by Andre Norton
As he moved, his spear struck against the stone parapet of the bridge with a clank of metal. And that sound, small as it was, was picked up, echoed through the empty village. Greg knew in that moment that he should never have shouted from the ridge, that perhaps he had drawn attention to himself in a manner he would regret.
Better to get out of the valley as quickly as he could. He tried to keep all those cottages in sight, sure that, if he were lucky, or fast, or clever enough, he would sooner or later catch a glimpse of what must lurk there.
Crossing the bridge, Greg came out on a stretch of moss-greened pavement about the base of the tower. As he drew level with the door, his spear turned in his hands in spite of the firm grip with which he held it, hurting his skin with the force of the movement. Armed, he stumbled forward a step or two, drawn against the wall toward the interior of the tower by some force that seemed to guide his spear.
Then he discovered he would either have to abandon his weapon or continue on inside. And since he dared not leave the spear behind, Greg advanced reluctantly, the odd weapon light and free in his hold as long as he followed its direction.
Within the tower the light was dim, for it came only through narrow slits of windows. All the lower story was one square room, empty except for powdery drifts of old leaves. Against the far wall was a stairway leading to a hole in the ceiling. This Greg mounted warily one step at a time, still urged along by the spear.
At last he reached the third and top room, which was as bare as the other two had been, and he was completely bewildered. There were three windows here, one in each of the three walls at his sides and back. In the wall fronting him there was the outline of a fourth window which had been bricked up, as had the gate through which they had come to Avalon.
Moved by the power against which he no longer struggled, Greg went to the fourth wall and pried at the sealing stones with his pronged spear. The mortar which had bound the stones must have been very weak, for at the first slight push they gave way, falling outward one after another.
Greg swung around to face the stairwell, sure that if any enemy lurked in the village the crash of the falling stones would bring him—or it—into the open.
But the echoes of the crash faded and there was no other sound. Was the blocked window another gate? But it couldn’t be—there was only sky to be seen without.
Greg put his hand on the wide sill and pulled himself up for a better view. The ruinous state of the village was even more apparent from this height. There was not a whole roof on any of the cottages, no signs of cultivation in the old fields beyond.
The puzzle of why he had been brought here—for Greg was certain he had been guided—was still a mystery. He studied the ground below and saw a ragged bush tremble where there was no wind, as if something crept beneath its masking.
From the village he looked to the far wall of the next mountain. The cloudiness of the day made it difficult to locate any landmarks ahead. Then Greg gripped his fork-spear tighter, for there was something—a pinprick of light far up, far beyond—a light which flickered as though it came from the leaping flames of a distant fire.
He realized that that distant gleam could not be sighted from any other point in the valley than where he now stood. And so it was easy to understand that that light was what he had been brought here to see, that it must be the mysterious goal of his journey.
And now as Greg went downstairs and out into the open, his spear did not resist his going. Only three houses stood between him and the open country, and he was eager to be away from the dead village. However, that was not yet done, as he discovered when he rounded the last hut.
Between him and the first scrubby growth of trees masking the upward slope of the road were what had once been fields. When he had inspected these from the tower, they had appeared to be only weed-grown spaces bordered by the rotting remains of ancient fences. And between them the road ran straight, walled by borders of half-dead hedges.
Greg halted and lowered the fork. For, flowing out of the hedgerows now, was a company of animals. They moved silently, every head swung so that eyes, yellow and green and red, were on him. Wolves—certainly the larger shapes of silver-gray were wolves—minks, weasels—all hunters, all gray of coat.
They stood in a dead tangle of grass, their heads showing above it, the bolder creatures crouched at the verge of the road. But they did not advance any farther. The wolves sat on their haunches as if they were hounds, their pink tongues showing a little. Greg gained confidence. Step by wary step he passed along the lane they had left open for him.
He watched those beads of eyes move as he moved, he held his breath as he stepped between the two wolves. Not daring to quicken pace lest he provoke them into attack, he kept on walking slowly through that strange company. But when he had reached the edge of the wood and dared to look back, the fields were as barren of life as they had been earlier. Whatever had been the purpose of that queer assembly, it had not meant danger for him.
Tired and hungry though he was, Greg began to climb again. He disliked that valley so much he did not want to pause again until he was safely out of it. But soon he ran into thickets of ripe berries and clipped them off in juicy handfuls, munching dry bits of sandwich between.
He spent that night in a rough lean-to he made by stacking branches together. And he slept soundly, though with troubled dreams. Then he awoke to another gray day.
Before he had gone a quarter mile the road forked. The wider, paved way he had followed since he had come through Merlin’s mirror angled to the left. Another path, far less well marked and beginning with a very steep climb, went on ahead. And it was the latter which pointed in the direction of the spark he had sighted from the tower.
Greg studied the path. Up and up it angled, ending in the dark mouth of a deep cleft or cave. Again the fork-spear in his hands urged him up and into the very heart of that black opening. He tried to find a path around, but there was no possible one and the pull of the fork would not let him turn aside—unless he dropped it.
