of
my survival. The Karbasch make unforgiving masters. If they learned I still
lived, a warrior fleet would sail to collect me, and killing and looting would
follow. If your people have no riches to adorn Karbaschi honor, your noses
would burn, and your daughters know the miseries of slavery."

Ciondo went pale, even to the end of his nose that seasons of winds had
buffed red. He stepped back from the edge of the mattress and sat without care
for soggy oilskins on the cushion by the windowseat. “If you are inÅ‚am
shealdi, then you steered those ships afoul of the currents. Was it you
who set your Karbasch overlords on our reef to drown and then took your chance
in the sea?"

The Wayfinder denied nothing, but regarded his wrists as if the weals dug by
fetters could plead his testimony for him. A tight-drawn interval followed,
broken at last by the rattle of pots in the kitchen; Kala had relented enough
to oversee the noon meal. Her industry spoiled the quiet, and forced the
Wayfinder to raise his burred voice to be heard.

“Men travel the land, but they do not hear it. They sail the waters, yet
they do not know the sea. The Karbaschi warships carve paths of destruction,
and the peoples they conquer grieve for slain husbands and sons. But where the
Karbasch stay to settle, they bring cruelties more lasting than death to the
flesh. The lands they rule will wither in time, because they are a race who
take and give nothing back. Their habit of pillage has deafened them, until
they plow up forests for fields and raise towns without asking leave. The
rituals mouthed by their priests are empty of truth, and without care for the
still, small needs of the earth." Here, the invalid lifted his wasted, leathery
shoulders in a shrug. “InÅ‚am shealdi are actually guardians. We
nurture the spirits that the Karbasch run over roughshod, because they love
only the desires of humanity. It is such spirits that show me the way. If I
call, they answer, though the Karbasch ruled my body as a man might course a
hunting dog. The guidance given to me in trust was forced to ill-use, and
inevitably brought the earth sorrow. The day came when I could not endure its
pain, or my own, any longer."

The Wayfinder sounded wistful as he finished. “I expected to die in the sea.
Since I did not, I should like very much to stay. To live simply, and make use
of my talent very little. I wish for nothing beyond your leave to guide your
village sloops back to anchorage each night for the rest of my life."

Secure in the belief she was forgotten where she sat on the clothes chest,
only Sabin caught the half glance he flicked in her direction. As if his
cracked voice informed her, she knew: because of her he begged
sanctuarybecause of the gift he claimed she shared; and not least, for the
sake of Juard, who was dead, who had to be dead, else magic and spirits
were real and horses ran wild in the sea.

If in truth such beauty existed, she would never shed the distraction of
dreams, but helplessly become consumed by them until the small inattentions
that cursed her grew monstrous and took over her life.

Spooked by strangeness that threatened to draw her like some hapless moth to
a flame, Sabin sprang to her feet and fled. Out and through the hall she
pounded, and on down the stair beyond. Kala called out as she passed through
the kitchen, to say the noon meal was waiting. But the girl did not stop until
she had left the house, and raced at reckless speed down the cliff path to the
place she called her chair seat.

There she spent the afternoon, while the Wayfinder slept. She did not return
for supper, though Kala called from the back door to say that their guest had
risen for the meal. By that Sabin understood that her uncle had accepted the
Wayfinder at his word; an outsider who spoke false might stay because he was
ill and had need, but he would not be invited to table. One supposed that Kala
and the stranger had settled their hostilities by not speaking.

At nightfall, when most folk gathered at the tavern, the beachhead glittered
with torches. Word had passed round of a wager, and every boy with the sea in
his blood turned out to ask Ciondołs leave to man the sloop, never mind that
the craft was handy and needed little crew. The commotion as boasts were made
and shouted down, and lots were finally drawn to keep the choice fair, enabled
Sabin to sneak past and hide under the nets in the dory. Certain she had not
been seen, she peered out cautiously and saw the tight knot of men stepping
back. They left the Wayfinder standing alone with black cloth muffling his
head. He turned unerringly toward the tender that was Ciondołs. If his steps
were unsteady due to weakness, the line he walked was straight. He crossed and
found the thwart without fumbling, and spoke so no others could hear. “Your
good aunt does not know where we sail. I never mentioned to your uncle that I
know your cousin Juard to be alive. Before we arrive at the Barraken Rock, I
give you the burden of telling him."

“Aunt Kala would curse you for putting your lies in my mouth," Sabin accused
from under damp nets, the reek of which suddenly made her dizzy. She was
trembling again, and that made her angry, for he sensed her fear, she was
certain. She could feel those pale eyes burning even through their veiling of
cloth as he said, “But you are not Kala. You are the child of a weaver, and
your fears are not ruled by the sea."

“They are when I sit in a boat!" she snapped back, more like her aunt than
herself.

He laughed in his broken, rasping way, and because there was no malice in
him, she wanted to hit him or scream. Instead she shrank into a tight huddle.
Light and voices intruded, and the boat lifted, jostling, to be launched. As
the keel smacked the water, and blown spray trickled through her cocoon of
nets, she tasted warm salt with the cold. Tears: she was crying. The man seemed
so certain that poor, lost Juard still breathed.

Sabin felt the rampaging buck of the surf toss the dory over a swell. The
alternative terrified, that her cousin had rightly drowned, and that this
stranger who lured the people laughing to their boats to follow his blindfolded
quest was a sorcerer who could swim in iron chains. They might rescue Juard, or
else join him, leaving more bereaved families to weep and to curse at the sea.

Sabin rubbed the stinging cheek her uncle had smacked when he found her, and
smacked again when she told what the Wayfinder had said of her lost cousin.
While the wind shifted fitfully, slapping sails and stays in contrary gusts,
and moonlight silvered the wavelets, she braced against the windward rail, away
from the men by the binnacle. Their talk grew ever more sullen as Juardłs fate
was uneasily discussed, and shoreline and lights shrank astern.

“Nothing lives on the Barraken Rock but fishing birds that drink seawater!"
cried Tebald over the wear of patched canvas. Young, and a friend of Juardłs,
his jutted chin and narrowed eyes were wasted.

Blind behind swaths of black rag, the Wayfinder stood serene before
aggression, his thin hands draped on the tiller as if the wood underneath were
alive.

Darru argued further. “Without a fresh spring, a castaway would perish."

“It has rained twice in the past week," the stranger rebuked. “Oilskins can
be rigged to trap water, and the seabirds are plentiful enough to snare."
Ciondołs spare smock flapped off his shoulders like an ill-fitting sail, the
cuffs tied back to keep from troubling his sores. The linen bindings covering
his wrists emphasized prominent bones; a man so gaunt should not have been able
to stand up, far less command the muscle to mind the helm. But Sabin could see
from where she stood that the sloop held flawless course. The wake carved an
arrowłs track astern.

Ciondo glowered and said nothing, but his hand strayed often to the rigging
knife at his belt.

“We should put about and sail back," Tebald said.

Darru was more adamant. “We should let you swim back, stranger, for your
lies."

The Wayfinder answered in the absent way of a man whose thoughts are
interrupted. “If I prove wrong, you may kill me."

At this came a good deal of footshifting, and one or two gestures to ward
ill luck. No one voiced the obvious, that they could kill him only if
malfortune went elsewhere and they lived to make good such a threat.

The night wore on, and the stars turned. The wind settled to a steady
northeast, brisk and coldly clear. Moonset threw darkness on the water, and the
land invisible astern. Once, Darru repeated the suggestion that the wager be
abandoned, that the sloop seek return by the stars. He spoke to Ciondo by the
mainmast pinrail, but was answered in gruff-voiced challenge by the Wayfinder
aft at the helm. “Would you take such a chance, just to keep JuardÅ‚s doom a
clear certainty?"

Darru spun in vicious anger, jerked back by CiondoÅ‚s braced hand. “DonÅ‚t
provoke him! He is inłam shealdi, or how else does he steer without
sight? Find faith in the straight course he sails, or else give the decency of
holding your tongue until you have true cause to doubt."

“Grief for your son has turned your head," Darru muttered, shrugging himself
free. But he could not argue that lacking clear stars or a compass, no ordinary
man could keep a heading hour after hour without mistake.

Night waned. Sabin slept through the dawn curled against a bight of rope.
She dreamed of waves and white horses, and the rolling thunder of troubled seas
until TebaldÅ‚s shout awakened her. “The Barraken Rock! Dead off our bow, do you
see!"

She opened her eyes to a dazzle of sunlight, and the soured smell of seaweed
beached and dried. “Juard," she whispered.

No one noticed. Ciondo stood as a man frozen in place by the foremast stay;
the more volatile Darru gave back laughter and cried to his fellow crewman,
“Where were you an hour ago when the spit rose out of the sea?"

“Sleeping," Tebald confessed. His awed glance encompassed the scarecrow
figure who guided the tiller with a feather touch, and whose eyesight was yet
swathed in cloth. The mouth that showed underneath seemed turned up in detached
amusement. Tebald leaned down and ruffled Sabinłs hair as he passed, his
discomfort masked by a shrug.

Peevish and oddly unrefreshed, she tried a kick that missed at his ankle.
“DonÅ‚t do that. IÅ‚m not a little girl anymore."

Tebald ignored her as if she were a bothersome younger sister. To Ciondo he
said, “The wagerÅ‚s won, IÅ‚d say. Your inÅ‚am shealdi should take off
his blindfold. Itłs probably making him sweat."

“I said so," Ciondo admitted. With one hand fastened to the head stay, he
kept his eyes trained on the rock that jutted like a spindle from the sea.
“Tell him again if you want."

But with the arcane powers of the helmsman now proven, no one seemed anxious
to speak. Sun glared like molten brass off the wet shine of the deck, and the
sheet lines creaked under their burden of sail. The pitiless isolation of the
sea seemed to amplify the wind and the mingled cries of seabirds that squabbled
and flew above the rock. The deeper shout that was human seemed to rend the
dayłs peace like a mortal blow to the heart.

On that gale-carved, desolate spit, splashing in sea-water to the knees, a
raggedy figure ran, dancing and gyrating to a paean of reborn hope.

“ItÅ‚s Juard!" Darru gasped. He glanced nervously back at the Wayfinder,
ashamed for his unkind threats. Tebald at his side held his breath in wordless
shock, and Ciondo just buried his face in his hands and let the tears spill
through his fingers.

It was Sabin who moved to free sheetlines when the Wayfinder threw up the
helm. While Tebald and Darru roused belatedly to set the anchor, the girl
un-lashed an empty bait barrel. She stood it on end by the sternpost, climbed
up, and as the Wayfinder bent his head to receive her touch, she picked out the
knots of his blindfold. The cloth fell away. Hair bleached like bone tumbled
free in the breeze, and she confronted a face set level with hers that had been
battered into pallor by exhaustion. The eyes no longer burned, but seemed wide
and drugged as a dreamerłs. Almost, she could plumb their depths, and sense the
echoes of the spirits whose guidance had led without charts.

“You could hear them yourself, were you taught," the Wayfinder murmured in his
grainy bass. Yet before those eyes could brighten and tempt her irrevocably to
sacrifice the reality she understood, she retreated to a braced stance behind
the barrel.

“The moment Juard can sail with his father, IÅ‚ll be sent back home. Whether
or not there are horses in the sea, I shanłt be getting lost behind a loom."
Her bare feet made no sound as she whirled and bounded off to help Ciondo, who
was struggling in feverish eagerness to launch the tender by himself.

The sloop was met on her return by men with streaming torches. Juardłs
reappearance from the lost brought cries of joy and disbelief. Kala was fetched
from her bed for a tearful reunion with the son miraculously restored to her.
For Juard was alive; starved thin, his hair matted in tangles so thick they
could only be shorn, and his skin marred everywhere with festering scratches
that needed immediate care. The greedy sea had been forced to give back its
plunder, and the news swept like fire through the village.

A crowd gathered. Children in nightshirts gamboled on the fringes, while
their parents jabbered in amazement. The Wayfinder, whose feat had engineered
the commotion, stood aloof, his weight braced against the stempost of a dry
dory, as if he needed help to stand up. From farther back in the shadows,
outside the ring of torchlight, Sabin watched him. She listened, as he did, to
the noise and the happiness, and she alone saw him shiver and stiffen and
suddenly stride into the press with his light eyes hardened to purpose.

He set a hand marked as JuardÅ‚s on CiondoÅ‚s arm, and said, “No, I forbid
this," to the fisherman who had been boasting the loudest. “You will not be
repeating this tale to any traders, nor be offering my service to outsiders.
This is my bargain for Juardłs life."

Silence fell with the suddenness of a thunderclap. Surf and the snap of
flame remained, and a ring of stupefied faces unfamiliarly edged with
hostility. “Which of us made any such bargain?" shouted someone from the
sidelines.

The WayfinderÅ‚s peaked brows rose. “Ciondo is my witness, and here is my
warning. For yourselves, you may ask of me as you will. The guiding and ward of
your fleet I shall do as I can; but let none beyond this village ever know that
I am inłam shealdi. Say nothing, or sorrow will come of it."

Finished speaking, or perhaps too weary to stay standing, the Wayfinder
strode out of the pack. He left all the village muttering and wondering as he
moved in slow steps toward the path. On the chill sands outside the torchlight,
Sabin watched him vanish in the darkness under the pines. She did not follow;
nor did she feel moved to join the villagers. The waking dream had touched her.
Curiosity no longer drove her to discuss the stranger Kala sheltered.

“Was he a felon, to want such secrecy?" one good-wife muttered from the
sidelines.

Ciondo replied in indignation. “Does it matter?" Then good sense prevailed
over argument, and Kala scolded the gawkers roundly for keeping poor Juard from
his bed.

A month passed, and seven days. Juard recovered his health and returned to
fishing on the sloop. The Wayfinder who had brought his recovery took a longer
time to mend. Kala pressed food and comforts on him constantly, until he
complained of her coddling. Unlike anybody else, she listened, and left him
alone. His white hair grew out its natural color, a golden, honey-brown, until
Sabin sitting in her chair seat on the cliff-side could no longer pick him out
from the villagers who manned the sloops. She saw him seldom, and spoke with
him not at all. Winding the skeins of wool and stringing the looms in her
fatherłs craft shop in furious concentration, she avoided walking the beach.
Since the night she forgot her jacket, she could not bear to watch the combers.
She heard them, felt them, even indoors with her ears filled with the clack of
shuttle and loomthe thunder of what might be hooves, and the tumble of white,
upflung spray that pounded the beaches in procession. She swept cut threads
from the floor, and helped her mother bake, and each night begged her sleep to
show her silence.

It did not. She misplaced socks and tools, and once, let the fire burn out.
The waking world came to seem as a dream, and herself, strangely separate,
adrift. She was scolded more often for stargazing, and seemed more than ever to
care less.

The Wayfinder laughed in the tavern at night, accepted, but with a reverence
that marked him apart. Two boats he saved from ruin when storms caused shoaling
off the reefs. Another smack was recovered with a damaged compass after squall
winds blew it astray. No one knowingly broke the Wayfinderłs faith, but his
presence loomed too large to shelter. Sabin understood this, her hands fallen
idle over wool she was meant to be spinning. She twisted the red-dyed fibers
aimlessly, knowing: there were traders who had heard of Juardłs loss, and who
saw him back among the men. They asked questions. Driven by balked curiosity,
they pressured and cajoled, and won themselves no satisfaction.

The silence itself caused talk.

Summer passed. The winds shifted and blew in cold from the northeast, and
the fleet changed quarter to follow the shoals of fish. The looms in the
weaverłs shop worked overtime to meet the demand for new blankets. Sabin
crawled into bed each evening too tired to blow out the lamp; and so it chanced
that she wakened in the deeps of night by the blood-dim glow of a spent wick.
This time no forgotten jacket needed recovery from shore. The restlessness that
stirred her refused to be denied.

She arose, dressed in haste, and let herself out the back door. Lights still
burned in the tavern, and a few drunken voices inside argued over ways to cure
sharkskin. Sabin slipped past, down the lane toward her unclełs cottage. Once
there she did not knock; every window was dark. Instead she went on down the
cliff path. Her shins brushed the stalks of purple flowers, dried now, and
rattling with seedheads in the change of season. Wind snatched her clothing and
snapped at the ends of her hair. A wild night, yet again, the kind that was
wont to bring wrecks. She completed the last, familiar steps to the chair seat,
dreading what she might find.

The horizon was clearly delineated under a waning half moon. Clouds scudded
past like dirty streamers, muddling the swells pewter and gray, and against
them, like pen strokes in charcoal, an advancing forest of black masts. Where
peaceful craft would have plied sails, this fleet cleaved against the wind,
lashing up coils of foam beneath the driving stroke of banked oars.

War galleys, Sabin identified, though the Karbasch to her were just talk.
The Wayfinderłs secret was loose in the world, and his overlords returned now
to claim him. Poised to run and rouse the town, Sabin found she could not move.
Her flesh became riveted by a cry that had no sound, but ripped between the
fabric of the air itself to echo and ring through her inner mind.

The vibration negated her scream of terrified surprise, and filled her
unasked with its essence: that of rage and sorrow and mystery, and a wounding
edge of betrayal.

Dizzied almost to sickness, she clawed at the rocks for a handhold to ward
off a tumbling fall. The summons faded but did not leave silence. The grind of
the sea overwhelmed her ears with a mauling crescendo of sound. Cowering down
in the cleft of the chair seat, Sabin saw the sea roll back. It sucked in white
arrows of current off the tide flats until slate, shingle, and reef were laid
bare. Fish flapped in confused crescents across settled streamers of weed, and
the scuttled, half-rotted hull of a schooner turned turtle with a smack in the
mud, Fishing boats settled on their anchor chains, and townside, the bell in
the harbormasterłs house began steadily tolling alarm.

Faintly, from the cottage behind, Sabin heard her unclełs bellow of inquiry
as the clangor aroused him from bed. Juard, also, would be tossing off
blankets, and stumbling out with the rest.

Sabin did not move. She, who had been born in a village of seafarers, and
should have been, would have been, one of them, could only stare with
her joints locked immobile. She alone did not flee in blind concern toward the
beach path to stave off the threat to the boats.

Had she gone, it would not have mattered; the chair seat offered an
untrammeled view as the horses thundered in from the sea.

They came on in a vast, white herd, manes tossing, and forehooves carving up
arcs of flying spray. The water swirled under their bellies and legs, and
rushed in black torrents behind uncountable upflung tails. Wave after wave,
they surged in, plowing up weeds and fish and muddy gouts of sea bottom, and
milling the shells of galleys and sloops into shreds and splinters as they
passed. Spars of fishing smacks entangled with snapped-off oars and the
dragon-horned timbers of Karbaschi shipwrights; the cries of warriors and
oarsmen entangled in the flood mingled with shouts from the villagers who saw
their fleet and that of the raiders become smashed to kindling at a stroke. The
horses swept on in a boil of foam that boomed like a god-wielded hammer against
the shore. Spindrift sluiced across the cliffs. Ancient pines shivered and
cracked at the blow, and boulders broke off and tumbled.

Drenched to her heels by cold water, Sabin cowered down, weeping for the
beauty of a thousand salt-white steeds that reared up and struck at the windy
sky. And with that release came understanding, at last, of what all along had
been wrong: her heart held no sorrow for the terrible, irreversible destruction
that rendered her whole village destitute.

Lights flickered through the pines at her back, as angry men lit torches.
Shouts and curses carried on the wind, and the tolling bell fell silent,
leaving the seethe of the seas a scouring roar across the reef. Sabin pressed
her knuckles to her face. The Wayfinder was going to be blamed. This ruin was
his doing, every man knew, and when they found him, they would tear him in
pieces.

Pressed into her cranny by a weight of remorse she could not shed, Sabin saw
the wild horses swirl like a vortex and turn. Back, they plunged into the sea
that had spawned them, leaving churned sand and burst wood and snarled bits of
rope. Amid the roil of foam, a lone swell arose and broke; one mare spun away
and parted from her companions.

Sabin saw her stop with lifted head, as if she listened to something far
away. She tossed her mane, shedding spray, then raised up one forehoof and
stepped, not into water, but most irrevocably, out onto wrack-strewn sand.

Sabin cried out at that moment, as if some force of nature wrenched her,
spirit from flesh. Reflex overturned thought, and she was up and running inland
at a pace that left her breathless. Voices called out to her as she reached the
lane, people she knew, but she had no answer. The torchlight in the market did
not slow her, nor the press of enraged men who gathered to seek their revenge.
Scraps of conversation touched her ears and glanced away without impressionthe
inłam shealdi and his vicious, unfair bargainJuardłs life, in
exchange for the livelihood of all the village. Boats had been broken and sunk.
Folk would starve. The Wayfinder would be made to pay, made to burn; they would
pack him off in chains to rot in the dungeons of the Kingłs bailiff. A hangman
was too good for him, someone yelled, his words torn through with the sounds of
a womanłs crying.

Sabin stumbled and kept going, past the cedar shingles of the wool shop
where her mother stood on the door stoop. “Girl, where are you off to, thereÅ‚s
salvage work to be done, and soup to be fixed for the men."

But the rebuke of her parent was meaningless, now, and had been for quite
some time.

Deep darkness wrapped the hollow where the crossroads met the town and the
lane led inland through forest. Sabin went that way, her lungs burning, and her
eyes streaming tears. The terrible truth pursued her: she did not weep for
loss. The village was nothing to her, its hold inexorably diminished since the
moment she left a jacket on the beach.

By the stone marker on the hill above the market, the Wayfinder waited, as
she knew he would. He sat astride a mare whose coat caught the moonlight like
sea-foam, and whose eyes held the darkness and mystery of water countless
fathoms deep. She tossed her head at Sabinłs arrival, as if chiding the girl
for being tardy, and her mane lifted like a veil of spindrift; subsided like falling
spray.

The Wayfinder regarded Sabin gravely, the burning in his eyes near to
scalding. “You heard my call," he said. “The mare came, and you answered also."

Sabin found speech at last. “You knew I would."

He shook his head, his unbleached honey-colored hair veiling his
weather-beaten face. “I wasnÅ‚t sure. I hoped you might. Gifts such as yours are
needed sorely."

The white mare stamped, impatient. She blew a salty, gusty snort. New tears
welled in tracks down Sabinłs cheeks, and she reached out trembling fingers and
touched the shimmering white shoulder. It was icy as sea-water; magical and
terrifying and beautiful enough to bring madness. The words she struggled to
shape came out choked. “If the horse cannot return, then neither will I."

“You are both my responsibility," the Wayfinder admitted. “And will be, to
the end of my days." He extended his hand, no longer so thin, but disfigured
still with old scars. “You must know the Karbasch would have burned more than
boats, and slaughtered and raped did they land."

Sabin felt as if she had swallowed a stone. “You spared the whole village,
and they hate you."

He sighed, and the mare shifted under him, anxious to be away. “Oh my dear,
it could not be helped. What is a boat? Or a man? New trees will grow and be
fashioned into planks, and women will birth babies that age and grow senile and
die. But just as this mare canłt return to the waves, so an earth spirit that
is maimed can never heal. The Karbasch shed more than mortal blood. I could not
allow myself to be captured, however bitter the price."

“You could have died," Sabin said, her gaze transfixed by the horse.

And he saw it was not his exile, but the fate of the mare that she mourned.
The two of them, man and girl, were alike to the very core.

A shout knifed the quiet, and torches shimmered through the trees. The mare
stamped again, and was restrained by a touch as the Wayfinder said in measured
calm, “I can still die. But you must know, the mare should be cared for. She is
not of mortal flesh. If I give myself up, hear warning. Your talents will
blossom with time. A horse such as this will draw notice, and the Karbasch will
send another fleet. Their craving for conquest is insatiable as the ocean is
vast, and inłam shealdi to guide them, most rare."

She made no move, and her rejection seemed to shatter his detachment. He
lifted his head as the noise of the mob came closer. The edgy, unaccountable
wariness that every offered kindness had not softened gentled very suddenly
into pity. “InÅ‚am shealdi," he murmured in the grainy, musical voice
that had commanded the horse from the sea. “This mare left the water at my
call, you are right, but her sacrifice was never made for me."

Sabin looked up, stricken. “For my life?" she gasped, “or my gift?"

“Both." His eyes were not cold. Inside the serenity lent by power lay a
human being who could bleed. “If you treasure the beauty of the horses, heed
this. We are the only ones who know their kind. Others see no more than surf
and foam. It is our protection, Sabin, that keep this spirit-mare alive, our
call that lends her substance."

The torches reached the crossroad, and light flared and arrowed between the
trees.

“There he is!" someone shouted, and the note of the mob quickened like the
baying of hounds that sight game.

To her dream-filled ears, the pursuers uttered no words, but made only a
cacophony of vicious noise. The roll of the sea held more meaning, and from
this time forward, always would.

Sabin grasped the Wayfinderłs hand. Clinging as if to a lifeline, she let him
pull her up astride the mare. As the villagers burst into the clearing, they
lost their quarry in a half-glimpsed flash of white. The clearing resounded to
what could have been hoof beats, or the enduring thunder of a comber pounding
the pebbles of the shore.

The Way Wind

Andre Norton

Andre Nortonłs imaginary Kingdom of Estcarp, surrounded by enemies, one foot
in twilight, the other in the long night of defeat, has always struck me as the
metaphor for a kind of patient courage: those who hold the gates, those who
wait, those who hope, and those who guard not only against outward enemies, but
against their own despair.

“The Way Wind" Is a story of how the winds of change come to gatekeepers if
their courage holds firm.

The crumbling walled fortress and the dreary, ragged town, which had woven a
ragged skirt about it during long years, stood at the end of the Way Pass. It
was named IÅ‚Estal, which in a language older than legend, had a double
meaningFirst and Last.

For it was the first dwelling of men at the end of Way Pass along which any
traffic from the west must come. And it was also the end of a long, coiling
snake of a road stretching eastward and downward to Klem, which long ago it had
been designed to guard.

There could have been another name for that straggle of drear buildings
alsoEnd of Hope.

For generations now it had been a place of exile. Those sent from Klem had
been men and women outlawed for one reason or another. The scribe whose pen had
been a key used too freely, the officer who was too ambitiousor at times, too
conscientious, the rebel, the misfit, those sometimes fleeing the law or
rulerłs whim, they came hither.

There was no returning, for a geas had been set on the coil road, and those
of lowland blood coming up might only travel one waynever to return. There had
been countless attempts, of course. But whatever mage had set that barrier had
indeed been one of power, for the spell did not dwindle with the years as magic
often did.

Through the Way Pass there came only a trickle of travelers, sometimes not
more than three or four in a season. None of them lingered in lłEstal; there
was that about the place which was like a dank cloud, and its people were grim
of face, meager of livelihood.

During the years they had managed to scrape a living, tilling small scraps
of fields they terraced along the slopes, raising lean goats and small runtish
sheep, hunting, burrowing into the rock of the heights to bring out stores of
ore.

The latter was transported once a year to a certain bend in the descending
road, and there traded for supplies they could not otherwise raisesalt, pigs
of iron, a few items of what was luxury to them. Then it was also that the
Castellan of the fort would receive the pouch bearing the royal arms
containing, ever the same, orders. And now and again there would be another
exile to be sent aloft.

The trickle of travelers from the west were mostly merchants, dealers in a
small way, too poor to make the long journey by sea to the port of Klem itself.

They were hunters with pelts, drovers of straggles of lean mountain cattle or
sheep, small, dark people who grunted rasping words in trade language, kept to
themselves, and finished their business as soon as possible.

Of the Klemish exiles, none took the westward road. If there was a geas set
upon that also, no one spoke of such. It was simply accepted that for them
there was only one place to be longed for, dreamed of, hopelessly
rememberedthat that lay always eastward.

There had been many generations of exiles, and their children had known no
other place; yet to them lłEstal was not a home but a prison of sorts, and the
tales told of the eastern land made of that a paradise forbidden, changed out
of all knowledge of what it had been or was.

Still there was always one point of interest that stirred the western gate
sentries each yearand that was the Way Wind. At the very beginning of spring,
which came slowly and harshly in these gaunt uplands, a wind blew strongly from
west to east, souring the pass, carrying with it strange scents. It might last
a single day; it might blow so for three or four.

And by chance, it always brought with it some one of the western travelers,
as if it pulled them on into the line of the pass and drew them forward. Thus,
in a place where there was so little of the new and strange, the Way Wind
farers were a matter of wager, and often time not only the armsmen at the gate
but their officers and their women gathered, along with townspeople, when they
heard the outer horn blast, which signaled that the wind herded a traveler to
them.

This day there were four who stood on the parapet of the inner wall, not
closely together as if they were united in their company, but rather each a
little apart.

The oldest of that company, a man who had allowed the hood of his cloak to
fall back so the wind lifted tuffs of steel gray hair, had the paler face of
one who kept much indoors. Yet there was a strength in his features, a gleam of
eye which that about him had not defeated, nor ever would. At the throat of his
cloak was the harp badge of a bard. Osono he had named himself ten years before
when he had accompanied the east traders back from their rendezvous. And by
that name he was accepted, eagerly by the Castellan and those of his household.

Next to him, holding her own thick cloak tightly about her as if she feared
the wind might divest her of it, was the Lady Almadis, she who had been born to
the Castellanłs lady after their arrival here. Her clothing was as coarse as
that of any townswoman on the streets below, and the hands that held to that
cloak were sun-browned. There was a steady look to her, as if she had fitted
herself to the grim husk housing her.

At pace or so behind her was a second man. Unlike the other two he had no
cloak, but rather dressed in mail and leather, sword-armed. But his head was
bare also as he cradled a pitted helm on one hip. His features were gaunt,
thinned, bitter, his mouth a mere line above a stubborn jawUrgell, who had
once been a mercenary and now served as swordsmaster in the fortress.

The fourth was strange even in that company, for she was a broad-girthed
woman, red of face, thick of shoulder. Her cloak was a matter of patched
strips, as if she had been forced to sew together the remains of several such
in order to cover her. A fringe of yellow-white hair showed under the edge of a
cap covering her head. For all the poverty of her appearance, For-ina had a
good position in the town, for she was the keeper of the only inn, and any of
the Way Wind brought would come to her for shelter.

“What is your wager, my lady?" OsonoÅ‚s trained bardÅ‚s voice easily
overreached the whistle of the wind.

Almadis laughed, a hard-edged sound which lacked any softening of humor.

“I, sir bard? Since my last two wind wagers were so speedily proved wrong, I
have learned caution. This year I make no speculation; thus I shall not be
disappointed again. Think me over-timid of my purse if you will."

Osono glanced at her. She was not looking toward him but rather down the
wind road. “Lady," he returned, “I think you are over-timid in nothing."

After a moment she laughed again. “Bard, life in lÅ‚Estal makes for dull
acceptanceperhaps that gives root to timidity."

“There is the priest." The observation from the mercenary cut through their
exchange. He had moved forward, as if drawn by some force beyond his own
understanding, to look down at the cluster of townspeople and guards by the
gate.

“Thunur," Osono nodded. “Yes, that crow is well on the hop. Though if he
tries to deliver his message to either herdsman or trader, he will not get the
better of them. Shut-mouthed they are, and to all of them I think we are
Dark-shadowedthey would listen no more to one of us than to the bark of a
chained hound."

Urgell had put his hand to the edge of the parapet wall, and now his mail
and leather gauntlet grated on the stone there. Chained hound, Almadis thought,
proper term not only for such as this man, but perhaps for all of them. But
then a Bard was trained in apt word choice.

“That is one as makes trouble" Forina had come forward also on the other
side of the soldier. “He has a tongue as bitter as var, and he uses it to dip
into many pots. TÅ‚would be well to keep an eye on him."

Urgell turned his head quickly. “What stir has he tried to set, Goodwife?"

“More than one. Ask Vill Blacksmith what a pother made his sister sharp-tongue
him. Ask of Tatwin why three of those snot-nosed brats he strives to beat
learning into no longer come to his bidding, ask Solasten why she was pelted
with market dung. Ask me why the doors of the Hafted Stone are now barred to
him. A troublemaker he is, and this is a place where we need no one to heat old
quarrels and pot new ones!"

“If he is a brawler, speak to the guard," Osono suggested. “But I think he
is perhaps something even more to be watched"

“What may that be?" The bard had all their attention now, but it was Almadis
who asked that question.

“A fanatic, my lady. One so obsessed with his own beliefs that he is like a
smoldering torch ready to be put to a straw heap. We have not an easy life
here; there were many old hatreds, despairs, and these can be gathered up to
fuel a new fire. Ten years ago, one of his nature arose in Salanikathere was
such a bloodletting thereafter as the plains had not seen since the days of
Black Gorn. It took full two seasons to quench that fire, and some brands still
smoldering may have been scattered to blaze again"

“Such a one as Thunur, you think?" Almadis demanded. “LÅ‚Estal has answers to
suchhave we not?" The bitterness in her voice was plain. “What are we all but
outlaws, and we can exist only as we hold together." She did not turn her head,
but she loosed one hand from her cloak hold and motioned to that dark,
ill-fortuned spread of age-hardened timbers which surmounted the wall of the
shorter tower. “That has borne fruit many times over."

“He has a following," Urgell said, “but he and they are under eye. If he
tries aught with the western travelers, he will be in a cell within an hour. We
want no trouble with them."

Certainly they could afford no trouble with the few who came the western
road. Such wayfarers were their only real link with a world which was not
overshadowed by the walls about them and the past which had brought them here.

The gray-robed priest had indeed been roughly jostled away from the gate. He
was making small hops, for he was a short man, trying to see over the crowd
before him the nature of the wayfarer who was now well within sight.

“Itit is a child!" Almadis was shaken out of her composure and came with a
single step to stand beside the mercenary. “A child! But what fate has brought
her here?"

The wayfarer was slight, her bundle of travel cloak huddled about her as if
it were intended for a much larger and stouter wearer. Hood folds had fallen
back on her shoulders, and they saw hair that the wind had pulled from braids
to fly in wisps about her face. She was remarkably fair of skin for a
wilderness traveler, and her hair was very fair, though streaked here and there
by a darker strand closer to the gleam of red-gold.

There was no mistaking, however, the youth of that slight body and those
composed features. She walked confidently, and at her shoulder bobbed the head
of a hill pony, still so thick with winter hair that it was like an ambling
mound of fur.

Bulging panniers rode on either side of a pack-saddle. And that was
surrounded in the middle by what looked to be a basket half covered by a lid.

Contrary to all who made this perilous way through the high mountains, the
girl carried no visible weapons except a stout staff which had been crudely
hacked from some sapling, stubs of branches yet to be marked along its length.
This was topped, however, with a bunch of flowers and leaves, massed together.
Nor did any of them look wilted; rather it would seem they had just been
plucked, though there were yet no flowers to be found in the upper reaches
where reluctant patches of snow could be sighted.

“Whowhat" Almadis was snapped out of her boredom, of that weariness which
overshadowed her days and nights.

As the girl came to the gate, there was a sudden change. The Way Wind died,
there was an odd kind of silence as if they all waited for something; they did
not know what.

So complete was that silence that the sound Osono uttered startled them all.

“Whowhat?" Almadis turned upon the bard almost fiercely.

He shook his head slowly. “Lady, I have seen many things in my time, and
have heard of countless more. There is said to besomewhere in the western
landsthose who are one with the land in a way that none of our blood can ever
hope to be"

The sentries at the gate seemed disinclined to ask any questions. In fact
they had fallen back, and with them the townspeople withdrew to allow her a way
path. In their doing so, Thunur won to the front rank and stood, his head
stretched a little forward on his lank neck, staring at her, his teeth showing
a little.

Almadis turned swiftly but Osono matched her, even extending his wrist in a
courtly fashion to give her dignity. Forina, closest to the stairway, was
already lumbering down, and behind them Urgell seemed as eager to catch a
closer sight of this most unusual wayfarer.

They gained the portion of street just in time to witness Thunurłs up-flung
arm, hear his speech delivered with such force as to send spittle flying.

“Witchery! Here comes witchery! See the demon who is riding in such state!"

The crowd shrunk back even more as there was a stir to that half-covered
basket on the top of the pony pack.

“Fool!" ForinaÅ‚s voice arose in the kind of roar she used to subdue a
taproom scuffle. For so large a woman she moved very fast, and now she was
halfway between the slavering priest and the girl, who watched them both
serenely as if she had no cause to suspect that she was unwelcome.

“Fool! That is but a cat"

The rust-yellow head with pricked ears had arisen yet farther from within
its traveling basket, and green eyes surveyed them all with the same unconcern
as that of the girl.

But such a cat. One of those pricked ears was black, and as the cat arose
higher in its riding basket, they could see that there was a black patch on its
chest. There was such a certain cockiness about it, an air of vast
self-confidence, that Almadis laughed; and that was a laugh that had no edge of
harshness.

Her laugh was quickly swallowed up by a chuckle from Osono, and a moment
later there sounded no less than a full-lunged bellow from Vill Blacksmith.

The girl was smiling openly at them all as if they were greeting her with
the best of goodwill.

“I am Meg, dealing in herbs and seeds, good folk. These traveling companions
of mine are Kaska and Mors"

The hair-concealed head of the pony nodded as if it perfectly understood the
formalities of introduction, but Kaska merely opened a well-fanged mouth in a
bored yawn.

Now the sergeant of the guard appeared to have recovered from the surprise
that had gripped them all. He dropped his pike in a form of barrier and looked
at the girl.

“You are from, mistress?" he demanded gruffly.

“From Westlea, guardsman. And I am one who tradesherbsseeds."

Almadis blinked. The girl had moved her staff a fraction. That bouquet of
tightly packed flowers which had looked so fresh from above now presented
another aspect. The color was still there but faded these were dried flowers surely,
yet they preserved more of their once life than any she had ever seen.

“There be toll," the pike had lowered in the sergeantÅ‚s hold. “ Ä™Tis a
matter of four coppers, and there be a second taking for a market stall."

Meg nodded briskly. Her hand groped beneath her cloak and came forth again
to spill out four dulled rounds of metal into his hand.

Those who had gathered there had begun to shift away. Since this stranger
the wind had brought was going to set up in the marketplace, there would be
plenty of time to inspect herthough she was indeed something new. None of her
kind of merchant had entered lłEstal before in the memories of all.

Only Thunur held his place until the sergeant, seemingly unaware that he was
close behind him, swung back the pike and the priest had to skip quickly aside
to escape a thud from that weapon. He was scowling at the girl, and his mouth
opened as if to deliver some other accusation when Urgell took a hand in the
matter.

“Off with you, crow You stand in the ladyÅ‚s way!"

Now the priest swung around with a snarl, and his narrowed eyes surveyed
Almadis and the bard. There was a glint of red rage in that stare. But he
turned indeed and pushed through the last of the thinning crowd, to vanish down
one of the more narrow alleys.

“Mistress," the mercenary spoke directly to the young traveler. “If that
fluttering carrion eater makes you trouble, speak uphis voice is not one we
have a liking for."

Meg surveyed him as one who wished to set a face in memory. “Armsman," she
inclined her head, “I think that here I have little to fear, but for your
courtesy I give you thanks."

To Almadisłs surprise, she saw Urgell flush and then he moved swiftly,
leaving as abruptly as the priest had done.

“YouÅ‚ll be wantinÄ™ shelter," Forina said. “I keep the Halfed Stoneit be the
trade inn."

Again Meg favored the speaker with one of those long looks, and then she
smiled. “Goodwife, what you have to offer we shall gladly accept. It has been a
long road and Mors is wearied. Our greatest burden has been hissure foot and
clever trail head that he has."

She reached out to lace fingers in the puff of long hair on the ponyłs neck.
He gave another vigorous nod and snorted.

“If you have spicesor meadowsweet for linens" Almadis had an odd feeling
that she did not want this girl to disappear. A new face in lłEstal was always
to be hoped for, and this wayfarer was so different. She had kept stealing
glances at the bouquet on the staff. It seemed so real, as if, at times, it had
the power of taking on the freshness it had had when each of those blossoms had
been plunked.

“Your flowers, Herbgatherer, what art gives the dried the seeming of life?"

“It is an art, my lady, an ancient one of my own people. In here"Meg drew
her hand down the side of one of those bulging panniers, “I have others. They
be part of my trade stock. Also scents such as your meadowsweet"

“Then surely I shall be seeing you again, Herbgatherer," Almadis said. “A
good rest to you and your companions."

“My lady, such wishes are seeds for greater things"

“As are ill wishes!" Osono said. “Do some of your wares come perhaps from
Farlea?"

Meg turned now that measuring look to the bard.

“Farlea is sung of, sir bard. If it ever existed, that was many times ago.
No, I do not aspire to the arts of the Fair Ones, only to such knowledge as any
herb-wife can know, if she seeks always to learn more."

Now it was her turn to move away, following For-ina. Kaska had settled down
again in her basket until only those mismatched tips of ears showed. But there
were those who had been in the crowd at the gate who trailed the girl at a
distance as if they did not want to lose sight of her for some reason.

“Farlea, Osono? I think with that question you may have displeased our
herbwife," Almadis said slowly. “You are a storer of legends; which do you
touch on now?"

He was frowning. “On the veriest wisp of an old one, my lady. There was a
tale of a youth who followed my own calling, though he was of a roving bent. He
vanished for a time, and then he returned hollow-eyed and wasted, saying that
he sought something he had lost, or rather had thrown away through some
foolishness, and that his fate was harsh because of that. He had been offered a
way into a land of peace and rare beauty, and thereafter he sang always of
Farlea. But he withered and died before the year was done, eaten up by his
sorrow."

“But what makes you think of Farlea when you look upon this herbwife?"
Almadis persisted.

“Those flowers on her stafffresh plucked." His frown grew deeper.

“So I, too, thought when first I saw them. But no, they are rather very
cleverly dried so that they are preserved with all their color, and I think
their scent. Surely I smelled roses when she held them out a little. That is an
art worth the knowing. We have no gardens herethe rose walk gives but a
handful of blooms, and those are quickly gone. To have a bouquet of such ever
to hand"her voice trailed off wistfully and then she added“yes, such could
even fight the grim aging of these walls. I must go to the market when she sets
up her stall."

Meg did set up her stall on the following day. From the market mistress she
rented the three stools and a board to balance on two of them, to form the
humblest of the displays. Mathe, who oversaw the trading place, watched the girlłs
sure moves in adjusting the plank to show her wares. He lingered even a
fraction longer, though it was a busy day, to see her unpack bundles of dried
herbs, their fragrance even able to be scented over the mixed odors, few of
them pleasant, which were a part of market day.

There were packets also of yellowish, fine-woven cloth which gave forth even
more intensified perfumes, and small, corner wrapped, bits of thin parchment
such as were for the keeping of seeds. While in the very middle of that board was
given honored place to that same bunch of flowers as had crowned Megłs trail
staff.

Kaskałs basket was set on the pavement behind the rude table. And Mors stood
behind. The cat made no attempt to get out of her basket, but she was sitting
well up in it surveying all about her with manifest interest.

Two small figures moved cautiously toward the stall. Beneath the grimed skin
and the much-patched clothing, one face was the exact match of the other.
Between them strutted a goat, each of his proud curl of horns clasped by a
little, rough-skinned hand.

They proceeded slowly, darting glances to either side as if they were scouts
in enemy territory. Only the goat was at ease, apparently confident in his
ability to handle any situation which might arise.

“YouTayTodtake that four-legged abomination out of here!" A man arose
from the stoop behind one of the neighboring stalls and waved his arms.

The goat gave voice in a way which suggested that he was making a profane
answer to that, and refused to answer to the force dragging at him from either
side. The boys cowered, but it was apparent they had no idea of deserting their
four-legged companion to run for cover.

Meg was on her feet also, smiling as if the two small herds and their beast
were the most promising of customers. When her neighbor came from behind his
own stall table, a thick stick in his hand, she waved him back.

“No harm, goodman," she said. “This beast but seeks what is a delicacy for
his kind. Which he shall be freely given." She selected a stalk wrapped loosely
around with its own withered leaves and held it out to the goat. For a moment
he regarded her and then, with the neat dexterity of one who had done this many
times before, he tongued the proffered bit of dried stuff and drew it into his
mouth, nodding his head up and down, as if to signify his approval, with a
vigor to near shake free the grip of his two companions.

The other tradesman stared, his upraised club falling slowly to his side.
But there was a wariness in his look when he shifted his glance toward Meg,
then he withdrew behind his own table, as if he wished some barrier against a
threat he did not truly understand.

However, Meg paid no attention to him. Rather now, she reached behind her
and brought out a coarse napkin from which she unrolled thick slices of
breadwith green-veined cheese betweenthe food she had brought for her nooning.

Two pair of small eyes fastened upon that, as she broke the larger of the
portion in half, holding it out to the boys. Though they did not entirely loose
their hold on the goatłs horns, their other hands shot out to snatch what she
held, cramming it into their mouths as if they feared that it might be demanded
back.

“TayTod." She spoke the names the man had spoken.

The one to her right gave a gulp that left him choking, but his twin was the
quicker to answer. “I be Tod, ladythis be Tay."

“And your friend" Meg nodded gravely to the goat, as if indeed the beast
were a person of two-legged consequence.

“He be Nid!" There was pride in that answer such as a liege man might show
in naming his lord.

“Well met, Tod, Tay, and Nid," Meg nodded gravely. “I am Meg, and here are
my friends, Kaska and Mors." The cat only stared, but the pony uttered a soft
neigh.

A valiant swallow had carried the food down, and Tay was able to speak:

“Lacy-lorn" he gestured toward the bouquet of dried flowers“But too cold
now" He shook his head.

“Lacy-lorn," Meg repeated with a note of approval in her voice, “and
hearts-ease, serenity, and love-light, Kings-silver, Red-rose, Gold-for-luck,
Sorrows end, Hope-in-the-sunmaidenłs love and knightłs honor, yes." The old
country names came singingly from her as if she voiced some bardłs verse.

“Bright" Tod said before he stuffed his mouth with another huge bit.

“You see them bright?" MegÅ‚s head was cocked a little to one side. “That is
well, very well. Now, younglings, would you give me some service? My good Mors
needs some hay for his nooning, and we had too much to carry from the inn to
bear that also. Can you bring me such? Here is the copper for Mistress Forina."

“Nid" began Tod hesitantly.

“Nid will bide here, and there will be no trouble." There was complete
assurance in her answer.

Tod took the proffered coin and with his twin shot off across the
marketplace. Meg turned to the man who had warned off the boys and the goat.

“Of whose household are those two, if you please, goodman?"

He snorted. “Household? None would own such as those two. Oh, they make
themselves useful as herds. They be the only ones as can handle beast Nid," he
shot a baneful glance at the goat. “Three of a kind they be, stealing from
stalls and making trouble."

“But they are but children."

The man flushed, there was that he could read in her voice and eyes which he
did not like.

