by Andre Norton
He started around the valley, not wanting to take the more direct route over the odorous mass in the center. The birds continued to wheel and call about him, rising into the air as he passed, settling down on the ledge behind him.
They seemed, he thought once, rather like spectators gathering for a promised show. And he was sure that more and more of them were winging in from the sea to settle about the upper rim of the bowl. But none of them flew at him or tried to defend the old nests. And he did not fear their presence.
Only—there was such an attitude of waiting that Eric’s uneasiness increased. He now noticed that though all the upper ledges were thick with nests the fresher masses of dried materials there were based on moldering remains of earlier building; yet, for a good space about the mass in the center, there were no smaller nests at all and the wide ledges were bare.
Eric made the journey to that thread of stream and drank from his cupped hands, taking a bite of bread with the welcome water. Then he splashed handfuls of it over his hot face and neck. From this point he had a good view of the stuff in the center of the dip. And the longer he studied it the stronger grew that unpleasant suspicion that it was not driftage from the old nests on the upper ledges but a huge nest in its own right, entwined and woven in its present state and size with purpose.
“For an eagle?” Eric wondered, wishing he knew more about birds. He remembered some pictures in an old National Geographic of a bird in South America—a condor. Yes, that was it—a condor! Those grew to be so large they could carry off a sheep. Was this the nest of a condor?
Judging by their condition, the other nests were all last season’s; perhaps the same was true of the large one. Eric sat gazing down. The last thing he wanted to do was to descend and rake through that mess. Yet, just as he had been drawn to the island from the shore, so was he being drawn to that big nest.
He hunched forward, his elbows planted on his knees, his cupped hands supporting his chin. There were strange things caught in that tangle. He was sure that he had seen the glint of sun reflected from metal.
But the present odd behavior of the birds kept him from exploring. The upper ledges were now packed almost solid with them. And their cries and calls were dying away. They perched there, one folded wing against the next, all eying him. Eric did not like it. He wanted to retreat to the sea cave, to the boat waiting there. Only, he could not.
Then the spoon, which had been fastened to his belt, slipped free. Eric grabbed for it without success. It clattered down on one of the lower bare ledges, gave a bounce, and flew out into the very heart of the massive nest. There it stood, handle up, bowl buried deep.
He could not go back to the boat without it. Eric stood up. The birds were so quiet they all might have been holding their breath to watch some important action. Within him Eric feared that once he touched that giant nest he would provoke some unheard-of danger. He had to get the spoon and yet he dared not!
Fighting his fear Eric dropped from one ledge to the next, descending to the mass of withered sticks and other material. In order to reach the spoon he must jump out into the very center of the mess.
Now not a bird called, there was no sound at all in that queer valley. Eric jumped. From far off there came a shrill scream as he crashed down, waist-deep, in the stuff of the nest.
Woods Road
In the wood where Merlin’s mirror had brought her, Sara pushed back into the shelter of the bush and watched the fox anxiously, not sure that he was friendly. But she was certain that his anger was for the bird hidden somewhere in the branches above her. She hoped that his coming would drive the vicious crow—or whatever it was—away. She could still hear the bird moving about. It no longer called, but the scrape of claws on bark, a rustle as if it fanned its wings, reached her.
The fox was now gazing straight at her. Meeting that intent regard, Sara was no longer frightened. She wriggled forward out of the bush and got up, brushing dirt and dead twigs from her shirt and jeans. There was a flutter in the tree and the fox snarled menacingly. Then the bird flew out well above them and circled.
“Kaaaw—” But it was a scream of anger and defeat.
The fox answered with a sharp bark, and the black bird soared, vanishing above the treetops. Sara thankfully watched it go. Its harsh croaking could be heard dying away in the distance, and the girl sighed with relief. True, it had been only a bird, but there was something in its attack upon her which had been the more frightening because it was a bird, a creature so much smaller than herself, that had wanted to hurt her.
