Coronach of the Bell (short story)

by Christopher Stasheff

  CORONACH OF THE BELL

  by

  Christopher Stasheff

  Copyright © 2002, 2014 by Christopher Stasheff

  Cover art © 2014 by Edward Stasheff

  eBook ISBN-13: 1230000273925

  Published by Stasheff Literary Enterprises, Champaign, IL

  Visit us at http://christopher.stasheff.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Coronach of the Bell

  About the Author

  Ebooks by Christopher Stasheff

  CORONACH OF THE BELL

  There is a spruce, a skeleton, that stands above a forest in a mountain valley, and from its tip, a bell hangs high and lone, moaning in the Wind.

  There is a pass into that valley, but the sides are sharp and jagged—torn and twisted, blackened granite. There, one slip means death.

  Once a clan lived there, when the spruce was quick with resin and fields of maize filled half the valley. There was no pass between the mountains then, for a granite bridge once joined them. But that bridge was hollow, gutted out by adze and pick, honeycombed into a home for Manninglore.

  Manninglore, bald and bearded, hunchbacked, stunted, musclebound, stooping from his years of toil.

  Manninglore, born old.

  The wrinkles of birth never left his face; hair never grew upon his scalp. "Changeling!" the children of the clan all called him. He did not dare protest, for his bandy legs could scarcely run, and his bulging arms were much too slow for fighting.

  So, of course, his bald pate became the target for their mocking slaps—blows which, as Manninglore learned quickly, he could but endure. The lesson of his childhood was patience; the companion of his youth was solitude.

  So, when he was old enough for numbering among the grown men of the clan, and his beard (already white) begun, he set the village at his back and climbed up to the granite bridge between the mountains. Behind a grove of trees he hewed himself out a cave, hiding his door from vil­lage eyes. There, in the leaf-broken sunlight of the cave mouth, Manninglore sat tailor-fashion and opened his soul to the totem of his clan, the Wind.

  They grew old, the men and women who had been young with Manninglore. Old and wrinkled, stooped and gnarled, they looked up to the mountainside with envy—envy, now, and longing; for those who rose before the dawn saw Manninglore up high upon the granite bridge, leaning on his staff in sunlight, though the village of the clan still lay in shadow. His beard was long, his shoulders stooped—but in all else, he had not changed.

  "He is a sorcerer," said some. "He has dark knowledge."

  "No," said most. "How could he age, who was ancient at his birth?"

  Yet Manninglore too had aged, though not in body. The whole of the bridge was hollow now, filled with crucibles and books, with heaps of ore and precious earths. At the back, away from the valley, stood the bellows, anvil, and hearth of a smithy. At the front, two windows, too small to be seen by the clan, looked out towards the village.

  When Manninglore's generation were long in their graves, their children's children, old in their turn, looked to the mountain with a curse, for Manninglore stood hale as ever, on the bridge of sunrise.

  "Our grandfathers are dust," they muttered, "yet Manninglore lives."

  "All that mountain is his home. We will die in huts of mud."

  "What have we done with our lives?" they wondered. "We, and our grandfathers before us? Yet how much more has Manninglore gleaned!"

  "He has knowledge, dark knowledge to lengthen his life. But will he give of it?"

  Then, in their envy and their shame, they would have gone to the mountain and put Manninglore to the death, had they dared. But the span of his powers was hidden, their limits unknown. So they kept to their village in fear, and cursed at the mountain.

  Then their anger fermented into bitterness and hatred. They cried to their totem for a sorcerer that they might safely burn. Thus, from their guilt and self-pity, Demouach was born.

  The clan gathered round the central fire, muttering, quiet in the night.

  Then Demouach was hopping round the flame-pit, grin­ning and chirping—Demouach, the height of a knee, brittle leather, with the form and the face of a man, but with parchment between his arms and sides and legs, and claws where a man should have feet. Wordless, with only chirpings, or wailings—Demouach, imbecile.

  One long moment the clan crouched staring, silent. Then howling, and drumming of feet, and brands from the fire whirling at the monster.