“There are a number such. We had the green-sick here three seasons agone,
Herbwife. Many died, and there were tireless hearths left. Mistress Forina, she
gives them leftovers and lets them sleep in the hay at the stable. More fool
she; they are a plaguey lot." He turned away abruptly as a woman approached his
stall, glad to have done with Megłs questions.

The goat had shifted to one side and touched noses with Mors. Kasha gave a
fastidious warn-off hiss just as a thin man in a shabby cloak paused before
Megłs narrow table.

He was eyeing the flowers.

“I thought them real." He spoke as if to himself.

“Real, they are, good sir. But this is what you wishfor your daughter."
MegÅ‚s hand was already on a small packet. “Steep it in apple ale, and let her
have it each morning before she breaks her fast."

“Butherbwifeyou did not ask meI did not tell"

“You saw," Meg answered slowly and firmly, as one might speak to a child
learning its letters, “and I am a healer. We all have gifts, good sir. Even as
you have yours. Out of love of learning, you have striven hard and given much"

Never taking his eyes from hers, he fumbled in the pouch at his belt and
brought out a coin.

“Herbwife, I know not what you arebut there is good in what you do, of that
I am sure. Just as"his eyes had dropped as if against his will to the flowers
and he gave a start“just as those are real! Yet it is out of season, and some
I have not seen for long. For such grew once in a garden eastward where I can
no longer go. I thank you."

Meg was busy with the bouquet, freeing from its tight swathering a spike of
flower violet-red. As she held it up, it did in truth seem to be fresh plucked.

“This for your hearth-home, scholar. May it bring you some ease of heart for
not all memories are ill ones."

He seemed unable for a moment or two to realize that she meant it. And when
he took it between two fingers, he was smiling.

“Lady, how can one thank"

Meg shook her head. “Thanks are worth the more when passed along. You had
one who has given much, scholartherefore to you shall be given in turn.
Remember this well"and there was force in those three words.

It was almost as if he were so bemused by the flowers that he did not hear
her. For he did not say one word in farewell as he turned away from her stall.

Those shadows awakened in the afternoon from the walls about the market
square were growing longer when Almadis came. As usual Osono was at her side,
and behind her Urgell. Though she had been free of lłEstal since childhood,
taking no maids with her, it was insisted that she ever have some guard. And
usually the armsmaster took that duty upon himself.

There were feuds brought into lłEstal, for men of power arose and fell in
the lowlands, and sometimes a triumphant enemy suffered the same fate as his
former victim. Lord Jules had been a mighty ruler of a quarter of Klem before
his enemies had brought him down. His lordship became this single mountain
hold, instead of leading armies he rode with patrols to keep the boundaries
against the outlaws of the western heights; his palace was this maze of ancient
cold and crooked walls, and warrens of rooms. But he was still remembered and
feared, and there were those who would reach him even if they must do so
through his only child.

So Urgell went armed, and Almadis carried in her sleeve a knife with which
she was well trained. There was a sword also sheathed by Osonołs side, though
as a bard he supposedly had safe conduct wherever he might go. Might gothat
was no longer truethere was only lłEstal. No man or woman asked of another
what had brought one to exile here, so Almadis did not know the past tale of
either of the men pacing with her now, but that they were of honor and trust
she was sure, and she welcomed their company accordingly.

Megłs stall had been a popular one this day. Most of those coming to buy had
been dealt with briskly, but there were some with whom she spoke with
authority, and twice more she had drawn flowers from that amazing bouquet and
given them to the amazement of those with whom she dealt. So it had been with
Vill Blacksmith, who had come seeking a herb known to be helpful against a burn
such as his young apprentice had suffered. He went off with not only his
purchase, but a sprig of knightłs honor gold bright in the hand of his bonnet.
And there was Brydan the embroideress, who wished a wash for aching eyes, and
received also a full-blown heartłs-ease, purple and gold as a fine ladyłs gem
when she fastened it to the breast of her worn gray gown.

Oddly enough it seemed that, though Meg plundered her bouquet so from time
to time, it did not appear to shrink in size. Her neighbor began to watch her
more closely, and his frown became a sharp crease between his eyes. Now and
again his own hand arose to caress a certain dark-holed stone which hung from a
dingy string about his throat, and once he muttered under his breath while he
fingered that.

He was the first to sight Almadis and her companions, and his frown became a
sickly kind of smile, though there was no reason to believe the Castellanłs
daughter would be interested in his withered roots of vegetables, the last
remaining from the winter stores.

Indeed she crossed the market as one with a definite mission in mind,
heading straight to Megłs stand.

“Goodwill to you, Herbwife," she said. “I trust that trade has been brisk
for you. We have but very few here who follow such a calling."

Meg did not curtsey, but smiled as one who greets an old friend.

“Indeed, lady, this is a fair market, and I have been well suited in
bargaining. We spoke of meadowsweet for the freshening before times"

“LadÅ‚s LovedoveÅ‚s wings" Osono paid no attention to the women, his was all
for the bouquet “Star fast"

“Falcon feather!" UrgellÅ‚s much harsher voice cut across the smooth tones of
the bard.

“You are well learned, good sirs," Meg returned, and her hand hovered over
the bouquet. “Those are names not common in these parts."

Osonołs gaze might be aimed at the flowers, but yet it was as if he saw
beyond them something elseas might grow in a meadow under that full, warm sun,
which never even in summer seemed to reach into these stark heights.

Megłs fingers plucked and brought forth a stem on which swung two white
blooms, star-pointed. She held that out to the bard, and he accepted it as one
in a dream. Then she snapped thumb and forefinger together with more vigor and
freed a narrow leaf, oddly colored so that it indeed resembled a feather.

“For you also, warrior." And her words held something of an order, as if to
make sure he would not refuse. Then she spoke to Almadis:

“Meadowsweet, yes." She swept up a bundle of leaves and wrapped them
expertly in a small cloth. “But something else also, is it not so?"

“Red-rose," Almadis said slowly. “My mother strove to grow a bush, but this
land is too sere to nurture it. Red-rose"

The flower Meg handed her was not full opened yet, and when Almadis held it
close to her, she could smell a perfume so delicate that she could hardly
believe such could come into the grayness that was lłEstal.

“Herbwife," she leaned a little forward, “who are you?"

“Meg, my lady, a dealera friend"

Almadis nodded. “Yes, of a certainty that."

She brought out her purse. “For the meadowsweet"she laid down one of the
coins.

“Just so," Meg agreed. “For the meadowsweet."

Osono was fumbling at his own purse with one hand, the other carefully
cupping the starflower. Then he caught Megłs eye, and flushed. Instead he bowed
as he might to the lady of some great hall where he had been nightłs singer.

“My thanks to youHerbwife."

Urgellłs bow was not so low or polished, but there was a lightening of his
harsh features. “And mine also, mistressyour gifts have a value beyond price."

There were others who sought the herb dealer after the castlełs lady had
departed. But few of them were favored with a gift of bloom. Perhaps six in all
bore away a leaf or flower, but still the bouquet appeared to grow no smaller.
When Meg, in the beginning twilight, gathered up her wares and repacked them,
two small figures appeared.

Behind them still ambled their horned and bewhiskered companion. For the
second time Nid touched noses with Mors, who was hardly taller than he. And
Kaska voiced a small hiss.

“Help you, mistress?" Tay shuffled a bare foot back and forth in the straw
which strewed the market square in marketing days.

“But of course. Many hands make light of work." Meg swung one of her
cord-tied bundles to the boy, and he hurried to fit it into the panniers, which
his brother had already placed on Mors.

“You are not out with the herds, youngling?" she added as she picked up as
the last of her supplies, that bouquet.

Tod hung his head. “They will not have Nid now he fought with Whrit, and
they say he has too bad a temperthat any of his get are not wanted. They set
the dogs on us and Nid savaged two, soso they talk now of" He gulped and his
brother continued:

“They talk of killing him, mistress."

“But he is yours?"

Both small faces turned toward hers, and there was a fierce determination in
the chorus of their answer.

“Before times, he was herd leader, mistress. When Lan, our brother, was
herder. But" now their voices faltered“Lan died of the green-sick. And the
herd went to Finusthey said as how Lan had told him sothat we were too young
And Finushe said as how there was much owed him by Lan, and that he had the
rights. Only Nid would come with us, and he stayed. But" Tod stopped as if to
catch breath, however Tadłs words gushed on:

“They wonÅ‚t let us to the pasture anymore. Finus, he lives in our house and
says it is his."

“What have you then as shelter?" asked Meg quietly. She was holding the
flowers close to her, beneath her chin, as if she breathed in for some purpose
the faint scents.

“Inn mistress Forinashe lets us in the stablebut they say that Nid is bad
for the horses."

“Not for this one," Meg nodded to Mors. “Let he and Nid bed down together,
and we shall see what can be done."

They made a small procession of their own out of the marketplace. Meg carried
the flowers and humped Kaskałs basket up on one hip with the familiar gesture
of a countrywoman bearing burdens. Mors trotted after her, no leading rein to
draw him on, and he was matched by the goat, the two forming a guard, one to
each side.

There were those who watched them go, narrow-eyed and sour of face. It would
seem that just as there were those who had been drawn to the stall during that
day, so also there were those who shunned it. Now a darker shadow moved forward
to stand beside the stall which had neighbored Megłs.

“You have kept eye on her, goodman?" it hissed a question.

“I have, priest. There is that about her which is not natural right enough.
She is weaving spells, even as a noxious spider weaves a web. Already she has
touched some here"

“Those being?" The voice was hot, near exulting.

Now the stall keeper spoke names, and those names were oddly
companionedlady, bard, soldier, smith, scholar, needlewoman, a laborer in from
one of the scanty hill farms, a gate sentry off duty, a washerwoman, the wife
of a merchant and her daughter

And with the speaking of each name, Thunur nodded his head. “You have done
well, Danler, very well. Continue to watch here, and I shall search elsewhere.
We shall bring down this slut who deals with the Dark yet! You are a worthy son
of GORT, the Ever-Mighty."

Within the keep the ways were dark and damp as always. Though in some of the
halls there were dank and moldy tapestries on the walls, no one had made any
attempt to renew them, to bring any hint of color into those somber quarters.
Even candles seemed here to have their halos of dim light circumscribed so that
they could not reveal too much of any way.

Almadis tugged at her heavy trained skirt with an impatient hand. She had
but little time, and this was a way which had not been trodden for long. She
could remember well her last visit here, when rage at all the world had seemed
to so heat her, she had felt none of the chill thrown off by the walls. The
loss of her mother had weighed both heart and spirit.

Now the pallid light of her candle picked out the outline of the door she
sought. But she had to set that on the floor and use both hands in order to
force open the barrier, which damp had near sealed beyond her efforts.

Then she was in, candle aloft, looking about. No one had caredthere had
probably been no one here since last she left. Yet the mustiness was still
tinged with a hint of incense. The room was small, its floor covered with the
rotting remnants of what had once been whortle reeds, which trodden upon, gave
back sweet scent.

There was a single window, shuttered tight, a bar dropped firmly in place to
hold it so. Beneath that stood a boxlike fixture which might be an altar.

That was shrouded with thick dust, a dust which clouded the round of once-polished
mirror set there, gathered about the bases of three candlesticks.

For a long moment Almadis merely stood and looked at that altar and its
furnishings. She had turned her back on what this stood for, told herself that
there was nothing here beyond what she could see, touch, that to believe in
more was follya childłs folly. Yet her mother

Slowly Almadis moved forward. There were still half-consumed candles in
those sticks, grimed, a little lopsided. She used the one she carried to touch
the wicks of those into life. Then, suddenly, she jerked her long scarf from
about her shoulders, and, in spite of its fine embroidery, she used it to dust
the mirror free, dropping its grime-clogged stuff to the floor when she had
done.

Lastly she turned to that window. Straining, she worked free the bar, threw
back the shutter, opened the room to the night, in spite of the wind which wove
about this small side tower.

For so long it had not mattered what rode the sky; this night it did. And
what was rising now was the full moon in all its brilliance and glory. Almadis
returned to the altar. She could not remember the forms. Those other times she
had merely repeated words her mother had uttered without regard for their
meaning. There were only scraps which she could assemble now.

But she stationed herself before that mirror, leaning forward a little, her
hands placed flat on either side. On its tarnished surface she could see
reflected the light of the three candlesbut nothing else. There was no
representation of her own facethe once-burnished plate was too dim.

Nor had she that learning which could bring it alive. Yet she had been drawn
here and knew that this had meaning, a meaning she dared not deny.

Tucked in the lacing of her bodice was that rose Meg had given her. Dried it
might bewith great skillyet it seemed to have just been plucked from a bush
such as her mother had striven to keep alive.

The girl moistened her lips.

“One In Three," she began falteringly. “She who rules the skies, She who is
maiden, wife, and elder in turn, She who answers the cries of her daughters in
distress, who reaches to touch a land and bring it into fruitfulness, She who
knows what truly lies within the heart"

Almadisłs voice trailed into silence. What right had she to ask for anything
in this forsaken place, return to a faith she had said held no meaning?

There was certainly another shadow of something on the mirrorgrowing
stronger. It wasthe rose!

Almadis gasped, for a moment she felt light-headed, that only her hold on
the altar kept her upright.

“Lady"her voice was the thinnest of whispers “Lady who was, and always
will begive me forgiveness. Your messengershe must be one of your heart held
Lady, I am not fit"

She raised her hands to that flower caught in her lacing. Yet something
would not let her loosen it as she wished, to leave it as an offering here.

Instead there was the sweetness of the rose about her, as if each candle
breathed forth its fragrance. She looked downthat flower which had been yet
half a bud was now open.

Quickly, almost feverishly in her haste, Almadis reached again for the
altar. There had been something else left there long ago. The dust had
concealed it, but she found it Her fingers caught the coil of a chain, and she
held it up, from it swung that pendantthe flat oval of silver (but the silver
was not tarnished black as it should have been) on it, in small, raised, milky
white gems, the three symbols of the Lady in Her waxing, Her full life, Her
waning.

It seemed to Almadis that the candlelight no longer was the illumination of
that chamber, rather the moon itself shown within, brighter than she could
remember it. She raised the chain, bowed her head a fraction, slipped those
links over it, allowing the moon gem-set pendant to fall upon her breast. Then
she did as she remembered her mother had always done, tucked it into hiding
beneath her bodice, so that now the pendant rested between her breasts just
under the rose. Though it did not carry the chill of metal to her flesh, it was
rather warm, as if it had but been passed from one who had the right to wear it
to another.

Now she gathered courage to speak again.

“Lady, you know what will be asked of me, and what is in me. I cannot walk
my fatherłs wayand he will be angry. Give me the strength and courage to
remain myself in the face of such angerthough I know that by his beliefs he
means me only well."

She leaned forward then, a kind of resolution manifest in her movements, to
blow out the three candles. But she made no move to bar away the moonlight
before she picked up her journey candle to leave the room.

Though it was day without, the guardroom was grimly dusk within.

“Three of them we took," a brawny man in a rust-marked mail coat said to one
of his fellows. He jerked a thumb at a rolled ball of hide. “Over the gate to
the west he says."

The older man he addressed grunted. “We do things here by my Lord JulesÅ‚s
ordering."

“DonÅ‚t be so free with words like that hereabouts, Ruddy," cautioned the
other. “Our Knight-Captain has long ears"

“Or more than one pair of them," retorted Ruddy. “WeÅ‚ve got us more trouble
than just a bunch of lousy sheep raiders, Jonas. While youłve been out
a-ridinę, therełs a stew boilinł here."

The bigger man leaned on the edge of the table, “Thunur, IÅ‚m thinkinÄ™. That
one came at dawn light a-brayinł somethinę about a witch. Hełs a big mouth,
always yappinł."

“To some purpose, Jonas, thereÅ‚s more nÅ‚more listen to him. AnÄ™ you know
well what happened below when those yellinł ęGORT, come downł broke loose."

“Gods," snorted the city sergeant. “We be those all gods have forgot.
Perhaps just as well, there was always a pother oÄ™ trouble below when priests
stuck their claws into affairs. There are those here who are like to stir if
the right spoon is thrust into the pot, too. Thunur is gettinł him a followinę
Let him get enough to listen anł wełll be out with pikes, anę youłll remember
outlaw hunting as somethinł as a dayłs good ramble."

“Well, I could do with a rambleover to the Hafted Stone to wet mÄ™ Å‚gullet
anę then to barracks anł młbunk. His Honor is late"

“Right good reason." A younger man turned from the group of his fellows by
the door and leered. “Hear as how it was all to be fixed up for our
Knight-Captainwed and bed the lordłs daughtermake sure that he is firm in the
saddle for the time when młlord donłt take to ridinę anymore. They have a big
feastinł tonight just to settle the matter, donłt they?"

There was no time for an answer. Those by the door parted swiftly to allow
another to enter. He was unhelmed, but wore mail, and over that a surcoat
patterned with a snarling wolf head. His dark hair was cropped after the
fashion of one who wore a helm much, and it was sleeked above a high forehead.
The seam of a scar twisted one corner of his mouth, so that he seemed to sneer
at the world around.

He was young for all of that, and once must have been handsome. His narrow
beak of a nose gave him now the look of some bird of prey, an impression his
sharp yellowish eyes did nothing to lighten. Otger, Knight-Captain under the
Castellan, was no man to be taken lightly either in war or council. Now he
stalked past the men who crowded back to give him room, as if they were
invisible, even Jonas pulled away quickly as his commander fronted Ruddy
face-to-face.

“There is trouble, Town Sergeant?"

Ruddy had straightened. His face was as impassive as that of a puppet
soldier.

“Sir, no more than ever. ThÄ™ priest of GORT is brayinÅ‚ again. Some are
beginninę to listen. This morn-inł he came here"

“So!" Otger turned his head but a fraction. “Dismissed to the courtyard."

They were quick to go. Only Jonas and Ruddy remained. The Knight regarded
them with the hooded eyes of a predator biding time.

“He is still here?"

“Sir, he spilled forth such blather that I thought it best you hear. He
speaks of those above him in a manner which is not fit."

Otger moved past him, seated himself on the single chair behind that table,
as a giver of justice might install himself in court. His hand went to his
cheek, the fingers tracing that scar. Jonas edged backward another step. That
was always a trouble sign. Young as Otger was, he had gained such influence
here as to be served swiftly.

It was the Castellan who had advanced him swiftlyand in a way, who could
blame Lord Jules? The years spun by only too swiftly, and a man aged with them.
The lord had no sonbut there was a daughter. One wedding her would surely rule
here. Those of the east plains would take no notice, if all was done properly,
and there had been no exile of high blood now since Otger himself had ridden in
as a gold-eyed youth five seasons back.

“Bring the priest," he ordered now. And Jonas went to fetch Thunur.

The man did not cringe as he came. Instead, he was bold at this fronting,
his head up, and eyes blazing with the fire of the rage that always burned in
him.

“I hear you wish to see me," OtgerÅ‚s gaze swept the fellow from head to foot
and back again. Just so had he looked two days before at that wounded outlaw
they had taken.

“Witchery, Sir Knight. Foul witchery has come by the Way Wind into lÅ‚Estal.
It must be routed out. Already it has ensorcelled manymany, Sir Knight. Among
them" Thunur paused for a moment to make his next statement more portentous,
“The Lady Almadis"

“And who is this dealer in witchery?" OtgerÅ‚s voice was very calm. Ruddy
hitched one shoulder. This priest would soon learn his lesson by all the signs.

Thus encouraged, Thunur spoke his tale, so swiftly that spittle accompanied
the words he spewed forth. He ended with the listing of those who had borne
away tokens of Megłs giving. And at the saying of some of those names, Otgerłs
eyes narrowed a fraction.

“It is laid upon all true men and women to deal with witches as GORT has
deemed rightwith fire. Thisthis sluttish whore, and those brutes she brought
with herthey must be slain; and those whom she has entoiled must be reasoned
withęless they too are tainted past cleansing."

“You name some who are above you, priest.

Tongues that wag too freely can be cut from jaws. I would advise you to take
heed of the need of silence for now“

“For now?" Thunur repeated slowly.

“For now." Otger arose. “You seem to have an eye for such matters. Out with
you to use that eye, but not the tongue, mind you!"

Thunur blinked. And then he turned and went. But Otger spoke to Ruddy. “Have
the patrol keep an eye to that one. I have seen his like beforethey can be
well used if they are handled rightly, but if they are not
under rein, they are useless and must be removed."

The market was alive. Though some of the sellers noted that there were more
men at arms making their ways leisurely among the booths. However, since the
border patrol had just returned, that might be expected.

Again Meg had taken her place, Mors behind her and Kaskałs basket carefully
out of the way. Her bouquet centered her table board. But those who came to
look over her stock this day did not seem to note it particularly, nor did she
all the morning lose any bloom from it for gifting.

Tod and Tay came by just before the nooning bell and brought her a basket
Forina had promised. This time Nid walked behind them, his heavy-horned head
swinging from side to side, as if he wished to keep a close eye on all about.

Just as he stepped up to exchange polite nose taps with Mors, one of the
guards halted before Megłs display. He had the weather-roughened and darkened
skin of a man who had spent many years around and about, and there was a small
emblem caught fast in the mail shirt he wore that marked his rank.

“Fair day to you, Herbwife." He studied her, and then his eyes dropped to
her wares. “You have Ill-bane, I see."

“You see and you wonder, Guard Sergeant? Why?"

She took up the bundle of leaves. “It stands against evil, does it notill
of body, ill of mind. What do they say of it? That if those of dark purpose
strive to touch it, they are like to find a brand laid across their rash
fingers."

“You know what they say of you, then?"

Meg smiled. “They say many things of me, Guard Sergeant Ruddy. It depends
upon who says it. I have already been called witch"

“And that does not alarm you?"

“Guard Sergeant Ruddy, when you are summoned to some duty, would any words
from those not your officers turn you aside?"

“Duty" he repeated. “Herbwife, I tell you that you may well have a right to
fear."

“Fear and duty often ride comrades. But fear is the shadow and duty the
substance. Look you" she had laid down the bundle of leaves, turned her hand
palm-up to show the unmarked flesh, and carried that gesture on so that as his
eyes followed they touched the bouquet.

“Rowan leaf and berry," he said.

“Such as grow in hedgerows elsewhere." Meg pulled out the stem to show a
pair of prick defended leaves, a trefoil of berries.

Slowly he reached out and took it from her.

“Watch with care, Herbwife." He did not tuck her gift into full sight as had
the others who had taken such, but rather closed his fist tightly upon it and
thrust that into his belt pouch.

Almadis stood by the window. One could catch a small sight of the market
square from this vista. But she could not sight Megłs stall. She was stiff with
anger, and yet she must watch her speech. It might be that she was caught at
last, yet she could not bring herself to believe that.

“He rode in," she tried to keep her words even in tone, not make them such
as could be used against her. “And with him he brought headsheads of
men! He would plant those as warnings! Warnings!"

“Against raiders, outlaws. They only understand such." That answering voice
held weariness. “Their raids grow bolderoftener. The land we hold, which
supplies us with food, with that very robe you are wearing, cannot yield what
we need when it is constantly under raid. Now, with the upper snows fast-going,
we shall have them down upon us more and more. I know not what presses them
these past few seasons, but they have grown bolder and bolder. We lost a farm
to fire and swordOtger collected payment. They deal in blood, thus we must
also."

Almadis turned. “He is a man of blood," she said flatly.

“He holds the peace. You call him man of blood-well, and that he is in
another way also. We are of ancient family, daughterthrown aside though we may
be. Rank weds with rank. Otger is the son of a House near equal to our own.
Whom you wed will rule here afterward; he must be one born to such heritage.
There is no one else."

She came to stand before her father where he sat in his high-back chair. And
she was suddenly startled, then afraid. Somehowsomehow he had agedand she had
not seen it happening! He had always remained to her, until this hour, the
strong leader IÅ‚Estal needed. He was old and to the old came death.

So for the moment she temporized. “Father, grant me a little more time. I
cannot find it in me to like Otgergive me a little time." Her fingers were at
her breast pressing against the hidden pendant, caressing the rose which still
held both color and fragrance.

“Where got you that flower, Almadis?" There was a sharpness in his tone now.

Swiftly she told him of Meg, brought by the Way Wind, and of her stall in
the market.

“I have heard a tale of witchery," he returned.

“Witchery? Do some then listen to that mad priest?" Almadis was disturbed.
“She came with the Way Windfrom the westshe brings herbs such as we cannot
growfor the soothing of minds and bodies. She is but a girl, hardly more than
a child. There is no evil in her!"

“Daughter, we are a people shunned, broken from our roots. There is shame,
pain, anger eating at many of us. Such feelings are not easily put aside. And
in some they take another form, seeking one upon whom blame may be thrown, one
who may be made, after a fashion, to pay for all that which has caused us ill.
Eyes have seen, ears have heard, lips reportedthere are those who cry, witchery,
yes. And very quickly such rumors can turn to action. This Meg may be a
harmless tradershe may be the cause of an uprising. There is the ancient law
for the westerners, one which we seldom invoke but which I turn to nownot only
for the sake of town peace but for her safety also. This is the third day in
the marketby sundown"

Almadis swallowed back the protest she would have cried out. That her father
spoke so seriously meant that indeed there might be forces brewing who take
fire in lłEstal. But on sudden impulse, she did say:

“Let me be the one to tell her so. I would not have her think that I have
been unmindful of her gift." Once more she touched the rose.

“So be it. Also let it be that you think carefully on what else I have said
to you. Time does not wait. I would have matters settled for your own good and
for my duty."

So once more Almadis went down to the market and with her, without her
asking, but rather as if they understood her unhappiness about this matter,
there came Osono and Urgell. She noted in surprise that the bard had his harp
case riding on his shoulder, as if he were on the way to some feast, and that
Urgell went full armed.

It was midday, and Almadis looked about her somewhat puzzled for the usual
crowd of those in the market, whether they came to buy and sell, or merely to
spend time, was a small one. The man whose stall had neighbored Megłs was gone,
and there were other empty spaces. Also there was a strange feeling which she
could not quite put name to.

Ruddy, the guard sergeant, backed by two of his men, were pacing slowly
along the rows of stalls. Now Urgell came a step forward so that he was at
Alma-disłs right hand. His head was up, and he glanced right and left. Osono
shifted the harp case a little, pulling loose his cloak so that the girl caught
sight of his weapon, a span of tempered blade between a dagger and a sword in
length.

If there had been a falling away of the crowd, that was not so apparent
about the stall where Meg was busied as she had been since she first came into
lłEstal. But those who had drifted toward her were a very mixed lot. Almadis
recognized the tall bulk of the smith, and near shoulder to him was Tatwin, the
scholar, his arm about the shoulders of a slight girl whose pale face suggested
illness not yet past, while by her skirts trotted a small shaggy dog with
purpose which seemed even more sustained than that of the two it accompanied.

There was also, somewhat to Almadisłs surprise, Forina of the inn, and
behind her wide bulk of body came Tod and Tay, once more grasping the horns of
Nid with the suggestion about them that they were not going to lose touch with
that four-footed warrior.

Others, too, a shambling-footed laborer from the farmlands, with one hand to
the rope halter of a drooping-headed horse that might have drawn far too many
carts or plows through weary seasons.

Just as they gathered, so did others in the marketplace draw apart. That
feeling of menace which had been but a faint touch when Almadis trod out on
this cobbled square grew.

There was movement in the alleyways, the streets, which led into that
square. Others were appearing there who did not venture out into the sunlight.

Urgellłs hand was at sword hilt. Almadis quickened pace to reach Megłs
stall.

“Go! Oh, go quickly!" she burst out. “I do not know what comes, but there is
evil rising here. Go while you can!"

Meg had not spread out her bundles of herbs. Now she looked to the
Castellanłs daughter and nodded. She picked up her staff and set to the crown
of it the bouquet of flowers. The twins suddenly loosed their hold on Nid and
pushed behind the board of the stall, shifting the panniers to Morsłs back. Meg
stooped and caught up the basket in which Kaska rode, settled it firmly within
her arm crook.

“Witchget the witch!" The scream arose from one of the alley mouths.

In a moment, Vill was beside Urgell, and Almadis saw that he carried with
him his great hammer. Osono had shifted his harp well back on his shoulder to
give him room for weapon play. There were others, too, who moved to join that
line between Meg and the sulkers in the streets and alleys.

“To the gate," Almadis said. “If you bide with me, they will not dare to
touch you!" She hoped that was true. But to make sure that these who threatened
knew who and what she was and the protection she could offer, she pushed back
her cloak hood that her face might be readily seen.

“To the gate," Ruddy appeared with his armsmen, added the authority of his
own to the would-be defenders.

They retreated, all of them, bard, mercenary, smith, sergeant forming a rear
guard. Only before the gate there were others

A line of men drawn up, men who had been hardened by the riding of the
borders, Otgerłs chosen. Before them stood the knight-captain himself.

“My lady," he said as they halted in confusion. “This is no place for you."

AlmadisÅ‚s hand went to MegÅ‚s arm. “Sir, if you come to give protection, that
is well. But this much I shall do for myself, see an innocent woman free of any
wrong"

“You give me no choice then" He snapped his fingers, and his men moved in,
he a stride ahead plainly aiming to reach Almadis himself.

“Sir Knight," AlmadisÅ‚s hand was on her breast, and under it the moon token
was warm. “I come not at your demand or that of any man, thank the Lady,
save at a wish which is my own."

Otgerłs twisted mouth was a grimace of hate, and he lunged.

Only

From the staff Meg held, there blazed a burst of rainbow-hued light. Otger
and those with him cried out, raising their hands to their eyes and stumbled
back. From behind Almadis and Meg moved Mors and Nid, the ancient horse, whose
head was now raised, and those three pushed in among the guard, shouldering
aside men who wavered and flailed out blindly.

Then Almadis was at the gate, and her hands were raised to the bar there.
Beside her was the scholar, and with more force than either of them came
Forina. So did the barrier to the freedom without fall. And they came out into
the crisp wind without the walls, the very momentum of their efforts carrying
them into the mouth of the Way Wind road.

There were cries behind them, and the screeching of voices, harsh and
hurting. Almadis looked behind. All their strangely constituted party had won
through the gates, the rear guard walking backward. Urgell and Osono had both
drawn steel, and the smith held his hammer at ready. There were improvised
clubs, a dagger or two, Ruddyłs pike, but none were bloodied. Urgell and Ruddy,
the smith beside them, slammed the gates fast.

Almadis could still hear the shouting of Otger, knew that they had perhaps
only moments before they would be overwhelmed by those who were ready for a
hunt.

Meg swung up her staff. There was no wide burst of light this timerather a
ray as straight as a sword blade. It crisscrossed the air before them, leaving
behind a shimmer of light the width of the road, near as high as the wall
behind them.

As she lowered her staff, she raised her other hand in salute to that
shimmer, as if there waited behind it someone or thing she held in honor.

Then she spoke, and, though she did not shout, her words cried easily over
the clamor behind them.

“Here is the Gate of Touching. The choice now lies with you all. There will
be no hindrance for those going forward. And if you would go back, you shall
find those behind will accept you again as you are.

“Those who come four-footed are comradesthe choice being theirs also. For
what lies beyond accepts all life of equal worth. The comradeship of heart is
enough.

“The choice is yours, so mote it be!"

She stood a little aside to give room, and Tod and Tay, laying hands once
more to Nidłs horns, went into the light. Behind them, his hand on the old
horsełs neck, the laborer trod, head up and firmly. Almadis stood beside Meg
and watched them pass. None of them looked to her or Meg, it was as if they
were drawn to something so great they had no longer only any knowledge of
themselves, only of it.

At last there were those of the rear guard. Osono and Vill did not glance
toward her. But Urgell, whose sword was once more within its sheath, dropped
behind. Somehow her gaze was willed to meet his. The leaf Meg had given him was
set in his battered helm as a plume, the plume that a leader might wear to some
victory.

Almadis stirred. She stepped forward, to lay her hand on the one he held out
to her as if they would tread some formal pattern which was long woven into
being.

Meg steadied Kaskałs basket on her hip, and looked up to the glimmer as
Castellanłs daughter and mercenary disappeared.

“Is it well-done, Lady?"

“It is well-done, dear daughter. So mote it be!"

With staff and basket held steady, Meg went forward, and when she passed the
gate of light it vanished. The Way lay open once again to the scouring of the
wind.

Healer

Josepha Sherman

“Do these stories have to have a female protagonist?" I canÅ‚t tell you how
many times I was asked that question. Itłs every bit as much a stereotype as
the ones surrounding fantasy, science fiction, or the men and women who write
it.

Archaeologist, folklorist, and novelist Josepha Sherman didnłt bother with
that question, being busy with other, more pressing ones.

In this story of courage and initiation, Josepha moves out of the area of
Russian folklore, in which she has made a name for herself, and into the realm
of shamans whom she asks: Is there life beyond power? Dr. Faustus said no, and
traded life and soul for a dream of magic.

In this story, the author offers her healer Faustusłs choice: the power of
love, or the love of power. Who says a man canłt choose right? Not Josepha
Sherman.

The night had been wet and chill with the promise of winter, and as Osheoan
crept through the narrow entrance of his small, solitary lodge, body still and
mind weary from a broken, troubled sleep, the morning air was still dank enough
to make him shiver and grab his fur robe about himself. As he moved, the little
Power signs of shell and bone and metal woven into it jangled shrilly together.
At the high, thin sound, folk turned briefly to look at him, tensing or smiling
or nodding politely according to their natures. Osheoan, Spirit-Speaker of
this, the Wind Bird Clan, drew himself up to his full lean height in slightly
self-conscious pride.

Ohe, yes, the people still did show him the respect due one who
spoke with spirits. Even if he had produced no miracles in these many years,
nothing more than the small marvels of healing torn flesh or broken bones.

Not, thought Osheoan wryly, that there was anything wrong in minor healings:
seeing young Ashewan walking without a limp on the leg he had splinted or plump
Esewa cuddling her latest baby, cured of the nagging cough that had threatened to
drain the flesh from her. When Osheoan, then little more than a boy, had first
been struck by Power, his initial feeling aside from sheer terror at being set
aside from the normhad been delight that now he could do something to help
those in pain.

Pride had come later.

Osheoan put aside thoughts of his troubled sleep (no messages there, no
hidden dream-warnings), and made his circuit of the lodges, pleased to find no
injuries, no illness. Hunters returning to the lodges, luck charms jingling
from robes and braided hair, antelope or strings of hares borne on their backs,
paused beneath their burdens to dip their heads in courtesy. Women weaving the
tribal blankets or gathering herbs and roots, black hair and copper ornaments
glinting in the sun, took a moment to touch hand to heart when he passed, a
tall, quiet shadow in Spirit-Speakerłs gray. And Osheoan admitted, deep within
himself, that the respect shown him was sweet, still sweet.

Sweetness with a faintly bitter undertaste: secret shame, secret sorrow.

No one saw Osheoanłs sudden flinch, no one saw him clench his teeth against
unwelcome memories. Had the Power ever been real? Once, surely, hełd been that
young, earnest boy, once hełd been believing. Once he had walked with spirits
(ah, or had those been nothing more than waking dreams, forced on a boy dizzy
from smoke and dazed by drums?), learned the true, deep way of healing. The way
now closed to him.

Once, too, he had loved: Seshawa. Gentle Seshawa with a wit like the
sharpness of berry-tang beneath honey. Seshawa of the laughing eyes and heart:
she, his wife, his own.

Seshawa, who had died in birthing, for all her husbandłs Power, leaving a
son, Mikasha, and an empty, bitter man.

Osheoan gave a silent, humorless laugh. Being Spirit-Speaker was still
sweet, yes. And so he still went through the trappings of Power, the rituals
that kept the others of the clan in awe of him. He still healed. But no one
save he knew no spirits were roused by those rituals, that the healing was of
simple herbs and time, nothing more. Fortunate, fortunate, that the Wind Bird
Clan was a healthy one, that there had been no devastating illnesses or wounds,
nothing to deeply harm them and destroy him. The day would come, though; the
thought of it lingered, quivering, just at the back of his mind. Someday
disaster would muststrike, and he, the so-mighty Spirit-Speaker, would try,
and fail, and be revealed as false.

Osheoan stirred, impatient with himself. Yes, the Power had spilled away
from him with Seshawałs death (if, indeed, hełd ever truly borne it) and with
it, belief in the gods. But life continued, the here, the now, the real.

The loneliness

No. Enough self-pity.

Osheoan knew hełd hidden his loss of Power well. No one suspected, not even
his son. Least of all his son, handsome Mikasha, with his fatherłs height and
motherłs laughing eyes. Osheoan winced, remembering the boy who had been, face
still pudgy with childishness but ablaze with near-adult eagerness, staring
fiercely up at him, asking, “Why wonÅ‚t you teach me? IÅ‚m your son, your
blood. Why canłt I be your apprentice?"

How could he answer that fierceness? Because IÅ‚m a sham. A liar, with
nothing to teach you. No, no, he had never said that, he had forced the
blame onto Mikasha instead, putting the boy off with stories, telling him at
first, year after year, “Later. You are still too young." Then, when
at last Mikasha was old enough to know his father lied, Osheoan had heard
himself speak the cruelest lie of all: “I cannot teach you. It would be too
dangerous, impossible. IÅ‚m afraid you have no gift for Power at all."

And in lying to his son, hełd lied to himself as well, insisting, The
boy will forget what he cannot have. He will make himself some bright new life
as warrior or wise man. He has no need of Power.

Osheoan stared bleakly out past the circle of lodges, blindly out to the
vast, cold plains. How could it have come to this? He had never thought himself
a coward, had undergone the rites of manhood and the harsher, grimmer rituals
of Powerscarring mind instead of merely bodywithout a qualm. He had risked
the very essence that was Osheoan without hesitation. Yet, when a handful of
words would have put Mi-kashałs mind at easeMikasha, his son!fear had shaken his
heart, stopped his tongue. Fear of losing the last trace of what hełd been, the
pride, the awe if not the reality of Power.

Hełd kept silent. And by that silence, Osheoan knew he had taught his son
all too well: bitterness at what the boy could only think his own fault, his
own inner shortcomings. He had taught Mikasha unhappiness.

And in the end, he had driven his son away. Once the boy had become adult,
passing the rituals of manhood without a word to his father, Mikasha had
quietly abandoned his home, his clan, setting out to hunt for his own purpose
in being.

A sudden chill gust of wind swept wet off the plains, and Osheoan shivered.
“Mikasha," he murmured, aching. “Oh, my son"

His dreams had been about the boy, full of trouble, of pain

But dreams held no secret messages, not for him, not anymore.

Osheoan started, jarred out of his inner darkness by shouting. There on the
flat horizon stumbled a lone figure, staggering its way toward the lodge
circle. Warriors snatched up their spears, staring, alert as wolves.

“One man alone hardly constitutes a threat," Osheoan said mildly. “Why not
go out there and see what he wants?"

The warriors dipped their spears in compliance. Some of them raced out from
the lodges, using the swift, loose-limbed, ground-devouring jog that could wear
down a running antelope. Osheoan, watching, suffered a momentłs doubt. Hełd
judged wisely, hadnłt he? Surely one man couldnłt be an enemy, not alone. And
plainly injured, judging from that hesitant gait.

Injured? Or ill?

Oh, you idiot! What if hełs bringing disease toward the lodges?

Osheoan snatched up his curing bundle and started after the men, determined
to stop the stranger before he got too near. But then Osheoan froze, staring,
feeling his heart leap painfully.

“Mikasha ?" It was a wisp of sound.

Taller now, a manłs body, no longer a boy, but

“Mikasha!"

Osheoan didnłt remember breaking into a run. He knew only that his son was
here, his son had returned, and when Mikasha, face drawn and painfully thin,
sagged suddenly, eyes closing, it was his father who caught him and eased him
gently to the ground. Grey robe, Osheoan noted abstractedly, vaguely
surprised, Spirit-Speakerłs robe, though no Spirit-Speakerłs
ornaments, not yet, only the plain spirals of bone marking an apprentice. That
Mikasha should be wearing them would mean something later, he knew it,
something painful, but right now Osheoan could focus only on the sweetly stale
smell of illness hovering about his son, the stain of old blood across
Mikashałs chest.

With the aid of the wary, respectful warriors, Osheoan brought his son home,
had him laid gently down on the Spirit-Speakerłs own bed of soft furs. Staring
down at Mikashałs thin, still face with its lines of suffering, remembering the
plump, joyous little boy now forever lost, Osheoan blindly waved the warriors
away. Alone with Mikasha, he knelt by his sonłs side, delicately peeling back
the worn, stained robe, dreading what he might find.

The breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled in shock. Ohe,
bad.

A fiery weal cut across Mikashałs chest, the flesh on either side swollen
and puffy, streaked with sullen red: the scar of what would have been a jagged
wound, such as stone dagger might make (though who would deliberately harm a
Spirit-Speaker?), or perhaps a miscast splinter of metal shattering at the
cooling. Osheoan reached out to gently trace its length, then drew his hand
back, alarmed at the fever heat hełd felt. This was no fresh injury. The skin
had had time to close over it, deceptively, dangerously imitating true healing,
hiding the sickness festering within, the slow, sure death.

Osheoan started, suddenly realizing that Mikasha was awake and watching him
from fever-glazed eyes.

“Lie still," Osheoan murmured. “I will do what I can."

“I thought the wound had healed." It was the driest whisper of sound.
“Shattered knife shattered in the ritual Power burst free"

“What were you doing toying with Power?" Osheoan heard his voice come out
too harsh, too sharp, but couldnÅ‚t stop himself from babbling on. “I told you,
you have no Gift"flinching inwardly at the familiar lie.

Mikasha stirred restlessly. “No. You were wrong. Too close to me, maybe.
Power is there, burning Had to learn to use it." He drew a deep, shuddering
breath. “Found another Spirit-Speaker. Torik of the White Snake Clan Said he
would teach me, even if I was Wind Bird not Snake"

MikashaÅ‚s eyes closed. “Enough," Osheoan said softly. “Rest."

But his son continued, forcing out the words, “HadnÅ‚t taught me healing,
though. Not Power healing. No time, before he before the knife broke killed
him, hurt me. White Snake Clan tried to kill me, too. But I escaped." The
feverish eyes snapped open, staring at Osheoan. “Came to Clan summer grounds,
hoped lodges would still be here Where else could I go? Father"

His eyes closed again, voice trailing into silence. His thin form seemed to
collapse in on itself, and Osheoan cried in sudden terror, “Mikasha?" then
sighed in relief to see that his son still breathed. Grimly, the man forced
himself under control and bent to examine the wound again, desperate for some
reason for hope.

The wound had slashed across Mikashałs ribs and down, though how deep it had
cut into the flesh, he couldnłt tell by mere sight. It might have come
perilously close to a lung But Mikasha showed none of the terrifying blood
froth on his lips that would mean a death wound. Still, who knew what other
damage might have been done within?

And Osheoanłs mind answered him cruelly, A Spirit-Speaker would know.

A true Spirit-Speaker. Not a Sham. The Power would stir within such
a one and tell him what to do. The Power would guide his hand and heart, help
him draw out the poison and heal the sick flesh

“Power," Osheoan muttered.

Here was the heart of his fear, come before him at last: the one patient he
might not aid by simple herbs, the one patient who, by dying, was going to
reveal him as an imposter And that one was his son, his son

And what are you going to do? Osheoanłs mind asked relentlessly. Let
Mikasha die? All because you are afraid?

“No."

At least he still did have his basic knowledge of healing. It must be
enough.

But as Osheoan bent over his sonłs body, knife in hand, prepared to reopen
the wound and let the poison drain, he was shaken by a spasm of pure terror. If
only he knew exactly where to cut! What if his hand slipped? What if
he cut too deeply, or nicked one of the vital, blood-carrying vessels? Other
men could call on the gods for help, but for him, the disbeliever, there was
nothing, no one. And suddenly he could have wept like a child for his
loneliness. Suddenly he ached in every twist of his being for belief, for any
sign at all that he was not alone.

Please, oh please, help me.

“Now, why should we?"

Osheoan twisted wildly about. There in the lodge was a fox, nothing more
than one of the scrawny, silvery-furred foxes, stolen in from the plains. The
man cried out as much in loss as in anger, and looked for something to hurl at
the little scavenger.

“So quick to be rid of me?"

The non-voice tickled his mind. Osheoan froze, staring, slowly realizing
what he faced. “You canÅ‚t be"

“CanÅ‚t I?" The fox shook itself and trotted forward a few deft
paces, coming to a stop just out of his reach. “Not elegant enough for you?
Youłd prefer an eagle, maybe, all talons and pride?" Mocking amber eyes
glanced up at him. “Mm, yes, youÅ‚d like that, wouldnÅ‚t you? Sorry. IÅ‚m all
you get."

“IÅ‚m notI meanYou canÅ‚t be here," Osheoan told the spirit-animal flatly.
“Not now. Not after all this time."

“Why not?" The fox sat without ceremony and began to nibble at its
hind leg like a dog after a flea. “Ah," it said, satisfied, “got
him." It looked up at Osheoan across its outstretched leg, gaze suddenly
disconcertingly steady. “Seems to me, itÅ‚s you to blame for Ä™all this
time," not us.“

“Liar!" The word blazed out before Osheoan could block it.

The amber gaze hardened. “Foolish. We never lie."

There was a world of warning in the suddenly cold voice, but the dam of
Osheoanłs self-control had already shattered. Unable to stop himself, he felt
all the years of pent-up bitterness come pouring out in a torrent of words. “Oh
no, you never lie. You are too far above us poor little human folk for that.
Too far above us for mercy, or pity Standing by and watching a woman die" But
the first anguished frenzy was already ebbing. “Why?" Osheoan asked softly.
“She was young, lovely, happy. Why did you take my Power from me just when I
needed it the most?"

“We never did that." Was that the faintest touch of sympathy in the
wry non-voice? “Come, use your head, man. Remember your training. Were you
ever taught that, even with Power, you could save everyone?"

“No, of course not. Some folk come sooner than others to the end of their
life thread, no matter what a Spirit-Speaker may do to"

Osheoan trailed to a stop. The fox laughed as a dog laughs, tongue lolling.

“So now! The man shows the dawning of wisdom."

“It was SeshawaÅ‚s appointed time? Is that what youÅ‚re saying?" Shaking,
Osheoan gasped out, “Are you trying to tell me I didnÅ‚t lose my Power, but
myself?"

The fox shook itself impatiently. “IÅ‚m not trying to tell you anything.
Go ahead." It gestured toward Mi-kasha with its head. “Your son is
waiting."