Greg crept forward and chill stone walls closed in on him far too quickly. Somewhere ahead he could hear the distant lap of water. He began to sound his way, rapping the fork against the rock flooring lest he fall into some underground stream.
The dark was so thick Greg had a queer feeling he could gather up its substance in his hands, hold it. When he glanced back, the entrance was a tiny glimmer of gray, so he could hardly distinguish it—then the passage climbed and there was only the terrifying dark, a dark which swallowed you up. He felt as if he could not breathe, that he was trapped. His heart pounded heavily. He wanted nothing so much as to turn and run and run—
Now he was listening, listening for all the things his imagination told him might lie in wait here. But somehow he kept going, his head swimming with the effort that determination cost him, not daring to pause lest he would hear something indeed.
“Iron, cold iron.” First he whispered those words and then said them aloud in a kind of chant. And the fork-spear swung in time to that. The feel of it in his hands began to give him confidence—until at last he saw another gleam of gray light and came out on a ledge a few feet above a wide plateau down to which he could easily leap.
At the far side of the level plateau was a paved surface, and Greg saw that it was a sort of road that wound about a series of strange pillars. At first Greg thought they might be columns of a ruined building. Then he saw that they were clustered in irregular groups or scattered singly with no plan.
In the midst of these was the remains of a fire. The huge logs which had been piled to burn there were full tree trunks, and to transport them to this barren waste must have taken a great deal of labor. But he could see no carts, no men, though the fire was not quite dead. A thin trickle of smoke still curled, and the bitter tang of it hung in the air.
Greg dropped to the plateau and walked among the pillars toward the fire. Somehow, deep inside him, he knew that this was the goal of his journe
y and that he was now about to do what he had been sent to accomplish. That he was to recover one of the talismans, he did not doubt. Which treasure it was and whom he was to take it from still remained mysteries.
He was one pillar away from the fire when he put his hand against the last column. But there was no rock under his fingers—he touched something else! Greg snatched his hand away. Somewhere behind or above him he heard a chime as if a cord of silver bells had been shaken with warning vigor.
Sea Road
Sand moved under Eric’s feet. And a sea bird screamed as it swooped to snatch a wriggling silver fish from the waves. Wind which was crisp and fresh blew against his face and pulled at Eric’s hair.
He climbed to the top of the tallest dune to view the scene. The beach was wide. Behind the dune it rippled back to a point where dark patches might mark trees and bushes, but too far away for Eric to be sure. However, he was certain that his path, which was not a real one such as Greg had followed, lay seaward across the water.
So he faced in that direction, to sight a dark blot bobbing up and down, being brought to land by the breaking combers. A boat? Perhaps, though he could not be sure at this distance.
Farther out there was a smudge of shadow on the horizon. Since it did not move and was darker than any cloud, Eric thought it might be land, maybe an island. And because it lay directly ahead of the point where he had entered this country, he was sure that it was his goal.
No one could possibly expect him to swim way out there! Could he make it by boat—a good, steady boat?
Eric coasted down the seaward side of the dune and trotted on to the damp sand where the waves broke. Slowly he pulled off his shirt and jeans and waded out. The water was cool, stinging where the briers had made scratches on his legs and arms. Before him, just out of reach, the boat drifted. Eric took another step or two and the footing dropped sharply away from beneath him. He splashed in over his head with a cry, thrashed out wildly. He was right—water could never be trusted—try that and you were lost! Then a remnant of Slim’s patient drilling at the camp swimming lessons last year returned to him and he floundered as far as the boat. Steadying himself with a hand on the gunwale, Eric looked the craft over. It was half full of water, which made it ride low, but there appeared to be no break in its sides and he thought if he could tow or push it ashore he could inspect it carefully and make sure.
That was easier to plan than to do. The boat was unhandy and sluggish, and Eric had to exert a great deal of effort to get it ashore. As its blunt bow thrust into the sand, he collapsed quite worn out.
He stumbled up after a while and rubbed himself dry on his shirt. More than anything else he wanted to stretch out and sleep, but the boat was waiting there and he had a queer feeling that time was important and he had none to waste.
Luckily it was a small boat and the material it was made of was very light so he could handle it alone. Upon closer examination Eric discovered that what covered its curved ribs was scaled skin. A giant fish might have been skinned to cover it.
Once the water was spilled out, the craft was buoyant and he pulled it all the way out of the water. Turned upside down so he could look for any breaks in its hull, it resembled a huge turtle with head, tail, and legs tucked into the shell. Dried by the sun the scales had a rainbow sheen, but they were as harsh as a file when Eric ran his hand across the surface.
Sure that it was intact, Eric sat down in the sand and ate a little of the food Sara had given him. He was thirsty, but nowhere on the dunes could he hope to find fresh water to drink.
Then he put the food packet and the spoon into the boat and pushed it afloat before climbing in. The weight of his body sank it into the waves, but it was only at that moment he realized he had neither oars nor paddle.
He was about to go ashore again to search for a piece of driftwood which might serve that purpose when his foot touched the spoon and he picked it up.