  Demouach flew, screaming in terror and pain. Still coals struck him; the clan, gleeful, followed.

  But they turned away, cursing in fear, when Demouach fell onto the mountainside.

  Manninglore, bent over alembics and crucibles, heard the wail at his threshold, stumped bandy-legged to the entryway, hauled back the door.

  Burning leather, cries of torture, smoldering parchment writhed in the light from the doorway.

  The next generation knew Manninglore chiefly from Demouach, ever about his master's business, sailing over the valley with a leathern sack in his claws, fetching the raw stuffs of magic.

  Legend had hidden Manninglore's birth from them. He was their sage, who always had dwelt on the mountain; only this could they know of him. "Our forefathers sinned against him," they said, "but in his mercy, Manninglore spared them." So they lived in awe of the hermit, awe and reverence. "Be diligent," they told their children. "Be steadfast," they told their youth. "Care well for your chil­dren," they told those new-come to parentage. "Be indus­trious, tenacious, generous, loving, and the child of your children's children may be like to Manninglore."

  But the sage in his mountain knew nothing of their rev­erence. High in his granite hall, he thought of wood and stone and metal only, and hearkened to none but the totem of his clan, the Wind.

  "Go," he said, putting a leathern pouch in Demouach's claws, "and fetch me clay from the bank of the river, and wax from old hives, for I would hear my totem speak in words."

  He took the clay when Demouach returned, and squared it into a block, a cubit on each side.

  Looking up at Demouach, he frowned. "Be still!"

  For Demouach danced, hopping from foot to foot on the window ledge, keening like the birds of dusk.

  "Be still!" said Manninglore again; but Demouach sprang from the ledge, catching Manninglore's sleeve in his horny lips, pulling the sage to the window.

  Manninglore looked down, down to the village of the clan of Mannin under the noonday sun.

  The people wandered thin and haggard, stumbling as they went.

  "They starve," said Manninglore. "What is that to me?"

  Demouach wailed, dancing on the ledge.

  "Their cornfields lie in darkness," said the wizard. "The stalks are pale and flaccid, for they lie in the shadow of the forest pines even at noon. But that is not my care."

  Demouach cried in short, lamenting calls, hopping from one foot to the other as though the window ledge burned beneath his claws.

  "They revere the forest excessively," said Manninglore. "They will not fell a tree, even to let the sunlight in upon their crops. They are fools. But their folly is not mine."

  Then Demouach chittered, scolding, his eye piercing brightly into Manninglore's.

  The wizard's visage hardened; the ends of his moustache drew down to form a heel bone. "Only pain they gave me, Demouach. In the days of my youth they mocked me, striking me when my face was turned away, then running, for I could not follow. I have built my home and gathered knowl­edge, never asking aid of them. I owe them nothing."

  Still Demouach lamented.

&
nbsp; "You also, Demouach, have suffered at their hands. They have burned you, Demouach, and hunted you, and cursed you. And would you aid them, then?"

  Then Demouach howled, flapping from the ledge to beat his wings about the wizard's head till he raised his arms for shielding and stumbled from the window. "Peace!" he bellowed over Demouach's cries. "Peace, Demouach! I shall heal them, I shall pull down the pines and give them light! Only give me peace, good Demouach, that I may work!"

  Then he filled a pouch with seeds and gave it to Demouach. "Scatter these over the forest," he said, "and oak and ash shall spring up 'mongst the giant pines, to bring them down."

  Caroling, Demouach gripped the pouch in his claws and tumbled through the window.

  "Demouach, hold!" cried Manninglore, and the messenger hovered.

  "Spare one spruce," the wizard called, "for I would not have the dark beauty of that tree lost, forever and irrevo­cably, to the clan of Mannin."

  Demouach bobbed his head, then turned to soar away in swirling song. He sped out over the village, over the fields, to the forest.

  There he tilted the pouch, spilling out the seeds, spiraling in to the center of the forest until the pouch was empty.