A wave of renewed fear surged through Osheoan. “II canÅ‚t, I donÅ‚t have"

“Keep saying that often enough, and youÅ‚ll make it true." The fox
gave a long, gaping yawn. “Seems to me," it said, fixing Osheoan with
a suddenly chill stare, “that all IÅ‚ve heard from you is %Ä™ T, "I.“ You
like being Spirit-Speaker, donłt you? You like Being Someone."

With an effort, Osheoan wrenched his gaze away. “I take pride in what I do.
Whatłs wrong with that?"

“Did I say there was anything wrong? So now, here is a riddle for you:
What if saving Mikasha here meant giving it all up, stopping being
Spirit-Speaker now, totally, forever? What would you do?"

“What do you think?" Osheoan snapped. “IÅ‚d save my son!"

“Would you, now? Go ahead, then. Save him."

Trying to ignore the mocking amber stare, Osheoan turned to his son and
picked up his knife, studying Mi-kashałs wound, forcing himself to decide where
and how to begin. If he cut there No. Too risky, too near the throat. There,
then No, no, if his hand slipped it wouldHis hand was sure to slip, shaking
as it was, and

“Stop staring at me!" he shouted at the fox.

“I?" the spirit-animal said blithely. “I am doing nothing. I am
only here."

Osheoan turned fiercely to his son again. But the foxłs riddle had
insinuated itself into his mind, repeating tauntingly over and over: “What
if saving Mi-kasha meant giving up being Spirit-Speaker forever? What would you
do?"

Osheoan looked down at Mikashałs pale face, seeing the unfinished softness
of boy still hinted at beneath the firm lines of man, remembering that boy, all
youth and earnestness, bubbling with laughter till his father had to laugh with
him. And such a rush of warmth swept over Osheoan that he could have wept,
thinking of the wasted years after hełd driven Mikasha away

And yet, and yet To Osheoanłs horror, he found himself remembering the people
of the Clan watching him in awe, heeding every word he spoke, worshiping him,
their wonder warm as love. To give it all up, to see folk eyeing him in scorn,
despising him for being nothing

As they had once despised Mikasha.

And I did nothing to stop them. Ah no, Osheoan cried in sudden
silent agony, no more! IÅ‚ve hurt my son enough. I will not sacrifice his
life to me!

“Guide my hand," he prayed, and began.

And Power rushed up to enfold him.

* * *

Osheoan slowly came back to himself, trembling with exhaustion, drained of
Power, wondering dimly if it would ever return. Mikasha

“It is done," said a quiet non-voice, and Osheoan turned to see the
fox, all mockery gone from its eyes. “The poison is drained, the wound
healing. Your son shall live."

“Thank you."

“I?" The fox sat abruptly and scratched its ear with a busy hind
claw. “I did nothing. You chose, Spirit-Speaker. You chose."
It scrambled to its feet, laughing. “Now, choose again. Your son will make
a fine Spirit-Speaker. If he is trained. Finish his training."

“Or?"

“Or not."

“Will I lose my Power if I donÅ‚t?"

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say? Does it matter to you?"

Osheoan looked down to where Mikasha lay deep in healing slumber and thought
of the difficult time ahead. He would be truthful to his son; he must. But
would Mikasha understand? Could he forgive his father for the long, bitter lies
of the past?

To his surprise, Osheoan heard himself give a soft, joyous laugh. Whatever
happened, whether his Power ever returned, whether Mikasha forgave him or not,
at least there was this: his son would live.

The fox, unnoted, had faded into empty air. But its final question still
hung lightly in the air: Does the loss of Power matter to you?

“No," Osheoan said softly, and knew he spoke the truth. “It doesnÅ‚t matter
at all."

No Refunds

Phyllis Eisenstein

IÅ‚m sure Phyllis Eisenstein, living in Chicago as she does, has seen the
leaflets. Solemn children hand them out on street corners or stick them into
the advertisements tacked up on buses or rapid transit: Mrs. So and So, or
Madame X, or Sister Y“readers and advisers" to tell your future, solve your
problems, stop your pain.

Or shełs seen the Tarot readers sit in parks and in shabby-curtained rooms
two floors up, visited by women (mostly) in suits out for an eveningłs fun, who
giggle about rip offs as they wait to hand over their palms and their money for
a peek into a magic they donłt really believe in.

But maybe, just maybe, these readers have other clients, too, slipping in
quietly. They believeor theyłre desperate. And who knows what price they pay
for their fortunes?

In many ways, “No Refunds" reminds me of O. HenryÅ‚s “Gift of the Magi." Is
it more blessed to give than to receive? As Phyllis Eisenstein shows, the
blessing is never unmixed.

She knew he was a junkie before he opened the door. She knew that he lived
on the street, cadging change from strangers, eating out of garbage cans,
shooting up with people who were his friends when they had the junk and his
competition for returnable bottles the rest of the time. She knew because knowing
was what she was, and what she purveyedknowing what had been, what was, what
would be. The small sign in the curtained plate glass window said reader and
adviser, but that was only because the police would arrest anyone who bluntly
claimed to tell fortunes.

The junkie opened the door, and the Utile bell above his head jangled to
announce him.

“Madame Catherine?" he said in a hoarse, uncertain voice. He squinted toward
the drapery of beads that half-obscured the rear two-thirds of the narrow room.

She waited a moment, letting him take in her carefully cultivated
ambiencethe floor covered with worn, grayed-out tiles; the walls and ceiling
festooned with dusty silks and velvets; the small table draped with faded
satin, the pitted crystal ball sitting on a brass pedestal at its center; the
gypsy fortune-teller swathed in skirts and scarves and junk jewelry. This was
the decor she kept going back to, far better than the wood-paneled high-rise
office and the chic suit, or the black-and-white New Age studio and the
designer jeans. Clients came most readily to this shabby storefront, their
basest carnival expectations confirmed by it. The right kinds of clients.

She raised a hand toward the junkie. “Come in, Steven," she said.

He pushed a few strings of beads aside and leaned into the inner sanctum.
“You know my name."

“Of course." Finding his name among the myriad voices he had heard in his
life hardly took any effort at all. His mother had used it, his father, his
friends, his wife, a vast, echoing chorus of Steven. Catherine
gestured toward the overstuffed chair on the far side of the table. “WonÅ‚t you
sit down?"

He hesitated another moment, then slipped sideways through the beads and
slowly limped to the chair. He dropped to its worn cushions and sat there in
silence, his head, his whole body, drooping. He was painfully thin, the skull
visible behind the papery skin of his face, the cheeks deeply hollowed above a
short straggling beard, the sunken eyes rimmed with dark circles. Multiple
layers of clothing partly camouflaged his frailty, hanging slack at shoulder
and hip, so that he looked a little like a child trying on an older brotherłs
discards; but above his shirt and sweater collars, every cord of his neck was
visible, and his Adamłs apple stood out like a half-swallowed peach pit. And he
stank of sweat and rotten teeth, with a sharp overtone of bleach.

He had cleaned a needle with that bleach an hour ago, she knew. Volunteers
from the local settlement house had been showing the junkies how to do it, to
protect themselves from AIDS. Too late for Steven, of courseshe saw that the
doctors had told him so weeks agobut there was kindness in his doing it for
others. He had not lost his humanity on the street, along with everything else.

She brushed a twinge of pity aside. Her business had nothing to do with pity
or kindness. The kindly and the pitying died along with the wicked when the
plagues came; that had always been the way of the world. Only the careful and
the lucky survived. And Catherine.

When he had sat in the chair for a minute without speaking, she said, “What
brings you to me, Steven?"

“DonÅ‚t you know that, too?" he muttered.

She made a sweeping gesture with her open palm. “I read events, not
thoughts, Steven. There is a difference. You must tell me what you want."

He looked up at her then, and there was despair in his bloodshot eyes. “IÅ‚m
ill, Madame Catherine. IÅ‚ve been down to County Hospital, in and out, lately.
They say there isnłt much they can do for me."

She waited for him to go on.

He sighed again. “IÅ‚ve heard that you can do things."

She stroked the pitted surface of the crystal ball. “I canÅ‚t cure you," she
said quietly. “I give people advice about their lives, nothing more."

“IÅ‚ve heard that you tell people how to get money."

She inclined her head slightly. “Sometimes."

He took a deep breath, as if gathering courage to speak, then suddenly
pressed his elbow against his side. He made tight fists of both his hands, and
then slowly, slowly opened them, over the course of a long exhalation.

“Perhaps you should be back at the hospital," she said.

He shook his head. “IÅ‚ve heard about the price for the money. IÅ‚m willing to
pay it."

She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table and steepling her
fingers under her chin. “And what do you think the price is, Steven?"

“Time," he said.

She said nothing.

“ItÅ‚s pretty obvious that if you can tell other people how to get money, you
can get it for yourself, too. You donłt need to collect it from your customers.
But time ... that makes sense. You take years of life and give money
in return. Itłs a bargain a lot of people would jump at."

“It is," Catherine said softly.

“Then you must be very old."

“I am." She watched him search her face for signs of that age, but she knew
all he would see was a woman in her early forties, with crowłs-feet crinkling
her eyes and a touch of gray in her dark hair. A woman not much older than
himself. She had looked that way for a very long time.

He eased forward in his chair. “Someone I know won the lottery. Not the big
prize, but a good one. Good enough to get him off the street. You gave him the
number, two months ago. His name was Charlie."

She thought back for a moment. A tall man, sallow with incipient jaundice,
jobless, and without prospects. He had been living on gin, in a cardboard box,
for quite some time before he found her. “I remember Charlie."

“He said he traded you six months for it."

She nodded.

“He got twenty thousand dollars."

“Twenty-one thousand six hundred dollars, precisely."

“And heÅ‚ll live six months less than he would have if he hadnÅ‚t come to
you?"

She let her fingers interlace on the crystal ball. “ItÅ‚s a little more
complicated than that. If he stops drinking and starts taking proper care of
himself, he could live quite a long time. Perhaps even the span he would have
lived if he had never started drinking. Less the six months he traded to me. If
he stays on the booze, his liver will kill him six months sooner than it would
have if hełd never come to me. So this life span depends on his own behavior."

“But you get that six months."

“Yes."

StevenÅ‚s knobby throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Is that your standing offer?
Twenty grand for six months?"

“There are many offers, Steven," she said.

“Tell me about them."

“The basic rate is five dollars an hour. The number of hours involved is up
to the client. For a day, a hundred and twenty dollars; for a year, forty-three
thousand eight hundred; for twenty years, eight hundred and seventy-six
thousand."

He was staring at her. “Has anyone ever given you twenty years?"

“You might be surprised, Steven," she said, thinking of one evening in the
high-rise office, and a man who wanted to be rich more than he wanted to have
an old age.

“And how much will you give me?" Steven asked.

She looked down into the crystal ball, as if there were something inside to
see, but there was only glass, and the familiar effects of reflection and
refraction. The surface was pitted and scratched from years of being knocked
about, moved from city to city, country to country. Several times, she had
dropped it, but it hadnłt smashed. Good quality glass, but still only glass.
The answer to Stevenłs question was inside Steven, waiting to be found.

The future was always harder to know than the present or the past. It was a
changeable thing, and she herself had changed it for many a client, simply by
giving away money via lotteries, racetracks, casinos, and the stock market.
Catherine took almost a full minute to find Stevenłs future.

“How much?" he repeated.

She looked up into his eyes. The whites were yellowing, the rims reddened
and watery. She knew the doctors had asked him to stay in the hospital. But he
had limped his way out and come to her. “Steven," she said quietly, “I canÅ‚t
give you anything."

He straightened slowly in the chair.

“Not anything," she said.

He opened his mouth, but for a moment no sound emerged, then in a strangled
voice he said, “Are you telling me that I donÅ‚t have any time left?" He pressed
his elbow against his side once more, and he clutched it with his other hand.
“Am I going to die here, now?"

She shook her head. “You have a little timea few days. But if I take them,
what good will the money do you?"

“How many days?"

“Do you really want to know?"

“Yes!"

She hesitated for just a moment, and then she said, “Six."

His throat bobbed again. “YouÅ‚re sure?"

“Yes."

He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands.

“IÅ‚m sorry," she said softly.

When he lowered his hands, they quivered. “Do you have a piece of paper and
a pencil?" he whispered.

She drew a memo pad and a ballpoint pen from a pocket of her skirt and
passed them over. Shakily, he scribbled a name and address.

“Take the six days and send the money to her," he said.

Catherine looked at the name. “Your wife?"

He nodded.

She tore the sheet off and pushed it across the table toward him. “No. I
wonłt take the time you have left."

“ItÅ‚s all I have to give her," said Steven.

She looked into him again and saw that three years had passed since he had
last seen his wife. She saw their final moments togetherSteven looking long at
the sleeping woman and then leaving without waking her. She saw farther back,
to tears and poverty, to job loss and home loss. It was a familiar story: half
the people who lived on the street could tell something like it.

“Listen to me, Steven," she said. “IÅ‚m an Adviser as well as a Reader. Take
my advice and call her. Tell her you love her. It will mean more to her than a
few hundred dollars."

He stood up. “You wonÅ‚t give me the money?"

She shook her head.

“Damn you," he muttered, but without force. Then he turned and limped out,
leaving only the jangling bell to show that he had been there. In a moment,
even that sound was gone.

Catherine closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool surface
of the crystal ball. She was tired. Looking inside people was wearing,
especially when there was no compensating gain of lifetime. Merely dealing with
the kinds of clients who came to the storefront was wearingthe desperate, the
destitute, the bottomed-out. Yet the high-rise office and the New Age studio
were not better, just different they delivered the debt-ridden rich who didnłt
want to lose their lifestyles, the entrepreneurs who would rather pay her in
time than pay interest to a bank or venture capital company, the embezzlers,
the market manipulators, the wheeler-dealers temporarily out of the wherewithal
to wheel and deal. They were fewer than the clients of the shabby storefront,
but wearing, too, in their way. Sometimes she felt like chucking them all, top
to bottom. But she couldnłt, because in all these long years, she had never
stopped wanting to live.

Madame Catherine no longer remembered precisely when she was born, or where.
It hadnłt been much of a time and place anywaya winter between wars in some
duchy or principality that was always changing hands. Her mother had been the
village wisewoman, using her skill at knowing to help others sow and
reap, endure storm and drought, and find lost lambs. She had been
well-respected until some of her neighbors decided it would be a good idea to
burn her. The family had fled then, to become itinerant peddlers, wagon
menders, tool sharpeners, any means her father could find to put bread in their
mouths. Finally, in the great city of Genoa, where he had thought to find his
fortune, he died of the plague, leaving Catherine and her mother to fend for
themselves. Catherine did remember the gorgeous blue of the Mediterranean at
Genoa, and the fish-stink of its docks. And she remembered the year as well,
the first year whose number she had any awareness of1348, the year of the
Black Death.

Her mother had known, of course, that he would die. But knowing had not
helped, because the plague could not be evaded like angry peasants, like some
pillaging army. One third of the population of Europe was winnowed by plague
that century. Catherine and her mother, though, were lucky and lived. But they
had no land, and no man. They had only the knowing to support themin
Catherine, too, by that time; and so they wandered through Europe, gypsy-like,
telling fortunes wherever someone would listen, to earn their bread and bed,
and sometimes a little silver.

Catherinełs mother had only the knowing, no more, for she died of
old age, a white-haired, bent-backed crone: half blind, half deaf, toothless.
But shortly after that death, Catherine discovered that she herself had an
additional skillshe could steal time.

She was beginning to go gray by then, and to find an ache in her back in the
mornings. And one day as she told fortunes in an inn on the road from Trier to
Koblenz, she found herself jealous of a customer. The customer was young, beautiful,
a woman just-married and spending her merchant husbandłs money on the foolish
fantasies, as she called them, of a fortuneteller. She tossed Catherine a gold
coin for those fantasies, because they had been of beautiful children and long
life and prosperity. And as Catherine caught the coin to her bosom, she yearned
with all her heart to have a piece of the new bridełs youth.

In the next moment, she realized that her prediction for the woman had not
been exactly right, that her life would not be quite so long. That, in fact, it
would be five years shorter than Catherine had first thought. But she didnłt
say anything about it, because the fortune was told and the gold paid. She only
wondered why her skill had so betrayed her. The next morning, there was no ache
in her back; nor did it return; and some weeks later she saw that her gray hair
was growing out dark once more. At that, she knew what she had done, and she
felt a little remorsebut only a little, because the woman had called her skill
foolish. Afterward, though, she never stole as many as five years from a single
person. Instead, she took a month here, a week there, whenever she needed them,
her age bobbing up and down, from a few gray hairs to none at all.

A woman who never grew old could not stay in one place very long, but
neither could a fortune-teller, so her gypsy life went on as before. The years
passed, the decades, and the decades piled into centuries. Sometimes she found
a lover, though she always left him. Sometimes she found a patron, though she
always left him, too, or her. She grew familiar with many places, many customs,
many languages. It was not a bad life, as long as she was young.

In the seventeenth century, she finally found a way to make her own fortune.
Foreseeing the success of the Dutch East India Company, she saved up a few gold
coins and went to Amsterdam to invest them in a ship that she knew would come
home heavy-laden with spices. Within a few years, she no longer needed to ask
coin or food for telling the future. The economics of the world had changed,
money could breed money, and a woman who could see tomorrow could become rich.

That was when she stopped stealing time and started taking it as pay for knowing.

Now, nearly three hundred years and four thousand miles from that first
investment, she had all the wealth she would ever need, in stocks, bonds,
precious metals and stones, and bank accounts. For nearly three hundred years,
she had found people willing to trade their time for the assurance of money.
Not everyone would do it, of course. Ninety-nine percent would not. But
Catherine had become very good at finding that other one percent, or at
enabling them to find her.

READER AND ADVISER.

She raised her head from the crystal ball. It was still early, but she
decided to go home, perhaps watch a few videotapes, listen to a Utile music.
Just now, she lived in a condominium on the lake, a pleasant place she planned
to keep for four or five more years, before she moved to anther part of the
city. She took a bus to the public garage where she had left her minivan,
changed clothes in the van, and drove home, an ordinary-looking middle-aged
woman, nothing like the gypsy of the shabby storefront.

The next day, when she arrived at the store, Stevenłs wife was waiting
outside.

“Madame Catherine," she said. “IÅ‚d like to speak to you."

Beth was her name, the name that Steven had scribbled on the memo pad. She
was thinner than his memories of her, and her face was tired around the eyes;
Catherine knew she had not slept the previous night. And there was Steven,
focused sharply within her lifeSteven as he once had been, Steven as he was
now. She had seen him eighteen hours ago.

“Come in, Beth," said Catherine, pushing the door open.

They settled on either side of the table, Beth with her hands folded in her
lap, the gypsy fortune-teller behind her crystal ball.

“You know who I am?" said Beth.

Catherine nodded. “Your husband was here yesterday. I see that he followed
my advice and called you."

BethÅ‚s folded hands tightened. “Thank you for getting him to do that. When
he left, I tried to find him, but" She shook her head. “So thank you. For
giving him back to me."

Catherine waited, knowing there would be more.

Beth stared at the crystal ball. “He thinks you really can tell the future."

“I can," said Catherine.

“And he tells this this really wild story about you giving away winning
lottery numbers, in return for years of a personłs life."

“I do that sometimes," said Catherine. “Do you want a winning lottery
number?"

Beth shook her head. “I want Steven."

Catherine leaned back in her chair. “I donÅ‚t give away lives here. I give
away money. If that would help you"

“It wonÅ‚t. I wish it could, but it wonÅ‚t. HeÅ‚s going to die. And I donÅ‚t
want him to. I donłt want him to!" Her eyes squeezed shut, and tears started
down her cheeks. Then she gulped and knuckled the wet streaks away with both
hands.

“IÅ‚m sorry," said Catherine, and she sighed. How many wives, she thought,
had said those words, in plague after plague? Even her own mother, so very long
ago.

“Look," said Beth, and she was leaning forward now, touching the crystal
ball with one hand, her voice tightly controlled. “What happens if somebody
gives you the time and takes the money and then changes his mind. Can you give
the time back?"

Catherine frowned slightly. “ItÅ‚s not my policy to give refunds."

“But can you? Are you able to do it?"

Catherine nodded.

“And does that mean that you could sell someone time. Extra time?"

“You mean for money?"

“For anything."

“Why would I want to do that, Beth? I havenÅ‚t any desire to shorten my own
life. Quite the contrary."

“But could you?"

Catherine looked at her narrowly. “Do you mean, would I sell Steven time?"

“Yes. Yes."

“I could," said Catherine, “but I wonÅ‚t. He doesnÅ‚t have anything that I
would accept in exchange."

“But I do," said Beth. She gripped the edges of the table. “IÅ‚m young. I
have a lot of life ahead of me. Take some of itsome for yourself and some for
Steven."

Catherine shook her head. “Think of what youÅ‚re saying, Beth."

“DonÅ‚t I have a lot of life left?"

Almost unwillingly, Catherine looked into Bethłs future. There was indeed a
good deal of life left to her, on the ordinary human scale. “YouÅ‚re all right,"
Catherine told her. “YouÅ‚ll last into your eighties, as things stand."

“Then split it between him and me. And take a fee for yourself, a brokerÅ‚s
fee. Isnłt that a good deal? You gain something from it. We all gain."

“I donÅ‚t think so, Beth."

“Yes, we do!"

“Beth"

“DonÅ‚t you seethat way, we can be together again."

“He has more troubles than AIDS, Beth. It wasnÅ‚t AIDS that drove him away
from you."

“We can do something about those troubles if he lives. But if he dies, we
canłt even try." The tears had started again, and this time she made no move to
stop them. “Please, Madame Catherine. We donÅ‚t have anyone else to turn to."

Catherine looked down at the satin-draped tabletop, at the corroded brass
pedestal that held the crystal ball. From the corners of her eyes, she could
see BethÅ‚s hands to either side, white-knuckled. “YouÅ‚re making a terrible
choice, Beth. Therełs no guarantee that hełll come back to you."

BethÅ‚s voice shook. “ThereÅ‚s a guarantee now. If you donÅ‚t do something,
hełs going to die. Guaranteed."

Catherine reached out to her again, to look at her past, at the better
times, to see Steven as she saw him. He had been handsome, once, forty or fifty
pounds ago, and he had laughed easily. He had held Bethłs hand a great deal,
even after they had been married for a dozen years. His last gift, when he
still had a job, was a gold pendant with their initials entwined; she was
wearing it now.

“You must love him very much," Catherine said at last.

“Very much," said Beth.

Catherine met her eyes. “All right. I can offer you a compromise. In five
years, there will be a cure for AIDS. IÅ‚ll give him six, to make sure he has
time to take it."

BethÅ‚s eyes were wide. “Will you?"

Catherine nodded.

“And your fee?"

“There wonÅ‚t be any fee."

“No?"

“No. I think youÅ‚ll be paying enough as it is."

“Oh, Madame Catherine" She found some tissues in her purse and wiped her
face and blew her nose. “IÅ‚m sorry to be like this in front of you, but you
canłt know how grateful I am." She balled the tissues up and clutched them in
one hand. “When can we?"

“Can you bring him here at four oÅ‚clock?"

“Any time you say."

“Four." She waved toward the door. “Go on, now. Go back to him."

Beth stood up. “This is so kind of you."

Catherine looked up at her, thinking that in six hundred years she had never
loved anyone as much as Beth loved Steven. Not anyone, except perhaps herself.
“What will you tell him," she said, “about this deal?"

“The truth. But only afterward. Until then, IÅ‚ll tell him youÅ‚ve agreed to
give me a lottery ticket in return for the time he has left. You donłt mind, do
you?"

“Will he believe you?"

“I think so. He begged me to ask you for it."

The bell jangled her departure.

When they came back at four, Steven seemed very calm and said very little,
and Beth, too, was subdued. He had bathed and put on clean clothing; but he
didnłt look betterthe clothes, Catherine knew, were his own old ones, and they
hung just as loose on him as his rags had. And she knew also that he had shot
up less than two hours ago, coaxed the money out of his wife, making no secret
that he was going to use it to buy junk. His argument had been that he would be
dead soon, so it didnłt make any difference.

The transfer of time from Beth to Catherine and then to Steven took less
than a minute, and only Catherine was aware of it. Afterward, she gave Beth a
slip of paper, the supposed lottery number.

“YouÅ‚re finished here," she said. “Go home."

Hand in hand, they left.

Occasionally, over the next few days, she wondered if Beth had finally told
him the truth, or if she was just letting him discover it for himself as he
lived on, day after day, feeling less and less sick, gaining weight, recoiling
from the death that had almost claimed him. She also wondered how long Bethłs
job at the supermarket would support Stevenłs habit. But she put her curiosity
aside. It had never been her policy to follow a client after striking a
bargain.

Two weeks after their bargain, a week after he would otherwise have been
dead, Steven came back to the shabby storefront. He waited outside for a few
minutes because Catherine was with someone else, but when that client left, he
slipped in before the door had even closed.

He thrust the beads aside roughly, and they clicked and clattered as they
swung to behind him. “You shouldnÅ‚t have done it," he said.

He looked betteranyone could have seen that. He had gained a little weight
in his face, and the whites of his eyes had cleared. And his clothes were still
clean. Catherine saw that he was living with Beth; she guessed that he had
expected to die with her.

“You shouldnÅ‚t have done it!" he said again, and his mouth twisted angrily.

“Sit down, Steven," she said softly.

Instead, he stood behind the chair, gripping its upholstered back. Then he
pounded its cushioned arm with his fist. “How could you do that to
her?"

Catherine saw that Beth had only told him the truth that morning. That they
had had a fight over it, culminating in Steven storming out. Two weeks before,
Catherine reflected, he wouldnÅ‚t have had the strength to slam that door. “It
was her choice, Steven," she said. “I gave her what she wanted."

“She tried to tell me you were wrong about the time I had left. She tried to
tell me you were a fake. As if I didnłt know better!" His fingers dug hard into
the chair. “Give her back those years! I donÅ‚t want them!"

Catherine shook her head. “Our bargain is done. I donÅ‚t give refunds. I told
her that."

Steven let go of the chair abruptly. “I never agreed to that bargain."

“Your agreement wasnÅ‚t required," said Catherine. “The bargain was between
Beth and me."

He pointed at her, jabbing the air with his rigid forefinger. “You stole
those years from her. She didnłt know what she was doing!"

“You know that isnÅ‚t true, Steven."

“It must be!"

“Then you donÅ‚t know her very well. And you donÅ‚t know how much she loves
you."

He lowered his hand slowly. Then his shoulders slumped, as if the act of
pointing had drained his strength. He leaned on the chair, shaking his head. “I
canłt let this happen to her."

“SheÅ‚ll have a long life anyway," Catherine said. “Even without those few
years."

He kept shaking his head. “You donÅ‚t understand. I canÅ‚t take those years
from her."

Catherine looked at him long and hard, though only with her eyes. She didnłt
want to look at him any other way anymore. Finally, she said, “Steven, donÅ‚t
you want to live?"

He walked around the chair and sat down. He put one hand on the table,
beside the crystal ball. “What will you give me for those years? In money."

“You can live till they find a cure, Steven," she said. “You have the time
now."

“What will you give me?"

“Are you sure this is what you want?"

“How much!"

She did the calculations in her head, then looked into the near future for a
match. She found one in SaturdayÅ‚s newspaper. “FridayÅ‚s lottery has a
four-digit jackpot for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," she said. “That
would leave you with three and a half months to spare."

He frowned. “I meant for everything."

She looked again. “The three-digit game can give you an extra ten thousand,
with fifteen days left over. Thatłs my best offer."

“ItÅ‚s a deal."

“Steven"

“ItÅ‚s a deal!"

Catherine shrugged. “ItÅ‚s your life," she said, and she pulled out her memo
pad and wrote the numbers down. “DonÅ‚t buy the tickets in this neighborhood.
Take the bus down Ashland a couple of miles; youłll find plenty of vendors." She
drew a five-dollar bill from her blouse and passed it over with the sheet of
paper. “HereÅ‚s your seed money and bus fare."

He tucked the paper and the bill into his shirt pocket. “IÅ‚m ready now," he
said. “For the other side of the bargain."

It took only a moment for Catherine to draw five years and fifty weeks from
him. “Go on, now," she said when it was done. “You have traveling to do."

He hesitated. “Have you ?"

“Yes."

“I didnÅ‚t feel anything."

“Do you ever feel time passing?"

He swallowed. “Sometimes." He pushed himself out of the chair. “Thanks,
Madame Catherine."

“DonÅ‚t come back," she said.

His lips made a thin white line. “I wonÅ‚t."

Catherine sat watching the beads sway after he had gone, listening to the
echo of the bell. No, he wouldnłt be back. She knew that even without reading
him.

Three days later, Beth came.

She had been crying, crying till her eyes were swollen and discolored. She
slammed the beads aside, stalked to the table, and threw something at
Catherine. But that something was only a couple of pieces of paper, and instead
of hitting their target, they fluttered wildly and sank to the floor. Lottery
tickets.

“HeÅ‚s dead!" she choked, her voice roughened from the crying. “You killed
him with these!"

“Sit down, Beth," Catherine said softly.

“Why did you do it? Why did you give them to him?"

“Please. Sit down."

Beth fell into the chair and stared at Catherine with her wide, raw eyes.

Catherine bent to pick up the tickets. She set them on Bethłs side of the
table. “He wanted you to have these," she said.

Beth shook her head. “ItÅ‚s blood money."

Catherine looked into her then and saw that the police had called at her
apartment, had taken her down to the morgue to identify the body, had told her
it was a case of overdose. And in the morning she had gotten an envelope in the
mail, with these pieces of paper in it, and a note saying that he loved her.

“Yes, itÅ‚s blood money," said Catherine. “ItÅ‚s always blood money. ThatÅ‚s
what I sell."

“How can you?" Beth moaned.

“He knew what he was asking for."

Beth shook her head sharply. “I donÅ‚t want it. Take it back."

Very quietly, Catherine said, “I told you, I donÅ‚t give refunds."

“Then just keep it!" She got up abruptly, and one thigh struck the table so
hard that the crystal ball rocked off its brass pedestal and, before Catherine
could stop it, fell to the floor. It struck with a loud dull thud, which made
Beth gasp and fall back into her chair. Then the ball rolled slowly across the
tiles to the nearest wall, where it rebounded gently at an angle and went on
rolling.

“I didnÅ‚t mean" Beth began. “I didnÅ‚t"

After a second rebound, the ball came to rest almost at Catherinełs feet.
She scooped it up with both hands and set it back on its pedestal.

“ItÅ‚s all right," she said. “Glass is tougher than you might think."

Beth looked at the scratched and pitted crystal ball, then she reached out a
hand and touched it. “I wish I were made of glass," she whispered. “I wish I
were tough."

Catherine picked up the lottery tickets, which had fallen to the floor again
with the jostling of the table. She set them near BethÅ‚s hand. “Take these,"
she said. “They belong to you."

Beth closed her reddened eyes, as if something shining in the glass hurt
them, something more than just the usual complex of reflection and refraction.
“They arenÅ‚t what I want," she said.

“TheyÅ‚re the best he could do," said Catherine.

Beth stood up at last, slowly this time, not hitting the table again, and
she picked up the tickets, as Catherine had known she would. The bell over the
door jangled as she took them away with her.

The next day, Madame Catherine closed her shabby storefront and moved to a
spacious modern office in a downtown high-rise.

Firstborn, Seaborn

Sheila Finch

I have always thought of the stories and ballads of the great silkies, their
brides, and their children as a product of cold weather, cold water, and rocky
coasts. Sheila Finch, as is typical for her, has thought longer and more deeply
on the subject, and blended into her story the California that is her adopted
homeland and the medieval iconography she has studied.

“Stella Maris," star of the sea, is one of the loveliest names used to
praise the Virgin Mary. But before the Blessed Virgin was the Goddess, tied to
the all-enveloping rhythms of the sea. As “Firstborn, Seaborn" shows, it is
difficult to remember Her In a world ruled by a God and men who seek to bind
what must be free.

The lights of the bus that brought her to this lonely stretch of California
coast dwindled away in the distance, leaving her to the frozen constellations
of December overhead and the luminous curls of foam below. She walked down the
steps to the rocky beach, her feet sure on the familiar path. She held her
breath. Except for the slow hiss of waves sucking at pebbles, the beach lay
silent.

Five miles away in the small house in the city, the youngest infant would be
whimpering, she knew, seeing it in her mindłs eye. And the man, come home to a
cold house and an empty plate, waiting for his woman, drowsing in the chair
beside the cradle, another child on his lap. She could not love them, though
she had often tried, but she could not hate them, either. She did not have the
strength.

She let out her breath and gazed out to the horizon, as empty of feeling now
as the night was of sound. A full moon climbed, laying a white path across the
water. She took off her shoes and felt the bite of ocean on her bare feet. She
hesitated, pulling the thin denim jacket over her stomach, covering the new
life flickering in her belly; a spark too small to attract a moth now, later it
would be a fire to consume her with its need, as the others had done.

Except for the firstborn.

The Pacific Ocean spread its mosaic of drowned stars before her. Memories
slid through her mind like bright fish through a fog of loneliness and despair.

Once, she had been more alive in the water than she would ever be on land.
She had worked with dolphins at the marine park, swimming with them,
socializing them, readying them to work with the parkłs trainers. She had known
their kind since her childhood in Mexico, friendly spirits who played beside
the children in the warm surf. It was good work, though it grieved her to think
of this animal held captive, and she often thought they must yearn to be free.

The marine park made money, the city thrived on the taxes the park paid, and
the management expected the staff to keep their doubts and their worries to
themselves. The tourists returned again and again with their children and their
childrenłs children; the entrance turnstiles clattered hungrily. The dolphins
splashed and smiled and squeaked in their cartoon voices all summer long, and
if they entertained any thoughts at all about the situation, their thoughts
were silent.

But night after night she lay alone in her narrow bed in a rented room and
thought of one dolphin in particular, leaping from flashing water, the sun
flaming on his back. She could not forget one windy March day as the seasons
turned, feast day of her own naming, when everything had changed. She had
entered his pool a dozen times before, but this day was to be different. She
had hardly slipped into the water when it turned suddenly to liquid fire, so
bright she could hardly see him anymore. She cried out in fear as something
ancient and immortal enveloped her in golden haze, a spray of stars flying
upward from sea to sky. She sensed its presence covering her, but it did not
hurt her. Something that could not be explained away on Sunday morning consumed
her at that moment, in a sacrament of light and water. Then it was gone,
leaving her with no words to explain or understand what it had given or what it
had taken away.

After a while, the parkłs director noticed the bulge growing beneath her
narrow rib cage. In time, he said, his white hand patting her brown one softly
on the polished desktop, she might have become one of the best trainers the
park had ever known, even if she was a woman. But company rules and the
insurance policy give him no choice. He had to let her go. Of course, if she
consideredif she would perhapswell, there were ways. And what, after all,
were the options for a poor Latina like herself if she did not take his advice?
He waited for her answer, but when none came he said he hoped she would understand
how much he regretted this.

She accepted his decision silently, gazing out past the dolphin pens to the
sweep of ocean at the parkłs boundary, opalescent in the setting sun. The
director turned away and shuffled papers on his desk. He counted out the bills
that were owed for her services. Then he added a few more because he felt sorry
for her.

She ran from the directorłs office and stumbled down the path to the dolphin
pen in flooding darkness. The tourists had all gone home. Only the plastic cups
rolling over the path, the discarded candy wrappers, the canceled tickets spoke
of their visit, and a childłs pink shoe forlorn under a bench. She had seen
these signs a thousand times before, but today she read them as messages from a
world that waited for her outside the gates of her watery Eden.

Along the way, the parkłs cleanup crew leaned on their brooms and watched
her. Last in the line was Manuel, who stood directly in front of her so that
she had to step off the path to pass him. He smiled, small, even teeth showing
white against his dark brown skin, and put out his hand to catch her arm.

“Where are you going, Maria?"

That was not her name. She had never told any of them her name, except the
director when she applied for the job, and he had probably forgotten. It was
not that she felt herself superior to the others who worked in the park. But it
had seemed unimportant to have a name; there was no one who cared, no place
that it mattered.

Manuel had named her Maria, explaining that he had to call her something. He
often waited for her after work, lounging in the shadows by the staff gate,
catching her arm and walking with her to the bus stop. Sometimes he persuaded
her to let the bus go by, and they walked together in the sunset that turned
the highway bloodred. Those nights he spoke to her of Mexico. He had come from
the Sonoran Desert, but she from a seaside town in Oaxaca, and it was as if
they had been born in different countries. She remembered the sound of bells on
Sundays that seemed to her as a child to speak of so much glory that never came
to pass. She thought the god who lived on those altars must be like an uncle
who made rich promises he could not keep at Christmas, then crept away ashamed.
She had left home as soon as she was able, making her way to El Norte,
where it was said some glory could still be found by those who believed.

This evening, when she did not answer him, Manuel released the grip of his
fingers, letting his hand slide gently down to brush against the curve of her
belly. One finger remained on her body like the admonition of a priest.

“The little one, Maria," he said, “is not mine. Malisimo!"Ä™

She went on past him, hearing the scratch of brooms on the path in the
twilight, the muffled, jeering laughter of the others, catching the scent of
their hair oil over the clean salt of the oceanłs breath.

The water in the dolphin pen was dark and turbulent, a swirl of creamy foam
marking the place where the dolphin had submerged. She sat on the wall, her
knees tucked under her chin, and waited. He came up directly in front of her in
a shower of drops that took the light of the setting sun like a spray of blood.
He was a large dolphin, the largest the marine park had ever captured, and the
director had named him Rex, and though that was not his name, either, there was
a rightness to it the director never dreamed. But he was only a creature of the
sea, after all, and perhaps she had imagined anything else. She saw herself
caught for a moment in his unblinking left eye, like a caged seabird. He nudged
at her toes, and she let herself carefully down into the pool beside him.

At once he rolled over and slid his body along hers, shoving his hard beak
between her swollen breasts. She felt the pulsing strength in him, the powerful
tail fin thrusting against her thighs. She put her arms about him, and he swam
slowly with her around the pen. Now his beak probed her gently, and she let him
touch her without fear. The bruises he had inadvertently marked on her arms and
legs in the first days of their learning to know each other had long since
faded, and she did not doubt he knew what grew beneath her breastbone. His
touch on her skin was as gentle as a loverłs, and she leaned her cheek against
him, feeling the sleek underbelly sliding over her hips. She felt as if she
were alone with him in a timeless infinity of ocean, under a sky so full of
sunset colors she could feel the weight of it on her brow. She laid her hand
lightly on his blowhole, their signal. One last time, she thought, they would
twist and curve in the eddying water, diving and surfacing in the late
afternoon light.

But today he jerked away from her touch, so that for a moment she floundered
in the tumult of the waves, kicking her feet till she was buoyant again. He
swam in tight circles about her, his gaze spearing her like a fish as she trod
water, gasping for breath. She opened her arms to him, reaching out with all
her senses, yearning to communicate her confusion and her regret, but there was
no contact this time. Instead, something rose between them; she heard voices
whispering in the dark corners of her mind, felt them like the spidery touch of
silk, gone when she turned to look.

Suddenly afraid, she clasped her arms about the dolphin again, and they hung
suspended, bubbles beading her legs and his fins like seed pearls. The voices
whispered of the sea and its ways which were not the ways of the land, and of a
folk who existed long before the painted god came to sit on his altar in her
village. She sensed again the power that scoffed at mission bells and human
laws, more ancient than either, something that never made promises, whose gifts
were dangerous and strange.

“Que pasa?" ManuelÅ‚s voice wrenched her back. “Someday that fish
will drown you!"

Lights pooled yellow among thick shadows in the marine park. Manuelłs face
was dark under a halo of lamplight, but she knew he was frowning. Pride
smoldered beneath his easy smile at all times, swift to explode in flame. The
big dolphin slipped out of her embrace and darted close to the penłs rim where
Manuel stood, challenging him with a quick squirt of water. The man stepped back,
brushing drops from his cheek.

“Come out, Maria. That one is dangerous."

The water was icy, and already she was tiring more quickly than before. She
pushed herself through the foamy wake the dolphin had left and reached the
edge. Manuel stepped forward and pulled her out. He picked up a towel that lay
in a puddle of amber light and draped it over her, covering her belly from
view.

“You are a strange woman, Maria! Why do you waste your time with a fish when
you can have a man?" He waited for her reply. When she gave him none, he
frowned. “One day he will not be here when you come to him! And then you will
have to look at me."

Icy water lapped against her knees, shocking her out of the past. All about
her, the tips of waves flashed like shattered crystals, as if someone had taken
an axe to stained-glass windows. She turned her gaze outward, away from the
memories, to the bright road of possibilities the moon created.

They were out there tonight, the voices, the Old Ones who had once spoken to
her of their secrets, the hidden lore beyond anything the good fathers in their
brown robes could speak of with authority. She knew that, although she could
not see them. They waited at the other end of the moonłs white bridge between
the worlds of land and ocean. They called to her across the chasm that
separated their kingdom of myth and mists from the reality of a womanłs life
taken and then abandoned. She had not accepted this at first, and in her loss
and her despair, she had sought to replace what had been snatched from her, as
if it was only a nightmare that could be chased away in a mortal manłs arms.

She thought about this as she always did at this time of year. He was a good
man, even if she could not love him. He was patient with her, expecting less
than the priests had taught was her duty to give, and she could not truthfully
say she was unhappy. The small house was warm enough and filled with simple,
necessary things, and the comfort of childrenłs voices that almost banished
ghosts. But he had carried each one in its turn to the church in the city,
ignoring her tears, and dedicated it to the uncle god with empty hands.

It was no more than a dream that haunted her, a bright fantasy she yearned
for, she thought, as the Pacific sucked at her legs. The merest moment when
something primeval had brushed against her, used her, and gone its way again,
leaving her like a shell cast up on the dry sand, out of reach of the tide
whose touch it would never forget. There was neither cruelty nor love in the
act, which was why it was so hard to be rid of. But how was this better than
the priestsł god who lived only in pictures on walls and windows?

Yet the moonłs path spread its silver coins before her each year, beckoning,
and one day she must surely follow it or she would die. Perhaps, she thought,
she had died already, consumed in that one explosion of cold fire that had
shredded the fabric of her life.

The child fluttered mothlike below her ribs, and for a moment she could not
remember which child it was. Then the face of her firstborn rose in her mind.

On the day at the end of December when the last of the money had gone, an
icy wind raged in from the northwest, whipping the waves into a fury, battering
the foot of the low cliffs of the peninsula on which the marine park stood. In
an evening without sunset, gray sky tangled with gray sea at the jagged horizon
as she made her way to the dolphin pen. No job, no rent money, meant she no
longer had a home; and the cityłs shelters were full. She did not know where
else to go.

The pen was empty. The dolphin was gone.

She did not stay to ask what had happened to him. She never asked for
anything, fearing they would not tell her if she did. Or worse, they would
wonder why she wanted to know, and then they would begin to ask questions she
could not answer. There was nothing she could explain even if she had wanted
to. Perhaps the dolphin had sickened and died, as so many of them did. Perhaps
Manuel had made good on his threat.

She left the park in darkness and walked on the beach below the cliffs, slow
and heavy now, seeking a place that would give her shelter. At one point the
cliffs rose straight up from the waterłs edge; rocks tumbled across the sand
and out to sea, breaking the wavesł headlong gallop onshore. One of the larger
rocks curved across the sand, preserving a little warmth in the crook of its
arm, and here she sat. Exhaustion dragged her down below the surface of fitful
sleep.

She dreamed of window glass blazing with winged archangels trampling demons
with scales and fins, and of young girls gathered in stiff white communion
frocks, dark eyes darting one to the other and lips whispering of boys, while
their hands folded dutifully on missals and rosaries, and of the mission priest
who spoke to them of Evełs sin and the uncle godłs vengeance on Evełs kind.

She awoke abruptly to a tidal wave of pain, and she clung to the sheltering
rock till it subsided. The voices of the Old Ones chittered anxiously in her
mind, but there was no time to listen to them now. Another wave of pain rolled
over her, threatening to tear her apart. She shut her eyes against it. Again
and again the force of the childłs arrival battered at her, and the voices of
the Old Ones argued, cajoled, persuaded, till she gave in, let go and let be.

Eyes closed in a momentłs calm, she drifted back into sleep and saw the
broken-tiled roofs of the town of Puerto Angel where she had been born, the
patched and faded sails of the fishing boats on the Gulf of Tehuantepec, the
dusty squares full of scrawny chickens, a mule clopping tiredly around a well,
old women, squatting against the mission wallgrandmothers who talked of death
and birth and death again in a litany older than the doctrines of the
brown-robed fathers. And beyond the town she saw the dark sea itself where her
people had once known the Old Ones and both had prospered, before the coming of
the priests who smashed the ancient contract, dooming the fishermen to guilt
and the Old Ones to despair.

As the winter moon rose full out of the black water, the life within her
gathered itself and broke free, gushing out of her into the night. The voices
of the Old Ones rose in triumph, then hushed suddenly, as if afraid of their
own eagerness. Weak and almost delirious, she fell back against the rock,
colder than the stone of the communion table.

The thin cry of the child roused her, and she looked down at it on the sand
between her legs. Moonlight frosted the soft fuzz of its head. Its eyes were
tightly closed, and its mouth sought from side to side. She lifted it and wiped
away sand and blood, then severed the cord with her teeth. She brushed its face
free of the caul that clung to it like a frond of gray kelp. She put the child
against her breast, but there was no milk in her yet. She let it suck the dry
teat, feeling the strangeness. It closed a tiny fist over her fingers and
opened dark eyes to gaze at her. She felt as if she were drowning.

At last the child was satisfied, its eyes closed, its mouth went slack with
sleep. She stood up, cradling it in one arm, the other holding the rock, for
her legs were as weak as seaweed, and looked out over the ocean.

The Old Ones lay half in and half out of the surf in the shelter of the
rock, watching her. Starlight slipped like a mantle over their white arms and
crowned their heads, turning their hair to silver flame. They did not move and
neither did she. Just beyond the ring of waiting Old Ones, a dolphin leaped,
the light radiant on its back.

She stumbled forward over the sand, and at once the Old Ones yearned toward
her, hands outstretched in their eagerness for the life which they could not
produce alone. She looked down at the infant asleep in her arms, a child that
had been given to her to bear but was not hers to keep. She brushed the tip of
its moon-washed head with her lips, disengaging the tiny fingers clasped about
her own. Then she held it out to them. The moon glinted on the childłs naked
body, drawing a line of light from the small head, down the arms, over the
little chest, to the gentle curve of the tail.

