The Magic May Return

by Larry Niven

  They glared at each other before changing the subject. He left as soon as decently possible, and their parting was cool.

  Autumn was drawing to a close, and Shalindra dreaded the coming season. Rain-raw wind whined through the windows, and the College fountain brimmed with sodden leaves. Snowdrifts soon would smother Tyreen. Each year the frost fell earlier.

  As always, when cold crept down the stone halls, Llangru sickened. Formerly Shalindra’s medicines could soothe the rattle in his chest and cool his fever, but of late they availed little. Each winter’s illness left him more weakened. Even in summer he coughed. If only, Shalindra thought, they could stay warm and dry…

  Today he lay flushed, eyes bright, staring at something his mother could not see. He held out his arms, spread his fingers, and chanted, “Soaring, over glittery waves, fish like silver needles. Winds cradle me. Tyreen lies tiny, far down. The boys romp in the street. I could stoop on them, but why bother? It’s cool and blue here, the sun warms my wings, the fish below me dance for joy—”

  Shalindra sponged his forehead. He often babbled thus, claiming to be a hawk, a fox, once a great shambling bear—Llangru, who had never walked the Barren or the forest. He had merely seen wild animals in books. Llangru spent his life cowering in the library, hidden from the jeers and taunts of normal children. The townsfolk knew him to be sincere in his claims, so they thought him mad. Had Zaerrui lived, could he have helped his son?

  The boy needed fruit, fresh vegetables, milk—for perhaps the twentieth time that day, Shalindra opened her larder. The shelves gleamed bare. One hook, amid an empty dozen, held a shoulder of smoked elk: a gift from Brandek. Its gamy taste was strange to one used to fat beef cattle. Yet it was the sole meat Shalindra had, and she was grateful for whatever Brandek did to preserve it. Long ago, spoilage was no problem; a simple spell kept meat and produce fresh. But over time, magic had faded. She remembered going to her larder one morning to fix Zaerrui a festive breakfast; she had opened the door and gagged at corruption.

  Now her problem was finding anything to eat. Brandek brought food, sometimes a silent leaving on the doorstep, but charity made a bitter meal.

  Tyreen ate better, though; Brandek was teaching his hunting band new ways. Kiernon’s son Destog, for instance, scorned to work in metal. He’d fashioned a spear and hunted for a living. The spearpoint was flint. Brandek’s work, likewise. Knives made by Destog’s father lay broken and rusted.

  Again Shalindra examined the shelves. She might have overlooked something. The smoked meat, part of a cheese, a crust of bread—that was all. Most of her possessions she had bartered away. Last to go were the carved chair, her ivory boxes, the circlet that once bound her hair. Naught remained but the books. She would not part with those. Had she wished to, they were valueless. Tyreen no longer wanted even a writing of births, deaths, and marriages.

  Shalindra raised her hands to her face. Her last gold bracelet slid down a thin arm. No, I’ll not trade that. Not Zaerrui’s wedding gift. It would buy food for a short time, but soon that, too, would be eaten. So what’s to do? I’m scarcely a sorceress any longer.

  Old Abba, for instance, was among her failures: Shalindra had helped her for years, until abruptly the potions no longer worked. The laundress had sickened and died in weeks. Her family thought Shalindra had willfully held back magic. But there is no magic left. At least not in me.

  An idea struck her. She laughed, a choking sound, quickly stifled. She did not wish to rouse Llangru. Since Abba’s death, Tyreen lacked a laundress. Well, Shalindra did know how to make soap, and washing was an honorable task, not like being someone’s kept woman, or worse. The townsfolk might not need a scribe, but they did need clean clothes.

  She dragged out the big copper tub and inspected it. Dents and spots worn thin were plentiful, but it should hold together for a while. She checked on Llangru a final time and set forth seeking work.

  Shalindra knelt by the tub, scrubbing. Llangru, a book propped on his lap, read aloud. On demand he could fetch more hot water, but he was too clumsy for any real labor.

  The shirt she washed was patched. How long since anyone had had strong new linen, cotton, wool? Hente the weaver sat idle. His sons had joined Brandek’s band, and fed their parents.