  When the sun rose again, the pines had fallen. In their place, but half their height, stood oak and ash, full-grown.

  The clan of Mannin stood and stared, and marveled; and their corn was green by sunset.

  "The wizard has saved us," they murmured, and blessed the name of Manninglore.

  But deep in the forest stood one sapling spruce.

  Manninglore in his granite hall carved a deep bowl in a cube of clay. He widened the lip, flaring, and carved the name of his clan and its totem, "Mannin," "Wind," in the side. He kindled coke in his forge and fanned it hot; he swung a crucible over the flames and dropped in iron in­gots.

  When the iron flowed, he poured it into the block of clay, then poured it out again. A film of iron remained on the clay.

  Seven times Manninglore filled and drained the mold. Then he let it cool, broke away the clay, and set the iron beaker on a tripod. He filled its form with frozen air and crystallized water; looking in, he saw the stars roll past in majesty.

  "Now the Wind will speak to me in words," said Manninglore. He wet his finger on his tongue and stroked the lip of the bell in circles.

  A deep tone rose from out of the bell, then formed itself to words: "What would you know?"

  "Wind!" cried Manninglore. "Only spirit that I ven­erate!"

  He turned, arm swinging in a circle. "I have hollowed out a mountain for a home. I have filled one wall with books of lore. Tell me, spirit, for I must know—are these things worthy?"

  And, "No," the spirit answered.

  Manninglore turned in a temper and took up his pick. Children in the valley grew old and died while Manninglore tore into the bowels of the mountain.

  Then he called again to the spirit of the Wind and cried, "A mountain of gold have I amassed! Wealth beyond a world of kings! Tell me, spirit—is it worthy?"

  "No," the spirit answered.

  Manninglore swore, and stamped away. Two genera­tions howled in birth and coughed in death while the wizard labored and his messenger passed in weary flight again and again about the world.

  Manninglore called up his totem then and cried, "Ten thousand books have flowed from my pen! There is no se­cret of wood or stone or metal that I do not know! Tell me, spirit—is this worthy?"

  But, "No," the spirit answered.

  "Then is nothing worthy!" cried Manninglore. "Moun­tains, houses, wealth, and tomes—are none of these things worthy?"

  "None," the spirit answered.

  "Why!" the wizard stormed.

  "Wizard," intoned the spirit, "look to the valley." Slowly, Manninglore turned to the window. He saw the fields barren, his clan staggering, emaciated.

  "They die," said Manninglore. "What is that to me?"

  "Sage," droned the spirit, "who shall read your books?"

  Manninglore stood frozen.

  "Miser," mourned the spirit, "whom shall you pay?"

  Manninglore's eyes showed white around the rim.

  "Builder," the spirit tolled, "who shall dwell in your halls?"

  In the hour before dawn, when all the world was still, the clan of Mannin shot trembling from their beds as the earth beneath them shook with thunder.

  Rushing from their doors, they saw a great notch torn between the mountains.

  "The ridge is gone," they whispered; and, "The wizard of Mannin is no more! Who shall aid us now?"

  Then Manninglore stepped into the village, a pack of magics on his back, an iron beaker in the crook of his elbow, Demouach upon his twisted shoulder.

  He paced through the village that day, gaze probing the folk of the clan, tagging each person and allotting it cate­gory, for Manninglore had studied Humanity once, long ago, had wrought through the gear-meshing strivings, the escapements of mores, to the tightly-coiled spring of the cravings. Then, when he knew why Man and Woman did what they did and when they would do it, he had given over the study as ephemeral, and therefore unworthy.

  But now, as he measured the paths with his stride, his eyes sought through flesh and marrow to the souls within, and found them all shrunken, dwindled to gibbering, skeletal monkeys, atrophied. And Manninglore marveled that this dwindling had come to pass within his gaze, but without his notice.

  They were dying, all about him, the folk of his clan, those in the prime of their lives. The elders still mumbled and moved with some sign of life, with jerkings and tics, and youths still walked, limbs laboring slowly, as though they forced their way through some dark and viscous fluid.