At that, they sighed, a sound like surf hissing over a multitude of small
stones. One of the Old Ones, silver hair streaming over her full breasts, took
the child from the woman and cradled it. For a moment none of them stirred.
Then as if at some signal only they heard, they turned and darted out to sea in
a flurry of white arms and scaly tails. But the one that carried the child held
it aloft for her to see for the last time before they disappeared under the
waves.

“Madre de Dios!" ManuelÅ‚s voice said behind her. “What have you
done, Maria?"

She turned and saw him cross himself against the horror. She stepped back
from the revulsion on his face, clasping trembling arms over her slack belly.

“You have killed the child!"

She turned her back on him at that. Westward, a dark shape rose out of the
water, blocking the moon, and she thought of the soft face of her firstborn.
Regret stabbed sharply through her. She floundered through the surf toward the
dolphin.

“No, Maria, no! You must stay! It was I who let Rex go so that you would
stay here with me!"

Urgently she flailed at the manłs arms that pinned her, imprisoning her in
his world. Strained toward the dolphin, Manuel only locked her tighter. Now she
saw other dolphins attending the first. But he was larger and stronger than any
of them, a primeval spirit who mocked the mission fathers and their painted
images. She yearned to go with him until she thought her heart would burst. The
man and the woman struggled silently at the edge of the sea while the stars
flared overhead and the moonłs path beckoned.

“Perhaps it was well-done," Manuel said at last, panting with the effort of
holding her. “The child was not healthy. Even I could see there was something
not right"

Far offshore, the dolphin reared up hugely out of the waves, balancing
himself on his tail in a blaze of light. She cried out in desperation, and
Manuel clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her.

“The police, Maria! What would they think?"

Then the dolphin sank beneath the waves, the others with him, and the child
was gone. She leaned against Manuelłs shoulder and wept.

“Come home with me, Maria," he said. “I shall give you fine babies, if that
is what you want."

The sea was up to her armpits.

So long ago now, she thought, yet the pain still stung like salt water on an
open wound. Tears filled her eyes as she remembered how Manuel had crushed her
to him that night, banishing the secrets of the sea and anchoring her to the
land. The dolphin was gone, the marine park itself was gone now, and California
had settled into years of drought and loss. Or was it only she who had sinned
and lost? She did not know. Something fierce and awful had gone out of the
world and left behind this terrible gaping sadness. She felt as if she knew the
answer but was afraid to speak it.

Her skin shriveled from the waterłs icy touch like the fingers of death.
Then she opened her eyes and found his face a handłs breadth away.

“It is the night, mamacita. I, too, remember," he said. “But you
have never been so far out before!"

He gripped her shoulders and turned her toward the shore, supporting her
when she would have stumbled and fallen beneath the waves. The worn blanket he
had brought, the same one he carried to her every year like an absolution, lay
folded in its usual place on the beach. He wrapped her in it, ignoring his own
wet clothes, then led her up the path to the road where the battered sedan
stood with its plastic Virgin and Child on the dashboard.

At the top of the cliff she stopped and looked back at the sea. He waited
patiently beside her, slowly, grudgingly with the passage of the years
accepting there were mysteries he would never understand. The moon was high
overhead, but the white path burned between the worlds. Far out on the ocean, a
speck moved, a brief flash of fin or tail, and was gone again.

The doorłs rusted hinges protested as Manuel opened it. The toddler gazed
drowsily up at her from the backseat, thumb against his lips, the baby wakeful
beside him. Their mouths moved, innocent as birds, their urgent hunger ready to
consume her, like the baby pelicans in the fable the good fathers told that
sucked the blood from their starving mother.

She hesitated, thinking of her firstborn, seaborn child, but her eyes were
caught by the infant god on the dashboard. He was smiling.

“A woman does not thrive in this world, Conception," her abuela had
said, in the shadow of the mission wall at dusk. “She endures in the cracks
between past and present, church and village, sea and land, this world and the
other." She had been eight years old and had not understood the old womanłs
words.

Manuel said softly, “I am trying to make it better. But I am a man, not an
angel! Is this so hard to accept?"

She knew he spoke the truth.

“And you are my woman." He patted her stomach, settling her into the car
beside him. “We will go home now, Maria Conception."

She sagged against the seat, shivering with cold, thinking of men whose
promises were worth nothing because they had nothing, of gods who made promises
they could not keep, and of that which never made promises but took what it
needed at will.

And she thought of the strength a woman must find to endure against them
all.

A Game of Cards

Lisa Goldstein

It all looks so civilized. A dinner party in the film community, attended by
civilized, cultivated people, served by a dark-haired woman who might well be a
refugee from the Third World. Family problems, problems with work, relaxation
with a game of cards.

Whatłs wrong with this picture?

Only the eyes, flicking from face to face, counting up the betrayals. And
the refugee, hoping to survive for another day.

“A Game of Cards" frankly reminds me of the game “Get the Guests" in WhoÅ‚s
Afraid of Virginia Woolf? The question is, however, who gets them?

The doorbell rang at seven. Rozal looked through the peephole and saw two
guests framed as in a picture, a woman with short brown hair and a tall gangly
man carrying a bottle of wine. Helen and Keith theyłd been at the house
before. Rozal opened the door.

“Beautiful house," Helen said, coming in and slipping off her coat. Rozal
nodded, not sure how to take this. Of course they knew the house belonged to
Mr. and Mrs. Hobart.

She hung the coats in the closet; they had a faint perfume scent, and the
smell that water brings out in wool. Was it raining, then? In the bustle that
surrounded the preparations for dinner, Rozal had not been able to go outside
all day.

Helen paused at the framed mirror in the entryway and patted her hair. Keith
scowled and grinned at his reflection, as if resigned to what he saw. The
bottle of wine hung from his hand as though attached to it; he seemed to have
forgotten it was there. Rozal watched as they made their way through the thick
off-white carpet in the living room, leaving footprints as they went. The
carpet had been vacuumed just minutes before the party, and would have to be
vacuumed again tomorrow.

She couldnłt resist a quick glance in the mirror herself. Most Americans
took her for older than her twenty-four years, but then most Americans looked
far younger than their actual age. Her hair and eyes were brown and her
complexion dark; they had called her skin “olive" at the immigration office,
and she had looked the word up as soon as she got home, but shełd been none the
wiser. She smiled at the reflection; she had not looked so healthy, so plump,
in many years.

The doorbell rang, and she hurried to answer it. A young blond woman stood
on the doorstep, Carol, another frequent visitor to the house. As soon as Rozal
hung up her coat, she heard the bell again. This time when she opened the door,
she saw a good-looking dark young man, balancing on the balls of his feet in
impatience. He had an amused, quizzical expression, as if he had put on a face
to greet Mrs. Hobart.

Rozal had never seen him in the house before, but she recognized him
immediately from the movies she watched on her days off. He looked shorter than
she would have expected. He said something to her in Spanish, but she smiled
and shook her head: no, she was not Spanish.

Mrs. Hobart had seated Keith and Helen and Carol on the sectional couch, and
now rose to greet the new arrival. “Steve!" she said. “So glad you could make
it."

“Drinks!" Mr. Hobart said, coming into the living room and clapping his
hands. Carol called for something Rozal didnłt catch. Keith stood to hand over
his bottle of wine, and Mr. Hobart pretended to be angry at him; somehow it had
been both right and wrong for Keith to bring the wine.

At a signal from Mrs. Hobart, Rozal hurried through the dining room to the
kitchen for the appetizers. The kitchen was at least ten degrees hotter than
the living room: both ovens were on, and the cook had set a teakettle on the
stove for tea. Rozal nodded to the cook, who sat on a high stool near the stove
and fanned herself with a magazine, but the other woman seemed not to notice
her. There was some question of status between her and the cook that Rozal did
not quite understand.

Rozal took the tray of appetizers out of the refrigerator and went back to
the living room. The party had already divided itself into groups: Mrs. Hobart
was deep in conversation with Steve, waving her cigarette smoke away from his
face, and Keith and Helen sat a little uncomfortably on the couch next to
Carol. “And what do you do?" Keith asked. His face was too long, and his jaw
and forehead protruded a little.

“Keith!" Helen said, and leaned to whisper something in his ear. Rozal
offered them an appetizer, trying not to look amused. She had seen Carol come
up to the house and talk to Mr. Hobart; money and small plastic bags were
exchanged. “I thought she had something to do with video," Keith said,
unrepentant. Carol laughed, and after a while Helen joined in.

Rozal returned to the kitchen for more appetizers. As she passed the wet bar
that divided the kitchen from the dining room, she heard a voice raised in
anger, and she glanced around quickly. In the three months she had been with
the Hobarts, she had learned that though they rarely became angry, it was best
to pay attention when they did. But the shouting she heard was not directed at
her. Mr. Hobart sat at the bar, speaking to someone on the phone.

“I just want to know where he is," Mr. Hobart said. “No, he isnÅ‚t
herethatłs why I called you. Well, how the hell should I know where he is?"

Rozal hurried back to the living room and began to pass around the
appetizers. “Thank you, Rozal," Mrs. Hobart said. The shouting from the bar
grew louder; surely everyone in the living room could hear it by now. Mrs.
Hobart raised her voice to cover it.

“No, she isnÅ‚t Hispanic," she said. She laughed a little, but Rozal could
see that she was getting worried. She glanced at her watch. “Why donÅ‚t you ask
her yourself? Rozal, Steve wants to know where youłre from. Do you understand?"

“From Amaz," Rozal said.

“Amaz?" Steve asked. “WhereÅ‚s that?"

“Oh, you must have seen it on the news," Mrs. Hobart said. “There was a coup
and then a countercoupno onełs really sure whołs running the country now. It
was horrible. But Rozal managed to get outshe was one of the lucky ones."

“Yes," Rozal said. She had found a pack of cards somewhere on the long
terrible road to the United States, and they had told her what Mrs. Hobart was
saying now, that she would be fortunate, she would reach her destination.
“Great abundance," the cards had said, and she had certainly come to the land
of abundance, a place where even the candy bars were encased in silver.

The doorbell rang, and she set down the tray of appetizers and went to
answer it. Peter Hobart, Mr. and Mrs. Hobartłs son, stood in the doorway. By
the streetlight behind him Rozal could see the rain she had sensed all day,
coming down now in a black sheet like a slab of stone. She looked for Peterłs
wife, but did not see her anywhere.

“John!" Mrs. Hobart called. “John, heÅ‚s here."

Peter took off his leather jacket, revealing a ponytail that fell nearly to
his waist, and handed the jacket to Rozal. It shone like silk from the rain.
Mr. Hobart came into the entryway as she was putting it away. “Finally," he
said. “DonÅ‚t you think youÅ‚re taking the concept of fashionably late a little
too far?"

“He wants to shout at me but he doesnÅ‚t dare," Peter said to Rozal. “Not
with all these people here."

Rozal smiled at him, not too wide a smile because her first loyalty, after
all, was to her employers. Still, she couldnłt help but like Peter; over the
months she had discovered that most people did.

“We can start eating now," Mr. Hobart said, going into the living room. “My
son has decided to grace us with his presence."

“Kill the fatted calf," Peter said. He did not follow his father but
remained behind to whisper to Rozal. “IÅ‚ve got something for you, Rosie my
love. Youłll like it."

Rozal closed the door to the closet, pleased. She remembered the loud
dissatisfied tourists she had seen in Amaz, traveling in groups like fat geese,
and she thought how lucky she was to be here, in this house, working for people
as kind as the Hobarts. She had never heard that employers gave gifts to their
servants. What could Peter possibly have for her? The pocket of his jacket had
felt heavy.

The guests moved in an undisciplined group toward the dining room. “IÅ‚m sure
everyone needs their drinks refreshed," Mr. Hobart asked, going behind the bar.
“I would have asked before, but I was busy trying to find my son."

“Were you?" Peter asked. He sat at one of the two remaining places at the
table; the other was probably for his wife. “There was no reason to bother
Debbie you know I always turn up sooner or later."

Rozal went to the kitchen and began ladling the soup. “Does Mr. Hobart hate
his son?" she asked the cook.

The other woman looked at her so oddly that for a moment Rozal thought she
had gotten a word wrong, and she went over what she had said in her mind. Then
the cook said, “ItÅ‚s none of our business what they get up to. My job is to
cook the food, and yours is to serve it, and thatłs all we have to know."
Chastised, Rozal took the first bowls of soup out to the dining room.

“Looks wonderful," Keith said. “Is this Amaz cuisine? Amazian cuisine?"

There was silence for a moment; Keith had made another social error by not
knowing that the Hobarts had a cook in addition to a maid. Rozal began to like
him. “IÅ‚m sure Amaz cuisine would be wonderful," Mrs. Hobart said graciously.
“WeÅ‚re stuck with plain old American tonight, IÅ‚m afraid. Does anyone object to
lamb?"

Rozal went back to the kitchen for more soup. She had never heard of Amaz
cuisine; since the drought and the disruptions on the farms, most people had had
enough to do just finding food to eat. A friend of hers, a man who had come to
America with her, had opened a restaurant in the refugee neighborhood near
downtown. Hełd told her that no one here really knew what people ate in Amaz;
he could serve anything he liked.

The talk at the table grew boisterous. Rozal knew that Mr. and Mrs. Hobart
were in something called the “entertainment industry," and the idea of a
business formed solely to entertain greatly appealed to her. But she could
barely understand anything the guests said, with their talk of points and box
office and percentages.

Steve began to talk about a movie hełd seen lately. Carol, seated next to
him, was watching him intently. Keith tried to say something but Steve
interrupted him, his voice growing angrier and louder. “YouÅ‚ve got to look at
the numbers!" Mr. Hobart said, pitching his voice to drown out everyone elsełs.
“Look at the numbers!" Rozal wondered what numbers Mr. Hobart meant. She didnÅ‚t
think she could ask anyone; certainly the cook wouldnłt know.

At last the meal ended, and Rozal went to the kitchen to prepare the tray of
coffee cups. Loud laughter came from the pantry; Rozal looked through the
doorway and saw Carol and Mrs. Hobart standing there. “HeÅ‚s gorgeous!" Carol
said. “Wrap him up IÅ‚ll take him home! Did you invite him for me?"

“Of course I did." Mrs. Hobart waved the smoke from her cigarette away from
her face. “You were complaining for so long about never meeting any good men
that I thought it was our duty to find you one. Go in there and be charming."

“WhatÅ‚s wrong with him? Is he married?"

“Never been married, as far as I know."

“What does that mean? Is he afraid of commitment? Oh, noI bet heÅ‚s gay!"

Mrs. Hobart laughed. “I donÅ‚t think so. He was dating someone for six monthsthey
just broke up."

“ItÅ‚s drugs, then."

“YouÅ‚d know that better than I would."

“I donÅ‚t sell the hard stuff, you know that."

“Listenwhy donÅ‚t you ask him yourself if youÅ‚re so curious?"

“Oh, sure. Excuse me, but do you have any antisocial habits I should know
about? And by the way, you wouldnłt happen to have any horrible diseases, would
you?"

Mrs. Hobart shepherded Carol into the dining room, and Rozal followed them.
“You donÅ‚t know how lucky you are, being married," Carol said, turning back to
her hostess.

The guests in the dining room seemed to have talked themselves out; Carol
and Mrs. Hobart took their places in silence. Rozal could hear the rain beating
on the roof. Peter leaned back in his chair. “Oh, yeah," he said. “I brought
something you might be interested in."

Rozal set down a coffee cup and looked up at him, wishing she had some
pretext to stay in the dining room. Or could this be the present he said hełd
gotten her? As if in answer to her question he said, “Stay here, RosieyouÅ‚ll
like this."

He stood and went to the living room. Mrs. Hobart exchanged glances with a
few of the guests, her eyebrows raised above her china coffee cup. Mr. Hobart
whispered something to her, and she said, “Well, I certainly have no idea. He
never tells me anything, you know that."

Peter returned with a flat box the size of a book. “Oh" Rozal said
involuntarily.

He winked at her. “I thought youÅ‚d like this, Rosie my love," he said.
“YouÅ‚ve seen these before, then?"

She reached her hand out to touch the box, but Peter had already turned to
show it to Steve. “I found these in that new neighborhood downtown, where all
the refugees live," Peter said. “They said itÅ‚s the first time theyÅ‚ve gotten a
shipment of cards from Amaz."

“What are they?" Carol asked. “Are they like tarot cards?"

“Apparently youÅ‚re supposed to play a game with them," Peter said. “ThatÅ‚s
what the man who sold them to me said, anyway. Isnłt that right, Rosie?"

Rozal shook her head, wishing she had the words to explain. “They saythey
tell us what happen in my country. In Amaz."

“What do you mean?" Mrs. Hobart asked.

“Like on television. We have no television, so we read the cards."

“You mean like the news?" Carol asked.

“Beka," Rozal said, so grateful for the word she reverted to her
own language. “Yes. They tell us the news."

“Actually youÅ‚re supposed to play a game with them," Peter said, frowning a
little. “See? It looks like Bingo." He opened the box and took out little
boards, which he passed around to everyone at the table.

Carol laughed, delighted. Keith turned his board over and studied the
elaborate pattern on the back. “Come on, Helen," he said to his wife, who had
not touched her board. “LetÅ‚s play awhile." Helen looked around the table,
seeming anxious that her husband not make another blunder, but when she saw the
others collect their boards, she relaxed.

Rozal looked on, feeling wretched. This was not the way you treated the
cards at all. You had to read them for the latest news first; it was only when
they became outdated, when all the timeliness had gone out of them and another
pack was issued, that you played games with them. Or you told fortunes; she had
been the best in her village for coaxing meaning out of the cards.

She ached for news of Amaz, something to counter the rumors she and every
other immigrant heard every day. Who had come to power while she had been
struggling to find her way in America? Which faction had triumphed? Were the
famines finally over?

Peter began to read the instructions. Was this the present he had promised her?
She felt cheated, so bitterly disappointed that she could barely pay attention.

But Peter had said that a shipment of cards had come in. She could buy one
the next time she went downtown to visit her friends. She relaxed and began to
watch the game. It seemed odder than she could say to look on while these
people, most of them strangers, played a game familiar to her since childhood.

“ Ä™Announcer will take card from deck and read face,"“ Peter read. Everyone
laughed. "Rosie! Hey, Rosie, what does this mean? Look, itłs written in
Amazian, too. Here, translate this for us, will you?“

The language she spoke was called Lurqazi, not Amazian. She took the
instructions from Peter but did not try to read them; she had had to leave
school when she was eight. “You have to take the card fromfrom here"

“The deck," Mrs. Hobart said, encouraging her.

“Yes, the deck, and read what it says. And then if you have that picture on
your card, you cover it with a stone. And if you have these pictures here" She
drew lines on the card with her hands, vertical, horizontal, diagonal.

“See, itÅ‚s Bingo," Peter said. “Where do we get all those stones, though?"

“Poker chips," Mrs. Hobart said. “John, where did you put the poker chips?"

Mr. Hobart stood heavily; he had had a little too much to drink. Carol
studied her card. “Look, thereÅ‚s a picture of a cactus here. And ugh,
lookherełs a snake."

Mr. Hobart returned with the case of poker chips. “Now what?" he asked.

“Now I take card from deck and read from face," Peter said. “Okay. Okay, it
looks like a house. Anyone have a house?"

“I do," Keith said.

“My man!" Peter said. “One poker chip for you here, pass it down. And the
next card"

“No," Rozal said. Everyone turned to look at her. “Now you read thehere.
Read what it says."

“Hey, look at this," Peter said, unfolding the instructions. “ItÅ‚s gotthey
look like fortunes. House, letłs see. Househere it is. "Beware of build on
unstable land.“ There you are, Keithbeware of build."

Everyone laughed but Helen. Now Rozal remembered that Keith and Helen had
talked a little about their new house during dinner. The card must mean that
they couldnłt afford it. She glanced at Helen; the tightness around the other
womanłs mouth told her everything she needed to know.

These people werenłt that different from the ones whose fortunes she had
read in Amaz. They had the same hopes and fears and desires, and their bodies
gave away what they tried so hard to hide with words. But she saw that they
didnłt understand the power of the cards, that they had no idea what they were
doing. If she said something, would they stop? She didnłt think so.

“Okay, next card. Cactus. Hey, good one, Carol." Someone passed Carol a
chip. “And the cactus means"

“DonÅ‚t tell me, I donÅ‚t want to know," Carol said. “Prickly, right? Sharp
and unpleasant."

“Cool water in a dry country," Peter said, reading.

Everyone turned to look at Carol, who blushed. “Not bad," Mrs. Hobart said.
“Come on, do another one. I want to see what they say about me."

Rozal had sagged forward a little in relief. The cactus meant that the
drought in Amaz had ended. She had seen it on Carolłs board but that didnłt
mean that it would turn up in the deck. Sounstable land meant that the country
was still in the hands of bad leaders, but at least the water had come, and the
famine might end.

She glanced at the well-fed group at the table and saw that they had guessed
none of this. They were only interested in what the game might say about
themselves; they didnłt realize that the cards held more than one meaning. A
story they could not guess at unfolded all around them.

Peter drew another card from the deck. “Looks likescales." He showed it to
the rest of the party. “Scales of justice. Do you have that in Amaz, Rosie?"

Rozal nodded, unable to speak. Justice would come to Amaz, then. She was
crying a little, and she wiped her eyes quickly so that no one would notice.

“Here!" Keith said, looking up from his board.

“Keith!" Peter said. “Who said youÅ‚re supposed to win this game? I havenÅ‚t
gotten a single one yet."

Keith grinned. “Read it."

“Justice, balance. A wise man speaks unwelcome words."

“A wise man," Keith said, still grinning. “What do you know."

“What do they mean by unwelcome words, though?" Carol asked.

“You did tell me my last picture sucked," Mr. Hobart said.

Helen stirred, and with that gesture Rozal understood a great many things.
Keith needed to write for Mr. Hobartłs next picture; he had bought the house on
the strength of his expectations and then had antagonized Mr. Hobart by
speaking frankly to him. Helen, sitting beside Keith and squeezing his hand,
meant to make certain he said nothing unpleasant the entire evening.

“IÅ‚m sorry, I shouldnÅ‚t have"

Mr. Hobart waved his hand. “No, noyouÅ‚ve groveled quite enough for that
already. And look at Steve herehełs spent dinner telling me how much my
current picture sucks."

“Yeah, but heÅ‚s an actor," Keith said. “Everyone knows actors donÅ‚t know
anything."

He had meant to be charming, Rozal saw, but because there was some truth in
what he saidMr. Hobart listened to screenwriters far more than he listened to
actorsKeith had managed instead to insult Steve as well as Mr. Hobart. Helen
saw it, too, and she tightened her grip on her husbandłs hand.

“Is that so," Steve said flatly. “Did you know I have a masterÅ‚s degree in
philosophy?"

“Nolook, IÅ‚m sorry. Do you really?"

“No," Steve said, and everyone laughed. Keith sat back with relief. He
thought the crisis had passed; he had missed the fact that no one had really
relaxed. Mrs. Hobart lit another cigarette, though her last one still smoldered
on the saucer in front of her. Steve glanced at his watch, and Carol looked at
him anxiously, clearly hoping he would stay. The rain sounded loud on the roof.

“Whew," Peter said. “Next card. Or should I just give it up entirely?"
Everyone called for him to continue. “Okay. The lion."

“Yo!" Steve said. “ThatÅ‚s methe lion. What does it say?"

Peter looked at the instructions and laughed. “Cruel," he said.

“What?"

“Cruel. ThatÅ‚s all it says. Here, look."

“That canÅ‚t be meIÅ‚m a pussycat. ItÅ‚s got to be a mistranslation. Here,
Rozal. What does this say?"

Rozal moved forward to take the instructions from his hand. There was a
growl of thunder from outside, and all the lights went out.

Someone laughed; she thought it might be Peter. “Get the candles!" Mrs.
Hobart said, sounding a little frightened. “Rozal, you know where the candles
are, donłt you?"

“Yes," Rozal said. She felt her way toward the kitchen. Lightning jumped
outside, briefly illuminating her way, and the thunder roared again. “Hey, itÅ‚s
the lion," Mr. Hobart said, behind her. “Just what the card said."

A few people laughed, but Rozal knew Mr. Hobart was right; the cards
predicted small truths as well as large ones, current events and things that
might not happen for years. A light glimmered ahead of her, and she saw that
the cook had managed to find the candles and light one. She took the silver
candelabrum and four candles from the cabinet, lit the candles and set them in
the candelabrum, and headed back.

“Can you read this by candlelight?" Steve said as she came up to the dining
room table.

She took the instructions from him. “Kaj, cruel," she read. Perhaps
she should he and tell him it meant strong, or manly. But by the shivering
light of the candles, she saw Carol looking at him, wide-eyed, and she knew
that she couldnÅ‚t lie for CarolÅ‚s sake. “Cruel, yes," she said.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Carol said, “What the hellitÅ‚s only a pack
of cards."

Suddenly Rozal saw a brief glimpse of the future, something that had
happened to her once or twice before when she read the cards. Steve and Carol
would become lovers; she would be water in a dry country to him for a little
while, until his temper and jealousy got the better of him. She wanted to warn
Carol, but she knew the other woman wouldnłt believe her.

The lightning struck again. Each face stood out as sharp and meaningful as a
card. She saw the patterns and currents swirling among them, and she knew from
the way they looked at her that now they saw her for what she was, a
fortune-teller and wisewoman.

Peter took a long breath and turned over the next card. “Garden," he said.

“IÅ‚ve got that one," Mrs. Hobart said.

Peter squinted in the candlelight and read the instructions. “A shelter
shaded by leaves, a place of protection," he said. Then he laughed, almost
involuntarily. “Refugee," he said.

No one laughed with him. Everyone sat hunched over his or her card, drawn in
tight against what might be coming. “Let me see that," Mrs. Hobart said,
reaching out for the instructions.

“Refuge," said Keith, the writer. “They mean refuge."

“Oh," said Mrs. Hobart. “Oh, thank God."

“Next card," Peter said, speaking quickly as if anxious to finish. “Looks
like a beautiful woman. Anyone have this one?"

“I do," Mr. Hobart said.

“Good. Beautiful woman, letÅ‚s see. Here it is."

“Well?" Mr. Hobart said. “What does it say?"

Peter looked up at his father. His face was expressionless in the
candlelight, all his good humor leached away. “IÅ‚m not going to read it," he
said.

“What?" Mr. Hobart said. “What do you mean youÅ‚re not going to read it?
Give me that."

“No."

“Peter"

Silently, Peter gave his father the instructions, and in that motion Rozal
saw twenty-five years of similar gestures between father and son. Mr. Hobart
scanned the list of cards, looking for the beautiful woman.

“ Ä™Treachery, betrayal," “ he said. " Å‚The woman does not belong to the
man.“" He looked up at his son. “So? What does that mean? Why wouldnÅ‚t you read
that?"

“You know perfectly well."

“IÅ‚m afraid I donÅ‚t"

“Do you want me to tell everyone? I will if I have to. IÅ‚ve certainly got
nothing to lose."

Mr. Hobart laughed. “Peter, if youÅ‚ve got something to say"

“You slept with Debbie, didnÅ‚t you? And you didnÅ‚t even have the decency to
do it before we got marriedyou had to wait until afterward"

“Peter, you canÅ‚t believe"

“It was more fun to wait, more exciting, wasnÅ‚t it? More of a conquestsee,
the old manłs not quite dead yet, not if he can interest his sonłs lawfully
wedded wife"

“Peter, stop that. You have no right to say those thingsyou have no proof"

“Of course I have proof. She told me. She felt so bad about it that she
finally came out and told me. Why do you think she isnłt here tonight? She
never wants to see your face again."

Mr. Hobart turned to his wife. “Janet, I never You have to believe me"

“Of course I believe you," Mrs. Hobart said. The gaiety was gone from her
voice; she sounded almost as if she were talking in her sleep. “Peter, why are
you saying these dreadful things?"

“IÅ‚m not saying anything, Mom," Peter said. “ItÅ‚s the cards talking. The
cards just told you everything you need to know."

“ItÅ‚s only a game, Peter," Mrs. Hobart said. She reached for a cigarette.

The lights came on. All around the table people blinked against the
brightness. One by one they dared to glance at each other, seeing in each
othersÅ‚ faces a harshness that hadnÅ‚t been there earlier. “Well," said Carol,
pushing back her chair, “itÅ‚s lateIÅ‚ve really got to go."

“Me, too" “Thank you for a wonderful dinner" “WeÅ‚ll see you again" Rozal
hurried to the entryway closet to get their coats.

As she went she saw a last picture of Mrs. Hobart, the smoke spiraling up
from her cigarette as she stared bleakly at the board in front of her. It would
take awhile, Rozal knew, but after all the accusations were spoken, after Mr. Hobart
had moved out and started the divorce proceedings, she would learn to be,
finally, a shelter shaded by leaves, a place of protection.

Courting Rites

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Humphrey Bogart used to star in the sort of hard-edge, black-and-white film
that “Courting Rites" could easily be made into. But letÅ‚s cast Lauren Bacall
or Mary Astor as the detective this time (if we donłt opt for Kathleen Turner
as V.I. Warshawski)a gumshoe who isnłt as tough as her trade, but whołs as
smart as any of the movie detectives who wait behind those glass doors for
clients to walk in with problems that are always, always more than they seem.
Maybe even smarter. Those detectives usually turn up in Los Angeles and New
York. Ms. Winters works out of Nevada, where the rents are cheap.

From this winner of the John Campbell, the Hugo, and the World Fantasy
Awards, we have the tale of the hard-boiled detective with a heart thatłs
softbut not that soft.

I should have known the case would be difficult from the start. He walked into
my office, sure as you please, confident he could charm any woman within range.
Maybe he could have once; he had a face that even at his age registered beauty.
Problem was, the face should never have grown old. His silver hair and
startling blue eyes only accented the idea that this man should have died
young.

“Miss Winters?"

I nodded. I allowed men of his age certain liberties when it came to
addressing me. Any man under forty-five would have been reminded curtly that
the proper title is “Ms."

“How may I help you, Mr."I glanced at the appointment book“Silas?"

He smiled. “Silas is my first name."

“And your last?"

“DoesnÅ‚t matter." He took the chair in front of my desk. His clothes, dated
and slightly formal, carried the faint scent of pipe smoke. It added an exotic
feel to my rather staid office.

There are, perhaps, a thousand P.I.s in LA, which is why I left. I took all
my ready cash and set up shop in Nevada, where the land and the rents are
cheaper by hundredssometimes thousandsof dollars. I set up a fancy
officeplush blue upholstered chairs, matching carpet, framed prints on the
wall, all-important air-conditioning, and room for my part-time secretary in
the months I needed her. I had hoped it would give clients the idea that I was
well-offa woman who knew what she was doing. It helped with tourists. But I
got the sense that this man was not a tourist.

“So," I said again. “How may I help you?"

“You may find my banjo."

Whatever I had expected, it wasnÅ‚t this. “Your banjo?"

“It may sound trivial to you, Miss," he said. “But to me, it is of the
utmost importance."

I folded my hands on my clean desk. I hadnłt had a client in weeks, and the
last had been a skip-trace out of Vegas. Certainly not the most interesting
kind of case, nor the most lucrative. “What is it, a collectorÅ‚s item?"

He smiled, and I saw a flash of that once-powerful charm. “ItÅ‚s one of a
kind."

“Pictures, records, serial number?"

“No, none." He waved a hand, dismissing my comment. “It was made by my
grandfather. The banjo looks like a normal banjo, but when you touch it, it
feels warmelastic, as if a live thing were stretched across the drum instead
of dried skin. It will not play for you. In fact, it will not play for anyone
except the person who owns it."

I scrawled notes, pleased that I also had the tape running inside my desk. I
couldnłt decide if this man was a nutcase or not. He seemed rational, but then,
so did Ted Bundy. “So what happened to it?"

I expected him to shake his head. Instead, his entire expression softened.
“ItÅ‚s a bit of a story," he said. “I fell in love." He took a picture out of
his wallet and slid it across the desk. A professionally done job: black
windblown hair, wide painted eyes, and a glossy mouth. A beauty.

“Her name is Mariah Golden. She lived at Fifth and Fremont. I had occasion
to visit next door. We struck up an acquaintance, and eventually, she convinced
me to stay with her. A week later, I awoke one morning to discover that she and
the banjo had disappeared."

“Not kidnapped? No ransom?"

“Oh, no," he said. “And the police say they canÅ‚t do anything."

“I suppose not." I tapped my pencil on the desk, then quit when I remembered
the tape recorder. “I take a $500 retainer, and charge $25 per hour, plus
expenses."

He took the moneycashfrom his wallet, and set it between us. “IÅ‚m staying
in her house, waiting for her. You can reach me there."

I nodded, knowing I should have asked a dozen more questions, but deciding
that I would rather wait until later. Until I had investigated a bit on my own.

He got up, straightened his pants legs, and nodded once.

“Tell me," I said. “What is the importance of this banjo?"

He walked to the door, as if he hadnłt heard me, then paused. When he
turned, he watched me for a moment, as if he were assessing me. Finally, he said,
“IÅ‚ll die without it," and then let himself out of the room.

No chemicals bleached the Nevada sky. The sun was pure here, hot and
radiant. The highway looked like a sharp heat vision against the desert brown.
Even my new car, with its fancy air-conditioning system and loud-playing
stereo, faded a little in the heat.

I came out here once a day to view the vast emptiness. The desert reminded
me of lifelittle patches of growth fighting against an overwhelming army of
death. Death and I were constant companions. In LA, it was part of my
jobalways a gunshot away. And here, here my finger rested on the trigger.

I pulled to the side of the road, and shut off the car. Whirling dirt
surrounded menot a dust storm just dust devils, playing with my mind. The way
that man had, Silas, the one who wanted the banjo.

He probably wanted the woman, too.

I got out, stretched, and sucked in the dry air. The desert consoled me. It
was the only place where I could admit my unhappiness. I had run away to this
small Nevada town. I had left LA not because of those thousand other
detectives, but because I got to the point where I imagined Death beside me.

It happened late one afternoon, in an alleyway near Graumannłs Chinese. I
had cornered a young pimp who wouldnłt let me take a fourteen-year-old girl
the one it had taken me nearly a month to find because, he said, she was his
best “lady." He was mouthing off to me when I pulled out my pistol. The gun
didnłt make him quitmaybe he thought a lady wouldnłt use oneso I let a shot
ricochet off the wall. The second wasnłt as well-timedthe pimp let out a grunt
and slid to the garbage-strewn pavement.

Then everything froze. Street noise I hadnłt thought I heard disappeared.
Cars stopped in their tracks, and the pimp paused in mid-groan. A man stood
over the pimp, a slender man, longish dark hair and startling blue eyes. A man
who hadnłt been there before.

“IÅ‚m going to stop this," he said. He had the most beautiful voice I had
ever heard. “YouÅ‚re way past your limit."

He ran his hand over the pimpłs wound. A gout of blood and pus leaked out,
followed by the bullet. The wound closed itself, leaving only a scratch. The
man smiled, tipped his hat at me, and then the sounds came backthe honking
horns, blaring music, nattering tourists. The pimp completed his moan, touched
his shoulder, and looked surprised when no blood coated his fingers.

The man had disappeared.

I cuffed the pimp, left him, and took the girl home. She ran away again, not
a week later. Maybe the vision had been right. Maybe I killed too many and had
sympathy for too few.

I came to Nevada to find solace. Instead, I found a loneliness so deep that
not even the desert would soften it. I would dream of the man in black, his
beautiful voice and his striking eyes, and in the morning, I would wake, my gun
clutched in my hand, wondering how the barrel would taste against my tongue.

The dream hadnłt come in nearly a month.

I missed it.

The heat made my skin prickle. I watched the dust devils swirl around me,
wondering if they were lonely, too. Finally I decided they werenłtthey always
worked together, in company of two. I went home to an empty house. No one had
kept me company for a long, long time.

Mariah Golden spent her days at the hospital, holding the hand of an old man
dying of cancer. His room had that putrid stink of flesh gone bad, but she
didnłt seem to mind. She read to him, watched television with him, or sat
quietly beside him, a presence, nothing more.

I had no trouble finding her. She lived in the family home just outside of
townalone, from what I could tell. She used her credit cards regularly to send
flowers to the old man, and she made no effort to hide her appearance around
town. Odd thing for a thief, but then, a banjo was an odd thing for a wealthy
woman to steal.

I waited until she went on one of her hospital runs, then used the lock set
to let me into her house. The security alarm was a familiar oneI had been the
consultant for the LA firm that developed itand so I knew I had thirty seconds
to disable it before the cops arrived, guns in hand.

It took me fifteen.

Two steps down let me into the sunken living room, done in cream with Navajo
blankets for color. Designer books stood on the wall, a framed Chagall hid from
the light. I assumed the small objets dłart decorating the tables were also
worth a small fortune.

I took two steps back up and stopped in the dining room to admire the
stained-glass chandelier and the mahogany table. The dishes in the hutch were
Wedgwoodpredictable, I thoughtand a Dali original dominated that room.

No banjo.

Not that I expected it to hide in plain sight.

The walls were thin. Neither the bookcase nor the painting could hide more
than a shallow money safe and money didnłt concern me. I glanced in the
kitchen, approving of the stove island, the expensive hanging pots, and the
more reasonably priced (and obviously used) stoneware. The stereo lived in this
room, which was probably where Mariah spent most of her time.

I went out the side kitchen door and into a narrow hallway, lined with track
lighting focused on more framed, expensive art. The master bedroom looked as if
no one lived there. The bed had a regulation military feel to it, and nothing
cluttered the end tables. I opened closets and drawers, finding nothing except
menłs clothingmuch of it silk, and much of it dated.

The master bath smelled dry and even lonelier than the bedroom.

Across the hall stood the only other bedroom. It was small, and lived in.
Clothes scattered all over the chair and desk, empty hangers in the closet, an
unmade water bed in the corner, and well-thumbed paperbacks stacked on the
headboard. I searched this room slowly, careful not to disrupt the mess.

Nothing.

The trapdoor to the attic delivered dust and mice droppings. The attic
itself was empty, as was the crawl space under the house. I walked back to the
sunken living room, turned and surveyed the place, worried that I missed
something.

My search was fine. If Silas had been right, and she had stolen his banjo,
she certainly wasnłt hiding it here.

I sighed. I had more questions for him.

* * *

He looked even older when he answered the door at the house on Fifth and
Fremont. His hands were palsied, and age spots had appeared on his skin. His
beautiful silver hair was thinning.

“Come in," he said, as if my presence annoyed him.

I stepped into the house and saw that the same person had decorated both
houses. They shared a creamy, expensive Southwestern look, a taste in modern
art, and a penchant for exact detail.

“SheÅ‚s not difficult to find," I said, refusing to move away from the door
so that he could shut out the sunshine. “She spends every day at the hospital.
She has no need of money, and she has no banjo hiding in her house. In fact,
when she bought this house five months ago, the realtor said she bought it with
a man in mind. You, maybe?"

“Most likely," he said.

“ItÅ‚s time to tell me what you know."

“You wonÅ‚t believe me," he said.

“IÅ‚ve been known to believe some pretty strange things."

“Yes," he said. “You have."

He took me inside, and closed the door. The room grew dark, but not as dark
as I had feared. Sunlight filtered through the mini-blinds. He pushed aside
some cushions on the couch, as if he expected me to sit. I didnłt. He walked
over to the fireplace and turned his back to me.

His silver hair curled against his collar. He had a young manłs body,
slender, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped. From the back, I would have guessed him
to be in his thirties.

“WeÅ‚ve met before," he said.

I frowned. Surely, I would remember a man as old and as beautiful. “I donÅ‚t
remember."

“I know," he said. He picked up a poker, jabbed it at the carefully stacked
wood. The logs crumbled into ash. “I looked different then, but IÅ‚ve been
beside you from the moment you shot that man trying to rob your friendłs
convenience store."

I had been alone in that convenience store. Me and the thief. Not even Suzy
saw it. She had been in back dialing 911.

He set the poker down and turned, his hands shaking more than ever. “The
last time, I stopped you from killing a man in an alley in Hollywood. You got
trigger-happy, toward the end."

The overlay fell across him like a two-part transparency. Same slim body,
same beautiful hairnow silver, same startling blue eyes.

“No," I whispered.

He shrugged. Either I accepted him or I didnłt.

“What happened to you?" I asked.

“There are maybe a hundred of us working this world," he said. “Each with
our own tools, our own abilities. IÅ‚m one of six who handle the Southwest." He
saw the look on my face. “They canÅ‚t help, either. We must each work our own
people in our own way. If we fail, we can blame no one but ourselves." He
smiled. “And the only admonition I got when I startedthe only onewas to let
no one else touch my tools."

“Your banjo."

He nodded.

“Without it you age?" I asked.

“Without it I die," he said.

“Why would Mariah want to kill you?" I did believe him, against my will. His
voice was the same.

“She doesnÅ‚t. She wants to save someone."

The picture came clear, then. “The old man."

He nodded. “Her father."

And suddenly I was back five years, fifteen pounds lighter, and six hundred
strands of gray darker. Not the lone gumshoe of the mystery novelists, but a
detective with the LAPD, like my father and grandfather before me. Only a girl
born to the Winters family, but still she had to follow tradition.

That afternoon, I hurried through the halls of the hospital, late as usual.
We had a last-minute call, third convenience store robbery in a week, and
arrived too late to do anything but mop-up. I figured by the time I got there,
he would already be out of post-op, and comfortable in his room again.

I wasnłt worried. The operation was routine.

I stopped at the nursełs station and let the ambiance wash over me. Intercom
voices, a bit too measured, a bit too calm. Televisions, playing clashing programs.
Beeping equipment, and hushed whispers. The squeak of rubber soles against
tile. Lights blinking in the background, and underneath it all the too-strong
smell of disinfectant.

A nurse set her clipboard aside, looked up at me with a fake smile, prepared
for trouble. I told her my name, told her who I had come to see. Her face
blanched a bit.

“Next of kin?" she asked.

“Daughter," I said.

She nodded. The routine had not gone according to plan. She hustled me
through back corridors and side doors, ending up in a room I had never seen
before, would probably never see again.

My father looked smaller, diminished somehow, tubes up his nose and in his
mouth. An oxygen tent over his face. His hair was wispy and gray, his hands
skeletal. The monitors beside him beeped at intervals even I knew werenłt
natural.

“IÅ‚m sorry," she said. “It was worse than we thought."

Later they told me. Later they said they opened him up and found that the
single small tumor was a growth that extended through his entire body. The growth
hadnłt shown up on any tests. They closed him immediately, but the procedure
sapped what strength he had. They were hoping that he would live until morning.
I think he managed to live until he saw me.

His eyes flickered once. I caught a glimpse of them, brown and cloudy. I
knew the look, had seen it too many times on the street. He smiled, just a
little, and for a moment, I thought I heard music. Then it stoppedand so did
he.

I sat there for what seemed like hours, but it must have been only minutes.
Then I realized that I was completely alone. No one left. No family, no lover.
No one to hold me when I cried.

“Miss Winters?" A man beside me, dressed in black. An old-fashioned suit, a
banjo on his back, and the prettiest blue eyes I had ever seen. He extended his
arms to me, and I went into them, let him hold me while sobs shivered through
my body. Then when I was done, when the wave had passed, I was sitting on the
chair again, my fatherłs body before me, businesslike nurses invading the room
like ants.

I quit the force. Too much death, I said. Then I went out and courted him my
own way.

Hospitals were never quiet. This one was no exception. The halls were wide
and expansive, more like those in a Hyatt Regency than a small Nevada hospital.
Someone had painted them kelly green, and placed a plush carpet on the floor. I
missed the squeak of rubber soles against the tile.

I left Silas in the lobby, staring at the terrarium. I didnłt trust him. He
had fallen in love with this woman, had trusted her with the very thing that
would, if improperly handled, destroy him. I didnłt want him to do it again.

I stopped at the door to the room and stared inside.

The television blared. The old man huddled on the bed, eyes closed. As I
watched, I realized that he was probably no older than my own father had been.
Sickness had diminished him. In Mariahłs eyes, he was probably a giant of a
man, immortal and all-powerful. What kind of life would she have without him?
If death came to her father, it would come to her, too. If death could defeat a
man as powerful as that, it could defeat anyone.

But Mariah had outsmarted death. She had traded her fatherłs life for
Silasłs, and for it, all she had to show was this hospital room that stank of
decaying skin.

I closed my eyes. If I had had Silasłs banjo, would I have given it up? Even
knowing that our existence would be a kind of never-ending purgatory of bad
television, lime green walls and disease?

I took a deep breath, forced myself out of the memory, and scanned the room.
The banjo sat beside the bed, looking as fragile as Silas himself. I stepped
inside, no plan in mind, my only goal to pick up the banjo and hold it tight
against myself.

Mariah sat up. The old man started, breath rasping rapidly through his
half-open mouth. I grabbed the banjo, shocked at its warmth. It was a live
thing, as Silas had said. I could feel the power trapped within it, running up
and down the strings like an arpeggio.

“You canÅ‚t do that," Mariah said, and reached for the banjo. I swung around,
keeping it out of her grasp.

“She can do whatever she wants." Silas stood at the door. I wondered how
long he had been there, if he had followed me from the moment I left the lobby.

Mariah gasped. She froze, looking at him, then looking at her father. Of
course, she had never seen Silas old. She had only seen the young man, the one
who had held me. It was easy to make love to death when he was the most
beautiful man you had ever seen. Difficult when he was caving inside himself,
only eyes, hair, and voice remaining.

“Give me the banjo," Silas said, that voice carrying more power than I had
ever heardeven more than the day he had admonished me for taking too many
lives.

“No," Mariah whispered. She extended her hand to me. It shook.

But I didnłt look at her. I looked at her father. Tubes shoved into his
arms, the cords of his neck exposed, eyes sunken into a skeletal face. If I
gave it back, he would live, but he would never be the powerful man he had
been, the man who made his bed with military precision, who probably dominated
any room he stood in. She was clinging to a shell and he, he was too far gone
to know it.

I had been lucky. My father had died quickly, by comparison.

“Give me the banjo," Silas repeated.

But life was life. And there it was, staring up at me from the depths of a
hospital bed, as wispy and tenacious as greenery in the desert.

Silas made these decisions every day. Every hour of every day. I could not.

I extended one hand to him, letting the banjo pass in front of Mariah. This
was their fight, not mine.

Mariah lunged for it, but Silas was quicker. He snatched the banjo from me,
hugging it like a long-lost friend. On the bed, the father made a strange
keening soundand I couldnłt tell if it was from fear or pain.

The years shed off of Silas like fur off a cat. As he crossed the room,
Mariah wrapped herself around him. The sounds of the hospital had faded into
nothing.

“Let him live," she said.

Silas, young, black-haired, slim, the beautiful man I had first seen, ran
his hand along her face. He kissed her forehead and cupped her chin, as if he
had never held anything so precious. “You should have asked that in the first
place," he said.