  Llangru read on: “To ensure fair weather for a festival, take clippings from the mane of a white unicorn, the oily tears of a merchild, and, in an amethyst flask, gather dragon’s breath. On the night of the dark moon mix these together—”

  Shalindra lifted the shirt. How long since unicorns pranced or merfolk swam, how long since the College’s guardian dragons had last moved?

  Gently, she wrung out soapy water. The shirt came apart in her hands. Rough hands, work-reddened; no longer the fingers Zaerrui had kissed.

  Cloth garments were vanishing. Brandek and his hunters wore animal hides, harsh on the skin and clumsily-sewn. She looked at the blue fabric of her gown. It hung soft against her body, draped in pleasing folds, but the hem was threadbare and the sleeves were patched.

  She wiped a soapy arm across her eyes, lest Llangru see her tears.

  Day at midwinter was brief and pale in this land, when clouds did not make twilight of it or snowstorms strike men with white blindness. Brandek could seldom go to sleep at nightfall or sit quietly in the house he had occupied. It was too cold and dark. He had been using odd moments to carve fat-burning lamps out of soapstone, but as yet he had only three. Hence he became a frequenter of the last tavern in Tyreen. The magical light-globes there were extinct too, but you needed no more than hearth-glow to drink by. Besides, he usually enjoyed the company; and if nothing else, it was well to be friendly, for some people resented his rapid rise to dominance.

  One night was frozenly clear. A full moon cast long shadows from the east and made the snow sheen and glisten. Beneath it he saw the peaks of the Heewhirlas thrust whiter still above the horizon. Elsewhere, stars thronged heaven and the Silver Torrent cataracted in the same silence that made the scrunch of his boots on the snow seem loud. His breath went ghostly before him.

  The cold slid fingers past his garments. Fur and leather were better than cloth, but none of the men who tried had yet perfected the art of preparing these materials, nor had any woman—in this case, Hente’s daughter Risaya, anxious to impress the great hunter—grown skillful at making clothes from them. Well, that would come with experience, Brandek knew. He hefted the flint-headed spear he carried, and his free hand dropped to the obsidian knife at his hip. Several men, himself included, were already good at shaping stone.

  So much to learn, discover, master—A sigh sent Brandek’s breath flying. He often thought that the existence of mana had finally proven more a curse than a blessing. When it was exhausted through use, mankind knew very little else. Without it, the race would have developed techniques which depended only on the enduring aspects of the world. For instance, there must be a better way to light a dwelling than by a wick afloat in a bowl of grease; but no one was likely to hit upon any when countless different inventions were more urgently needed.

  He saw the Green Merman ahead and lengthened his stride. The tavern was formerly the house of someone who could not pay magicians to help in the construction. Hence it abided, though much decayed in the timbers, amidst hillocks which had been more pretentious neighbors. Light seeped dim around the edges of warped door and shutters. Smoke billowed from a hole in the roof, where tiles had been removed when spells no longer kept weather balmy.

  Wolves began to howl. They sounded like a large pack, and right outside the North Gate. Belike they were in quest of livestock; it was becoming impossible to keep herds or flocks safe from predators. More than once Brandek had raged at the owners, that they wasted time trying when the coastal plain and the mountains held abundant wild game.

  Their sons usually agreed with him, and that had broken several families, and that had earned him added reproaches by Shalindra. Brandek flung the tavern door wide and stamped in. “Red wine, a mug o
f it!” he roared.

  The air made his eyes and lungs sting. Just four men clustered at the single table, amidst unrestful thick shadows. Money was meaningless, and few could spare goods to swap for the diminishing store of drink. Brandek had ample credit from the pelts he brought out of the wilderness, and endeared himself to chosen fellow patrons by treating them.

  Tonight they spoke no welcome but sat tense. Even muffled by walls, it was as if the sudden wolf-howls had pierced them. Terbritt the landlord must swallow before he could say, huskily, “I’m sorry. No more wine.”

  “What?” Brandek was astounded. “I’ve seen—”

  “Yes, sir, two barrels were left. After that, no more wine, ever. And Jayath, the chirurgeon, you know, he and a lot of others came to tell me it should be kept for those who’re in pain or need his knife. The Lord Mayor’s taken charge of it.”