“Cold iron,” he said aloud, not knowing why.
Then he watched, round eyed with amazement. From a teaspoon it grew swiftly to ladle size in his grasp, then larger, until he was holding an object, spoon-shaped still, but as big as a small spade. Magic, real magic, he thought with a small thrill of excitement.
Large though it now was, the spoon’s weight could still be handled easily. Not without fear that it might shrink as suddenly as it had enlarged, Eric dipped it overside experimentally and, using it as a paddle, headed out to sea, his goal that offshore island.
Eric was not an experienced boatman, nor were the skin boat and the spoon the best equipment for such a voyage. But he dipped the improvised paddle with energy, and the temporary smoothness of the water surface was in his favor. As he drew away from the beach the sea birds gathered above him, screaming to one another, and continued to escort him out to sea.
Practice helped. His first clumsiness lessened and his speed picked up, though he had difficulty in keeping the boat headed in the right direction. And, if he paused to rest his arms and shoulders, the incoming waves bore him back, to lose the painfully won distance. To Eric, the impatient one of the Lowrys, the very slowness of his advance was an added trial, but he continued on.
Slowly the island rose higher out of the water. There appeared to be no shore beach there. Cliffs rose directly from the sea to afford no landing place to anyone but a bird. The flock of birds that had been following Eric’s slow progress now flapped ahead of the cliffs and settled down there.
As he drew nearer, inch by weary inch, Eric saw that even if some scrap of beach did exist at the foot of those rock walls there would be no way from it to the heights above. However, there were openings in the cliffs themselves, vast waves into which the sea pushed exploring fingers. Painfully Eric paddled his light craft around the end of a rocky point, hoping to find on the seaward side some landing place.
He circled the entire island, which was a small one, without finding what he sought. Yet he was certain that he must land here. And until he did so, and accomplished the task which had been assigned him by the mirror—or by Merlin—there was no going back.
Underneath his outward impatience Eric possessed a core of stubbornness. It was this that now held him to his weary round of paddling, though his shoulders ached and his arms felt leaden. If there was no beach, then he must find another way in—perhaps through one of those gaping caves. He chose the largest and paddled toward it.
The curve of the roof was high above his head, and for about three boat lengths the daylight lasted to guide him in. Eric used all his small skill to keep directly in midchannel, well away from the ledges of rock from which trailed lengths of green weed. The smell of the sea was strong, but with it also came another odor, not as pleasant.
As the light grew dimmer the walls began to draw together, and Eric feared his choice had not been a good one. But still he sent the boat on, even when the ledges came within scraping distance. For he believed he could see a wider area ahead. So sure was he of this that he poled the boat for the last foot or so, pushing the spoon against the rocks for leverage. There was a scrape and then he floated into a lighted space.
Far overhead a break in the rock framed the sky, and the sun shot dusty rays to a pool of quiet water. To Eric’s left was the beach he had sought, showing dry white sand well above the water line.
When the keel of the boat grated on the miniature beach, Eric crawled over the blunt row, pulling the light craft up behind him. The smell of the sea was strong here, as it had been in the outer cave, but with it was that other odor.
Eric drew the boat entirely out of the water before he explored farther. There was no way of reaching that hole far above. But the beach sloped up, and since there was no back wall to be seen as yet he started to walk on it.
He was really thirsty now, his longing for a drink increased by the sound of the sea’s wash around the rocks. And he hoped to discover a spring of freshwater pool on the surface of the island. The memory of the lemonade he had drunk so long ago made him
run a parched tongue over his dry lips.
The beach slope continued upward, bringing him to a dark crevice. Eric hesitated. It was so dark in there and the thought of pushing on was not a happy one.
At last, extending the spoon before him to test the footing, he advanced. The crevice proved to be a short corridor, ending in a well. Only now, against the circle of free sky above, could he see the rough projections and hollows which provided holds for the hands and feet of a determined climber.
Fastening the spoon to his belt, Eric began to work his way up. Had it not been for his thirst he would not have found this a difficult venture. But now all he could think of was the need for fresh water—lots of water—and quickly found.
He made a last hard pull and was out, to lie panting on a mat of coarse grass. The cries of the sea birds were loud and shrill, their screams rising to a deafening din. And the odd smell which had hung in the cave was much stronger here. He sat up to look around.
The cliffs which were the sea wall of the island were, in fact, the outer sides of a giant bowl. By a series of ledges the land within descended to a valley, the center point of which could not be far above sea level.
Those ledges were covered by patches of rank green grass, but they also afforded lodging places for hundreds of nests—old nests, Eric decided, after examining the nearest. If this was the community nursery of the sea birds it was not in active use at present.
In the very center of the round valley was a vast mass of sticks and rubbish which might have been gathered by some giant among birds. Or did it mark where the refuse of years of nests had been brushed and wind-blown?
What interested Eric far more at the present was the sight of a small trickle of water splashing from ledge to ledge on the far side of the cup-shaped valley. He was sure such a tiny rivulet was not born of the sea, and it was what he wanted most at that moment.