“I didnÅ‚t mean to hurt you." Her voice sounded desperate. I wanted to look
away, but couldnłt.

“IÅ‚m as familiar with hurt as I am with anything else," he said. “The banjo
takes the hurt away."

“But only for him."

“Yes," Silas said. “Only for him."

He walked beside the bed, took the old manłs hand. The old man stared up at
him, keening stopped. I could see fear in the old manłs rheumy eyes, but his
gaze never wavered. “You can live like this for years," Silas said, “or you can
come with me."

Mariah was shaking. She hadnłt moved another step. All through this, she had
thought of no one but herself.

“IÅ‚m sorry," the old man said to her.

She nodded, unable to speak. A lump rose in my throat, too. I wanted out,
but didnłt dare move. Silas let go of the old manłs hand, swung the banjo to
the front of his chest, and played.

I didnłt quite hear the music, although I felt it, rollicking through me.
For a moment, the old manłs face lit up, and I saw him, strong and young, a
baby girl on his shoulder, a beautiful woman beside him. Then the image faded,
and with it, the sparkle in his eye. Silas finished playing, swung the banjo
back into position, and reached for the old manłs face.

Mariah pushed him aside, knelt beside her father. Silas stumbled backward,
then stared at her for a moment, and I saw longing so intense that it burned
me. What was it like to be outside time, human but not human, loving, but
unlovable? I hoped I would never know.

He saw me watching him. Color touched his cheeks. “Come on," he said.

We walked into the corridor. People flowed around us like water around a
rock.

“You lied to me, you know," I said. “You were there when my father died."

He stopped near the elevator. “The first time you summoned me was in that
convenience store."

“I was courting you."

He smiled a little, but the smile was sad. I liked his beauty. I liked his
compassion. I liked him. “IÅ‚m not the kind of lover you want," he said. “IÅ‚ll
never leave you, but IÅ‚ll never make you happy."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Then
he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “Silas," I saidbut he disappeared.
One moment there, one moment gone. A man who was lonelier than I could ever be.

I stood there for a while, then I remembered to pocket the envelope. When I
got downstairs, I would donate the money to the hospice center. They had to
have one, every hospital did, for cancer care for families and patients. Then I
would go to the desert and stare at the greenery.

The dream would never come again. Nor would he ever have to admonish me
anymore.

The courtship had ended. We were, and we would remain, just good friends.

Felixity

Tanith Lee

The name sounds a little like “felicity," or happiness, and a little like
“felix," or luck. Felixity, the quintessential poor little rich girl, seems to
be neither happy nor lucky. In any fairy story, such a girl would have
compensations of brain or talent and marry a handsome prince. Felixity canłt
even do good watercolors. And when she chooses a husbanddonłt even ask.

Let Tanith Lee tell you in this ironic and elegantly decadent story. I could
compare “Felixity" to the works of Oscar Wilde or Angela Carterbut I think
IÅ‚ll say that this is Tanith Lee at the top of her form, and leave it at that.

Felixityłs parents were so beautiful that everywhere they went they were
attended by a low murmuring, like that of a beehive. Even when pregnant with
her child, Felixityłs mother was lovely, an ormolu madonna. But when Felixity
was born, her mother died.

Among the riches of her father, then, in a succession of elaborate houses,
surrounded by gardens which sometimes led to a cobalt sea, Felixity grew up,
motherless. Her father watched her growhe must have although nannies tended
her, servants waited on her, and tutors gave her lessons. Sometimes in the
evening, when the heat of the day had settled and the stars had come out,
Felixityłs father would interview his daughter on the lamplit terrace above the
philodendrons.

“Now tell me what you learned today."

But Felixity, confronted by her beautiful and elegant father burnished on
the dark with pale electricity, was tongue-tied. She twisted her single plait
around her finger and hunched her knees. She was an ugly child, ungraceful and
gauche, with muddy skin and thin unshining hair. She had no energy, and even
when put out to play, wandered slowly about the garden walks, or tried tiredly
to skip, giving up after five or six heavy jumps. She was slow at her studies,
worried over them, and suffered headaches. She was meek. Her teeth were always
needing fillings, and she bore this unpleasantness with resignation.

“Surely there must have been something of note in your day?"

“I went to the dentist, Papa."

“Your mother," said FelixityÅ‚s father, “had only one tiny filling in her
entire head. It was the size of a pinłs point. It was gold." He said this
without cruelty, more in wonder. “You must have some more dresses," he added
presently.

Felixity hated it when clothes were bought for her. She looked so awful in
anything attractive or pretty, but they had never given up. Glamorously
dressed, she resembled a chrysalis clad in the butterfly. When she could, she
put on her drabbest, most nondescript clothes.

After half an hour or so of his daughterłs unstimulating company, Felixityłs
father sent her away. He was tactful, but Felixity was under no illusions.
Beneath the dentistłs numbing cocaine, she was aware her teeth were being
drilled to the nerve, and that shortly, when the anesthetic wore off, they
would hurt her.

Inevitably, as time passed, Felixity grew up and became a woman. Her body
changed, but it did not improve. If anyone had been hoping for some magical
transformation, they were disappointed. When she was sixteen, Felixity was,
nevertheless, launched into society. Not a ripple attended the event, although
she wore a red dress and a most lifelike wig fashioned by a famous coiffeur.
Following this beginning, Felixity was often on the edges of social activities,
where she was never noticed, gave neither offense nor inspiration, and before
some of which she was physically sick several times from neurasthenia. As the
years went by, however, her terror gradually left her. She no longer expected
anything momentous with which she would not be able to cope.

Felixityłs father aged marvelously. He remained slim and limber, was
scarcely lined and that only in a way to make him more interesting. His hair
and teeth were like a boyłs.

“How that color suited your mother," he remarked to Felixity, as she crossed
the room in a gown of translucent lemon silk, which made her look like an
uncooked tuber. “I remember three such dresses, and a long fringed scarf. She
was so partial to it." Again, he was not being cruel. Perhaps he was entitled
to be perplexed. They had anticipated an exquisite child, the best of both of them.
But then, they had also expected to live out their lives together.

When she was thirty-three, Felixity stopped moving in society, and attended
only those functions she could not, from politeness, avoid. Her father did not
remonstrate with her, indeed he only saw her now once a week, at a rite he
referred to as “Dining with my Daughter." Although his first vision of her was
always a slight shock, he did not disenjoy these dinners, which lasted two
hours exactly, and at which he was able to reminisce at great length about his
beautiful wife. If anyone had asked him, he would have said he did this for
Felixityłs sake. Otherwise, he assumed she was quite happy. She read books, and
occasionally painted rather poor watercolors. Her teeth, which had of necessity
been overfilled, had begun to break at regular intervals, but aside from this
her life was tranquil, and passed in luxury. There was nothing more that could
be done for her.

One evening, as Felixity was being driven home to one of her fatherłs city
houses, a young man ran from a side street out across the boulevard, in front
of the car. The chauffeur put on his brakes at once. But the large silver
vehicle lightly touched the young manłs side, and he fell in front of it. A
crowd gathered instantly, at the periphery of which three dark-clad men might
be seen looking on. But these soon after went away.

The chauffeur came to Felixityłs door to tell her that the young man was
apparently unhurt, but shaken. The crowd began to adopt factions, some saying
that the young man was to blame for the accident, others that the car had been driven
too fast. In the midst of this, the young man himself appeared at Felixityłs
door. In years he was about twenty-six, smartly if showily dressed in an
ice-cream white suit now somewhat dusty from the road. His blue-black hair
curled thickly on his neck; he was extremely handsome. He stared at the woman
in the car with amontillado eyes. He said, “No, no, it was not your fault." And
then he collapsed on the ground.

The crowd ascended into uproar. The young man must be taken immediately to
the hospital.

Felixity was flustered, and it may have been this which caused her to open
her door, and to instruct the chauffeur and a bystander to assist the young man
into the car. As it was done, the young man revived a little.

“Put him here, beside me," said Felixity, although her voice trembled with
alarm.

The car door was closed again, and the chauffeur told to proceed to a
hospital. The crowd made loud sounds as they drove off.

To Felixityłs relief, and faint fright, the young man now completely
revived. He assured her that it was not essential to go to the hospital, but
that if she were kind enough to allow him to rest a moment in her house, and
maybe swallow a glass of water, he would be well enough to continue on his way.
He had been hurrying, he explained, because he had arranged to see his aunt,
and was late. Felixity was afraid that the drive to her house would prolong
this lateness, but the young man, who said his name was Roland, admitted that
he was often tardy on visits to his aunt, and she would forgive him.

Felixity, knowing no better, therefore permitted Roland to be driven with
her to the house. Its electric gates and ectomorphic pillars did not seem to
antagonize him, and ten minutes later, he was seated in the blond,
eighteenth-century drawing room, drinking bottled carbonated water with slices
of lime. Felixity asked him whether she should call her fatherłs doctor, who
was in residence. But Roland said again that he had no need of medical
attention. Felixity believed him. He had all the hallmarks of strength,
elasticity, and vitality she had noted in others. She was both glad and
strangely sorry when he rose springingly up again, thanked her, and said that
now he would be leaving.

When he had left, she found that she shook all over, sweat beaded her forehead,
and she felt quite sick. That night she could not sleep, and the next morning,
at breakfast, she broke another tooth on a roll.

Two days after, a bouquet of pink roses, from a fashionable florist, arrived
for Felixity. That very afternoon Roland came to the gates and inquired if he
might see her. The servants, the guards at the gate, were so unused to anyone
seeking Felixityindeed, it was uniquethat they conveyed the message to her
without question. And, of course, Felixity, wan with nauseous amazement and a
hammering heart, invited Roland in.

“IÅ‚ve been unable to stop thinking about you," said Roland. “IÅ‚ve never
before met with a woman so gracious and so kind."

Roland said many things, more or less in this vein, as they walked about the
garden among the imported catalpas and the orchids. He confessed to Felixity
that his aunt was dead; it was her grave he had been going to visit; he had no
one in the world.

Felixity did not know what she felt, but never before had she felt anything
like it. In the dim past of her childhood, when some vague attempts had been
made to prepare or alter her, she had been given to understand that she might,
when she gained them, entertain her friends in her fatherłs houses, and that
her suitors would be formally welcomed. Neither friend nor suitor had ever
crossed the thresholds of the houses, but now Felixity fell into a kind of
delayed response, and in a while she had offered Roland wine on the terrace.

As they sat sipping it, her sick elation faded and a mute sweetness
possessed her.

It was not that she thought herself lovable; she thought herself nothing. It
was that one had come to her who had made her the center of the day. The
monumental trees and exotic flowers had become a backdrop, the heat, the house,
the servants who brought them things. She had met before people like Roland,
the gorgeous magicians, who never saw her. But Roland did see her. He had fixed
on her. He spoke to her of his sad beleaguered life, how his father had gambled
away a fortune, how he had been sadistically misled on his chances of film
stardom. He wanted her to know him. He gazed into her eyes, and saw in her, it
was plain, vast continents of possibility.

He stayed with her until the dinner hour, and begged that he might be able
to return. He had not told her she was beautiful, or any lie of that nature. He
had said she was good, and luminously kind, and that never before had he met
these qualities in a young woman, and that she must not shut him out as he
could not bear it.

On his second visit, under a palm tree, Felixity was taken by compunction.
“Six of my teeth are crowned," she said. “And thisis a wig!" And she snatched
it off to reveal her thin cropped hair.

Roland gave a gentle smile. “How you honor me," he said. “IÅ‚m so happy that
you trust me. But what does any of this matter? Throw the silly wig away. You
are yourself. There has never been anyone like you. Not in the whole world."

When Felixity and Roland had been meeting for a month, Felixity received a
summons from her incredible father.

Felixity went to see him with a new type of courage. Some of her awe had
lessened, although she would not have put this into words. She had been with a
creature of fires. It seemed she knew her father a little better.

“IÅ‚m afraid," said FelixityÅ‚s father, “that it is my grim task to
disillusion you. The young man youłve made your companion is a deceiver."

“Oh," said Felixity. She looked blank.

“Yes, my child. I donÅ‚t know what he has told you, but IÅ‚ve had him
investigated. He is the bastard son of a prostitute, and has lived so far by
dealings with thieves and shady organizations. He was in flight from one of
these when he ran in front of your car. Obviously now he is in pursuit of your
money, both your own finances and those which youłll inherit on my death."

Felixity did not say she would not hear ill of Roland. She thought about
what her father had told her, and slowly she nodded. Then, from the patois of
her curtailed emotions, she translated her heart into normal human emotional
terms. “But I love him."

Felixityłs father looked down at her with crucial pity. It was a fact, he
did not truly think of her as his daughter, for his daughter would have been
lovely. He accepted her as a pathetic dependent, until now always needing him,
a jest of God upon a flawless delight which had been rent away.

“If you love him, Felixity," he said, “you must send him to me."

Felixity nodded again. Beings of fire communicated with each other. She had
no fears.

The next day she waited on the terrace, and eventually Roland came out of
the house into the sunlight. He seemed a little pale, but he spoke to her
brightly. “What a man he is. We are to marry, my beloved. That is, if youÅ‚ll
have me. IÅ‚m to care for you. What a golden future lies before us!" Roland did
not detail his conversation with Felixityłs father. He did not relate, for
example, that Felixityłs father had courteously touched on Rolandłs career as
crook and gigolo. Or that Felixityłs father had informed Roland that he grasped
perfectly his aims, but that those aims were to be gratified, for Felixityłs
sake. “She has had little enough," said FelixityÅ‚s father. “Providing you are
kind to her, a model husband, and donłt enlighten her in the matter of your
real feelings, I am prepared to let you live at her expense." Roland had
protested feebly that he adored Felixity, her tenderness had won his heart.
Roland did not recount to Felixity either that her father had greeted this
effusion with the words: “You will not, please, try your formula on me."

In the days which succeeded Rolandłs dialogue with Felixityłs father, the
now-betrothed couple were blissful, each for their own reasons.

Then Felixityłs father flew to another city on a business venture, the
engine of his plane malfunctioned, and it crashed into the forests. Before the
month was up, his remarkable but dead body had been recovered, woven with
lianas and chewed by jaguars. Felixity became the heiress to his fortune.

During this time of tragedy, Roland supported Felixity with unswerving attention.
Felixity was bewildered at her loss, for she could not properly persuade
herself she had lost anything.

The funeral took place with extreme pomp, and soon after the lovers sought a
quiet civil wedding. Felixity had chosen her own dress, which was a swampy
brown. The groom wore vanilla and scarlet. When the legalities were completed,
Roland drove Felixity away in his new white car, toward a sixty-roomed villa on
the coast.

As she was driven, a little too fast, along the dusty road, Felixity was
saturated by an incoherent but intense nervousness.

She had never had any female friends, but she had read a number of books,
and she guessed that her unease sprang from sexual apprehension. Never, in all
their courtship, had Roland done more than press her hands or her lips lightly
with his own. She had valued this decorum in him, even though disappointment
sometimes chilled her. At the impress of his flesh, however light, her pulses
raced. She was actually very passionate, and had never before had the chance of
realizing it. Nevertheless, Roland had told her that, along with her kindness,
he worshiped her purity. She knew she must wait for their wedding night to
learn of the demons of love.

Now it seemed she was afraid. But what was there to dread? Her reading, which
if not salacious, had at least been comprehensive, had given her the gist of
the nuptial act. She was prepared to suffer the natural pain of deflowerment in
order to offer joy to her partner. She imagined that Roland would be as grave
and gentle in lovemaking as he had always been in all their dealings.
Therefore, why her unease?

Along the road the copper-green pyramids of coffee trees spun past, and on
the horizonłs edge, the forests kept pace with the car.

By midnight, Felixity thought, I shall be different.

They arrived before sunset at the villa, where Felixity had spent some of
her childhood. Felixity was surprised to find that no servants came out to
greet them. Her bafflement grew when, on entering the house, she found the
rooms polished and vacant.

“DonÅ‚t concern yourself with that," said Roland. “Come with me. I want to
show you something."

Felixity went obediently. Roland had somehow given her to understand that,
along with kindness and purity, he liked docility. They moved up the grand
stairway, along corridors, and so into the upper regions of the house, which
were reached by narrow twining flights of steps. Up here, somewhere, Roland
unlocked and opened a door.

They went into a bare whitewashed room. A few utilitarian pieces of
furniture were in it, a chair or two, a slender bed, a round mirror. In one
wall a door gave on a bathroom closet. There was a window, but it was caged in
a complex if ornamental grill.

“Here we are," said Roland.

Felixity looked at him, confused.

“Where?" she asked.

“Your apartment."

Felixity considered this must be a joke, and laughed falsely, as she had
sometimes done in her society days.

“I have you at a disadvantage," said Roland. “Let me explain."

He did so. This room was where Felixity was to live. If there was anything
else she wantedhe knew she was fond of booksit could be supplied. Food would
be put in through that flap, there, near the bottom of the door. She should
return her empty trays via the same aperture. She would find the bathroom
stocked with clean towels, soap, and toothpaste. These would be replaced at
proper intervals. Whatever else she required, she should listsee the notepad
and pencil on the tableand these things too would be delivered. She could have
a radio, if she liked. And perhaps a gramophone.

“But" said Felixity, “but"

“Oh, surely you didnÅ‚t think I would ever cohabit with you?" asked
Roland reasonably. “I admit, I might have had to awhile, if your father had
survived, but maybe not even then. He was so glad to be rid of you, a letter from
you every six months, dictated by me, would have sufficed. No, you will live up
here. And I shall live in the house and do as I want. Now and then IÅ‚ll ask you
to sign the odd document, in order to assist my access to your money. But
otherwise I wonłt trouble you at all. And so, dear Felixity, thank you, and au
revoir. I wish you a pleasant evening."

And having said this, Roland went out, before Felixity could shift hand or
limb, and she heard the key turning in the lock. And then a raucous silence.

At first she did not credit what had happened. She ran about like a trapped
insect, to the door, to the window. But both were closed fast and the window
looked out on a desolate plain that stretched away beyond the house to the
mountains. The sun was going down, and the sky was indelibly hot and merciless.

Roland would come back, of course. This was some game, to tease her.

But darkness came, and Roland did not. And much later a tray of bread and
chicken and coffee was put through the door. Felixity ran to the door again,
shrieking for help. But whoever had brought the tray took no notice.

Felixity sat through her wedding night on a hard chair, shivering with
terror and incipient madness, by the light of the one electric lamp she had
found on the table.

In the villa, far off, she thought she heard music, but it might only have
been the rhythm of the sea.

Near dawn, she came to accept what had occurred. It was only what she should
have expected. She wept for half an hour, and then lay down on the mean bed to
sleep.

For weeks, and probably months, Felixity existed in the whitewashed room
with the grilled window.

Every few days books were put through her door, along with the trays of
meals. The food was generally simple or meager, and always cold; still it
punctually arrived. A radio appeared, too, a few days after Felixityłs
internment. It seemed able to receive only one station, which put out endless
light music and melodramatic serials, but even so Felixity came to have it on
more and more. At midnight the station closed down. Then it was replaced by a
claustrophobic loud silence.

Other supplies were promptly presented through the door on her written
request. Clean towels, new soap, shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrushes,
Felixityłs brand of analgesics for her headaches, and her preferred form of
sanitary protection.

There was no clock or calendar in the room, but the radio station repeatedly
gave the day and hour. At first Felixity noticed the progress of time, until
eventually she recognized that she was counting it up like a prisoner, as if,
when she had served her sentence, she would be released. But, of course, her
freedom would never come. Felixity ceased to attend to the progress of time.

In the beginning, too, she went on with her normal routines of cleanliness
and order. In her fatherłs houses, her bathrooms had been spectacular, and she
had liked using them, experimenting there with soaps and foams, and with
preparations which claimed they might make her hair thicker, although they did
not. With only the functional white bathroom at her disposal, Felixity lost
interest in hygiene, and several days would sometimes elapse before she bathed.
She had also to clean the bathroom herself, which initially had proved
challenging, but soon it became a chore she did not bother with. Besides, she
found the less she used the bathroom, the less cleaning it needed.

Felixity would sit most of the day, listening with unfixed open eyes to the
radio. Now and then she would read part of a book. Occasionally she would
wander to the window and look out. But the view never changed, and the glare of
the distant mountains tired her eyes. Often she found it very hard to focus on
the printed word, and would read the same phrase in a novel over and over,
trying to make sense of it.

After perhaps three months had gone by, an afternoon came when she heard the
key turn in the lock of her door.

She was now too apathetic to be startled. Yet when Roland, gleaming in his
ice-cream clothes, came into the room, she knew a moment of shame. But then she
acknowledged it did not matter if he saw her unwashed in her robe, her thin
hair and unpowdered face greasy, for he had never cared what she looked like;
she was nothing to him.

And Roland approached with his usual charm, smiling at her, and holding out
some papers.

“Here I am," he said, “I wonÅ‚t keep you a minute. If youÅ‚d just be kind
enough to sign these."

Felixity did not get up at once only because she was lethargic. But she said
softly, “What if I refuse?"

Roland continued to smile. “I should be forced to take away your radio and
books, and to starve you."

Felixity believed him. After all, if he starved her to death, he would
inherit everything. It was really quite good of him to allow her to live.

She went to the table and signed the papers.

“Thank you so much," said Roland.

“WonÅ‚t you let me out?" said Felixity.

“Obviously I canÅ‚t." He added logically, “ItÅ‚s much better if you stay here.
Or you might be tempted to run away and divorce me. Or if you didnłt do that,
youłd be horribly in my way."

Roland had, prior to their drive to the villa, sacked the original servants
and installed a second set, all of whom were bribed to his will, served him
unquestioningly, and held their tongues. Roland now lived the life which
ideally suited him, answerable to no one. He lay in bed until noon, breakfasted
extravagantly, spent the day lazily, and in the evening drove to the nearest
city to gamble and to drink. Frequently he would return to the villa in the
small hours with beautiful women, to whom, in a great scrolled bed, he made
ferocious love, casting them out again at dawn, in their spangled dresses, like
the rinds of eaten fruits.

“But," said Felixity, “you see IÅ‚m afraidif I have to stay hereI may lose
my mind."

“Oh, donÅ‚t worry about that," said Roland. “The servants already think I
locked you up because you were insane."

Then he left her, and Felixity went to gaze from her window. The mountains
looked like the demarcation line at the end of the world. Felixity turned on
her radio.

That night, as she ate a piece of hard sausage, she broke a tooth.

She felt curiously humiliated by this, yet she had no choice but to set the
fact down on a page of the notepad, and append a request for a dentist. This
she slipped out through the flap in the door with a pallid misgiving. She did
not suppose for an instant Roland would permit her to leave the house and what
kind of mechanic would he send in to her?

For nine days, during which the broken tooth tore at her mouth and finally
made it bleed, Felixity awaited Rolandłs response. On the tenth day she came to
see he would not trouble to respond at all. He had spared her what suffering he
could, under the circumstances, but to put himself out over her teeth was too
much to ask of him.

This, then, was where she had sunk to.

Four hours passed, and Felixity sat in her chair listening to a serial about
a sensational girl who could not choose between her lovers. Behind her the
window became feverish, then cool; and darkness slid into the room.

Suddenly something strange happened. Felixity sprang to her feet as if she
had been electrically shocked. She rushed toward the cheap mirror on the wall,
and stared at herself in the fading crepuscule. She did not need light, for she
knew it all. She reached up and rent at her thin hair and a scream burst out of
her, lacerating her mouth freshly on the sharp edge of broken enamel.

“Nononononono!" screamed Felixity.

She was denying only herself.

She jumped up and down before the mirror, shrieking, galvanized by a
scalding white thread inside her.

Only when this huge energy had left her, which took several minutes, did she
crawl back to the chair and collapse in it, weeping. She cried for hours out of
the well of pain. Her sobs were strong and violent, and the room seemed to
shake at them.

At midnight, the radio station closed down and the shattering silence
bounded into the room. Felixity looked up. Everything was in blackness, the
lamp unlit, and yet it seemed there had been a flash of brilliance. Perhaps
there was a storm above the mountains. Or, incredibly, perhaps some human life
went over the plain, a car driving on the dirt tracks of it with headlights
blazing.

Felixity moved to the window. Night covered the plain, and the mountains
were like dead coals. Above, the stars winked artificially, as they had done in
the planetarium where once she had been taken as a child.

The whip of light cracked, again. It was not out on the plain but inside the
room.

Felixity was still too stunned for ordinary fear.

She walked back slowly to her chair, and as she did so, she saw her
reflection in the round mirror on the wall.

Felixity stopped, and her reflection stopped, inevitably. Felixity raised
her right arm, let it fall. Her left arm, let it fall. The reflection did the
same. Felixity began to walk forward again, toward the mirror. She walked
directly up to it, and halted close enough to touch.

Earlier, in the twilight, the mirror had reflected Felixity only too
faithfully. It had shown the apex of her ungainly figure, her drab, oily
complexion, her ugly features and wispy hair. Now the mirror contained
something else. It was illuminated as if a lamp shone on it out of the dark
room. In the mirror, Felixityłs reflection was no longer Felixity.

Instead, a woman stood in the mirror, copying exactly every gesture that
Felixity made.

This woman, to judge from her upper torso, was slender, with deeply indented
breasts. Her skin, which was visible in the low-cut bodice, at the throat, and
the lower part of the face, was the mildest gold, like dilute honey. Her
tightly fitting gown was a flame. On her upper face, across her forehead and
eyes, she wore a mask like yellow jade, from which long sprays of sparkling
feathers curved away. And above the mask and beneath ran thickly coiling gilded
hair, like golden snakes poured from a jar.

Felixity put both her hands up over her mouth. And the woman in the mirror
did as Felixity did. She wore long gloves the color of topaz, streaked with
scintillants.

The flash of brilliance snapped again. It was up in the black air above the
woman. A lyre of sparks came all unstrung: A firework. As it faded, an entire
scene was there at the womanłs back.

It was a city of steps and arches, plazas and tall buildings, through which
a brimstone river curled its way. But over the river, slim bridges ran that
were fruited with lamps of orange amber, and on the facades all about roared
torches of lava red. All these lights burned in the river, too, wreathing it
with fires.

Figures went across the levels of the city, in scarlet, brass, and embers.
Some led oxblood dogs, or carried incandescent parrots on their wrists. A
bronze alligator surfaced from the river, glittered like jewelry, and was gone.

Felixity saw a large red star hung in the sky.

Within the womanłs mask, two eyes glimmered. She lowered her hands from her
mouth, and Felixity found that she had lowered her hands. But then the woman
turned from the mirror and walked away.

Felixity watched the woman walk to the end of a torchlit pier, and there she
waited in her gown of flame, until a flaming boat came by and she stepped into
it and was borne off under the bridges of lamps.

After this the scene melted, all its fires and colors spilling together
downward, and out by some nonexistent gutter at the mirrorłs base.

Felixity took two or three paces back. In sheer darkness now she went and
lay on her bed. But the afterimages of the lights stayed on her retinas for
some while, in flickering floating patches. The mirror remained black, and in
it she could dimly see the room reflecting. Felixity closed her eyes, and
beheld the alligator surfacing in a gold garland of ripples, and as it slipped
under again, she slept.

In the morning, when she woke, Felixity did not think she had been dreaming.
It did occur to her that perhaps Roland had played some kind of trick on her,
but then she quickly dismissed this idea, for Roland had no interest in her;
why should he waste effort on such a thing? Had she then suffered an
hallucination? Was this the onset of madness? Felixity discovered that she did
not thrill with horror. She felt curiously calm, almost complacent. She took a
bath and shampooed her hair, ate the meals that were shunted through the door,
ignoring as best she could the difficulty with the broken tooth, and listened
to the radio. She was waiting for the darkness to come back. And when it did
so, she switched off the radio and sat in her chair, watching the mirror.

Hours passed, and the mirror kept up its blackness, faintly reflecting the
room. Once Felixity thought there was a spark of light, but it was only some
spasm in her eyes.

Eventually Felixity put on the radio again. It was midnight, and the station
was closing down. Felixity became alert, for it was at this moment on the
previous night that the mirror had come alive. However, the station went off the
air and that was all. Felixity watched the mirror from her bed until sleep
overcame her.

Somewhere in the markerless black of early morning, she awakened, and over
the mirror was flowing a ribbon of fire.

Felixity leapt from the bed and dashed to the mirror, but already the fire
had vanished, leaving no trace.

Felixity set herself to sleep by day and watch by night. This was quite easy
for her, for, rather like a caged animal, she had become able to slumber almost
at will. In the darkness she would sit, without the lamp, sometimes not looking
directly at the mirror. She let the radio play softly in the background, and
when the closedown came, she would tense. But nothing happened.

Seven nights went by.

Felixity continued her bat-like existence.

Only one magical thing had ever taken place in her life before, her
betrothal to Roland; and that had been proved to be a sham. The magic of the
mirror she recognized, as sometimes a piece of music, never heard before, may
seem familiar. This music was for her.

On the eighth night, just after the radio had announced it was eleven
ołclock, the mirror turned to a coin of gold.

Without a sound, Felixity got up, went to the mirror, and stared in.

It was a golden ballroom lit by bizarre chandeliers like the rosy clustered
hearts of pomegranates. There on the floor of obsidian a man and woman danced
in an austere yet sensual fashion. His were sophisticated carnival clothes of
black and blood, and he was masked in jet. She was Felixityłs reflection, and
now she wore a dress of sulfur beaded by magma rain. There was a tango playing
on the radio, and it seemed they moved in time to it.

Felixity felt herself dancing, although she did not stir, and the manłs arm
around her.

In a tall window was a sort of day, a sky that was coral pink and a huge red
sun or planet lying low.

The tango quivered to its end.

The man and woman separated, and all the colors pooled together and sluiced
down the mirror. Felixity made a wild motion, as if to catch them as they
flushed through the bottom of the glass. But, of course, nothing ran out.

In the blackness of her room then, Felixity solemnly danced a tango alone.
She was stiff and unwieldy, and sometimes bumped into the flimsy furniture. She
knew now a raw craving and yearning, a nostalgia as if for an idyllic
childhood. She had come to understand who the woman was. She was Felixity, in
another world. Felixityłs brain had made the intellectual and spiritual jump
swiftly and completely. Here she was a lump, unloved, unliked even, so
insignificant she could be made a prisoner forever. But there, she was a being
of fire.

Oh, to go through the mirror. Oh, to be one with her true self.

And at last she touched the mirror, which was very warm against her hand, as
if the sun had just shone on it. But otherwise it gave no clue to its
remarkable properties. And certainly no hint of a way in.

After the vision at eleven ołclock on the eighth night, a month elapsed, and
the mirror never altered by night or day.

Felixity grew very sad. Although she had been thrown into an abyss, idly
tossed there, her reaction had been mostly passivity rather than despair, for
she was used to ill-treatment in one form or another. But the images in the
mirror had raised her up to a savage height, to a plateau of lights she had never
before achieved. That she grasped almost at once their implication demonstrated
how profoundly she had been affected. And now she was left with the nothing
which had always encompassed her and which Roland had driven in beside her,
into her cage.

She ceased to eat the scanty meals and only sipped the coffee or water. In
order to hide what she did she was incoherently afraid of force-feedingshe
dropped the portions of food into the lavatory. Felixity became extremely
feeble, dizzy, and sick. Her head ached constantly, and she could not keep down
the painkillers. She lay on the bed all day, sinking in and out of sleep. She
could hardly hear the radio for the singing in her ears. At night she tried to
stay conscious, but the mirror was like a black void that sucked her in. Her
head whirled and spots of light burst over her eyes, deceiving her, for there
was nothing there. She cried softly, without passion. She hoped she would die
soon. Then she could sleep indefinitely.

On the first morning of the new month, before sunrise, Felixity raised her
gluey lids and saw the woman who was herself standing up against the inside of
the mirror in her mask of yellow jade, a dress like naphtha and the glinting
vipers of her golden hair.

Felixityłs heart palpitated. She tried to get up, but she was too weak.

Behind the woman who was the real Felixity, there was, as at the start, only
blackness. But now the mirror-Felixity lifted her ruby glove, and she held in
her fingers a single long coppery feather, the plume of some extraordinary
bird.

If she would only take off her mask, Felixity thought, IÅ‚d see that she is
me. It would be my face, and it would be beautiful.

But the woman did not remove the mask of yellow jade. Instead she turned her
head toward the feather, and she blew gently on it.

The breath that came out of her mouth was bloomed with a soft lightning. It
enveloped the tip of the feather, which at once caught fire.

Felixity watched, dazzled, until the flame went out and the woman dissolved
abruptly into glowing snow, and the mirror was only a mirror again. Then
Felixity turned on her side and fell asleep.

When it was light, she woke refreshed, and going into the bathroom, bathed
and washed her hair. Presently when the tray of food came, she ate it. Her
stomach hurt for some while after, but she did not pay any attention. She put
on the radio and hummed along with the melodies, most of which she now knew by
heart.

In the afternoon, after the lunch tray, from which she ate everything, the
door was unlocked and Roland entered the room.

Felixity stood up. She had not realized he would arrive so quickly.

“Here I am," he said, “I wonÅ‚t detain you a moment. Just some more of these
dull papers to sign."

Felixity smiled, and Roland was surprised. He expected acquiescence, but not
happiness.

“Naturally IÅ‚ll sign them," said Felixity. “But first, you must kiss me."

Roland now looked concerned.

“It seems inappropriate."

“Not at all," said Felixity. “IÅ‚m your wife."

And at this, the gigolo must have triumphed over the thief, for Roland
approached Felixity and gravely bowed his head. Indeed, at the press of her
flesh on his, after the libidinous life he had been leading, his lips parted
from force of habit, and Felixity blew into his mouth.

Roland sprang away. His face appeared congested and astonished. He went on,
stumbling backward, until he reached the door, and then he turned as if to rush
out of it.

So Felixity saw from the back of him, the tailored suit and blue-black hair,
and two jets of white flame which spouted suddenly from his ears.

Roland spun on the spot, and now she saw his face, with yellow flames
gouting from his nose and purple gases from his mouth. And then he went up in a
noiseless scream of fire, like petrol, or a torch.

The doorway was burning, and she could not get out of it. Flames were
darting around the room, consuming the sticks of furniture as they went. The
bed erupted like an opening rose. The mirror was gold again, and red.

How cold the flames were. Felixity felt them eating her and gave herself
eagerly, glad to be rid of it, the vileness of her treacherous body. The last
thing she saw was half the burning floor give way and crash down into the lower
regions of the house, and the mirror flying after it like a bubble of the sun.

The servants escaped the blazing villa, and stood in the gardens of the
house above the sea, wailing and exclaiming. It was generally concluded that
their employer, Roland, and his mad invalid wife, had perished in the inferno.
With amazing rapidity, the house collapsed, sending up a pillar of red smoke
that could be seen for miles.

Unseen by anyone, however, Felixity emerged out of the rubble.

She had not a mark or a smut upon her. She had instead the body of a goddess
and the face of an angel.

Her skin was like honey and her hair like a cascade of golden serpents and
in her mouth were the white and flawless teeth of a healthy predator.

Somehow she had had burned on to her, also, a lemon dress and amber shoes.

She went among the philodendrons, Felixity, out of sight. And so down toward
the road, without a backward glance.

Horse of Her Dreams

Elizabeth Moon

Think of a parade on Main Street, any Main Street, in a small Texas town.
Think of the horses, and riding them, tall “Texas girls" with the brilliant
smiles and flowing manes of hair youłve seen on television and in
magazinesmore spectacular than cheerleaders, more vibrant than California
surfers.

A stereotype, you say? Maybe, or a fantasymost deeply held by those who can
never, never possess it.

Elizabeth Moon, who rides and lives in a small town in Texas, has seen those
parades and the shadows they cast across even the most sunlit lives.

It was just another little wide spot in the road. One of those towns with a
hot shadeless Main Street, some old brick or rock buildings on each side, and a
big ugly new government building intended to look modern and urban and
progressive, but clunky as a cinder block in a display case of Chinese
porcelain. Here it combined City Hall, Fire Station, Library, and Community
Center, all in one big chunk of beige precast-concrete panels that hadnłt had
time to mellow, but had been there long enough for rust streaks to come down
the sides. Three spindly little oaks in planters out front hadnłt really taken
hold.

We knew the townłs reputation as the county scapegoatitłs our business to
knowbut thatłs not why we came. Wethe Frontline News team, Channel 8 had
come to cover their annual festival, producing a thirty-second clip for our
Weekend Previews on the Friday-night six-ołclock news. So on this July
Wednesday, there we were square in the middle of that two blocks of Main
Street, in trouble.

What you want is local color, and what the locals think is color isnłt what
you want. Which meant the big sign draped across the City Center saying
“Welcome Frontline News!" wasnÅ‚t it. Nor the pair of girls in shorts and clogs
who stared at us through the windows of Clarałs Cafe and then sauntered out,
flipping their long out-of-date hair and pretending to ignore us. Obviously
they didnłt understand what a long lens does to a rear view anyonełs rear
view.

Main Street had been modernized back in the Fifties or Sixties, more stucco
and plate glass than stone or brick. No old hitching rails, no antique streetlights.
There werenłt any shady benches for old men to sit and talk and look rural
onso of course we didnłt see any local-color kind of old men. The fiberglass
horse over the door of Simłs Western Wear and Saddlery would have done, except
that the week before wełd used a fiberglass horse over the door of another
western wear somewhere else. And that one had had a fancy saddle on
it.

Aside from Main Street, all two blocks of it, the town had something under
two thousand inhabitants living on maybe sixteen miles of streets. I know,
because we drove up and down every single damn street, looking for local color.
We found what you always find: a few neat brick houses maintained by fanatics
(curtains matching, grass plucked with tweezers at the sidewalk, freshly tarred
drive), many more comfortable-looking old brick or frame houses with shaggy
yards and big hairy dogs lying in the shade, a few backyards enlivened by a
sheep, calf, or pony, and some much older but very dilapidated old shacks that
were the wrong sort of local color if we ever wanted to come back.

Then Joe stepped hard on the brakes and said “God bless," under his breath,
which isnłt his usual expletive.

She was the kind of local color you almost never find. Not too young, not at
all old, shaped perfectly for the camera, and a true honey blonde. She moved
well, too, and she was heaving a big old parade saddle (black with silver trim)
onto a palomino horse as pretty as she wasfor a horse, that is. White blaze
and four white stockings, and they sure looked like a pair, her in those tight
jeans and tall white boots and blue western shirt with a little white
pinstripe.

Therełs a lot that happened later that I donłt understand, but I canłt
believe that it was Kellyłs fault. Shełs just a normal, healthy, flat-out gorgeous
hunk of Texas womanhood, getting ready to lead a parade in three days and
happening to catch our eye. Which of course she did.

Turned out she was a junior (at the university, I figured) and wanted to be
a schoolteacher, and thought her mom and dad were wonderful, and wouldnłt miss
awell, I canłt tell you the name of the festival, or you could find the town,
now, couldnłt you? But she wouldnłt miss it, and if she married and had to move
to (her blue eyes rolled up as she thought about someplace outrageous) New
York, even, shełd come back every summer and lead the parade the way she
had since a short pause, and I thought she was counting years, but she said,
“Since I got Sunny."

Well, people do tend to name horses stupid things like Brownie and Black
Beauty and Sunny, and you donłt have to have more sense than that to be married
in your senior year to someone headed for law school or medical school, which
was clearly her destiny.

She wasnłt camera shy at allknew all the tricks, and no wonder, having led
the parade all those years. She clucked, and Sunny put those ears forward like
a pro. Joe got her talking to the horse, and waving at her mom on the porch.
Her mom didnłt look anything like her, but lightning doesnłt strike twice in
families, either. My wifełs a show stopping redhead, but our daughter has my
hair. And nose. Then he asked her if shełd ride for us, and she beamed, and
bounced up on that horse as slick as butter, and pranced him back and forth. It
was then I noticed the spurs.

I donłt pretend to be much of a cowboy, but one thing I do know is that
those big old roweled spurs you see pictures of arenłt in use anymore. The
humane society had something to say about it, I think. But she had these
blued-steel spurs with rowels as long as my fingers, and needle-sharp, or
looked like it. Wicked things, that could have hurt if youłd just bumped into
them. And she was digging them into that sleek golden horse like he had no
nerves at all, with a pretty smile on her lovely face. I looked at the bridle.
Sure enough, hung on that fancy black and silver parade bridle was a
blued-steel bit that would have held a charging grizzly.

Funny thing is, that gold horse just pranced back and forth, never jumping
sideways when she jabbed the spurs in, never gaping its mouth when she gave a
little yank to the reins. And thatłs not natural. A horse thatłll prance like
that is usually the kind thatłs pretty touchy about having its reins yanked and
spurs stuck in its sides. I wondered did she have it tranquilized, but the
horsełs eye was a clear shining green.

Itłs a wonder I didnłt grab Joełs arm in the middle of a shot. Green! Horses
donłt have green eyes, and if they did it wouldnłt be that bright, clear
emerald green, wickedly alight with mischief. Horses are (forgive me, ladies) stupid.
I mean, any animal that could buck people off, but prefers to carry them around
on its back any animal that runs back into a burning barn and sticks its dumb
legs in fences and then fights to get loose, tearing itself to shreds thatłs stupid.
Black Beauty and all those horse stories aside. Besides, my cousin Donłs horse
ran under a tree with me and scraped me off when I was ten or so, and any
animal with brains would have known that I was lighter than anyone else around,
and if it got rid of me it would only mean more work. I live on the edge of the
city, and my ranchette came with a two-stall stable and corral (courtesy of the
previous owners who had two teenage daughters) but we donłt have a horse even
though Marcyłs as horse-crazy as any other girl.

Joe didnłt notice, but then Joełs from Houston, and where he grew up he
never saw a horse in real life till he moved away. For all Joe knows, horses
might have eyes every color of the rainbow. Joe just nodded and swung the
camcorder around as usual, and let me do the interview.

Kelly kept chattering away, telling us about her friend named Charleneshe
thought maybe wełd like a shot of both of them on their horses. Charlene had
always ridden right behind her in the parade, she said. I guess Joe and I both
were thinking the same thing: girls like Kelly had girlfriends with names like
Charlene, and the girlfriends were always a lot less pretty but very energetic
and sweet. Sweet, out here, means nothing to look at, and not enough
spunk to leave. I tried not to let myself think about Marcy, my Marcy, who was
born to be sweet

Charlene, Kelly went on, wrote poetry and painted pictures, and was going to
be a famous writer someday. Joe and I looked at each other and managed not to
sigh, and said, Sure, wełd be glad to meet her friend, but the folks back at
the station couldnłt ever use all wełd shot. We always had that excuse. So
Kelly rode off down the street, and for once, a back view looked good in the
long lens. Joe caught some of it, just for us.

When she came back, we had another shock. Charlene could have been Kellyłs
twin for size and shape, with long curly black hair and a face out of an art
book. Kelly was prettyKelly was typical golden-girl all-American long-legged
gorgeousbut Charlene had bone to keep her beautiful for years, while Kelly
would find out in her thirties that a round chin can double all too easily.
Charlene had a black horse to match her hair, the blackest, shiniest horse I
ever saw outside of a china figurine, not a brown hair on him. And green eyes.

Now one green-eyed horse would be a marvel, the sort of thing thatłs a
freak. Two green-eyed horses one black, and one palomino, and both
with the prettiest girls Iłd seen in years on their backsthatłs something
else. The black horse gave me the same mischievous sidelong glance as the
golden one had, and I noted that Charlene also wore wickedly roweled spurs and
had one helluva long-shanked bit, like Kellyłs, in that beastłs mouth. I got a
cold feeling on the back of my neck, and decided not to worry about it; it
wasnłt my business, and the girls were easy to look at. That was our
business.

“Charlene used to lead the parade," said Kelly, throwing her friend one of
those smiles that cuts your hand if you touch it. “But then I got Sunny."

I think IÅ‚d have let them lead it togetherit must be spectacular anyway,
with two gorgeous girls on those two handsome horsesfor horsesand why not
both in front? But Charlene was giving Kelly a smile to match the one shełd
been given, and her voice, when she spoke, was husky and warm and in keeping
with that face.

“I didnÅ‚t want to hog it forever," she said. “Besides, the Texas flag looks
better with a black horse. And I know youłll be just as generous when someone
else is ready to take over." Kelly smiled back, a little stiffly, and I figured
they werenłt really friends. How could they be? Two pretty girls in such a small
town are born rivals, and if they donłt know it, everyone makes it clear to
them. About the time that one beat the other out for class sweetheart or most
beautiful, friend had become an empty term. You donłt, right out loud,
talk about enemies.

When I got home, I told Marcy about the horses. Like so many girls her age,
she thinks anything with four legs and a mane is wonderful. For years shełs
been saving her allowance and birthday money to buy her own horse and take
lessons at the stable up the road.

“Could we go see them, Daddy?" I should have expected that. I looked at
Denise. Mothers have rights, IÅ‚d learned, and besides we had planned to go to
Halłs poolside barbecue on Saturday. I had hoped Marcy would learn some things
from his daughter. Suzi wasnłt a patch on those gorgeous girls with their
horses, but she did have style, and Marcy was going to need all the help she
could get.

Denise gave me one of those inscrutable glances shełd been giving me lately
and shrugged. “If you want" SheÅ‚d already told me she didnÅ‚t much like the
party idea, back when I made the mistake of saying I thought Suzi was pretty
sharp for a kid her age. Denise said yes, like a knife, and Marcy was a
wonderful girl who needed to be recognized for what she was.

We hadnłt exactly argued, but Iłd felt uncomfortable. She should know I love
Marcy more than anything else; I just want her to have a happy life, and pretty
girls are happier. Denise should know that; she was a stunner.

So I said, “If itÅ‚s clear," and Marcy grinned at me, half braces and half
teeth.

We ran the spot Friday, on schedule. IÅ‚d noticed on the monitor that the
horsesł green eyes didnłt show up well, and decided not to mention it. The
girls were pretty enough, one all gold and blue on a gold and white horse, and
one all black and green (did I mention that Charlene wore a green western
shirt, something that glittered, with black jeans and boots?) on a black horse.
Not quite as gorgeous as I remembered in fact, not more than middling
prettybut things rarely look the same on tape, and IÅ‚m used to it. After all,
wełd had to shoot the spot in midafternoon in July. Maybe those little lines
came from squinting at the bright sunthe camera sees whatłs really there; it
doesnłt make allowances for lousy lighting. Kellyłs voice Iłd figured wouldnłt
tape wellbreathy, a little too highbut I was surprised at Charlenełsit
sounded more hoarse than husky. But againa hot day, midafternoonmaybe shełd
been thirsty. Marcy thought the horses were great; I donłt know if she even looked
at the riders.