  Brandek uttered an oath, then curbed his temper. For the most part, city government had become a solemn farce. He, the outlander, had already gained more real power, merely by showing people how to survive and browbeating them into doing so. He had still less faith in the chirurgeon; fate deliver him from ever falling into those untrained hands!

  However, many did trust Jayath, and the belief doubtless strengthened them. Therefore turning the wine over to him was a move toward solidarity, in this divided and demoralized community.

  “All right,” Brandek said. “Beer will do. It’d better.”

  Nobody chuckled. He settled down on a bench next to Gilm the carpenter, who mumbled, “Soon no more beer, either. Drink it while it’s there.” He had obviously been setting an example. With abrupt violence, he banged his goblet on the table. “I got credit. Gave Terbritt the two halves of a saw after it broke today. Next to last saw in my kit. Terbritt says he’ll have Kiernon turn it into knives. No way to make a new saw, o’ course. Who needs cabinets or cedar chests any longer, anyway? Houses? Why, the wood we can pull out o’ the ruins is generally rotten, and the Northern forests are under the glacier, and no ships bring timber from the South.” He hiccoughed. “My son began in my trade too, you remember. He’ll not end in it. No call for carpenters. What’ll he do?”

  Brandek clapped the man’s shoulder. “Let him learn hunting, or stone-chipping, or any of a host of crafts that really are needed. I’ll be glad to teach him what I can.”

  “Teach him to be a…a savage!”

  The wolf chorus, which had quieted, broke forth again. Wisnar, who farmed, traced a sign across his broad breast. His beard fell that far down; not many razors remained. (Brandek had acquired one and used it regularly, as a way of maintaining he was no enemy of civilization.) “What’s that you do?” asked Lari, who had been a merchant and now lived by trading away what remained in his warehouses. Fear shrilled through his voice.

  “I make the mark of my family,” Wisnar told them, “hoping my forebears will guard me against yonder demons; for the gods died long ago.”

  The landlord stiffened where he stood tapping the beer. “Hold on,” he exclaimed. “Ill not have another Alsken in this house.”

  Wisnar bridled, dread half lost in indignation. “I’m no such thing. You ought to know me better than that, all of you.”

  “An Alsken?” asked Brandek. “What do you mean?”

  Anxious to smooth matters over, Terbritt said fast: “Alsken was a man of this town, a few years ago, who claimed he had found a stone so full of mana that he was now as mighty a sorcerer as…as Zaerrui was of old. Many believed him, and in their need showered him with gifts and did his every bidding. But then it was found he had nothing more, really, than sleight of hand and other such tricks. A mob tore him apart, and the building he was in as well. I’m sorry, Wisnar. I spoke too fast. You’re no charlatan like that. I’m sure. I was only anxious lest the Green Merman suffer.”

  The farmer shook his head. “No, I’m no fraud, I make no claims for myself. I told you what I did—beseech; just beseech my forefathers to help me. It may well be that they’re bones in their graves, as dead as magic itself. But—” He grimaced as if in pain. “But what harm in calling on them, when we who live are helpless against those demons out there?”

  “Those?” Brandek protested. “They’re only wolves.”

  “Only!” Wisnar yelled. “If you knew their cunning, if you knew the harm they’ve wrought me—If they aren’t demons themselves, then they’re possessed. And what shall stand between us and them?”

  “But I’d not call on ghosts for help,” Lari quavered. “Who knows what ghosts might want?”

  A shudder ran around the table. Terbritt’s hand slopped the beer he set down before Brandek. The wolves howled louder. From afar, a mammoth trumpeted. A groan arose, and two men covered their eyes.

  Aged Fyrlei alone sat as still as the Southerner. Once he had been the town’s interpreter for the last of the merfolk who came trading; he had been accustomed to the unhuman. Yet it could be seen that he thrust his quietness upon himself, and what he said was: “The magic is gone. But muster your courage, lads, the courage to hope that Our Father of the Tusks will be merciful to us.”

  “Would he take an offering, do you think?” Lari asked.