  But the men and women in the fullness of their days sprawled in the doorways, muscles sodden, bones sagging. Here an old one gave his woman-grown daughter to drink; there a girl crooned her parents to their final slumber. Children there were none.

  Yet kindness was here, and love, in the pitiful efforts of the old and young to ease the slow, sinking deaths of maturity.

  Manninglore saw, and shame grew within him.

  "O Spirit!" he cried to the Wind, "totem of Mannin! Hear the tale of a life come to naught. My cry has been only, 'For me!' for I labored only to say, 'I have built, I have crafted, I shall always endure in my works!' while here in the valley they have cried only, 'For thee! All for thee!' "

  "It is true," chimed the spirit, "yet but half of the truth. They have cried, 'All for thee, my child, that you may someday be like to Manninglore!' Wizard, you have served them in your selfishness; you have given them a mark for their striving, and so have brought them out of greed, to giving."

  "Yet how little to give!" cried the sage; but Demouach crooned on his shoulder.

  So they came to the fields, the beaker, the hermit, and the batwing. There they looked upon the maize standing tall, in buff serried ranks, tasseled heads nodding to make the Wind whisper.

  Manninglore scowled; words growled low in his throat. "There is corn in the field, there is grain in the bin, there is gruel in the pot. Yet the strength has gone from their bodies. How is this?"

  "Go into the village," answered the spirit, "and ask." There in the village, a man lay flaccid by the door of a cottage. A palsied hand, blue-veined and wrinkled, lifted his head; its mate held a cup to his lips. The man gulped at the porridge, then lolled his head back. The old hand lowered him gently to earth. "I fed him once from my breast," its owner said, vein pulsing slowly in the stalk of her throat. "He throve, then... But my breasts are long dry now, and fallen."

  And she turned away to her mortar. "You have fed him," said Manninglore. "Why then does he fail?"

  "Watch," she said then, "and see," and touched the ker­nels of maize with the pestle. They fell away into powder.

  "Dust," she said, lifting her hand. Flour strewed on the Wind, and was gone. "There is no substance in it. The ker­nels have form, but no weight. They are empty."

  She turned; the eyes of the man had gla
zed over. Sighing, she closed the lids gently.

  "He was your son," the wizard murmured. "I had twenty sons," she replied. "Six remain. I had six­teen daughters. Only two still walk."

  Her face was thin, and shrunken to the skull. But the eyes still were large, the hair a cascade of foam down her back. Manninglore's throat tightened; he put his hand out to her. She did not feel his touch.

  Manninglore ordered the corn mown, the stalks plowed under. Then he kindled fire and brewed magic powder. He broadcast it over the fields and planted the maize.

  And the old woman moved through the village, tending her children, for the young now were dying.

  The corn grew green and tall—but the kernels were small, and crumbled to powder as the husks were stripped off.

  It was plowed under, and the wizard brewed waters of power from the saps of trees, and planted the maize.

  And the old woman knelt by her last dying daughter. Breath stilled; the old woman stayed by her in silence awhile. Then, stretching out her quivering hand, she closed the eyes of her child. She sighed, and fell limp in the dust.

  Manninglore cradled her head in the crook of his arm, holding a steaming cup to her lips. The old eyes opened slowly. "I loved you, wizard," she whispered. "I saw you at dawn on the mountaintop, and I loved you. I could not be content with any man, because my love was you. I bore a child to every man of my generation, thirty-six children, one for each year I could bear, because of my love for you. Yet still, I love you."

  Then her head fell back as her eyes rolled up, and the slow rise and fall of the flattened breasts ceased.

  He closed her eyes, pressed her hair to his cheek. "She loved me—I, hunchback and cripple, who swore no woman could look upon me without revulsion. I ruined her life, and she loved me. I gave her nothing, yet for all of her days, she loved me."

  He looked up to the old folk crowding about him, bodies of wire and paper under fiery sun. "Are all the youth dead?" he asked, and they nodded.

  He tallied the walking mummies about him and muttered, "These at least shall not die."