Saturday morning, traffic held us up north of the city, and if Marcy hadnłt
been humming tunelessly beside me, IÅ‚d have turned back. It was nothing but a
little pissant country town with two pretty girls riding horses in a tacky
parade; wełd get hot and dusty, and eat too much cheap greasy foodHalłs pool
would be a lot more fun. But Denise had sent us off smiling; she wouldnłt like
it if I changed plans on her now.

We had to park at the far end of a dusty field beside the townłs rickety
little football stadium, crammed in between a pickup truck with its bed full of
assorted junk, and a rusty barbwire fence. It was a two-block walk to the
parade route, nothing much in the city, but here a hot, sweaty trek past
sunburned yards and houses flaking ancient paint. They looked even older, more
faded, today than they had on the Wednesday before. Two people came out of one
house, and glanced at us without speaking.

We got to the main street a little late, and had to crowd in behind a double
row of others. A little boy rode by on a bicycle decorated with crepe paper,
holding a red ribbon in his teeth. I glanced at my watch. Time and more for the
parade to start. Sweat trickled down my sides; I could smell the hair spray
from the huge bouffant arrangement on the tall woman next to me. A puff of wind
blew a wiry strand of it across my nose; I batted it away, blinking at the
dust, just as another, sharper puff spanked my other cheek. Marcy shook her
head, but when I looked down, she flashed her metallic smile at me. One thing
about her, shełs no complainer, our girl. If she had the looks she deserves,
shełd be a match for anyone. I squeezed her shoulder, and felt my heart
contract at the look she gave me. I didnłt deserve that kind of trustno man
could.

More little gusts of wind, carrying the smells of a summer celebration:
bubble gum baked on the pavement, horses, barbecue. Scraps of paper lifted from
the street; a small child chased one, was captured by a tired-faced woman
wearing an apron over her dress. It crossed my mind I hadnłt seen a woman wear
an apron like that in years. Then the dust hit, a soft fist pummeling our
faces, our eyes, stinging; wind jerked my shirt and hair first one way then the
other. Marcy grabbed my arm and squealed “Daddy!" then coughed. I could hardly
breathe myself. For an instant, sight and hearing blurred, caught in a whirl of
wind-noise and grit. Then I could hear the chokes, coughs, children crying,
even screams.

The wind went as it had come, without warning or reason; I watched the tawny
blur of the dust-devil follow the road out of town, as steadily as a drunk
driver trying to be careful.

But the crowdłs noise yanked my attention back to the street. Something had
happened. I cursed myself for coming without even a pocket ęcorder, but Iłd
promised Denise the trip was for Marcy. Still I edged us leftward, back toward
the disturbance.

Another news team stood where I usually stand, in the middle of things. How
was I going to explain this at work? With Marcy clinging to my hand, a
little nervous in the crowd, I couldnłt push my way through as I usually did. I
went up on tiptoe, trying to see. There was an opening: that usually meant
someone was on the ground. Just beyond the gap, a well-polished pickup had both
doors open; behind it was the paradełs first float, and the girl who should
have been perched on a throne waving was stepping across the trailer hitch from
the float to the pickup, hampered only slightly by her formal gown, intent on
seeing what had happened.

Suddenly a siren went off in my ear, and I jumped. It was the fire engine
that should have cleared the way for the parade; we had come around it, with
the rest of the crowd, hardly noticing itnow its lights flashed, and the siren
beeped and squealed. The volunteers, in their blue shirts with lots of
insignia, began pushing the crowd back, and I saw another flashing light coming
along a side street: the ambulance.

Of course, everyone was talking about what happened, but already there were
five or six stories just in those few minutes. Only a few, it seemed, had been
on the spot, and theyłd been squinting against the sudden dust storm the same
as anyone else. The girls were hurt; the girls were killed; the girls had been
bucked off; the horses had run away I figured then who it had to be, of
course. We backed up with the others, as requested, and let the ambulance
through; I couldnłt see any more than the stretchers being loaded aboard it.
Then the siren whooped again, and the parade went on, just as parades always do
go on in spite of accidents.

Marcy was less disappointed than IÅ‚d expected. There were other horses to
exclaim over, and after all, she never had seen the palomino and black that
werenłt there anymore except on tape. I felt it more; Iłd really looked forward
to seeing those two girls ride by, all proud and beautiful in the sunlight, and
without them the parade was a predictable mixture of sentimentality and cheap
glitter. The girls on the homemade floats, the pride of each little town in the
festival circuit, were pretty enough, but nothing like Kelly and Charlene on
horseback.

But I set myself to being a good father, and Marcy enjoyed herself. I even
waited patiently while she walked around talking to the people who had ridden
in the parade. She petted their horses, flashed that metallic grin more than
IÅ‚d seen in months. I caught myself thinking that if she looked like Kelly, IÅ‚d
buy her a horse and let her ride in paradesshe looked so happy. And that was
almost enough for the day, except that I really did want to know about Kelly
and Charlene.

The late news that night had coverage from our competition; I sipped my
drink as I watched, and tried to figure out how to salvage my part in it while
criticizing the camera angles the competition used. The announcer said it was
Kelly and Charlene, but the pictures certainly didnłt do them justice. Kellyłs
golden hair looked dusty, and I guess itłs hard to be cute and pretty when
someonełs splinting your broken wrist. Charlene must have been hurting, too;
she looked almost gaunt, those gorgeous bones ready to break through the skin.
Nothing was said about their horses on one channel; the next, when I flipped to
it, had already done the story, and the other one stuck it on last and
mentioned that the horses had run off in terror at the “sudden storm." Our
station ran the tape wełd done before, and a brief shot of their faces, and
Melanie, who has the evening news spot on Saturday and is trying for more, said
what a horrible ordeal for two such pretty girls.

I donłt read the paper all that often, unless Iłm researching something, but
the Sunday paper had it on the front pagemostly because their Congressman had
been there. I could have shot the old buzzard at City Hall, for not telling me
he was coming when I picked up the brochure; if IÅ‚d known, IÅ‚d have brought a
ęcorder no matter what. Mysterious disappearance of famous parade horses, they
called it. I quirked my mouth over that “famous" but let it ride. Anyone whoÅ‚d
seen Kelly on that palomino wouldnłt have forgotten it. I wondered then if
shełd ever ridden in anyone elsełs parades, or if shełd been content to reign
in a small realm. The horses, the story ended, had not been found.

It occurred to me that I could salvage our stationłs position by getting a
human-interest continuation. That would justify seeing them again, and (my
fatherly conscience being tender) I could even ask their advice about Marcy:
would riding in parades do anything to help a girl get along in high school? So
about midweek, I took a camcorder and told my boss I might get an interview,
and he raised his eyebrows but nodded. I also took a present I didnłt tell him
about, two copies of the original tape we took of Kelly and Charlene (all but
the rump shot, of course).

Kellyłs mom didnłt look real friendly when she opened the door, and I was
glad IÅ‚d come in my own car, not the station van. I told her IÅ‚d heard about
it, and thought maybe Kelly would like a copy of the pictures wełd gotten
before her horse was lost. The womanłs eyes glittered dangerously.

“Her horse!" she said, with an emphasis I couldnÅ‚t quite
understand. “That!"

But then Kelly walked in, her not-really-golden hair pulled back and her eye
shadow a bit too blue. The cast on her arm still had her off balance; I could
see the difference in her walk. No girl is as pretty when shełs hurt, and
tired, and miserable about losing a favorite horse. You can see what theyłll
look like in ten years. But she smiled at me, and the dimples were still there,
and the white teeth. I handed her the tape, and told her how sorry I was, and
maybe this would help. Her eyes were a little red, and now the tears started.
That didnłt bother me: Iłve seen plenty, for better reason and none at all, in
my business. But I said I was sorry again, and she choked on a thank you, and
her mom huffed loudly and walked out. Kelly waved an arm at the living room,
and I sat down.

“HeÅ‚ll never come back," she said softly, with a wary glance at the door. I
opened my mouth to say something about searches being made, and she interrupted
the first word.

“No. TheyÅ‚ll never find him. HeÅ‚s gone back"and then her head jerked up and
her eyes widened, tear-smeary as they were. “IIÅ‚m sorryIÅ‚m so upset. I donÅ‚t
really know what IÅ‚m saying, and besides" I felt a jolt of gleemy instincts
had been right; there was a story here.

“I used to have a horse." I lied, trying for empathy. Her face relaxed
slightly.

“Not like Sunny," she said.

“No. But I wouldnÅ‚t have believed it then." I felt my way into my role as
bereft horse lover, and like all roles, it came easily to me. “He was a plain
old brown horse you wouldnłt look at twice, but to me" I shook my head, and
she nodded. Whatever else she was or wasnłt in the realm of beauty, Kelly had a
normal amount of sentiment.

“How long did you have him?" she asked, good manners overcoming grief.

I pondered a moment. Could I remember enough incidents from my unclełs place
to flesh out a long horse ownership? “Five years," I said, shaking my head
again. “Then my family moved, and wewe had to sell him." I glanced at her; a
little color had come into her face. “How long did you have Sunny?"

It was the wrong question. She stiffened and paled, as if IÅ‚d hit her cast
with a bat. “IitÅ‚s hard to think right now. My arm" I looked at it dutifully,
not impressed with her intelligence. A broken wrist five days old is a
nuisance, no more. With my eyes safely away from hers, she said softly, “I got
him with from Charlene. She got hers first."

So I stood up, and smiled at her, and told her IÅ‚d brought a tape for
Charlene, too, if shełd tell me where Charlene lived. And she told me in the
way that country people give directions, all relating to things you only know
about if you live there, but I finally figured it out when she came out on the
front porch and pointed.

IÅ‚d thought before Charlene was the smart one of the pair, and so it turned
out. She had on dark glasses that day, and had propped her bandaged ankle on a
couch, but her voice was as lovely as the first time IÅ‚d heard it.

Charlene was, she told me straight out, just over two years older than
Kelly, and at fourteen, shełd been a long, gawky girl with lank hair and no
self-confidence. Smart, but the local school had no scope for her kind of
smart, and she knew that shełd never qualify for a really good scholarship. But
she could ride anything on four legs, and shełd seen an article about barrel
racersł winnings in a western riding magazine. That would be her ticket out.
Shełd sold her old sorrel horse that didnłt have enough speed, and gone looking
for a new mount.

She relaxed enough to slip the dark glasses up, and I could see Charlene at
fourteen. Bones that might have character someday, but missed beauty by a
slight margin almost worse for being slight. Well-placed collarbones with too
deep a hollow above and below them. Shełd have had thin muscular wrists and
long thin hands, and shełd have pulled her dark hair back to a plain plastic
clip. And the money from the sale of the sorrel horse would have been folded
tightly into a wad, and tucked deep in the pocket of jeans worn thin at the
knees.

Shełd come to the farmshe didnłt say where it wasstill looking for a
barrel-racing prospect. A brisk little woman, dark-skinned and gray-haired, had
come out, looked her up and down, and offered only one horse: the black. The
price was what shełd jammed deep in her pocket. And shełd taken one look and
known shełd pay it, though she wasnłt the kind of girl to buy a horse for its
looks. The woman took her money, and followed her home in a pickup with the
black horse in the trailer. There, with the horse in Charlenełs lot, the woman
gave her roweled spurs and spade bit, and told her she must never mount the
horse without them.

At that point, Charlene explained, shełd have decided not to buy the horse,
because there are rules about spurs and bits in barrel racing, but the horse
was there, and the woman had driven off with her money before she could argue.
So she saddled up, strapped the unfamiliar spurs on her boots, and mounted.

That began the happiest years of her life, she said, beginning to cry. When
a boy she knew, who had ignored her for years, stopped her even as she rode
down the street that first day, and stared, wide-eyed. When she looked in the
mirror. When she dressed the next day for school and things were tight and
loose in different places. When she got more looks, and more attention, than
shełd ever had before and she knew it was wrong, she said, sobs blurring the
words, but she couldnłt stop once she knew what she had.

She didnłt drive back out to the farm to demand her money and return the
horse. She didnłt even think of it, or of the barrel racing that had been her
plan of escape. By midsummer, she had become the acknowledged town beauty,
overshadowing the older girls. And she was asked to lead the parade on her
beautiful black horse, carrying the American flag down the center of Main
Street as everyone cheered After that first parade, after she had the taste of
it in her mouth, the odd little woman had visited, and explained the dangers
and limitations of the gift. Charlene didnłt tell me what they were right then,
or if she did I didnłt hear her. I had a sudden vision of Marcy, sitting tall
on such a horse, no braces on her teeth, and a crowd waving. Maybe a red horse,
and her hair the color Denisełs had been, a vivid flame. My vision blurred.
Maybe I had more than a story.

For three years, Charlene and the black horse graced the town, and the
honors she couldnłt win by being smart and hardworking came easily to the town
beauty, the most popular girl in school. Then she noticed Kelly, down the
block, standing forlorn in the yard and watching her ride by. Kelly was not
quite cute, the way Charlene had not been quite beautiful.

To seventeen, fourteen doesnłt seem like competition. Charlene never thought
of the older girls shełd displaced, but she remembered her own miseries. First
she thought shełd let Kelly ride the black horse. That didnłt work: Kelly
couldnłt even get on. But somewhere in the conversation, Charlene let slip to
Kelly that the horse was her secret, the way she had become what she was. And
for Kelly, that was enough. She pestered, and warted, and fretted, and pleaded,
and finally Charlene gave her certain directions, and two days later Kelly rode
down the street on a golden palomino that matched her now-golden hair. Charlene
wanted me to know that she had offered to let Kelly lead the parade
that summer, but I was sure that Kelly would have been asked anyway. No one
could resist that golden image.

And that had been Charlene closed her eyes, counting. That had been twenty
years ago, the first year that Kelly led the parade. I must have moved or
something, for her eyes flicked open, and her mouth quirked. “You donÅ‚t believe
me?"

I looked at her face, now every bit of thirty-seven years old, if not more,
and nodded slowly. I wasnłt sure what I believed, but I wanted Charlene to go
on talking. Questions could come later.

“I would have quit before," she said slowly. “I had had my high school
triumphs; thatłs all I wanted. I had two scholarshipsnot big, but big enough
to get out of townand I planned to go. I could give up being the local beauty,
to gain the world. But then" Her longer fingers moved restlessly in her lap.
“There was Kelly, and Sunny"

Kelly had never wanted anything more than to be a golden girl leading a
parade on a golden horse. To freeze time in that moment of triumph, to be
forever prancing down the street with everyone watching her, a light breeze
rippling the flag she carried. I found myself nodding: thatłs what any girl
would want, if she could get it. Perfectly natural. Kelly, though, had scoffed
at the warning she received, as Charlene had not scoffed. Maybe Charlene would
have to quit, but she wouldnłt. She would ride that parade every year of her
life. She would step out of time, and take the world with her.

I still didnÅ‚t understand. “What warning? How do you mean, the gift had
limits? And what was it about in the first place?" More questions clogged my
head: how and why and who and when and where. Especially where.

“Five years, or my twentieth birthday, whichever came first. ThatÅ‚s what the
woman said, after my first parade: I was to ride the horse back out there
before then. If I didnłt, hełd disappear, and Iłd have that to explain. And as
for why I never knew. I never asked." She saw my doubt and insisted, “I never
asked why: there were answers she might have given that I didnłt want to hear.
Why did I buy that horse in the first place? It had to be some kind of
magicdangerous, maybe even wrong wicked. I can imagine what the
preacher at church would have said, if hełd known about it. You donłt question
things like that. If you find out itłs something really bad, then you canłt do
it, but if you donłt know then itłs not your fault."

That I could understandeven though my business is looking for answers,
there are some things I donłt question, some rocks I donłt turn over. So I
could do without answers, except that there were horses that made girls
beautiful, and Marcywho wasnłt beautifulloved horses. I found myself agreeing
with Charlene: the rest really didnÅ‚t matter. “How did Kelly do it? Where did
she get the power to overcome whatever it was?"

Charlene gave me a look far too old for the age she had been until this past
week, a look Denise might have given me. “It took me years to figure that out,
but it wasnłt just Kelly who wanted it." I must have looked as confused as I
felt; she sighed and went on. “Lookshe wanted to lead the parade. But the
otherseveryone in town, just aboutwanted to see her lead it. Wanted
her to be that perfect, golden image. Never aging, never sick, never faded,
always up there with the flag, the dream that came true." She sighed again.
“And we couldnÅ‚t any of us get free of it. What it came down to, itÅ‚s what
people really wanted, wanted bad enough to lose whatever we lost."

She fell silent, and I thought of the town as it had been as it was. That
squatty ugly buildinghad it been new when Kelly rode in her first parade? I
asked, and Charlene nodded. So the move to restore old buildings to their
original stone and brick had bypassed this town, and new industries had settled
elsewhere, and those here could not manage to move away. Things faded, grew
vaguely shabby, blurred or frayed at the margins like a tape played too many
times, but never progressed in normal aging. Other people? Charlene nodded.
“Those closest to us slow down, but they can wear out and die. My parents did.
People we didnłt know much, they seem pretty normal."

“And did you finish school?" I asked, suspecting the answer. “Go on to
college?"

“No." The dark glasses went back on. “No, I didnÅ‚t do anything, but ride in
that parade once a year behind Kelly and Sunny."

Whatever she could have been, whatever Kelly could have been, in those
twenty years all gone to feed the dream of glory, the yearly spectacle. Kelly,
I figured, had had nothing much to look forward to; Charlene could have been
anything. A tragedy, if you look at things that way. But it had been an
accident, surely. If it hadnłt been for Kellyłs mistake, Charlene would have
had nothing to complain ofin fact, shełd been a lot better off as a beauty
than she had been plain and shabby and ignored. It was really her fault, for
telling Kelly about the horse. I wondered what had broken the spell, or
whatever it wasif we, with our camera, perhaps, had done it, by broadcasting
the realitybut it didnłt matter now. It wasnłt as if I had a story; I didnłt
need to tie up all the loose ends. Something else mattered more.

I opened my mouth to ask her where the horse farm was, and stopped just in
time. Shełd want to know why I asked, and if I told her about Marcy shełd
probably get mad. It had been a tragedy for her, she would be sure it couldnłt
work right for anyone else. She probably never thought of it as wrong, or maybe
wicked, until it turned bad for her. Women are like that: everythingłs so
personal to them. But Marcy was different. I could protect her, make sure
nothing like this happened to her. Whatever the intent of this mysterious woman
with magic horses, whatever the nature of the spell, it couldnłt possibly hurt
Marcy with me to look out for her. I didnłt have to understand it; I just had
to watch out for Marcy. I said good-bye and went back for a last visit with
Kelly.

Like I said, you canłt really blame Kelly. Shełs too old for cute, but shełs
still got that all-American grin with the dimple in the corner of her mouth,
and if the gold in her hair will come from a bottle from now on, so what? I
used a little subtle highlighting myself. Shełs a good girl, a good wholesome
small-town girl who liked all the right things: Mom, Pop, apple pie, the Tigers
on the ten-yard line with a first down and riding a golden horse down Main
Street once a year with the American flag in her hand. It wasnłt Kellyłs fault
that she got too much power too soon, that she had such limited dreams to
freeze in the amber-gold of that palomino horse. She only wanted what we all
want, to make the good times last forever.

She understood that I only wanted the best for my daughter; if her father
had been like me, things would have been different. She said Marcy sounded
sweet, and she told me the truth when I asked her where the place was.

I have this daughter I love so much it hurts, a girl brave and tough and
wise beyond her years. Shełs already learned to think of herself as homely.
When the pretty girls walk by, when she sees the boys look after them, I can
see her face stiffen, holding back the longing shełs too brave to show. Shełs
going to be fourteen next spring, and she wants a horse for her birthday.

Unto the Daughters

Nancy Kress

Like Sheila Finch, Nebula award winner Nancy Kress deals with religion in a
revisionist vein. All those millennia of theologians telling women what to
believe and how to behaveand then the women go off and talk by themselves.
“Unto the Daughters" would probably give such religious authorities nightmares
(take that, John Milton!), but it seems perfectly reasonableand
hilarious in an ironic sort of wayto me.

Ever want to know what the women are talking about when theyłre alone? Read
on, but at the risk of your assumptions.

This is not the way you heard the story.

In the beginning, the tree was young. White blossoms scenting the air for a
quarter mile. Shiny succulent fruit, bending the same boughs that held
blossoms. Leaves of that delicate yellow-green that cannot, will not, last. Yet
it did. He always did have gaudy taste. No restraint. Just look at the
Himalayas. Or blowfish. I meanreally!

The woman was young, too. Pink curling toes, 228 breasts as barely budded as
the apple blossoms. And the man! My dear, those long, firm flanks alone could
make you ache inside for hours. He could run five miles and not even be winded.
He could make love to the woman five times a day. And did.

The flowers were young. The animals, tumbling and cavorting on the grass,
were young. The fucking beach sand was young, clean evenly shaped
grains that only yesterday had been igneous rock. There was virgin rain.

Only I was old.

But it wasnłt that. That was the first thing that came to your mind, wasnłt
it? Jealousy of glorious youth, revenge by the dried-up and jaded. Oh, you
donłt know, you sitting there so many centuries ahead. It wasnłt that at all. I
mean, I loved them both.

Looking at them, how could one not?

“Go away," Eve says. “IÅ‚m not going to eat one." She sits cross-legged,
braiding flowers into a crown. The flowers are about what youłd expect from
Him, garish scarlet petals and a vulva-shaped pistil like a bad joke. Braiding
them, her fingers are deft and competent. Some lion cubs tumble tiresomely on
the grass. “I want to give you a reason why you should eat one," I say, not
gently. “IÅ‚ve heard all your reasons." “Not this one, Eve. This is a new
reason." She isnłt interested. She knots the crown of flowers, puts it on her
head, giggles, tosses it at the lions. It settles lopsided over one cubłs left
ear. The cub looks up with comic surprise, and Eve explodes into laughter.

Really, sometimes I wonder why I bother. Shełs so stupid, compared to the
man. I bother because shełs so stupid compared to the man.

“Listen, Eve. He withholds knowledge from you two because HeÅ‚s
selfish. What else would you call it to keep knowledge to yourself when you
could just as well share it?"

“I donÅ‚t need knowledge," Eve says airily. “What do I need knowledge for?
And anyway, thatłs not a new reason. Youłve said that before."

“A tree, Eve. A fucking tree. To invest knowledge in. DoesnÅ‚t that
strike you as just a teeny bit warped? Mathematics in xylem, morality in fruit
pulp? Astronomy rotting on the ground every time an apple falls. Donłt you
wonder what kind of a mind would do that?"

She only stares at me blankly. Oh, shełs dumb. I mean!

I shout, in the temper of perfect despair, “Without knowledge, nothing will
change!"

“Are you here again?" Adam says. I hadnÅ‚t heard him climb over the
rock behind us. He has a very quiet footstep for someone whose toenails have
never ever been cut, and a quiet, penetrating voice. Eve jumps up as if shełs
been shot.

“I thought I told you not to talk to this thing ever again," Adam says.
“Did I tell you that?"

Eve hangs her pretty head. “Yes, Adam. You did. I forgot."

He looks at her, and his face softens. That blooming skin, those sweet lips.
Her hair falls forward, lustrous at night. I donłt think my despair can go any
deeper, but it does. She is so pretty. He will always forgive her. And she will
always forget everything he says two minutes after he says it.

“Be gone! You donÅ‚t belong here!" Adam shouts, and throws a rock at me. It
hits just behind my head. It hurts like hell. One of the lion cubs happily
fetches it back, waggling a golden tail. The other one is still wearing the
lopsided crown of flowers.

As I slither away, half blind with pain, Eve calls after me. “I donÅ‚t want
anything to change! I really donłt!"

The hell with her.

“Just listen," I say. “Just put your entire tiny mind on one thing for once
and listen to me."

Eve sits sewing leaves into a blanket. Not cross-legged anymore: She is six
months pregnant. The leaves are wide and soft, with a sort of furry nap on
their underside. They appeared in the garden right after she got pregnant,
along with tough spiderwebs that make splendid thread. Why not a bush that
grows little caps? Or tiny diapers with plastic fastening tabs? Really, He has
such a banal imagination.

Eve hums as she sews. Beside her is the cradle Adam made. Itłs carved with
moons and numbers and stars and other cabalistic signs: a lovely piece of work.
Adam has imagination.

“You have to listen, Eve. Not just hearlisten. Stop that
humming. I know the futurehow could I know the future unless I am exactly what
I say I am? I know everything thatłs going to happen. I told you when youłd
conceive, didnłt I? That alone should have convinced you. And now Iłm telling
you that your baby will be a boy, and youłll call him Cain, and he"

“No, IÅ‚m going to call him Silas," Eve says. She knots the end of her spider
thread and bites it off. “I love the name Silas."

“YouÅ‚re going to call him Cain, and he"

“Do you think it would be prettier to embroider roses on this blanket, or
daisies?"

“Eve, listen, if I can foretell the future, then isnÅ‚t it logical, isnÅ‚t it
reasonable for you to think"

“I donÅ‚t have to think," Eve says. “Adam does that for both of us, plus all
the forest-dressing and fruit-tending. He works so hard, poor dear."

“Eve "

“Roses, I think. In blue."

I canłt stand it anymore. I go out into the constant, perpetual, monotonous
sunshine, which smells like roses, like wisteria, like gardenia, like
woodsmoke, like new-mown hay. Like heaven.

Eve has the baby at nine months, thirty-two seconds. She laughs as the small
head slides out, which takes two painless minutes. The child is perfect.

“WeÅ‚ll call him Cain," Adam says.

“I thought we might call him Silas. I love the na"

“Cain," Adam says firmly.

“All right, Adam."

He will never know she was disappointed.

“Eve," I say. “Listen."

She is bathing the two boys in the river, in the shallows just before the
river splits into four parts and leaves the garden. Cain is diligently
scrubbing his small perns, but Abel has caught at some seaweed and is examining
how it hangs over his chubby fists. He turns it this way and that, bending his
head close. He is much more intelligent than his brother.

“Eve, Adam will be back soon. If youÅ‚d just listen"

“Daddy," Abel says, raising his head. He has a level gaze, friendly but
evaluative, even at his age. He spends a lot of time with his father. “Daddy
gone."

“Oh, yes, DaddyÅ‚s gone to pick breadfruit in the west!" Eve cries, in a
perfect ecstasy of maternal pride. “HeÅ‚ll be back tonight, my little poppets.
Hełll be home with his precious little boys!"

Cain looks up. He has succeeded in giving his penis the most innocent of
erections. He smiles beatifically at Abel, at his mother, who does not see him
because she is scrubbing Abelłs back, careful not to drip soap-stone onto his
seaweed.

“Daddy pick breadfruit," Abel repeats. “Mommy not."

“Mommy doesnÅ‚t want to go pick breadfruit," Eve says. “Mommy is happy right
here with her little poppets."

“Mommy not," Abel repeats, thoughtfully.

“Eve," I say, “only with knowledge can you make choices. Only with truth can
you be free. Four thousand years from now"

“I am free," Eve says, momentarily startled. She looks at me. Her eyes are
as fresh, as innocent, as when she was created. They open very wide. “How could
anyone not think IÅ‚m perfectly free?"

“If youÅ‚d just listen"

“Daddy gone," Abel says a third time. “Mommy not."

“Even thirty seconds of careful listening"

“Mommy never gone."

“Tell that brat to shut up while IÅ‚m trying to talk to you!"

Wrong, wrong. Fury leaps into Evełs eyes. She scoops up both children as if
I were trying to stone them, the silly bitch. She hugs them tight to her chest,
breathing something from those perfect lips that might have been “Well!" or
“Ugly!" or even “Help!" Then she staggers off with both boys in her arms,
dripping water, Abel dripping seaweed.

“Put Abel down," Abel says dramatically. “Abel walk."

She does. The child looks at her. “Mommy do what Abel say!"

I go eat worms.

The third child is a girl, whom they name Sheitha.

Cain and Abel are almost grown. They help Adam with the garden dressing, the
animal naming, whatever comes up. I donłt know. Iłm getting pretty sick of the
whole lot of them. The tree still has both blossoms and fruit on the same
branch. The river still flows into four exactly equal branches just beyond the
garden: Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, Euphrates. Exactly the same number of water
molecules in each. I stop thinking Hełs theatrical and decide instead that Hełs
compulsive. I meanreally. Fish lay the exact same number of eggs in each
river.

Eve hasnłt seen Him in decades. Adam, of course, walks with Him in the cool
of every evening. Now the two boys go, too. Heaven knows what they talk about;
I stay away. Often itłs my one chance at Eve, who spends every day sewing and
changing diapers and sweeping bowers and slicing breadfruit. Her toes are still
pink curling delicacies.

“Eve, listen"

Sheitha giggles at a bluebird perched on her dimpled knee.

“Adam makes all the decisions, decides all the rules, thinks up all the
names, does all the thinking"

“So?" Eve says. “Sheithayou precious little angel!" She catches the baby in
her arms and covers her with kisses. Sheitha crows in delight.

“Eve, listen"

Miraculously, she does. She sets the baby on the grass and says seriously,
“Adam says you arenÅ‚t capable of telling the truth."

“Not his truth," I say. “Or His." But, of course, this subtlety of
pronoun goes right over her head.

“Look, snake, I donÅ‚t want to be rude. YouÅ‚ve been very kind to me, keeping
me company while I do my housework, and I appreciate"

“IÅ‚m not being kind," I say desperately. Kind! Oh, my Eve “IÅ‚m too old and
tired for kindness. IÅ‚m just trying to show you, to get you to listen"

“AdamÅ‚s back," Eve says quickly. I hear him then, with the two boys. There
is just time enough to slither under a bush. I lie there very still. Lately
Adam has turned murderous toward me; I think he must have a special
dispensation for it. He must have told Adam violence toward me doesnłt
count, because I have stepped out of my place. Which, of course, I have.

But this time Adam doesnłt see me. The boys fall into some game with thread
and polished stones. Sheitha toddles toward her daddy, grinning.

“WeÅ‚re just here to get something to eat," Adam says. “Ten minutes, is
allwhat, Eve, isnłt there anything ready? What have you been doing all
morning?"

Evełs face doesnłt fall. But her eyes deepen in color a little, like skin
that has been momentarily bruised. Of course, skin doesnłt stay bruised here.
Not here.

“IÅ‚m sorry, dear! IÅ‚ll get something ready right away!"

“Please," Adam says. “Some of us have to work for a living."

She bustles quickly around. The slim pretty fingers are deft as ever. Adam
throws himself prone into a bower. Sheitha climbs into his lap. She is as
precocious as the boys were.

“Daddy go back?"

“Yes, my little sweetie. Daddy has to go cut more sugarcane. And name some
new animals."

“Animals," Sheitha says happily. She loves animals. “Sheitha go."

Adam smiles. “No, precious, Sheitha canÅ‚t go. Little girls canÅ‚t go."

“Sheitha go!"

“No," Adam says. He is still smiling, but he stands up and she tumbles off
his lap. The food is ready. Eve turns with a coconut shell of salad just as
Sheitha is picking herself up. The baby stands looking up at her father. Her
small face is crumpled in disappointment, in disbelief, in anguish. Eve stops
her turning motion and looks, her full attention on Sheithałs face.

I draw a deep breath.

The moment spins itself out, tough as spider thread.

Eve breaks it. “AdamcanÅ‚t you take her?"

He doesnłt answer. Actually, he hasnłt even heard her. He canłt, in exactly the
same way Eve cannot hear Him in the cool of the evening.

You could argue that this exempts him from fault.

Eve picks up the baby and stands beside the bower. Fragrance rises from the
newly crushed flower petals where Adam was lying. When he and the boys have
left again, I slither forward. Eve, the baby in her arms, has still not moved.
Her head is bent. Sheitha is weeping, soft tears of vexation that will not, of
course last very long. Not here. I donłt have much time.

“Eve," I say. “Listen"

I tell her how it will be for Sheitha after she marries Cain, who is not as
sweet-tempered as his father. I tell her how it will be for Sheithałs
daughterłs daughter. I spare her nothing: not the expansion of the garden until
the home bowers are insignificant. Not the debate over whether women have
souls. Not foot-binding nor clitoridectomy nor suttee nor the word “chattel."
Sheitha, I say. Sheitha and Sheithałs daughter and Sheithałs daughterłs
daughter I am hoarse before IÅ‚m done talking. Finally, I finish, saying for
perhaps the fortieth or fiftieth time, “Knowledge is the only way to change it.
Knowledge, and truth. Eve, listen"

She goes with me to the tree. Her baby daughter in her arms, she goes with
me. She chooses a bright red apple, and she chews her mouthful so completely
that when she transfers it to Sheithałs lips, there is no chance the baby could
choke on it. Together, they eat the whole thing.

I am tired. I donłt wait around for the rest: Adamłs return, and his outrage
that she has acted without him, his fear that now she knows things he does not.
His arrival. I donłt wait. I am too tired, and my gut twists as if I
had swallowed something foul, or bitter. That happens sometimes, without my
intending it. Sometimes I eat something with a vitamin I know I need, and it
lies hard in my belly like pain.

This is not the way you heard the story.

But consider who eventually wrote that story down. Consider, too, who wiped
up the ink or scrubbed the chisel or cleaned the printing office after the
writing down was done. For centuries and centuries.

But not forever.

So this may not be the way you heard the story, but you, centuries and
centuries hence, my sisters, know better. Finally. You know, yes, about Evełs
screams on her childbed, and Sheithałs murder at the hands of her husband, and
Sheithałs daughterłs cursing of her rebellious mother as the girl climbed
willingly onto her husbandłs funeral pyre, and her daughterłs
harlotry, and her daughterłs forced marriage at age nine to a man who
gained control of all her camels and oases. You know all that, all the things I
didnłt tell poor Eve would happen anyway. But you know, tooas Eve would not
have, had it not been for me that knowledge can bring change. You sit
cross-legged at your holodecks or in your pilot chairs or on your Councils,
humming, and you finally know. Finallyit took you so fucking long to
digest the fruit of knowledge and shit it out where it could fertilize
anything. But you did. You are not stupid. Moreyou know that stupidity is only
the soul asleep. The awakened sleeper may stumble a long time in the dark, but
eventually the light comes. Even here.

I woke Eve up.

I, the mother.

So that may not be the way you heard but it is the way it happened. And now
finallyyou know.

And can forgive me.

Babbittłs Daughter

Phyllis Ann Karr

In “BabbittÅ‚s Daughter," Phyllis Ann Karr takes a wry and loving look at two
mythsone American, the other Transylvanian. Sinclair Lewisłs Babbitt would
hardly welcome Phyllis Ann KarrÅ‚s Amarantha “whose father was a Babbitt" with
open armsor veins. After all, vampires arenłt the sort of neighbors you want
on Main Street.

Or are they?

From Anne Rice, we have the image of the vampire as rock musician. Phyllis
Ann Karr gives us musicologists and activists who never drink wine and who
leave their victimsand her readerslaughing.

The question is: who has the last laugh?

“My father was a Babbitt!" Amarantha flashed back at her host.

“Well? IsnÅ‚t that in itself a rather remarkable accomplishment for a
vampire?" Still smiling calmly, Mendoza slipped his fingers beneath his guestłs
miniature snifter and carried it back to the table for a refill with the dark
cherry cordial he called homemade. “I rest my case."

“No, you donÅ‚t. YouÅ‚re getting ready to deliver more words of wisdom to help
me cope with my bereavement."

“Is that what weÅ‚re doing?" He looked around at her, fireplace light
crimsoning his almost completely silver hair. Though he still moved like a man
in the prime of life, he was an indeterminate number of years older than her
father had been.

But then, Amarantha was no schoolgirl. Her own hair held quite a bit of
silver.

“WeÅ‚re both mature enough to have read up on the recommended mental
hygienics of coping with bereavement," Mendoza complimented her, returning her
glass to the arm of her chair. “I thought we were simply reminiscing. But if
youłd like another argument, consider that by living his life out of the
closet, your father put himself up against two antagonistic mindsets: the one
that assumes all vampires are automatically evil monsters, and the one that
wants them that waythat believes any vampire who may genuinely prefer
saintliness is somehow betraying his or her very nature."

“Saintliness!" she echoed in a mocking tone. “You never saw him really pig
out."

It must have been the Christmas vacation of her frosh year at the University
of Madison with a cozy little school of higher learning in her hometown, and
both parents on its faculty, she had nevertheless insisted on going to the big
education factory down-state, hopping home only on holidays.

Anyway, she remembered the night of some party or other between Christmas
and New Yearłsprobably the Deanłs annual bash. Theyłd gotten back well after
midnight, most of the family going more or less straight to bed. After half an
hour or so, Amarantha gave up the struggle to fall asleep and got up for a book
and some warm milk.

She found her father at the refrigerator, filling a glass from the bottle of
chicken blood.

“Father!"

“Amy." Smiling at her without the least sign of shame, he reached for the
small bottle of human hemoglobin from the Bloodbank. “Enjoy the party?"

“Not as much as you did. Jesus, Father, you ate enough for the
whole Coast Guard!"

He shivered and paused, then set the Bloodbank bottle beside his glass on the
table, shut the fridge door gently but firmly, and turned to her. “Amy, donÅ‚t
throw His Name around carelessly."

“I wasnÅ‚t. I was using It to wake your conscience up. she-eesh,
Father, how can you stand there raiding the refrigerator after the way you stuffed
yourself silly all evening?"

“I did?"

“I canÅ‚t even count the number of times you kept refilling your plate. ItÅ‚s
a good thing they had so much on the buffet, or you wouldnłt have left anything
for anybody else. Jeesh, some people get embarrassed about how much their
parents drink. With me, itłs how much my father eats!"

“IÅ‚m sorry, Amy. I never intended to embarrass you."

“And please donÅ‚t call me that! You donÅ‚t like to be nicknamed. Neither do
I."

He sat down at the table, opened the Bloodbank bottle, and inserted the
medicine dropper. “I donÅ‚t like my contemporaries calling me Ä™Clem." IÅ‚ve never
minded Å‚PopÄ™ or Å‚DaddyÄ™ from my own children.“

“Well, I donÅ‚t like Ä™AmyÅ‚ from anyone. My name is Amarantha."

To be fair, her baptismal name was Teresa, and while her mother, brother,
and sister slipped back to it pretty regularly even after the formal
announcement of her new chosen name, her father never did. Even though she knew
how disappointed heÅ‚d been that she didnÅ‚t like “Teresa" for everyday wear.

“Very well. Amarantha," he said now, squeezing three drops of human into his
glass of chicken blood, hesitating, and adding two more.

She could tell he was angry. But so was she. “I donÅ‚t know why your crosses
didnłt drive you crazy!"

“Well, they didnÅ‚t." His hand went to the tiny crucifix earring in his
pierced ear. “Although this is beginning to pinch now, with the temptation to
turn you over my knee."

“For what? Being scandalized by my own fatherÅ‚s gluttony?"

He got a spoon out of the drawer and stirred his snack briskly. “IÅ‚m sorry I
scandalized you. It was a Christmas party. I wasnłt aware I was filling my
plate so often."

“Well, you were. You dress up like a movie dracula, why donÅ‚t you act like
one? Movie dracs never eat at all."

“No, they pig out on blood. If youÅ‚ve ever noticed, movie vampires drink
more than"

“At least they donÅ‚t do it in public!"

He shot her a look of real anger, and for a momentif he had been somebody
elsełs father or even her own mothershełd have been afraid he really would turn
her over his knee. Instead, being the worldłs most conscientiously saintly
vampire, he put his spoon down and said in a voice so quiet it hurt, “I already
apologized for embarrassing you, Amarantha. It happens I was hungry. Or didnłt
you notice that our hostess kept ęfoolingł me with glasses of tomato juice?"

“And you kept adding drops from peopleÅ‚s thumbs.

“Why the Ä™HÅ‚ donÅ‚t you just tell people when you see they arenÅ‚t
giving you real blood?"

“ItÅ‚s called being polite"

“Oh, affirmative! And so you go and stuff yourself silly instead, and I
suppose thatłs just ębeing polite," too, seeing you donłt get any
calories or nutrition or anything out of plain old human food.“ The words
"plain old human“ pushed one of his most sensitive buttons. She had done that
on purpose, and by his response she knew how well she managed to hide feeling
sorry about it.

“Above all other people," he answered slowly, “the members of my own family
should know Iłm as human as everybody else. If therełs nothing but water
around, a hungry human will try to fill up on water and create the illusion of
a full stomach."

“A very full stomacha gorged-to-bursting stomach. Jeesh, Pop,
can you even guess how many ordinary human beings would just love to be able to
pig out on everything in sight without putting on a millimeter around the
waistline? If eating like that in front of a bunch of people whołre going to
have to diet their souls out after the holidays is being polite"

“Amarantha!"

His hand was quivering. He set his glass down before any of its contents
sloshed out. There was a tight click when the glass met the tabletop.

“IÅ‚m sorry," he went on stiffly. “I thought she was going to have real blood
for me. I suppose that at the last minute she couldnłt get it after all. If Iłd
known, I would have drunk a glass here at home beforehand. Following St. Paulłs
advice. Then you wouldnłt have had to suffer through watching your father make
a glutton out of himself. Which I did unconsciously"

“DonÅ‚t make it sound like you were sleep-eating or something! You were
wide-awake every minute! Your usual charming self"

“Daughter! You donÅ‚t know what itÅ‚s likethank God!being hungry in the
middle of a feast, in the middle of fellow human beings enjoying mountains of
foodgourmet foodand being the only one there who canłt get anything out of it
at all except flavor and texture and false satis"

“No, I donÅ‚t know what itÅ‚s like! But I want to know! I want like Hell
to know! Come on, Father, bite me!"

“I kept asking him and asking him," she complained, almost less to Mendoza
than to herself, “and he kept telling me, "Be sure you understand what youÅ‚re
asking for.“ Lord, he was still telling me that the day I turned forty! And
now itłs too late."

“He knew the everydayness of it," said Mendoza. “He knew what it was,
circumventing pure-food rules in order to buy raw animal blood, combing your
hair or getting an eyelash out of your eye without being able to see yourself
in a mirror, keeping the conscience quiet enough not to react to holy things,
facing the occasional serious danger from bigots"

“IÅ‚d have been willing! Do you think I couldnÅ‚t see all that, just from
living in the same house? But youłd have thought I was begging for incest! Or
the power to be a screen monster. Why couldnłt he ever trust me?"

Mendoza shook his head. “Not that he didnÅ‚t trust you. It was that he didnÅ‚t
fully trust himself. His professional life was music, his spiritual life was
his family and his religion. He never felt he had the academic or scientific
credentials to make his ideas about vampirism anything more than a hobbyan
amateurłs theory that explained his own case but might not work for anybody
else. Thatłs why he never made another vampire, not even when someone begged
him for it. Not even you. Especially not the members of his own family. IÅ‚m
sure your mother lovedknew him better than to ask."

“My mother thanks to her, weÅ‚re only half Japanese, when we could have been
Purebloods!"

“Do you think youÅ‚d have existed if your mother had married someone else?
Chances are that this consciousness calling itself Amarantha Czarny Kato would
never have come into being at all But if it had, why the motherłs child any
more than the fatherłs?"

“She made us halfbloods, and he gave us the name of junior vampires without
the substance. Have you got any idea what itłs like growing up as a draculałs
daughter? Especially when your home isnłt even much different from your
friendsł homes?"

“Another accomplishment." Sipping his cordial, Mendoza gazed at the
fireplace. “Giving you the normal, middle class childhood he had missed out on.
How old was he when it happened to him? Ten? Eleven?"

“Eleven." Amarantha knew this piece of family history very well. “In the
Minnemagantic town hospital on a Sunday in July"

The first thing he remembered was the accident. A perfect swan
diveanything, he thought it shouldłve been nearly perfect this time, for a
dive from the boatand then a thud to his head about the time he was ready to
start surfacing.

He didnłt feel like he was breathing, but it was a kind of comfortable
feeling. He was still floating, only not in water anymore. Now he was drifting
along in the air above a bed in a semidarkened room with forest murals on the
walls. There was a boy in the bed, all hooked up to some kind of monitor unit.
That and the rollover bedside tray-tables and stuff like that told him it was a
hospital room.

The boy in the bed looked terrible. Like some kind of Frankensteinłs
Monster. Blackened eyes, puffy cheeks, mouth hanging open It took him awhile
to recognize himself. He wasnłt sure whether the himself in the bed was
breathing, either. If it mattered.

He mustłve bashed his head against something hard in the water. Too bad Wolf
Lake wasnłt one of those crystal-clear lakes you heard about where people could
see all the way down to count the pebbles on the bottom ten meters below. Too
bad it was one of those lakes where you lost sight of your hand when you held
it under at armłs length, and just had to take it on trust that the water was
clean and nontoxic and didnłt have hard stuff on the bottom waiting to getcha.

He wondered dreamily how much of that water hełd swallowed before Uncle Buck
and Ted and Omar got him out and rushed him here. He figured that was what must
have happened. Too bad theyłd gone to all that trouble. How come he could
remember their names and not his own?

The monitor unit seemed to be doing things, but he didnłt read Monitorese.
Some kind of antigravity was tugging him up toward the ceiling. He just let
himself go with the flow too relaxed to do anything else.

He floated through the ceiling as if it was mist, and found himself on a
huge open plain. He remembered from somewhere that there should be some kind of
long tunnel, but he was on an open plain, glowing with light that came from all
around, even up from the “ground." He thought his Guardian Angel should be
here, too, but he couldnłt see anybody. He seemed to feel someone at his back,
but whoever it was must have kept pivoting around with him when he turned.

What there were, were a lot of cities and lake resorts and elegant buildings
and mountain mini-ranges and campgrounds dotting the plain in all directions,
like the galaxy clusters at the Chicago Planetarium show, and every time he
turned around, they seemed to get closer. Especially one that looked like He
thought it looked a little like the Original Disneyland hełd never gotten to
visit.

And standing there at the gates, waving to him Dad and Mom! Looking the way
he could just barely remember them, kissing him good-bye the time they drove
off to get killed by that crazy UPS driver, only even better than theyłd looked
when they kissed him good-bye, even happier. Glowing like some of the light
was coming from inside them.

He waved back. He started trying to run to them

Something held him back. Whoever was standing behind him? Was whoever it was
giving him the old Vulcan neck pinch?

He tried to hit it away. The pinch just tightened. Actually, it felt more
like something biting him.

Mom and Dad left the gates and floated down to him.

“Oh, honey, youÅ‚re still so young!" said Mom. Only she didnÅ‚t exactly “say"
it. The words glowed out of her, like the light, and reformed themselves in his
head, tonal vibrations and all.