  Brandek’s fist crashed on the board. “Let him offer to us!” he answered, deep in his throat. “A walking hoard of meat, bone, hide, ivory—You dread him simply because his kind has very lately come down from the North. What other cause is there? Stop quaking at every change that happens along, and use your common sense.” He made a spitting noise. “If you have any.”

  “Too much has changed, too soon,” Terbritt said, and slumped down onto the bench.

  “Aye,” Fyrlei murmured, “everything now is unknown. We’re like sailors on a rudderless boat adrift in a fog. Nothing is left us but courage, and it must stand naked.”

  “Then don’t weaken it by whimpering,” Brandek snapped at them all.

  His words did not lash them into a healthy anger as he wished. They sat huddled in their terror. Wisnar did retort, with dull resentment, “You’re no help yourself, fellow. You throw your weight around like a legate of the Empire. But the Empire’s dust on the wind, and what you really do is turn our children against us.”

  “I try to show them how Tyreen can best survive,” Brandek said in a milder tone. He would not openly admit what he realized, that he was often too overbearing. Such was his nature, and the terrible plight of these people did not make him patient with fecklessness.

  “Yes, like that boy in your hunting party who met his death last month,” Wisnar answered.

  “He saw something strange at the riverside, where we were,” Brandek explained for the dozenth time. “He panicked, bolted off, went through thin ice, and drowned before we could reach him. The strange thing turned out to be no more than another beast new to these parts—a rhinoceros, we’d call it in Aeth, though this was woolly—a calf, at that, surely strayed from its mother.” He did not remind them that a third of his band had refused to help kill the animal, and later nobody at home would touch the valuable carcass. They supposed a nameless evil force must be in it, and knew not how to cope.

  He had requested aid of Shalindra. She could pretend to cast a spell and annul the curse. Appalled, she refused to debase the art which had been her husband’s and her own. Let it lie honorably in its grave. Besides, who could tell what misfortune might indeed come of a thing which had already claimed one life? He had snarled and stamped off. Inwardly, almost reluctantly, he mourned that this had further widened the rift between them.

  Fyrlei nodded his white head. “Aye, Brandek, you mean well and you do well,” he said. “You show us ways of coping with the material world, ways we’d never have thought of by ourselves. However, you are no visionary. You spoke of common sense. How can that exist when nothing makes sense any more?”

  The question pierced. The old man had wisdom of a sort. If the heart went altogether out of them, whatever skills they gained, the folk of Tyreen would not have long to live.

  Br
andek’s hand closed on his crude wooden goblet, as though to splinter it. The wolves and the mammoth chanted through the night around him.

  A warm spring breeze scurried into the courtyard, bearing a whiff of Brandek’s latest project. He had discovered some new way to cure hides. In Shalindra’s opinion, the stench was even more offensive than in the old method of scraping and drying.

  Hente, the weaver, grieved at the advent of leather garments, but since weather-spells had failed, the flax crops were blighted. Wolves, driven south before the ice, harried the sheep and made wool unobtainable. Folk simply had no way to produce cloth. Hente’s youngest son tanned skins for a living.

  Shalindra poured hot water into the fountain and started a wash. Little enough work was left for her; each week more clothes fell to tatters.

  The pleasant morning had tempted Llangru out of the compound. She let him go; she could not shelter him forever. Already he stood nearly as tall as his mother. In a few years he would shoot up into manhood.

  What life will there be for him, then? Her son lacked the brute strength to face this world.

  Soft-shod feet shuffled across cobbles. She turned and gasped. Llangru’s face was a sheet of gore. His tunic flapped over skinned knees, and his knuckles were raw. Tears had traced dirty paths down his cheeks. Behind him loomed Brandek, dressed for the hunt.

  Shalindra sprang forward. “What have you done to him?” she shrilled, though she knew the question was stupid. Brandek did not harm children.

  “It’s only a bloody nose,” the Southerner said. “They always look dramatic. It’s mostly stopped running. Wash your face, young man. You’ve scared your mother.”

  Llangru nodded gravely and stepped over to the fountain. It was full of laundry, so he cupped water in his palms. Last winter Shalindra’s copper tub had holed through. No one knew how to patch it. The fountain, which was granite, endured. The dancing maiden’s outstretched hand held a bowl of fat-and-ash soap.