“What is it?" he wanted to know. “Mom, Dad, whatÅ‚s biting me?"

“Maybe youÅ‚d better get on back, son," Dad told him. “Or else a lot of
people will be pretty unhappy about you for a while. Your Mom and I can wait."

Something hard came up against his mouth. He couldnłt see it, any better than
he could see whatever had been biting him, but he could feel it, and there was
something on it.

It worked his lips apart and drops of sweet, warm, salty liquid started
falling into his mouth. He swallowed and opened his eyes.

Just like that, he was back in the hospital bed with somebody bending over
him. Someone shadowy, holding one wrist to his mouth and using the other
dark-sleeved arm for a mask.

Just that one glimpse of the faceless somebody, and then he was in Christine
Daaełs dressing room. He was Raoul de Chagny, watching Christine from the
curtained inner room, and he was also the Phantom of the Opera, Erik himself,
singing to her through the walls, and he may have been Christine, too. But
mainly he was seeing things through Raoulłs eyes, following Christine as she
walked toward her back wall, the wall that was one huge mirror. He could see
her front in the mirror better than he could see her back that was right in
front of him. Her eyes were huge, and there were two trickles of blood at the
corners of her mouth. Her skin was as pale gray as if they were in one of the
old black-and-white movies instead of the original novel. He couldnłt see
himself in the mirror because he was right in back of her, and her reflection
completely covered his.

The dressing room was longer and longer, like a football field like the
time line of the history of the universe and they kept on walking, and
walking, and walking, with her getting bigger and bigger in the mirror until he
didnłt see how she could get any bigger, and meanwhile he kept on singing his
opera to her, the opera Erik was composing about Don Juan triumphing over all
the powers of Hell

She was touching the giant mirror, putting her arms through it. He reached
out to hug her from behind and pull her backshe shattered into a zillion
Christines, each tiny new Christine a facet in a huge mirror-tile globe
spinning around and around, faster and faster, tinkling till it white-noised
out his music.

And then, when it stopped and the mirror wall settled down again, like the
lake smoothing out he couldnłt see himself at all.

He was in Erikłs torture chamber, the little room with six walls and every
one of them an identical mirror, reflecting each other over and over again
until nobody could ever count all the reflections. There was a whole crowd of
people in there with him well, maybe just two or three, but they looked like a
whole crowd, an endless mob of the same two or three faces reflected over and
over everywhere except he couldnłt find his own face anywhere! And he
finally understood how a person could go crazy in the Phantom of the Operałs
mirror torture chamber

Christine Daae sang, “He becomes a living dead man."

Her voice woke him up. His motherłs antique hand mirror with the pearly
plastic frame was lying on the hospital bedside tray table. He reached for the
mirror, picked it up trembling, made sure he had the mirror side toward him,
and looked in.

He saw the dent his head was making in the pillow, and a little bloodstain
on the pillowcase down near the lower edge. His head wasnłt in the reflection
at all.

Still watching the mirror, he used his other hand to feel his neck and the
corners of his mouth. Blood, both places. He could see it on his fingers, but
he couldnłt see either it or his fingers in the mirror. Just the pillow
changing shape as he moved around.

He popped his fingers in his mouth and licked them clean before anybody came
in and saw them. He could feel his eyeteeth growing long and sharp already. The
bloodstain on the pillowcase must have come out of his neck before any blood
from the dark shapełs wrist got into his mouth.

His motherłs mirror slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor. Its
bounce echoed on and on and on like Christine Daaełs song in his brain. A
vague recollection came to him that Aunt Cele had Momłs old hand mirror down in
Indiana. That meant it couldnłt be up here. He was still dreaming

It didnłt make any difference. Some dreams were true. This one was. Not
about his motherłs mirror and maybe not about the blood on his pillow. But
true in what it was telling him.

He had seen his own face for the last time in his life a few minutes ago
when hełd been floating in the air above his body. All puffy and bruisedwhat a
last sight to get of your own face! And that was it, that was the last hełd
ever be able to see of it live

He guessed hełd have to buy a portrait from one of those sidewalk artists
every so often.

It seemed a stupid thing to worry about on top of everything else, but Hełd
known Erikłs whole Don Juan Triumphant when he was singing it in the
dream, and the hospital people came rushing in just as he finally started
trying to get it back. Well, maybe it wouldłve been too late, anyway.

“I hadnÅ‚t been aware he was an orphan at the time," Mendoza commented. “He
missed out on a normal family childhood in more ways than one."

“I never had any paternal grandparents to go visit and be spoiled by,
either. Thanks to that speeding UPS truck years before I was born And then to
have a truck get him, too! Exactly the same way it would have gotten
anybody else who happened to be in that crossing when it jumped the red light."

“A crossroads, of sorts," Mendoza said musingly. “To have spent most of his
life under a mild phobia of the stake, and then"

“At least it wasnÅ‚t driven through his heart until afterward." All the same,
Amarantha shut her eyes for a moment, involuntarily reliving the horror of the
desecration. And she hadnłt even seen his body until after Farwellłs Funeral
Home had cosmeticized away all traces of that last indignity as well as most of
what the speeding truck had done. “He wouldnÅ‚t have cared then, not when he was
already dead," she reminded her host and herself.

“No, I suppose not. Considering the instructions he left for having his body
cremated."

“He didnÅ‚t even want to test whether or not he could be brought back to
life!" She wished he had left them room to try resuscitating him. Dying in your
early seventies was premature even for ordinary people nowadays, and slowly as her
father had been aging, he could have looked forward to twenty or thirty more
years of fully active life.

“I think he came to welcome the irreversibility of change," Mendoza
remarked. “Once he became reconciled to the fact that, as far as anyone has been
able to discover, there is no way to get back to not being a vampire, any other
than any of us can get back to babyhood or adolescence or virginity why look
for death to be any less permanent? Whatever happens to our consciousness after
deathand he for one believed that it survives the bodythe way to grow is by
stepping from change to change, not by slipping backward, even if and when
slipping backward might be possible."

She was only half listening. “Almost the only thing we had left from my
fatherÅ‚s parents," she said, “was an antique manger set that had been his
grandmotherłs. Maybe even his great-grandmotherłs. Iłm not sure exactly what
itłs made of. Some kind of plaster, I think. Lord, I used to love that old set!
One of my biggest thrills every Christmas was unwrapping the little figures and
setting them up, one by one. Until that one year I must have been about six or
seven. I think it was during one of those phases Pop went through now and then
where hełd try wearing something else than the old vampire ęhabitł for a day or
two. I seem to remember him in blue trousers and a blue pullover sweater with
snowflakes that evening.

Anyway, thatłd explain why I didnłt notice right away that hełd taken off
his crosses“

He guessed that a thirty-seven-year-old tenured professor with three growing
children should know better by now. Wearing anything else than his traditional
Lugosi-style opera suit and cape had the tang of hypocrisy, and always seemed
to bring on a major or minor crisis. Why did he keep deciding, every few years,
that all the times before had been pure coincidence, and try again?

It didnłt help that this time the first colleague he encountered in the
faculty lounge of the Music School was Dave Groves.

“Say, old bloodsucker, whatÅ‚s happening? Planning to sneak up unsuspected on
some new nick beneath the mistletoe, are we?"

“Well, you know. The eve of a new decade, time for a new image"

“Uh-unh, old bean." The know-it-all wink that was the younger
professorÅ‚s specialty. “New decade doesnÅ‚t start till sixty-one. The year
ending in ęzeroł still belongs to the old decade. Take it from me, donłt let
that subject loose on your students. Stick with what you know."

“Thanks for the stray gem from your encyclopedic knowledge, Dave, but if I
took a vote on it, IÅ‚d bet ninety-eight percent of my students would say the
Sixties begin a little more than a week from now." Ordinarily, Clement would
have shut his mouth on a comeback like that; but out of vampire habit he felt
looser, more like everybody elsethe people who could sin to their heartsł
content without any inconvenient physical side effects.

“Ninety-eight percent?" Pushing up his lower lip, Groves shook his head.
“No, I canÅ‚t believe the level of misinformation is that high. Tell you what,
Iłll just take you up on that bet for oh, letłs say a dollar or two."

“LetÅ‚s say three," the vampire answered stiffly, and his miniature
white-gold crucifix sent a twinge through his pierced earlobe at this display
of stubborn pride. He ignored it.

Then he ran into Jane Hoffman in the hall and watched her expression flicker
from lack of recognition to the kind of look that could still make him wonder,
even after all these years of doing it mirrorless, if hełd combed his hair
crooked or missed a patch of beard while shaving.

Without waiting for the tactful comment he could see she was trying to
formulate about his change of dress, he fell back on his second line of
defense: “Well, you know, my two oldest are getting to the age where itÅ‚s hard
enough figuring out what to get the old man for Christmas. Just thought IÅ‚d let
them have the option other kids have of choosing Pop something loud and
sporty."

The gray-haired doctor of music bestowed on him a sage nod. “I see. Very
commendable. All the same, Dr. Czarny,"Clementłs doctorate was still pending,
but Jane Hoffmanłs way of democratizing her title was giving it out gratis to
almost every colleague“if I might offer a word of fashion advice the silver
filigree cross is striking on your usual outfit, but I wouldnłt wear it with
that sweater."

“No? I thought it matched the snowflakes pretty well."

“ItÅ‚s hardly visible against the pale blue. And when a person looks closely
enough to see it, it seems out of place. Much too formal for its background.
On your usual shirt, itłs elegant. On that sweater, just an extraneous dangle
of jewelry."

“I see. Thank you." Lifting the cross on its chain, he dropped it between
his new sweater and the matching blue shirt he wore beneath. Through a single
layer of thin cotton, it felt remarkably warm. He monitored his thoughts, found
angry resentment toward Dr. Hoffman with her “fashion advice," and tried to
leave it behind in the echo of his footprints on the tile floor. The whole
reason he wore the cross was to help him avoid anger, not rouse it.

His necklace and earring had both cooled by the time he reached the lecture
room, only to heat up again in the stress of dealing with his “Music
Appreciation I" class. The Friday before Christmas break turned out to be one
of the worst days in the year he could have chosen to break out of habit.
Whether it was the coming vacation that made the students act more like high
school than university freshmen and sophomores, or whether his usual vampire
costume inspired more awe than he suspected, discipline fell apart. A few of
the naturally better-behaved kids complimented their prof on his new clothes,
but most of the students apparently took the change of costume as a signal to
go slaphappy.

It did not improve matters that seven of the thirty-fouran easy twenty
percentchose to vote in favor of beginning the new decade in ęsixty-one.

Discipline-wise, the dayłs second class was, if anything, worse. The kids
didnłt even quiet down when he signaled his anger by making a show of removing
the crucifix from his ear and putting it away in the case his oldest daughter
had petit-pointed for it, usually a surefire trick for reining them in. It
seemed that when he was out of vampire costume, they no longer so much as
pretended to take the vampirish temper seriously.

And the earring had definitely needed removing by then.

The third class comprised mostly juniors and seniors, but today they were
the worst of all. He gave up trying to siphon “Advanced Theory" into their
brains and let the period disintegrate early into the ęsixty-versusł-sixty-one
argument the grapevine had obviously prepared them to expect.

At least, when all three classes were added together, the total percentage
voting for ęsixty-one fell several points. Not enough: all Groves needed was
three percent who saw the new decade thing his way, and he still had more than
quadruple that.

Meanwhile, between classes, Prof Czarnyłs office hours brought in one
legitimate counseling problem, one simple headacheBob Wilde arguing about his
latest grade again (if Wilde would put half the time into studying that he put
into arguing with every teacher about his grades), and one frosh lad from
Engineering School, not even a student the vampire had ever seen close-up
before, wanting confidential tips on “how to give a girl a real, topflight
hickey."

Somebody or other hit with this hickey business several times a year. Young
women had even solicited him to give them one in person. Occasionally older
women, too, and oncehe still cringed to think of it a young man. It could
take half an hour to convince them that being a vampire did not automatically
make someone an expert in hickeys, that, in fact, Professor Czarny, mindful of the
awkwardness and possible danger from his fangs, had never given one to anybody.
Today it took the full hour, and the engineering student left for his next
class still looking unconvinced, as if he might come back.

It was immediately after that visit that Clement pulled the cross up from
beneath his sweater and took it off completely. He wished he had taken it off
an hour or two earlier. If things kept on the way theyłd been going, hełd have
to work twice as hard at self-restraint without the alarm system on his temper,
but he thought the holy symbol was starting to blister his skin through the
thin cloth shirt.

He knew from experience that the cloth itself would be undamaged. That was
something, anyway.

Trying to unwind between his scheduled office hours and the late-afternoon
opera committee meeting, he again encountered Dave Groves in the faculty
lounge, where Groves seemed to spend the better part of almost every school
day.

In one way, it was just as well. The vampire would have hated having this
matter of the bet hanging over the entire Christmas break or, even worse,
cropping up at some holiday party. But in another way, it was the last thing he
needed to cap off the dayłs irritations.

“Oh, yes! David," he began at once, fumbling carefully with his money clip,
before the younger man could broach the subject. “You won. Congratulations." He
twitched out a pinchful of bills, eventually extracted three singles, and held
them out between little finger and ring finger while putting the extra currency
away with as much dignity as he could manage.

“I did?" Groves returned, pretending surprise but sounding smug about it as
he accepted the money. “By how much?"

“It totaled out to fourteen percent seeing it your way."

“That high, eh? Well, I know you, Clem. You probably bent over backward to
be fair. Overstated my case until they thought they were voting the way you
wanted." Another know-it-all wink. “YouÅ‚d make a lousy courtroom lawyer, you
old bloodsucker."

Actually, quite a few people had told Clement, throughout his life, that
hełd have made a fine courtroom lawyer. They used to beg him, back in his
student days, to go out for the Debate Team. Maybe the dracula costume had a
lot to do with that, too; he certainly didnłt seem to have the touch today. In
fact, he suspected most of that fourteen percent had voted for ęsixty-one in
order to annoy him, guessing or having heard where hełd put his money. But
there was no way he would share that thought with Groves. “Thank you, David,"
he replied instead. “I take it as a compliment to be told how fair and
impartial I am to an opponentłs viewpoint. Might not be much good as a
courtroom lawyer, but Iłd have made a fine judge, wouldnłt you say?"

It was one of the dayłs few victories-out-of-defeat. But it sent him to the
opera committee meeting with a nagging doubt about taking too much pride in an
irate comeback.

The meeting would have been grim enough if hełd gone into it with a quiet
conscience. The Ives triumvirate obviously came prepared to do full battle for Tannhauser.
Dean Ives because he wanted his latest Met-material protege in the lead,
Grundman because he was the deanłs pet yes-man, and Lomax because she was
clearly itching to direct it in the same lurid style she had directed Lulu
and The Three penny Opera.

Dr. Hoffman sat back saying little except for the occasional comment to
second whoever had spoken last. Clement found himself holding out alone for the
piece that they should have done this December, and that Ives had been
promising to do “next term" for the last three years, RossiniÅ‚s Cenerentola.

“You just want to sing the valet," said Lomax.

“I do not! Tom Harringan would be almost ideal in that part." If theyÅ‚d done
it when Clement had first suggested it, they could have cast Rico Sforzi, who
was born for such roles; but Sforzi had gone on to Juilliard last year.

“You did Papageno four or five years back," Lomax pointed out.

Dr. Hoffman put in, “Superbly, too. But only because Sforzi sprained his
ankle the day before we opened."

“La Cenerentola," said Dean Ives, “is more of a Christmas piece. I
should have thought, Czarny, that youłd approve a highly moral work such as Tannhauser,
especially falling as close to Easter as this springłs opera will."

Moral? With the Venusburg sequence, and not impossibly the music contest as
well, staged by Sally Lomax in the style of a skin flick? “If you want a piece
with an edifying moral," Clement said carefully, hoping Lomax could restrain
herself with Mozart, “letÅ‚s do The Marriage of Figaro."

“We just did Mikado this month," said the deanÅ‚s yes-man Grundman,
shaking his head. “CanÅ‚t do two light comedies in a row."

“The whole theme of Figaro is forgiveness! You canÅ‚t put it in the
same category as Mikado. But if you want something heavy," Clement
argued, “why not Don Giovanni?"

Lomax said, “You just want to sing the valet."

The vampire slipped off his rings and put them in his pocket, away from his
skin. Even though silver and gold hadnłt been counted as particularly sacred
metals for years, the bands were starting to constrict and burn his fingers.

In the end, the committee compromised on Tannhauser with a three to
one vote, Dr. Hoffman abstaining.

Sunlight almost never gave Clement trouble but, considering his mood by the
time he got out of the building, he was glad today was one of the shortest days
of the year, with the sun already safely set. He hoped they werenłt having
spaghetti or anything else with garlic for dinner. Tonight, unless he could
simmer down quickly, even garlicforgotten though its ancient holy symbolism
wasmight react on him. And he felt too tired to shake out of the anger groove
and simmer down quickly.

Tired in mind and soul, but in body he was so full of angry energy that he
covered the ten-minute walk home in six minutes.

He opened the door and heard his two oldest in the dining room having a
teenage squabble about singing stars as they slammed silverware on the table.
Shutting his eyes, he shouted, “IÅ‚m home!" in some faint hope of sidetracking
the argument before it finished the ruination of his nerves.

“Daddy! Daddy!" That was Terry, his youngest, pattering out to meet him on
her first-graderłs legs.

He stooped to sweep her up in his arms. Her little fists hit the back of his
neck with a stabbing, searing pain.

He jerked, stifling a scream, desperate to keep his grip on the child.
Something hit the floor with more of a crunch than a crash. The little girl
gave a wail that brought the rest of the family.

“Uh-oh," said Solly, picking up the pieces. “YouÅ‚re gonna catch it now,
Terry. The Christ Child from Popłs old manger set. How often do we have to tell
you, donłt run around with breakables in your hands!"

Oh. For a few confused seconds, Clement had wondered how his child could run
around with anything that hot in her bare fingers.

One of the last, most precious mementos they had of his parents

“Forget it, Solly," the vampire told his son. “Let Terry alone. The key
figure of a manger set is as much a holy symbol as a crucifix is, and your
father has had a very hassling day. Donłt make it any worse."

“He never punished me for it," Amarantha remembered softly. “Mother wasnÅ‚t
able to mend it, so we had to heap a handkerchief up over a tiny little cloth
doll in the manger to make it look as if the Christ Child was all covered up.
And we never found a replacementwe checked every antique shop, secondhand
store, and yard sale for years. But he never punished me."

Mendoza remarked, “When he could get people to accept him as a vampire, they
wouldnłt accept him as a human being. I doubt that very many at all, outside
his own family and closest friends, could ever accept him as both at once."

“IÅ‚ve just understood something," Amarantha went on. “Losing that figurine
must have cost him more than it cost me. But he never even scolded me about it.
I think he took all the blame on himself." She rose. “May I use your"

“Down the hall and across from the bedroom."

When she came back to the combination living-dining room, she observed, “You
have a very nice mirror in there."

“IÅ‚d have said a very ordinary one. It serves its purpose."

“I was beginning to suspect You may call this silly! only, when I didnÅ‚t
see mirrors anywhere else in your home"

“Not everyone hangs them everywhere. People expect one above the bathroom
sink, however. You always had one in each of your bathrooms, didnłt you?"

“Yes," she admitted, “but we had four plain, ordinary people in the house.
You live alone."

He smiled. “I have guests from time to time. More cherry cordial?"

“No, thank you. My glass is still half-full." She sat and sipped a moment in
silence, lowering the level of cordial by a millimeter or two, before speaking
again. “M. Mendoza, is my fatherÅ‚s theory correct?"

“Most of it, I believe," he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. “Possibly
all of it."

“Then vampirism really is a state of heightened sensitivity to
holiness?" She felt that her eyes were shining.

“Well, I never suffered quite as much inconvenience with religious symbols
as your father did on his worst days. But then, I never developed conscience to
such a fine, gnat-straining art."

“But youÅ‚ve spent your life being heroically good!" she protested. “Working
for Greenpeace, Amnesty, all those movements for human and animal and planetary
rights"

“Only because I lacked the courage to do what my son and your father
didcome out of the closet and live openly and honestly. It isnłt that I lack a
conscience, Amarantha. Itłs that I lacked whatever it takes to live life in its
little, everyday, Babbitt fulfillments and frustrations. "HeroismÄ™ has simply
been my way of coping on a grand scale, quieting my conscience by overpaying
for any petty little peccadillos I may commit.“

“Your son"

“In a manner of speaking. My foster son, if you prefer."

“Did he ever know it was you?"

“Not so far as I can tell. Anyway, I never confessed it to him. IÅ‚ve
sometimes wondered if he ever had his secret suspicions, the way I used to step
in and guardian-angel him from time to time. Never with advice about our
condition, of course. He was my teacher there, whether or not he ever guessed
that his theories might apply to me personally."

“He liked to think," Amarantha said slowly, “that whoever made him a vampire
did it to save his life."

Her host shook his head. “I was just a teenager myself at the time, still
experimenting, prowling around hospitals in search of meals I could sneak from
comatose patients when nobody else was in the room.

Your fatherłs blood had a good, fresh tang. I donłt know if it was my
drinking that almost pushed him over the edge, or if it was just coincidence,
but when I noticed what the monitors were doing, I had an instant remorse
attack. I jabbed my wrist vein and stuffed it in his mouth as an emergency
measure to repair the damage I guessed IÅ‚d done.“

She asked, “Then it was a complete accident, his being a vampire?"

“Oh, IÅ‚d probably already come across the idea that itÅ‚s the sharing of
blood between vampire and victim that does the trick, but I doubt I remembered
it at the crucial moment. I think that giving him my vein to suck was simply
the first way that occurred to my green brain to pour back some of the blood
IÅ‚d just taken out of him. Crucifixes bothered me for several days afterward,
especially when I heard that heÅ‚d gone vampire, too." Mendoza smiled. “My
conscience may not be as fussy as your fatherłs, but itłs kept me out of any
really serious evildoing ever since."

She finally admitted, “His got a little less fussy after the midlife crisis
years. Enough to stop nagging him about having been pushed to the limit by
other people. Still, to have a built-in alarm system Thatłs all I ever wanted
from him. To be forced to hold myself in check. Lord knows I donłt like
flying off the handle, saying hurtful things, weltering in angry thoughts Why
wouldnłt he ever trust me with the gift?"

Instead of repeating arguments, Mendoza asked, “After living with him, can
you really think it makes it that easy?"

“M. Mendoza, youÅ‚re as much my grandfather as his father. If it hadnÅ‚t been
for you, IÅ‚d never have been born."

“If it hadnÅ‚t been for an infinity of circumstances, none of us would have been
born, and a totally different set of people would be inhabiting the universe."

She had appropriated some of the old medical blood test lancets her father
used to carry for soliciting drops from peoplełs thumbs. She had a few in her
pocket now. Pulling one out, she jabbed it into her thumb and squeezed half a
dozen drops into her cherry cordial, then got up to set both glass and lancet
on the table beside her host.

He looked at her. “Determined, arenÅ‚t you?"

“ItÅ‚s what IÅ‚ve wanted ever since I was a little girl. If my fatherÅ‚s theory
is correct, this should work as well as any actual biting and body-to-body
sucking."

“All that is needed is sharing the blood. The possible origin of all
blood-brotherhood and sisterhood rituals almost sacramental in its pure
simplicity." He picked up her glass and frowned into it for several seconds,
twirling it slowly by the stem. Setting it down at last, he ignored the lancet,
got a case of needles from his pocket, extracted one, and used it on his thumb.
He squeezed three or four drops into his own half-drunk cordial, laid the
needle crosswise over the lancet, and touched the rim of his glass lightly to
hers. The crystal ping sounded clear in the silent moment.

He lifted the glass with Amaranthałs blood to his lips and drained it, wiped
his lips on his handkerchief, and returned her gaze. After another moment, he
nodded and gestured at her glass seasoned with his blood. “In my
foster-grandfatherly way, IÅ‚m going to leave you alone five minutes with that
and your fatherłs memory. If you think that, wherever he is, he would be ready
to trust you with ęthe giftł now the choice belongs to you."

Remedia Amoris

Judith Tarr

Readers know Judith Tarr as the author of meticulously researched and
gorgeously crafted historical fantasies like Alamut and The Dagger
and the Cross. More recently, she has moved into Macedon and Egypt with Lord
of the Two Lands and Throne of Isis, about Alexander the Great
and his equally charismatic descendant, Cleopatra.

Like Katharine Kerr, Judith is a writer who is usually so busy with novels
that we donłt get enough of her short fiction.

Fortunately, in her nonexistent spare time, she has remedied this situation
to some degree; and readers are finding in short stories by Judith Tarr a wry,
ribald, and even gonzo streaknowhere more than here. I think that Ovid, her
inspiration, would understand if he wasnłt laughing too hard.

I stumbled onto it. Staggered. Cock first and no mistake, skin full of the
old Falernian, and Whatsername shrieking and whacking me with her thyrsus just
hard enough to keep me good and hard, which was all in the game, and the old
bitch-goddess should have known it.

Dear Mother Three-Face Hecate wouldnłt know a good game if it tupped her
from behind.

So there we were, tumbling on the grass, mooncup swelled and brimming over,
me-cup getting near it, and Lalage, or was it Phyllis, paying top-of-the-lungs
tribute to her Bacchantełs vows. She was just about through the Third
Twist-and-Shriek, and shełd winked at me once when the moon caught her eye. And
the silence crashed down on us.

They ran up to thirteen in full coven. Tonight they were down to three, but
three were enough when they were Threefold Hecate. Maiden was ripe-fig sweet
and dripping honey, and when I was done with Phyllis IÅ‚d make a run for her.
Mother was a little off the peak and bellyful of baby. Crone was Crone
incarnate.

Maiden was horrified. Mother was indignant. Crone was in midcurse and not
pleased to be interrupted. Maiden swept in and rescued Phyllis, or maybe Lalage,
and fine thanks she got: Lalage, or maybe Phyllis, crowned her neatly with the
thyrsus, told her what she could do with her maidenhead, and cut for the deep
cover. Mother made a leap for the altar and raised a pitchy smoke. Crone stood
over meno will in me to move, even if IÅ‚d been able, and every bit of me as
limp as the old hagłs dugs. She reached out her staff and tested it. I couldnłt
even flinch.

Maiden came up behind her. “Faun," she said in the sweet severe way they
have before they know a man. “Faun, you were mad to have come here."

My tongue was my own; just about all of me that was. “Fauns are mad by
nature," I said. I tried to grin. Insouciance, old Silenus always told us,
drives the ladies wild.

I donłt think he meant this kind of wild.

Mother was chanting through her smokes and lighting them with bits of fire.
The purple was particularly fine. It made me think of once-dyed Tyrian.

I told her so. She paid no attention to me. Crone prodded me again with her
staff. No more life there than before. Maiden said, “You are a very shallow
creature. Drunk as a sponge, raping anything that moveshave you no more use in
life but that?"

“I eat," I said helpfully. “Lots. I play the pipes. I herd sheep for old
Mopsus, up by Volaterrae, and I leave the ewes alone. Nymphs are better. And
Bacchantes." I showed her my best smile. “And witches?"

She shuddered. “He is dreadful," she said.

Crone nodded with too much satisfaction. “And he profaned our rite." She
stopped prodding my jewels, for which I was properly grateful, but her
expression was nothing to comfort a poor lonely Faun. She turned round toward
the altar. In a moment, so did Maiden.

They had their backs to me. I thought of crawling away. The best I managed
was a flop onto my face and a scrabble in the grass. My tail hurt. My head hurt
worse.

The three weird women raised their voices. Most of it was nonsense, and some
was no language I ever knew, but enough was decent speech that I knew IÅ‚d not
been forgotten. They were cursing me, as Mopsus would say, right proper.
Starting with the tip of my left horn and working down to the point of my right
hoof, with stops between. Somehow I was standing upright, and that meant all of
me. Pipes in hand, too. Just about ready to play.

The marching-drums in my head had stopped. So had the throb in my tail. I
felt cool. And smooth. And chiseled clean. Marmoreal, for a fact.

“So mote it be," said Crone. She stood in front of me. She was smiling. I
would have closed my eyes if I could. That was nothing IÅ‚d be doing, for a
while.

“Be so," Crone said. “Be bound forever as the stonebrain that you are."

“ItÅ‚s only just," said Mother, “for a ravisher of maidens."

Maidens! I would have howled, if theyłd left me with a voice. Those were
good lusty Bacchantes, and fine chases they led, too, and all the Rites in
order, and if a lad was new to it, then theyłd help him along.

But Mother never heard me. “Stand for all of time as you stand now, with
your phallus for a luck piece."

“Perhaps we should have made him a fountain," mused Crone. “He might have
been more entertaining."

“Oh," said Maiden, and her voice could melt my heart, even turned to stone.
“Oh, the poor thing. Were we too severe, do you think? ShouldnÅ‚t we just let
him stay for a while, and then let him go? He only did what Fauns are born to
do."

“And who was first to curse him for it?" Mother inquired.

Maiden blushed and hung her head. “I let my temper get the better of it. I
confess it. You helped me," she said. “DonÅ‚t say you didnÅ‚t."

“Very well," said Crone, and she was impatient, but even she was hardly
proof against Maiden. “A witch who weakens her curse with codicils is a fool,
but we are all born fools. You, Faun! For this Maidenłs sakeand do remember
it, if you are capable of such refinementI offer you one escape. Marble you
are, and marble you shall be, and your fate shall be to watch unsleeping, until
two mortals shall come before you, and show themselves true lovers."

“None of this reckless ravishment," Mother said, “or she-wolf with her flesh
for hire. True love, and true lovers, and goodwill toward you who watch."

“This is excessive!" Maiden protested. “Love comes, and comes true, but
goodwill for a marble Faun?"

“ThereÅ‚s no changing it now," said Crone. “ItÅ‚s spoken and itÅ‚s done. When
true love comes, he shall be free."

Maiden sighed, but she had no more objections. I had a worldful, and a
tongue as hopeless-heavy as only stone can be.

“IronÅ‚s worse," said Crone. She rubbed my best manfor luck, what else? And
I felt it, no doubt about that, and not a whit of good it did me.

The moon was down. Dawn was coming. They went about their business, all
three. Only Maiden looked back. She sighed. So would I have done, if I could.
All those might-have-beens.

II

It was against nature. A Faun was never loot; a Faun did the looting. But a
Faun was never marble, either, and here was I, and there were they, big
flapping man-shaped vultures with a lust for statuary. Never a whisper of True
Love, not that IÅ‚d seen any in my groveFauns stopped going there, once it got
about that Iłd chased my last sweet Bacchante, and witches didnłt bring their
lovers, except to give them to the goddess. I was a rack for their cloaks and a
prop for their spells, and they rubbed me for luck when they left.

Then the men in armor came, and it was true, what Crone said. Marble was a
cold still way to spend onełs years, but iron was worse. They loaded me in a
wagon and carried me away. Rubbing me, of course, for luck, and making
comparisons. The sculpture was a jester, they said. Nobody was hung like that.

I could have shown them something, if theyłd happened into the deep cover
when there was a bacchanal.

The wagon creaked and rattled and came skinned-teeth close to chipping a
piece off my left horn, but in the end it brought me whole into the City.

That was what they called it. The City. Roma Dea, Roma MaterOld Rome she
wasnłt yet, and to listen to them youłd swear shełd never be. They set me up in
the middle of her, in a garden as wide as half Campania, and I had my own glade
in it, my own oak tree for shade, my own fountain to stand over. So Crone had
her wish after all. I didnłt piddle forever into a pool, but I stood in the
middle of one. If the air was still, I could glimpse my reflection.

It stopped people rubbing me, which I was glad of. The few who tried, had to
wade through the pool to do it, and they were too drunk to go halfway before
they slipped and fell in.

A philosopher had a school for a while in my treełs shade. Most of what he
said was arrant nonsense, but it made good chewing over. Two separate sets of
assassins plotted under my nose. I never did learn whether they got their man.
There were always poets yelling at the Muse, and mothers yelling at their children,
and children yelling for the joy of it.

And lovers. Lovers in scores. Every one swore undying love, and every one
left me as mutely marble as before. One hanged herself from a branch of my
tree. That was a pity. Shełd been a tender young thing till her father found
out shełd been tumbling with his secretary. Since the secretary was supposed to
be a eunuch, it was a scandal to put it mildly. He was a eunuch sure when they
killed him. She told me all about it before she knotted up her mantle and threw
it over the convenient branch; and not a word I could say to stop her. They
buried her with the proper rites, but her ghost hung about still, not saying
anything, just sitting by my pool and keeping me company.

While I was the witchesł marble Faun, Iłd soaked up enough sorcery to make
me glow like the moon, and enough over that to damp me down again. Not that I
could do much with it with no tongue to say the spells and no hands to make the
gestures, but the sight it gave never left me. I could see the cords that bound
the world. They ruled the moon in its course. They stirred the wind, and made
my tree grow, and wove as rich as Arachnełs web round the mortals who passed me
by. Even I was part of it. On me it was like chains and lightchains for the
curse, light for the magic I was steeped in. Nobody but witches, and I, could
see it.

There were colors in it, every color that was and some that IÅ‚d never
conceived of. When they were clearest, my world was calmest. When they went
dark, I braced myself for the storm. They were blood-black when Cornelia hanged
herself on my tree, knotted and tangled like a witchłs hair.

Once she was a ghost, she saw the web as well as I. Sometimes she played
with it. She could smooth a knot if it was not too tangled, and stroke a gray
thread silver. She stopped a loversł quarrel so, and they went away arm in arm,
though they didnłt set me free.

We settled in together, the ghost and I, and maybe she was happythough if
she had been, surely shełd have gone where the joyful dead go.

When the moon was full, the worldłs web was bright enough to run a revel by.
A few had done it in my glade, but theyłd grown tired, or the world was in one
of its gray times. Those came, and mercifully went. The bloodred times were
worse, and the black ones were worst of all; but gray had its own drab
charmlessness. Everyone was stiffly proper then, the philosophers were all
Stoics and the women were all chaste, and when they noticed me at all, they
disapproved. “Greek luxury," they muttered. “Eastern corruption." And I a good
Italian Faun, straight out of Etruria.

This gray time was turning bloody. There was a new cult, and the more of its
believers they disposed of, the more there seemed to be. They multiplied like a
Hydrałs head, said the scholar who droned to his yawning students under my
tree. They were unshakably stubborn. They would not sacrifice peaceably to any
gods but theirs, and who was he to keep them all to himself? The Senator who
liked to walk through my garden in his mob of friends and hangers-on, could not
see why they should be so obstinate. It was a matter of form, no more.
Sacrifice to Romełs gods, give the nod to Romełs power, go about their
business. There was nothing in it about believing in the gods. A manłs
mind was his own. After all.

Hełd never seen Triune Hecate in a snit, or spied on chaste Diana while she
rested from a huntand if that was chastity, then mortals were worse fools than
IÅ‚d taken them for. She might guard her maidenhead with chains of adamant, but
she liked her slim young lads, and her lissome lasses, too.

Not that he ever asked me. He went his way, and I watched the sun go down,
and the moon came up, heavy and full. The worldłs web was as dark as wine, and
pulsed like a heart. Cornelia shivered under the oak. Even the moonłs light
couldnłt lure her as far as the pool.

They came by ones and twos as the witches used to do, ragged like the
witches, too, and by the nick of an ear or the gleam of a collar, more than one
of them was a slave. Some started when they saw me, and made signs against
evil. The same man always comforted them. He was as ragged as the worst, the
top of his head shaved in the slavełs tonsure, and one ear missing. He sat
beside my pool where Cornelia liked to sit. He was obviously a city slave, and
he had a gladiatorłs scars, but he carried a shepherdłs crook. It made me think
of Mopsus. Long dead, gods rest him, and he never had forgiven me for getting
myself cursed the night before I was supposed to move his sheep to the winter
pasture.

This was a strange shepherd. He said that mortals were his sheep. He was
deadly earnest about it. When my glade was full and there were rustlings in the
hedge that marked a posting of guards, he stood up.

Most of what he said was nonsense, and none of it was good philosophy. It
dawned on me early that this was the cult the Senator spoke of, and meeting in
his favorite garden, too. When the man with the crook had talked for a while,
and told them all about the devilby that he meant mewhom their god had
vanquished, and done the maddest thing Iłd seen yet, wrapped me in somebodyłs
sweat-stinking cloak, they set up an altar. I waited to see who would die on
it, but no one did. They took bread and called it flesh, and took wine and
called it blood, and by grim black Styx they believed it.

Somewhere in their rite, Cornelia crept out from her shadow. She looked as
starkly terrified as she had before she died, but there was hope in her face,
too, and a desperate longing. I wanted to shout at her. I couldnłt speak, no
more than I could when she died. They ate their magicked bread and drank their
magicked wine, and the web was throbbing and knotting, and its colors were mad.
I donłt think they even knew what powers they raised. My witches would have
been appalled. Pure lack of discipline, and magic that snagged the world-web
till it frayed.

Cornelia drifted like a leaf in a sharp wind, and no more power to stop
herself, either. Just before she touched the altar, she hesitated; or the web
held her, tangling around her. She reached through it. The priest was just
raising the cup to his lips to drain the last of the wineraw stuff, nothing
like my good Faleraian. Her shadow of a hand curved around the cup. He felt it,
felt something; and started. A drop of the awful wine spilled on her wrist.

She went up like a torch. White light so bright even my eyes were dazzled.
Her faceit showed no fear at all, no pain. Later I named it, to give my grief
a center. Exultation.

The mortals never saw. She was gone, gone right out of the world, and they
were oblivious. Their rite went on. The web was quieter now, as if Cornelia had
taken some of its power with her. Its knots and tangles were smoother, and more
of its gray was silver.

They took their altar and their magics, and relieved me of the ridiculous
cloak, and went away. I had my glade to myself again. All to myself. No gentle
ghost to sit by my pool and smile. No quiet undemanding company with eyes to
see what I was.

The slave-fanatics never came back, either, not as they were that night.
Their cult grew into Romełs cult, and all the old gods died. I felt them go as
Cornelia had: like dry grass in a fire.

I was marble, and I was cursed. Even the name of their Christ had no power
over that.

III

Roma Dea died, and Roma Mater shrank into a crone. My oak tree took
Jupiterłs last bolt and fell. My pool filled with weeds and disappeared. A
thicket grew up around me. People stumbled on me now and then. A flock of
sparrows had a kingdom in what had been my glade. The queen nested on my head.
IÅ‚d have minded it more if IÅ‚d had any dignity left. As it was, I was only glad
that the vine that twisted round my cock a-crowning was a thornless thing.

Lovers always managed to find me. It was part of my curse. They were
particularly lusty along about the time their Latin stopped being Latin, but
the curse said nothing about lust. The ones who came after them wore clothes
that beggared belief, and stank to high heaven.

By the time they began to be clean again, some of them cleared away the
thicket and evicted the queen sparrow from my head. IÅ‚d grown mossy with the
years, but all my bits were still in place. They cleaned away the mossnot too
gently, eitherand put a roof over me, and had what they called salons. Which
meant that they drank a great deal of bad wine, ate too much, and talked
endlessly of nothing in particular. The women looked at me and giggled. The men
eyed me sidelong, often with a glower. No rubbing me for luck in this age.

They still rutted as eagerly as human animals could, though they made a rite
of protesting and calling it a sin. Sin was what the priest of that old cult
had gone on about so endlessly. It had made no sense to me then. It made no
sense now, however lengthy the explanations. The ones in black with the tiny
circle of tonsure were the loudest in condemnation of lust, and the hottest in
pursuit of it. I wondered what they would have said if IÅ‚d told them the truth
about Diana. They disapproved of her divinity, but they made much of her
chastity. She was more like them than they would ever want to know.

There were no true lovers. Or else the Crone had lied, and there was no
escape from my curse. That would be like a witch. Small comfort that they were
all dead, the lot of them, and Hecate too.

I was thinking so, one gray dim morning. For some reason I shivered inside.

The salons were long gone. The roof over me was still there, but it was
crumbling. The sparrows had come back to nest in it. A cat or two made forays
into their kingdom, but IÅ‚d learned a little through the years. I could think
at the web that still bound the world, and shift it a little. Enough to keep
out the cats, and to hold up the roof long after it should have fallen in.

This was the strangest age that I could remember. It seemed gray, gray as
ash, with great clots of blood and corruption. But there was brightness in it,
too. IÅ‚d never seen the web so complicated, or the colors so varied. Either
mortals were swimming in blood or they were reveling in a golden age. The web
said it was both. The gray in it was often silver, sometimes tarnished black,
sometimes so bright it blinded. It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Men flew like
birds. Men lived undersea like fish. Men sailed to the moon. They were like
gods.

They were still men. They still came to my garden, and they still danced the
old, old dance. They brought their music with them, trapped by magic in a box.
It was a different magic than mine, cold metal magic, and they saw no wonder in
it.

Often of a morning a lady came to sit on the stone bench near me and read
her book, or write, or simply sit and think. Once in a while she talked to me,
because, she said, I looked like intelligent company. She was writing a book on
Old Rome. It was a stubborn thing, and it kept going off in unexpected
directions. She liked an adventure, she said, and mostly she was glad to go
where it took her, but at this rate she didnłt think shełd ever finish it.

Every morning as she worked on her book, a gentleman walked briskly by. If
she happened to notice him, shełd nod. Hełd nod back. And off hełd go, and
there shełd stay.

This was hardly a lonely place, though it was never crowded. My scholar had
it to herself, mostly, but people wandered past, peering curiously at me and
not seeming to see her at all.

On the morning that I marked by reflecting that the gods were dead, my
scholar came as always. She had her satchel of books, and something new, that
she showed me. More magic. A little box full of words, with a page that one
wrote on without ever touching it. The world-web shimmered around it, but it
always did where my scholar was. Her name was Cornelia. I thought it an
interesting coincidence.

As she settled down with her books and her box, a dreadful cacophony
startled her almost into dropping the box. A pair of this agełs young lovers
came entwined like a vine about an elm. Her hair was indescribable. His
screamed pink so loud it made my eyes burn. Their music came out of a great
gleaming thing full of bone-deep thumpings and mating-cat wails.

Corneliałs box of words was silent but for the click of the keys that made
the words grow. She struggled on, with her neck bent at a stubborn angle and
her fingers flying. The young lovers arranged themselves in front of my plinth,
did something to their box that made it sound like mountains falling, and went
at it as people did in this strange age. A great deal of kissing and groping, a
symphony of moans drowned out in the tumult, and nothing like getting down to
honest business. That was the Christiansł innovation: tease oneself to
insanity, and promise more for later. Later, when it came, was never what they
hoped for.

Cornelia was angry. I could see the web darkening around her. Just before
she could have moved, a brisk figure stepped in over the lovers, snapped
something on the box, and stepped coolly out again. The silence was thunderous.
The lovers unknotted. He had his hackles up. She had her shirt off. Sweet and
almost ripe; but IÅ‚d seen better.

Her young man was all righteous indignation. The brisk gentleman looked down
a noble nose at him and said, “You were disturbing the lady."

The boy swelled his pretty muscles and beetled his handsome brows.

“There is ample space in this garden for anyone who wishes to come there,"
the gentleman said. “I would advise you to find some of it, and not to trouble
this lady further."

The lady said nothing through all of this. Neither did the girl on the
grass. The boy blustered and sneered. It was a game, like the game of Faun and
Bacchante.

He didnłt seem to know it, but the gentleman did. When the boy gave up on
words and transparently thought of fists, the gentleman said, “It does amaze me
that you would bring your inamorata here. She can look at the Faun, after all,
and compare."

The boyłs fist went wild. The gentlemanłs cane caught his elbow as it
flailed past. It seemed a light blow, a tap, no more, but the boy howled and
collapsed.

They limped from the field, the boy clutching his arm and the girl her
blouse, dragging their box. I applauded in my head.

“How heroic," Cornelia said. Her tone was acid.

The gentleman tucked his cane under his arm and bowed slightly. IÅ‚d seen his
face a thousand times in a thousand years, an inescapably Roman face, big nose
and thin mouth and uncompromising jaw. My Senator had looked like him, back
when Christians were a thorn in the Empirełs side.

“I really didnÅ‚t need a rescue," said Cornelia. “Or a knight in shining
armor."

Cornelia, it should be said, was not a Roman. She came from somewhere that
Rome had never heard of, on the other side of the world. She believed in
independence. She didnłt believe in thanking a man for doing what she could
perfectly well have done for herself.

“Signora," said the gentleman, “whatever you needed, or thought you needed,
I was offended by those barbarians."

“They werenÅ‚t so bad," Cornelia said. “You did a terrible thing to that poor
boy. Shełll never let him forget that hełs not as fine and upstanding as a
Faun."

The gentleman looked shocked. Then he laughed. “Ah, but what man is? A man
of parts would accept it. A young Goth with all his wits below his belthe
would never stop to think."

“I think he was solid Roman," Cornelia said. “And you, sir?"

“Giuliano," he said, bowing. “Giuliano Cavalli."

“Signor Cavalli," said Cornelia. SheÅ‚d softened a bit. She liked him, I
thought. So did I. He talked like a book, as she would have said, but he was
old enough to do it gracefully. He was a scholar, too, as it happened. Not of
Old Rome buthe looked mildly embarrassed and slightly wickedbut of the new
philosophy, the doctrine of signs and shadows.

“YouÅ‚re a literary theorist?" Cornelia had cooled again, but not as much as
before.

“Theoretician," he said, “please. And one does make a game of it. Ecce
Eco, vale Vergil"

“And sayonara Petrarca! Cornelia shook her head. He was smiling and
nodding, looking as close to an amiable fool as a Roman could. She laughed,
very much as if she didnłt want to, and said, "I donłt believe in theory. It
gets in the way.“

“But, Signora, if you use it properly, it sweeps away all obstacles, and
there stands Meaning bare."

“Do I want to see Meaning naked? SheÅ‚s not a pretty sight at the best of
times."

He sat down beside her. He was going to make a convert, I could see, or burst
his heart trying. She was going to resist him to the utmost.

It was the strangest love dance IÅ‚d ever seen.

I listened, I could hardly help it. None of it made a great deal of sense. A
Faun took the world as it was, and if he happened to be marble, and me, as it
showed itself in the world-web.

They argued all morning and half the afternoon, and went away still arguing.
Cornelia was looking ruffled. Signor Cavalli had lost his elegant aplomb. They
were gloriously happy.

They came back, of course. Often. Cornelia had her book, still, and she
insisted that she have an hour at least to glare at it before he came to
distract her. Actually she did more than glare. Shełd got through a
particularly tangled thicket, and the rest, she told me, was looking almost simple.
“Scary," she said. My grin was carved on my face, but she seemed to know I
meant it.“

He scared her too, but it was a wonderful terror. She called herself a
fallow field. Now she was growing green. Blooming. And arguing, endlessly,
delightedly arguing about everything under the sun.

Then they stopped coming. It rained for days, and my roof dripped and
dribbled abominably. But the sun came back, and they didnłt.

Mortals did that. Even mortal ghosts. I should have known better than to
miss them; but a marble heart is as unreasonable as a living one. IÅ‚d actually
been starting to understand Signor Cavalliłs philosophy, which is proof that
either it becomes comprehensible with enough time and explanation, or I was
missing a piece of it.

The sun came and went more regularly than anything human. The moon swelled
and shrank. My days stretched. I wondered if a marble Faun could die, just will
himself to crumble away. My kind were all gone. Great Pan was ages dead, and
there was nothing of my old world left.

And then, one morning, she was there. Cornelia with her books and her box of
words, sitting on the bench shełd claimed for her own. She looked tired, worn
to the bone. There was more gray in her hair than I remembered.

After a while her fingers slowed on the keys. A while longer and they
stopped. She looked at me as if shełd never seen me before. I couldnłt read her
expression.

She put her word-box down on the bench and stood up. She stood in front of
me. Without my plinth, IÅ‚d have been just a little smaller than she was.

“He died," she said. She was very, very calm. “IÅ‚d just begun to know him,
and he died. Do you know how angry that makes me? Do you even begin to imagine
how bloody unfair it is?"

Did I? IÅ‚d felt it when they were near me. IÅ‚d felt the marble softening,
rememberingfor a precious instantthe shape and feel of flesh.

“He was dying when I met him," she said. “He knew it. He was living on time
hełd stolen from the monster in his body. Hewestole a whole three months of
it. Counting every blessed minute.

“Why couldnÅ‚t I have died instead of him?"

She started to cry. Quiet at first, just the tears spilling over and running
down her face. Then harder. Falling forward onto my cold flanks and howling in
rage and loss, pounding marble that bruised her poor fists, raking it till her
nails broke and bled.

She couldnłt hang herself. There was no oak to offer a branch. But hanging
wasnłt the only way to take a life. Shełd tear herself to pieces in front of
me, and never a thing I could do to stop her.

Never.

I didnłt know what it was that swelled inside of me. It felt like fire, but
with edges like a sword, and it was black, and red, and gray, gray, gray. My
freedom had been in front of me. One day, one more day, and I would have known
it, and give it its name.

Death had taken it from me. Death and Chance, and Fate with her Cronełs
face, laughing at the poor ensorcelled fool. IÅ‚d be marble forever, and no hope
of breaking free.

And to what? the wind seemed to ask. It was small and cold, nosing about in
corners. This was no world for a goatfoot monster out of a long-discredited
myth. I wasnłt even authentic. I should have had a horsełs tail and horsełs
ears, and spoken country Greek.

Great Pan is dead, the wind moaned. Mocking me. No more Bacchae, no
more choruses. No more love-games in the deep coverts. They were gone, all
gone, and I was marble, and mad.

The web was black, shot with lightnings. Jove was dead, too, and Pluto in
his Underworld, and Hecate of the three faces, whose servants had laid the
curse on me. Signor Cavalli was dead, who had had three monthsł true love
before he died, and that was more than I would ever have.

Oh, Faun, the wind said, and now it aped the Maidenłs voice, and
now the Cronełs. How you have changed!

Years out of count, and a marble heart, and no hope, no hope ever, of
everything else. IÅ‚d been stone-simple. Stone-stupid, too. IÅ‚d paid, and paid,
and paid. IÅ‚d never stop paying.

Cornelia had stopped pummeling me. She was still crying. Still holding
tight, arms around my knees as if IÅ‚d been a king and she a suppliant. Begging
me to change the world. To bring back the dead.

The witches had done that, but it was a grim thing, and the dead were never
glad to be called back. The web hated it; turned black and rotted where the
un-dead were.

And did I care for that? I was a cursed thing. I should have been long dead
myself. Let him come back. Let Cornelia be happy. IÅ‚d give my life and
substance for himlife stretched out of all natural measure, substance as cold
as Hadesł heart.

The web was thrumming. She didnłt know. Couldnłt. I didnłt care. It was full
of magic. I poured it all out of me. All. Every drop. While she clung to me and
wept, and the wind fled shrieking, and the web caught fire.

I tore it from top to bottom. “Giuliano!" I thundered in a voice IÅ‚d never
known I had. “Giuliano Cavalli!"

He came out of the shadows, moving slowly. His shape was firm still, only a
little blurred around the edges. He didnłt have the terrible blood-hunger. Not
yet. Though when he saw Cornelia, his nostrils flared at the blood-warm scent
of her. He licked his lips. And cried out in horror.

“No! No, I am dead, let me be!"

I was merciless. “She mourns for you. Come back to this life. Take this
flesh. Live."

He looked at me. He was dead. He could measure the depth of my meaning. As
opposed to Meaning, which the dead understand completely, and reckon absolute
idiocy.

“No."

That was Cornelia. Her voice was rough with tears, but there was no yielding
in it. “IÅ‚m not that selfish. Let him go."

“You are damnably independent," said Signor Cavalli, and he sounded so much
like his old self that she gasped.

But she wouldnÅ‚t weaken even for that. “Go," she said. “Have peace. IÅ‚ll be
with you soon enough, as the world goes. Then wełll have all of time to be
together."

“If by then you want it," he said.

She let go of me and planted her fists on her hips. “Giuliano Cavalli, if
you think IÅ‚m going to forget you for one moment of this life or the
next, then youłre a worse idiot than I ever took you for."

“But you are young," he said, “and beautiful still, with a heart that needs
so much to love, and a body that pays all tribute to it. God forbid that you
live your life a widow, and die a withered and shriveled thing."

“What, you wonÅ‚t want me then?" She was wonderfully angry. “Now thatÅ‚s a
pity, because youłll have mewhether I turn into a nun or take a dozen lovers a
year. Youłre the one I want to spend my death with."

“Alive still, and you know that?"

“I know it." She clapped her hands together. “Now go. Rest. Wait for me."

He hovered. His substance was thinning for all that I could do, shredding
like a fog in a sudden wind. He held out his arms. “Wait," he said like an
echo. “Wait for me."

She wouldnÅ‚t touch him. WouldnÅ‚t reach, wouldnÅ‚t soften. “Go," she said.

He went.

The web was still, gray shading to silver. Its shadows were black. Its knots
were almost smooth.

I fell off my plinth.

Marble shattered. Flesh bruised. It hurt. It hurt like blessed Hades.

Cornelia stood over me. Her face blurred and shifted and broke into threes.
Maiden Mother Crone, every face of woman, and who but me had said that Hecate
was dead?

She helped me up. She was too stunned, I think, to notice the horns or the
goatfeet, or the marble dust that sifted and fell when I moved. My cock wasnłt
crowing, by the dead godsł mercy. He hid in his dusty thicket and hoped wełd
all forget himsuch trouble as hełd got us into.

She pinked herself on a horn, brushing dust out of my hair. That brought her
to herself. She stared at me.

IÅ‚d worn a grin so long, IÅ‚d forgotten how to start one. I backed away
instead. I still had my pipes in my hand. I let them fall. They dangled by the
string around my neck, bumping my flanks. My tail was clamped tight.

“There," she said as if IÅ‚d been one of the million Roman cats. “There."

I stopped. She came toward me slowly. Her face had a blank look, as if it
didnłt quite know what to do with itself. She touched me. I started. My back
went flat against a wall IÅ‚d forgotten was there.

“It was you," she said. “Calling up the dead."

I couldnłt duck. Iłd have gored her: she was that close. Her hands were on
my shoulders, holding me as fast as any curse.

“I think IÅ‚m supposed to do something," she said. Her brow wrinkled, as if
she strained to catch a voice she couldnłt quite hear. All at once her face
cleared. She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can do that."

She looked at me and my puzzlement, and smiled. It was dazzling. “Look," she
said gently. She pulled me around. I came as meek as a ram to the altar. She
held me so that I couldnłt help but see.

Web. Light. Gate. Pillars and lintel, and on the other side

“There," she said. Her voice was CorneliaÅ‚s, it always had been. It was
MaidenÅ‚s, too, and MotherÅ‚s, and CroneÅ‚s. “There they all went, all your
people. Shallow silly things, the lot of them, but they had their charm. Even
you. Theyłre waiting for you."

My voice found itself. It was rusty. “Oh, they are? There arenÅ‚t any more
bacchanals, then? Or grapes to grow and press into wine? Or sheep to herd? Or
woods to run through with the barefooted Bacchae?"

“All of those remain," said Cornelia-goddess. “TheyÅ‚re just not in this
earth any longer. Any more than Giuliano is." She caught on that, but she
rallied in an eye blink. “The gateÅ‚s open. Go on."

She let me go. I scampered toward the shining gate.

Just outside of it, I stopped. I donłt know what it was, A sparrow
twittering. A cloud across the sun. Cornelia being a goddess and being a woman
with marble dust on her hands, watching me go.

I turned around and went back to her. Past her. Climbed up on the plinth IÅ‚d
stood on for so long, and said, “I donÅ‚t think so."

We Fauns used to boast that we could knock even a goddess off her stride. I
did it then, no doubt about it. She was speechless.

“Look here," I said. “IÅ‚ve been a piece of statuary for longer than some of
us got to be gods. IÅ‚m used to it. IÅ‚d be the odd Faun out, out there. IÅ‚m the
one who got trapped. IÅ‚m the one who changed."

“We can undo that," Cornelia said. She sounded like Maiden-remorseful.

I shook my head. “Even you canÅ‚t put the lid back on that box. IÅ‚m not
simple anymore. The next time I tried to chase a Bacchante, IÅ‚d stop to wonder
about it, and then IÅ‚d wander off course, and before I knew it, IÅ‚d be teaching
philosophy to the sheep."

“They would be your sheep," she said.

I swept my arm around. “So is this my place, and those my sparrows." I took
a deep breath. Air felt good, so good, in lungs that werenłt airless marble.
“Put the curse back."

She wouldnłt move.

“All right then," I said. I was getting angry. I picked up my pipes. I knew
the notes that would shift the web. This, and this, and this. One-two-three, up-down-swoop,
slow, slow, sudden trill like a sparrowłs twitter. Then slow again. And slower.
And slower yet. As the cool smooth stillness spread over me. As the air died
from my lungs, and my lungs set into stone. This eon I wouldnłt be a grinning
idiot. IÅ‚d be a dancing Faun, piping down the long years. And maybe, when the
moon was full, and the web was all a shimmer and a shadow, someone would have
ears to hear; and IÅ‚d fill the night with music.

Cornelia put her arms around my marble middle. Her eyes were full of tears.
And not for herself, or for Giuliano. For me.

I couldnłt tell her not to cry. She stopped after a while. And kissed me
just about there, and if I could have blushed, I would have. She did
it for me, a splendid, scarlet blaze of it. “I wonÅ‚t forget," she said. “What
you tried to do for me. Becausebecause you loved me."

That was Threefold Goddess, and Woman, too. Stating the obvious as if shełd
just invented it. I couldnłt shrug, or tell her not to be silly. So I waited
till she went away, and then I played a run on my pipe. The wind was pleased to
help me with it. The sparrows were back, squabbling over a crust someone had
dropped. The world rode in its web, wobbling and tottering but never quite
falling over. My world, when it came to it, and my choice, too. Whatłs a Faun
if he canłt pick the story he wants to be in?

The Bargain

Katharine Kerr

Katharine Kerr, best known for her Deverry series, rarely writes short
fiction. “The Bargain" is thus a very rare event and a very special story. And
even now, IÅ‚m wondering if Kit has managed to get out of committing short
fiction yet againIÅ‚ve got my suspicion that “The Bargain," a story of Deverry,
is a ballad written in the form of prose. Certainly, it has the wry Celtic
wisdom on which Kit has built her reputation.

A long time ago, when Deverry men first sailed west to the province they
called Elditina, but which we know today as Eldidd, there lived a man named
Paran of Aberwyn. Half scribe and half hunter, he was the son of a merchant
house but a restless soul who preferred to explore new territory rather than
haggle in the marketplace. All alone he traveled wild places and lived out of
his pack like a peddler, but he carried dry chunks of ink, a stone for grinding
them with water, bunches of river reeds that he could cut into pens, and strips
of parchment. Since in those days there were no lodestones and astrolabes, his
maps were rough, of course. He squinted out the directions from the sun and
estimated the distances from how far and fast hełd been walking, but he always
put in plenty of landmarkswatercourses and suchlikeso that others could
follow him. Both the merchant guilds and the noble lords paid high for those
maps and the stories he told to go with them.

On one of his trips west, however, Paran ended up with a fair bit more than
hełd bargained for. After about a weekłs walk on foot to the west of Aberwyn,
he came to a place where, through a tangle of sapling hazels and fern, he saw a
river flowing silently, clear water over white sand. The path hełd been
following, a deer trail or so he assumed then, turned to skirt the water and
lead deeper into the trees. At the bank itself, he found a clearing, a sunny
luxury after days in the wild forest. He swung his heavy pack off his shoulders
and laid it down for a good stretch of his sore back. To either hand the river
ran through a tunnel of trees that promised hard walking ahead. Nearby, the pock
pock pock loud in the drowsy summer day, a woodpecker hammered an oak.

“Good morrow, little carpenter," Paran remarked.

The bird ignored the sound of his voicepuzzling, that. He sat down by his
pack, unlaced the leather sack at the top of the wooden frame, and took out a
long roll of parchment, scratched and spotted with his map and his notes. He
was just having a look at how far hełd come when he heard the barest trace of a
sound behind him. He was on his feet and turning in an instant, his hand
reaching for the hilt of his sword, but he drew it only to find himself facing
an archer, his horn bow drawn, an arrow nocked and ready, out of reach at the
forest edge. When Paran let his sword fall and raised his hands in the air, the
archer smiled. He was a pale young man, with a long tangle of hair so blond it
was nearly white, and boyish-slender with long, narrow fingers. Barefoot, he
wore a knee-length tunic of fine pale buckskin, belted in with the quiver of
arrows slung at his hip. Around his neck on thongs hung a collection of tiny
leather pouches and what seemed to be carved bone charms or decorations. When
he spoke quickly in a melodious, lilting, and utterly unknown language, Paran
gave a helpless sort of shrug. “My apologies, lad, but I donÅ‚t understand." The
archer cocked his head in surprise, looked Paran over for a moment, then
whistled three sharp notes. From a far distance they heard first one answering whistle,
then another. Two more archers stepped out of the forest, and when the three of
them strolled over to inspect their prize, Paran was in for the shock of his
life. Their eyes were dark purple, and the enormous irises were slit vertically
with pupils like those of cats. Their ears were abnormally long, too, and
curled to delicate points like seashells. They in their turn were pointing out
his eyes and ears to each other and chattering away about them, too, from the
sound of it. “Uh, I mean you no harm. Truly I donÅ‚t." The three of them smiled
in a rather unpleasant way. “And what have we here?"

The voice seemed to speak in Paranłs language, but the young men called out
a greeting in their own. As she materialized between two trees, the woman
looked as blonde and boyish as her companions, dressed much like them, too, but
when Paran tried to look at her face, her image swam and flickered, as if hełd
drunk himself blind. She seemed to age, her tunic changing back and forth from
blue to green to gray; then she suddenly was young again. The archers, however,
stayed as visible and substantial as himself as they stared at the woman in
awe, lips half-parted.

“This is a strange deer youÅ‚ve caught in my forest," she said to them, then
turned to Paran. “Who are you?"

“Paran of Aberwyn, my lady. Do you know the place? ItÅ‚s a little town down
by the sea."

“I donÅ‚t, and the sea means naught to me. What are you doing here?"

“Just seeing what I can see. IÅ‚m a curious man, my lady, and no man of my
race has ever been here."

“IÅ‚m well aware of that, my thanks."

She studied him with narrow eyes, cold now and yellow as a snakełs, and her
lips were tight, too, perhaps in rage, perhaps in contemptit was hard to tell
with her constant shape-shiftingyet of one thing he was sure, that hełd never
seen a woman so beautiful or so dangerous. If she gave the word, the archers
would fill him with arrows like a leather target at a festival.

“I swear it, my lady. I mean you not the slightest harm."

“No doubt, but harm can come without a meaning behind it. Your people are
the ones who are taking slaves from the river villages, arenłt you?"

“Are those your vassals? IÅ‚ll swear to you on the gods of my people that
Iłve naught to do with that. My kind of clan doesnłt need bondmen. We donłt
have any lands."

“TheyÅ‚re not mine, but theyÅ‚re gentle souls who do no harm and make their
tools out of stones. Your people stink of blood and iron." She turned old, very
old, old beyond belief yet still beautiful, and her heavy cloak was gray with
mourning. “How much have you killed in my woods?"

“Some squirrels, some hares, and some fish from the river. Forgive me: I
didnłt know I was poaching. I didnłt know anyone lived out here."

“And what will you give me in return?"

“Anything of mine you desire." Paran pointed at his pack. “Look through it,
or take it all if you want."

Suddenly she was young again, with a smile as disdainful as any highborn
ladyłs in Elditina. Her beauty seemed to hang around her like a cloud of scent
or crackle in the air like heat lightning: he found himself struggling for
words, and him a man whołd always been able to talk his way out of anything
before.

“Keep your greasy trinkets," she said. “I want the truth for my dues. What
truly made you come here?"

“A change from the merchants of Aberwyn. They wish to find out what lies in
this country because they wish to trade. Naught moreonly to caravan goods back
and forth in peace."

“But who comes behind them? Those blood-soaked men who build the ugly stone
towers and take slaves?"

Paran could only nod in agreement. Like most common-born men in Eldidd, he
had never approved of making bondmen out of people who were neither criminals
nor debtors. It infuriated him that he was on the edge of paying for the
arrogance of lords.

“If I have you killed," she said in a musing sort of voice. “No doubt
someone else will come, sooner or later. I have no desire to be as cruel as
your folk, Paran of Aberwyn. You walk out of my forest alive if you leave
today."

“I will, then. IÅ‚ll even walk hungry to spare your game."

“No need of that, as long as you take only what you truly need to feed
yourself."

With a smile she laid a slender hand on his cheek, her fingers oddly cool
and smooth; she even allowed him to turn his head and kiss her fingers. Then
she was gone; they were all gone; there was only the clearing, the sunlight,
his pack and his sword lying in grass. Something else had been there, not but a
moment beforeParan couldnłt remember what. Deer, perhaps? Birds? A badger? He
shrugged the wondering away. Whatever it was, hełd gone far enough into this
useless forest, and it was time to head back to Aberwyn.

Yet when he knelt to retrieve his pack, he found his map. As he picked it up
and read his notes, the memory came back to him, sharp and clear, and he laughed
in triumph. Dweomer the lady had, strange and powerful dweomer, but she knew
nothing of the ways of men, who write things down to outlast their remembering.
Of course, if he told this story of a sorceress in the woods and her cat-eyed
servants, no one was going to believe him anyway. As he set off, he was
wondering just how to phrase the thing to the merchant guild of Aberwyn, or if
he should say anything at all.

Five men on horseback, and a couple of mules carrying suppliesthe effort
seemed more than one stinking bondman was worth, but at stake was the honor of
the thing, Addaric decided. This snot-faced Grunno belonged to Lord Cadlomar,
and if he had the gall to go sneaking off, then Addaric would fetch him back
for his lordship if it took him a fortnight. They took the hounds to Grunnołs
hut and let the dogs sniff his greasy blankets while his filthy woman watched,
gasping for breath with a sound like mice chittering. When they brought the
dogs to the edge of the village, they picked up the scent at once and went
baying across the pastureland with the riders trotting after, the kennelmaster
first, then the four men from the warband. The boy with the mules followed as
best he could.

At the edge of the pasture, the ground turned rough with rock and burrow,
and Omillo, the kennelmaster, called in the big black-and-gray boarhounds.
Addaric rode up to join him.

“HeÅ‚s got a good head start," Omillo said.

“So he does. But weÅ‚ve got horses. WeÅ‚ll get him, sure enough."

Yet that evening they reached the big river, so newly discovered that most
people called it only “the one that flows into the Gwyn" or “the western one."
Here in late summer it flowed so broad and shallow that a man could wade in it
for miles and let it wash all his scent away. As they milled around on the
riverbank, the hounds snapped at each other in sheer frustration.

“Well, young Addaric, which way do you think he went?"

“ThatÅ‚s an easy oneupstream. Down would bring him right back to the Gwyn
and settled land again."

On the morrow Addaric was proved right. Although they had to crisscross the
river for a tedious ten miles before the hounds picked up the scent, find it
they did. They sang out and raced away to the northwest while the men followed
at a cavalry pace, walking and trotting, stopping frequently to rest the pack.
Still they were moving far faster than a frightened man could run. Toward
evening the hounds found a leather sack, which they grabbed and shook,
growling.

“It must stink of the man," Addaric remarked. “Looks to me like heÅ‚s run out
of food, too."

The very next morning, for a few brief moments they thought theyłd found
their prey. As they traveled across wild meadowland, they saw far ahead of them
a small shape that had to be a man walking. With a whoop of triumph they kicked
their horses forward, but the whoop died when they realized that the fellow was
coming calmly toward them, not running away. When they met, Addaric at first
thought he was a peddler, because he was carrying a heavy pack of the same sort
that a traveling man would use, but there was not one out here to buy ribands
and needles and trinkets. The fellow was imposing, too, a tall man with the
raven-dark hair and cornflower blue eyes so common in the province, but tanned
and tough with a calm if watchful look about him that seemed to say hełd faced
worse trouble than five riders before.

“Good morrow, good sir," Addaric said. “YouÅ‚re a good long way from settled
country."

“I could say the same of you, lad." He smiled to take any sting from the
words. “My nameÅ‚s Paran of Aberwyn."

“Well, by the gods! Truly, good sir, IÅ‚ve heard of you. IÅ‚ll wager we all
have, and many a time, too. The bards all call you the bravest man in Elditina,
going off alone for months like that."

The men with him muttered their agreement and rode up close to get a good
look at this famous person. Paran turned embarrassed.

“Er, just on my way home," he muttered, stepping back a little. “And what of
you? What brings armed men to a wilderness?"

“Looking for an escaped bondman. One of my lordÅ‚s men had the blasted gall
to run away, and his lordship sent me to get him back again." Addaric couldnłt
help letting his pride sound in his voice, that Lord Cadlomar had placed him in
charge. “Have you seen any trace of him?"

“I havenÅ‚t, at that." Paran thought for a moment. “Now listen, lad. Before
the dayłs over, youłll come to a forest, and a wild, huge one it is. Donłt go
in there. I swear it to you: that forest is no place to go a-hunting anything
down. If you honor me, then for the love of our gods, let the poor bastard be."

When he stared directly into Addaricłs eyes, the lad felt himself blushing
and looked away.

“IÅ‚ve got my orders from our lord," he stammered.

“Lords have been given cut-down versions of truthÅ‚s cloak before. Your
bondmanłs only going to die in that forest, anyway, so stay out of it."

Perhaps some of the gods agreed with Paran. The hunters had ridden only a
scant couple of miles when the sky began churning with gray clouds and the wind
brought a smell of damp in the air, but the rain did hold off till evening, and
by then they were within sight of the forest. For some time theyłd seen it on
the horizon like a second bank of clouds; just as the sunset turned the sky
blood-colored they came within clear sight of it. The meadowland bordering the
river stopped abruptly in a tangle of shrubby growth; then the trees began, a
dark wall, stretching out and back farther than any of them could see or guess.
The men paused their horses in a little knob and simply stared at it for a long
time.

“I see what Paran meant," Addaric said. “WeÅ‚re going to have a hellish time
in there."

“Are we turning back?" Matun, his closest friend in the warband, edged his
horse up beside him.

“What? And lie to your lord? IÅ‚d rather die than that."

Yet the forest was so silent, so dark under the scarlet sky, that he felt
his battle-hardened nerves run just a little cold. His nerves grew on him, too,
after theyłd made camp. Since they needed meat for the dogs, Omillo took a
short hunting bow and one of the pack and started toward the forest to track
them a deer. Addaric went with him some ways across the meadow.

“Be careful in there."

“What? And havenÅ‚t I been hunting in our lordÅ‚s service for a good twenty
years now?"

“I was just thinking of ParanÅ‚s warning. They say he knows wild country
better than any man alive."

When Omillo walked into the trees, the forest seemed to cover him over like
deep water. Addaric waited, pacing back and forth, until he returned,
staggering under the weight of a three-month fawn while the dogs pranced around
him and drooled in anticipation.

Theyłd no sooner reached the fire when the rain came, pouring down and
dousing them and the flames both in a matter of minutes. Cursing and swearing,
Omillo had to hack the fawn up in the dark while the dogs crowded round and
whined, and the other men swore at the wet night ahead of them and the meager
meals, tootheyłd been looking forward to the roast meat. Although Addaric
wanted to set a watch, everyone grumbled, and since he was young and only a
temporary commander at that, he gave in. Yet he himself slept so restlessly,
dreaming of voices in the forest and things creeping through tangled
undergrowth, that he woke some two hours before dawn.

By then the rain had stopped, but he and his bedroll were soaked straight
through. Since theyłd all slept wet on many a campaign, the rest of the men
were hunched up with their saddles over their heads and still asleep, but he
got up, buckling his baldric over his shoulder and feeling the weight of the
sword at his hip as a solid comfort. He walked away from the camp until he
stood some twenty paces from the forest edge and thought of Grunno, somewhere
in the ominous dark. He was probably so terrified that hełd be glad to go home
and take his flogging.

“YouÅ‚ll never find him."

With a yelp Addaric spun round, but there was no one there. He heard
laughter, then, coming from everywhere and nowhere, a womanłs mocking-sweet
laugh.

“You took a fawn from my woods. IÅ‚ll have a price for that. What will you
give me?"

“By the black ass of the Lord of Hell, show yourself, wench, and then maybe
wełll talk about bargaining."

“Let me warn you somewhat. If a price isnÅ‚t offered me, then I take what I
want."

“Oh, will you now?" Addaric drew his sword. “Just try to steal from us."

She laughed again, a mocking ripple that blended with the riversound, grew
loud, louder, until it seemed to ring in his head and deafen him.

“Hold your tongue! Stop that! I said stop it!"

The laughter died away. In the camp someone shouted. Matun and Omillo came
running, swords in hand. But there was no one there, no woman, no speaker, only
the wind, rising as the eastern sky began to turn gray. When Addaric told his
story, everyone mocked and said hełd been having naught more than a nightmare.
He felt the shame of their laughter burn his cheeks, and it ran through him and
poisoned his stomach so badly that he couldnłt eat breakfast.

The shame drove him into the forest, too, when the time came. Since there
was no use in taking all five men to crash around and warn Grunno they were
coming, Addaric left the others with the horses while he and Omillo took the
two best hounds after their prey. As they walked across the last stretch of
open land, Addaric felt a little coldness around his heart. Hełd ridden to
battle and never felt fear, but now the coldness tightened around his lungs and
grew tendrils down into his stomach. For a moment he thought of turning back,
but the shame of it forced him to walk into the silent darkness of the trees.

“HereÅ‚s the deer track I found yesterday," Omillo said. “We can follow it
a-ways and hope the dogs pick the scent out of the air."

Out of his saddlebags Omillo got Grunnołs sack and let the hounds sniff it.
For a moment they milled around, confused; then one of them growled and headed
straight off down the path. Although Addaric tried to keep up with Omillo and
the dogs, his baldric kept catching on the shrubs and bracken. Once they left
the river behind, the path twisted through bush and bracken until Addaric had
no idea where the open country lay. He felt things watching, eyes from among
the ferns, eyes above him in the leaves, and he heard voices whispering in the
rising wind. Once he thought he felt a hand grab his arm, but it was only the
twiggy touch of a sapling. He drew his sword and cut the thing clear through.

Ahead, as if at a signal, the hounds sang out and leapt forward. With a
shout, Omillo darted after. Addaric tripped, swore, got up, and hurled himself
after, but at that precise moment the rain broke again, pattering first on the
canopy far above, then slashing down like so many spears made of water. The
wind howled and shook the trees in a flurry of falling leaves.

“Omillo! Hold a minute! I canÅ‚t see you."

He tripped again, or something tripped him. He felt a clutch at his ankles
and went down, sprawling into the mucky-wet leaves on the deer trail. In the
howl of the wind he was sure he heard laughter. Yelling for Omillo, he
scrambled up, but the rain was sweeping through the woods in a gray curtain.
Stumbling and swearing, he followed the path until he came to a fork. When he
found not a trace of man or dog on either path, he had the grim thought that
hełd expected no less. No matter which he took, it would be the wrong one. He
was sure of that. For a long time he stood there, the rain drenching his
clothes and running down the steel blade of his sword, simply stood and
listened to his heart pound.

“You wonÅ‚t trap me so easy, wench."

Addaric turned and went back the way hełd come, but the rain had turned
their tracks into mere mud and leaf-mold, and in the driving grayness one thin
spot in the underbrush looked much like any other. Addaric knew he was lost not
fifty yards after he started. He kept walking for want of anything else to do,
used his sword to slash his way through bush and bracken alike for the sheer
pleasure of venting his rage on the woods.

It wasnłt only the rain that kept him company. He could feel eyes upon him,
hear voices, and at times, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the
corner of his eye. Whenever he turned to look directly at this mysterious
something, it would disappear. When the growling in his stomach told him it was
well past noon, he sat down in the muck beneath a tree and choked back the
tears that threatened to shame him.

“IÅ‚ll just sit here. Curse it all, I should have done that in the first
wretched place! Just sit here and let Omillo find me. He can give the dogs the
scent from my saddle."

But the rain was washing the forest clean in a steady gray pour while the
wind plucked at the leaves and sang of death by starving, death from cold, or
perhaps even a worse death from the things that clustered round to mock him in
the rustle of branch and leaf. All afternoon, as he sat there waiting, he saw
them. In the water drops bright eyes gleamed, in the rough bark fingers
pinched. Once, when he looked sharply to his left, he saw a tiny naked
girl-child with a lizard hanging on her shoulder like a pet. Then she
disappeared, if indeed anything had ever been there at all, and laughter
rippled in the trees. Addaric gripped his sword hilt in both hands.

“I wonÅ‚t go mad. Even if I starve, IÅ‚ll die sane. ItÅ‚s a battle, and curse
you all to the hells, IÅ‚m going to win."

The voices snickered in disbelief.

At sunset he struggled to his feet on aching legs and braced himself against
the trunk. As the rain died away, the voices around him grew hushed, expectant.
Clutching his sword like a talisman, Addaric waited with them in the damp dark.
It wasnłt long before he saw a light moving among the trees, the distant,
bobbing glow of a torch.

“Omillo! Omillo! IÅ‚m over here!"

“Oh, I know where you are, sure enough." It was the womanÅ‚s voice that
answered, full of her musical laughter.

With barely a sound they slipped through the trees and underbrush to
surround him, the woman slender and boyish in her short gray cloak, but
beautiful with moonbeam pale hair and violet eyes. With her were three young
men in buckskin tunics, all armed with bows. By the light of the torch she
carried, Addaric could see the glittering points of nocked arrows.

“IÅ‚ve come for the price of my fawn. WhatÅ‚s your name, lad?"

“Addaric of Belglaedd."

“Addaric of Belglaedd? Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd."

All at once his head was swimming with a longing for sleep. As he leaned
back against the tree, the weight of his sword seemed to pull his arm down of
its own will.

“You called me a wench, too. IÅ‚ll have repayment for that as well as the
fawn. What will you offer me?"

“IÅ‚d die before I gave you one cursed thing."

She set her hands on her hips and frowned. All at once he realized that the
torch hung above her in the air and flowed with the bluish light of something
other than fire.

“You come to my woods hunting a man as if he were a deer. I shanÅ‚t have
that. And then you kill without offering me dues. I shanłt have that, either.
IÅ‚ll take you as my price for the fawn."

When the archers snickered, she waved them into silence. Addaric looked at
the drawn bows and saw his death glittering on arrow points. With one last
wrench of his will, he raised his sword, determined to drag her to the
Otherlands with him.

“Oh, you utter lout, IÅ‚m not talking of killing you. How strange that the
gods would make such a pretty lad but not give him any wits! Youłre coming with
me, Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd."

Addaric tried to swing at her, but the sword fell from his hand as he
crumpled into sleep. Dimly he was aware of being picked up, then carried a long
way only to be laid down on something soft and warm. He heard her whispering
his name three times again; then the sleep deepened to a welcome darkness that
swallowed him whole.

When he woke, he found himself lying naked in soft blankets, and around him
was the dim glow of sunlight filtering through the walls of a round tent, about
ten feet across, made of hides stitched together with thongs. Leather cushions
lay scattered on the floor, and brightly colored bags hung from the tent poles.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, realizing that his muscles no longer ached. In a
blinding glare of sunlight, the woman pushed open the tent flaps and came in,
carrying a wooden bowl. Once the flaps closed again, he could see her better in
the dim light, her pale hair, unbound to fall down her back in a spill of gold,
her delicate face. Her eyes were oddly hidden, so much so that he couldnłt tell
their color.

“IÅ‚ve brought you somewhat to eat," she announced.

She handed him the bowl, then sat down facing him and studied him so curiously
that he bundled the blanket firmly around his waist.

“You people grow hair on your faces and on your chests. Fancy that."

Addaric had the annoying feeling that he was blushing. In the bowl he found
a flat cake of some coarsely ground grain, smeared with wild honey, and slices
of cold roast venison. While he ate, she clasped her arms around her knees and
watched. She seemed younger than ever, a lass about his own age of nineteen,
perhaps, and very pretty indeed.

“IÅ‚ve told you my name. WonÅ‚t you tell me yours?"

“I wonÅ‚t, never. My people call me Melario. It means wood rose in their
tongue. Or you may call me Briaclan, that means the same in yours."

When he finished the food, he handed her the bowl. With a smile of cold
triumph she raised it high, then rose and with a ritual care set it outside the
tent door. All at once he realized that he never should have eaten her food.
Why, he wasnłt exactly sure, but he felt the sting of an old tale at his mind.
Too late, now: still smiling she came back to stand over him.

“And just what do you want with me?"

“Oh, come now. What kind of a man are you, that you canÅ‚t guess?"

Since he thought she was setting him a riddle, he honestly tried to think of
an answer, but with a laugh she unclasped her belt, then pulled off her tunic.
Naked she was so beautiful that he could think of nothing but her body, glowing
softly as if her flesh captured sunlight. Then she lay down next to him on the
blanket and kissed him on the mouth.

Some two weeks later, Paran heard a very strange story about Addaricłs
disappearance. While in Aberwyn, he lived with his father, a widower, and his
unmarried sister. They had one of the biggest houses in town, a two-story
roundhouse set on a couple of acres where they kept a cow and three pigs, while
a flock of chickens roamed among the greens and turnips in the kitchen garden.
That particular afternoon he was working in the garden, in fact, when a
horseman rode up to the gate in the earthen wall that surrounded the homestead.
At the hysterical barking of the family dogs, Paran got up, dusting off the
knees of his brigga, and recognized Matun from Lord Cadlomarłs warband.

“Morrow, lad! What brings you here? My sisterÅ‚s down at the market with my
father, if itłs either love or commerce."

“Neither, truly, but a word with you."

“Come in, then. Ye gods, hounds! Will you stop your demon-get barking?"

Inside, the central fire smoldered under the smoke hole. In the curve of the
round wall, under a row of tankards hanging from pegs, stood a big barrel of
ale. Paran dipped them both out some drink and sat his guest down at the wooden
table by the hearthstone.

“ItÅ‚s about Addaric," Matun said. “Did you hear that he was killed in that
god-cursed forest you warned us about?"

“I hadnÅ‚t, but it aches my heart to hear it now. What did he do, charge
right in there?"

“Just that." Matun looked up, his eyes snapping rage. “He and the kennel
master went in, but only Omillo came out. We searched and searched, and finally
we found the place where hełd been killed. Here, you might have warned us about
the blasted bears!"

“Bears? I didnÅ‚t see any bears."

“But thatÅ‚s what got him. We found its tracks, and they were huge. It must
have been an enormous bear, or so the kennel master said. There was a tuft of
black fur caught on a thorn, too. Addaricłs bloody sword was nearby."

“Did you ever find his body?"

Matun shook his head no. There were tears in his eyes.

“He was a good friend of yours, was he?"

“I loved him, and I donÅ‚t give a pigÅ‚s fart who knows it, either." He had a
long swallow of ale. “I loved him better than that rotten little bitch he had
in the village did, too, her and her cursed mincing and flirting with the rest
of us lads." Then he did cry, dropping his face into his hands and sobbing
aloud.

Paran got up and wandered to the doorway to look out while Matun got himself
under control. He wondered very much about that huge black bear, very much
indeed, because the only bears hełd ever seen to the west were small brown
ones. He glanced back to find Matun sniffing into his sleeve and swallowing
heavily, gave him an encouraging smile, and wandered back to the table again.

“So you came here to reproach me for your friendÅ‚s death?"

“I did, but it seems stupid now. You did warn us about the forest, and even
if youłd told us about the bears, that wouldnłt have held Addaric back anyway.
He was all keen to go into the cursed place because he felt shamed."

“And why did he feel shamed?"

“Oh, the night before he woke us all up. He said he heard someone talking to
him, but when he got there, she was gone."

“She?"

“ThatÅ‚s what he said. Some womanÅ‚s voice."

“Oh, did he now? Well, lad, my heart truly aches for you and Addaric both. I
only wish hełd listened to me and left the forest alone. I think me itłs wilder
than we can know."

For the rest of that day Paran tried to talk himself out of the idea that
kept haunting him, but when his father and sister returned from the
marketplace, he announced that he was leaving on the morrow to set off west
again. He couldnłt quite bring himself to say why.

Since hełd already traveled this stretch of country, Paran reached the
forest with no trouble. Round about noon on a hot summer day, he even found the
exact spot where Addaric and his men had camped, thanks to the scar left on the
land by their fire pit and the bones of the fawn, scattered all over the meadow
by the ravens and badgers. He shrugged off his pack, laid it down by the pit,
and stood for a long time, shading his eyes with one hand and staring at the
dark and silent wall of forest. Now that hełd come so far, he certainly wasnłt
about to turn round and go home again, but he had to admit that he was
frightened, and more than fear, he felt futility. For all he knew, Addaric
might be wandering through a ghost forest in the Otherlands.

“Well," he said to nothing in particular. “I might as well wait till the
morrow, go in right at dawn, like, when therełs a whole dayłs light ahead of
me."

Yet, once the sun was well down and the not quite full moon rising, the
sorceress came to him. Paran was on his knees, nursing a fire of gleaned
deadfall, when he heard her laughing behind him.

“Good eve, my lady. WonÅ‚t you join me at my fire?"

“You are a civil man, Paran of Aberwyn. Unlike some as I could
mention."

Moving silently on bare feet, she came round and stood before him as he
kneeled. That night she seemed more solid than he was remembering her, a young
lass dressed in a boyłs tunic, a hunting bow dangling carelessly in one hand.

“I suppose youÅ‚ve come to ask me to give him back," she said.

“Addaric? I have, at that. HeÅ‚s got kinfolk at home who love him and miss
him, you see. Itłs for their sake Iłve come, to be honest, not so much for
his."

“Civil and a good judge of character." She grinned, revealing sharp-pointed
teeth. “What will you give me in return?"

“What would you like? Gold and jewels? IÅ‚m not a rich man, and no more are
Addaricłs friends, but no doubt I could scrounge together a ransom once I know
your demands."

“I have no use for that."

“Fine horses? AddaricÅ‚s lord owes a legal blood price for the lad, two
war-worthy geldings and a broodmare."

“No use for them, either. ThereÅ‚s no fodder for horses in my forests."

“Well, then, wonÅ‚t you name me a price?"

“You."

Paran could only stare. All at once he understood what that tired old way of
speaking, “feeling your blood run cold," meant in the flesh. She was smiling,
staring down at the dirt scattered round the fire pit, drawing a pattern in it
with her big toe like some shy country lass.

“What would you want with me?"

“I donÅ‚t know, but IÅ‚ll wager youÅ‚re less boring than he is. HeÅ‚s a pretty
lad, but your gods didnłt give him much in the way of wits." She looked up, and
suddenly her smile was all malice, her eyes cold and snakelike. “But that
doesnłt matter. Iłve named my price. Will you pay it or not?"

All at once he saw her as huge, towering over him, towering over the forest,
swelling up the way a candle flame will do in a draught, and he knew that hełd
been a fool to ever think her human and a sorceress.

“Are you a goddess, then?"

“Naught of the sort." She flickered back to a normal shape, as a candle
flame will do when the doorÅ‚s been shut and the draft stopped. “This is my
forest, and the folk who live here are mine to guard, but the gods are far, far
above the likes of me." She smiled again, but briefly. “You havenÅ‚t answered my
question."

“If I just go away again, what will happen to Addaric?"

“HeÅ‚ll wander with my people till he dies."

Sitting on his heels Paran considered his tiny fire as if it could give him
advice. For all that he loved hidden things, at that moment he found himself
thirsting for his familyłs company and the familiar streets of Aberwyn. But he,
at least, could learn from the lady, while Addaric would wander with her
retinue like a tame beast.

“Well, IÅ‚ll tell you," he said at last. “If IÅ‚m the prize you want, then you
shall have me. But how will Addaric find his way home again? Without a guide,
hełll wander around out here and starve to death. Can you take him home with
your dweomer?"

“I can take him to the edge of his lordÅ‚s fields, and surely even he can
find his way back from there."

“IÅ‚m sure he will, my lady." Paran got to his feet, but he felt as if he
were hauling up an enormous weight. “Done, then. ThatÅ‚ll be our bargain. You
take Addaric home, and IÅ‚ll come with you."

She laughed, jiggling a few steps of a dance like a farm lass. For a brief
moment she looked to be a lovely young lass, too, all golden and smiling as she
held her arms out to him.

“Give me a kiss, Paran of Aberwyn."

“Whatever my lady wants."

“What? DonÅ‚t you want to take one?"

When he said nothing, she scowled, staring into his eyes as if she were
reading his thoughts.

“Well, then," she snapped. “IÅ‚ll do the taking!"

Never in his life had he been kissed like that, with a passion as sweet as it
was urgent. With a gasp he caught his breath and reached to kiss her again. She
was gone. He stood alone by a dying fire under the spread of stars and heard
her voice, flying round like a lark.

“All that will have to wait, since you value your blood kin more highly than
me. You drive a hard bargain, Paran of Aberwyn. I hope you like the terms of it
once youłre home."

Across the meadow, the dark forest stretched like a rampart. Paran dropped
to his knees and wept, just from the missing of her.

In the morning, with the first light of dawn, Addaric came stumbling out of
the forest, and he was carrying a leather sack stuffed with food for their
journey home, as well. He tossed the sack down, fell at Paranłs feet, and threw
his arms around his rescuerłs knees so fervently that he nearly tumbled Paran
to the ground.

“Thank the gods, oh thank the gods you came! How did youwhat did youthat
bitch! That wretched rotten bitch! How did you get the better of her?"

Paran nearly slapped him across the face, but he restrained himself.

“Get up, lad, get up. WeÅ‚ve got a long walk ahead of us."

“Walk?" Addaric let him go and slouched back on his heels. “Walk? Walk the
whole cursed way? Didnłt you bring any horses?"

“I didnÅ‚t at that. Now get up before I leave you here."

The long walk home improved neither Addaricłs moral fiber nor his temper,
and Paran was more than glad to leave him at his lordłs door by the time they
reached it. He was also glad to take the lordłs reward, too, not so much for
saving Addaric, as for enduring him on the walk home, and he gave the fine
horses in question to his sister for her dowry. No one believed Addaric, of
course, when he talked of being ensnared by a beautiful sorceress. The lad had
just plain gotten himself lost, or so the popular opinion ran, and he was too
piss-proud stubborn to admit the truth. For some months their adventure was the
talk of Aberwyn, but by spring, the folk found other things to marvel over and,
as folk will, forgot.

Paran, however, always remembered that kiss in the wild meadow. Torn as he
was between fear and regret, her memory haunted his dreams for years, while
awake he shuddered at the thought of her. Although his mapping took him back to
her forest many a time, he never saw her or her strange shy people again, not
even when he lingered by her river in hopes of catching a glimpse of hernot,
of course, that he could admit he was lingering. During all those long years he
never married, living alone in the roundhouse after his father died and his
sister found a man of her own. Finally, when his hair had turned steel gray,
and he knew that his legs were beginning to lose their spring, he gave away
everything he owned and left Aberwyn for the west. When he never came back,
most people believed that hełd died in the wilderness, eaten by bears, maybe,
or drowned, more likely, or just plain starved to death somewhere in the wild.

The truth of the matter is, though, that he walked into her forest and found
the circular clearing, not far from the river that we call Delonderiel, which
was the place where first hełd seen her. He shrugged off his pack and stood for
a moment, staring around at the silent trees.

“Lady?" he called. “My lady Briaclan, can you hear me? IÅ‚ve come as a
suppliant. IÅ‚ll sit here and starve myself at your doorstep, just as if you
were a great lord whołd wronged me, and the last word I speak will be the name
you told to young Addaric, all those years ago."

He stooped and turned out his pack, strewing the stuff about to show her
that he carried not a morsel of food, then sat down cross-legged in the grass.
Hełd barely settled himself, though, when she came strolling through the trees.
She was wearing a dress of some pale stuff that shimmered round her like
sunlight.

“So, youÅ‚ve come back to me, have you, Paran of Aberwyn?"

“IÅ‚ve come back many a time. You never showed yourself."

“You never asked, nor did you call to me, nor say one word about me. Why?"

“Why didnÅ‚t you ever call out to me?"

“I asked my question first, and so you answer first."

“Fair enough. I was afraid that IÅ‚d love you more than any man should love a
woman, and then IÅ‚d be a different man."

“Odd, that. I was afraid IÅ‚d love you more than one of my kind should love a
mortal, and then IÅ‚d have changed beyond thinking. IÅ‚d say our answers are much
alike."

“And IÅ‚d say the same." He looked away with a sigh for the foolishness of
pride. “Is it too late for you to have me back?"

“Never. Come here."

Hand in hand they walked off through the woods, and never once did he look
back nor think of his pack and his gear, lying scattered over the grass. And
some say that thanks to the ladyłs great dweomer, Paran is still alive,
wandering with her and her people under the wheel of the sky, but as to the
truth of that, I couldnłt say.








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