The gentlest of tugs at the bottom of her jeans drew her attention from the treetops to her new companion. The fox was mouthing the fabric as might an affectionate dog, first pulling and then trotting a few paces on, looking back in invitation. Sara picked up the basket to follow.
The red tail with its pointed white tip waved briskly from side to side as her guide led her between two bushes and so into a path where the saplings and undergrowth reached higher and higher until they met in a green arch overhead. They were not alone in this green world. Although Sara saw no one but the fox, she could hear all kinds of small squeakings, rustlings, and patterings behind the leaf walls, as though a crowd of small forest people were gathering to watch them pass and talking in their own language.
The green road was growing dusky as light-leaved bushes gave way to dark-needled evergreens. And the pleasant, spicy odor, as well as the spring carpet of castoff needles underfoot, made the journey pleasant, in spite of the increasing shadows.
Now that they were among the evergreens, these sounds made by the unseen watchers died away, and the fox slowed his pace. His pointed ears pricked forward and, seeing his caution, Sara felt uneasy again. The darkness was full of menace and she pressed on until she felt the reassuring brush of the plumed tail against her legs.
For how long they followed the road, Sara could never afterward tell. She only knew that when they came to a clearing she was very tired and hungry, glad to sit down on a mat of pine needles and moss. The fox sat down also, his tongue lolling from his jaws.
“Are you hungry?” The three words sounded very loud in the dim place, making Sara sorry she had spoken. She opened the basket and took out a sandwich, carefully breaking it in half. The bread was beginning to dry and curl up at the edges and the peanut butter was all caked. Ordinarily she would have thrown it away, but now she ate it eagerly, offering the other half to the fox.
He eyed it curiously and then, slowly and unmistakably, he shook his head. Sara tried to eat slowly, making each bite last as long as possible. But she could not deny that she was still hungry, even after picking up the last crumb.
The fox was on his feet again, plainly waiting for her. Then they could both hear, faint and far above, that “kaaaw.” This time it came from more than one bird. The fox backed against Sara, forcing her by the pressure of his body into the shadows under the trees. His head was up as he gazed into the circle of sky above the clearing.
Sara saw a line of birds skimming across the open. They were high above the clearing and none of them appeared to notice the two standing there.
“Kaaaw—”
The last bird in line fell away and swooped down. The fox ushered Sara into a hollow between two trees. Once they were safely under cover, the fox turned his head to her. He was laughing in his own way and Sara managed a small answering smile. The more she saw of those black birds the less she liked them.
The trail brought them to a brook, but the fox would not let her approach the stream until he had prowled along the bank, pausing to listen and peer up into tree branches. If any of the black birds were hidden there to spy, they were cunning enough not to betray themselves. The fox went down to lap water and Sara joined him. But he was impatient, mouthing her sleeve in warning before she had had more than a few sips to drink.
They traveled across a fallen log bridge and into the path on the other side. Then the fox came to an abrupt halt, one front paw slightly raised. Across
the path, stretched in unbroken perfection, was a gauzy circle of spider web. It was the largest one Sara had ever seen and she stood very still, her heart beating fast. How large was the spider that would spin a web like that?
The fox whined softly as might a dog faced by some problem it could not solve. Plainly he did not want to touch the web. Hating the thing herself, Sara picked up a dried branch and thrust it at the lacy circle, expecting it to break into a few floating strands.
To her horror the branch bounced back. With more caution Sara brought the branch against one of the threads anchoring the web to the ground, with no better result. Delicate though the web seemed, it could not be so easily broken. And she could not bring herself to touch it with her bare hands.
They could not go around it, for here the bushes and trees so walled them in that they could not break through. Also, and this worried Sara most of all, how could they be sure that the spinner of that rubbery web was not lurking somewhere off the trail to meet them?
The web might be cut with a knife—if she had one. If she only had the fiery silver blade Huon wore! But what had he said—iron was poison to the creatures of Avalon? Iron . . . the steel knives in the picnic basket!
Sara took one out. It was a rather blunt-edged blade, made more for spreading than cutting. But maybe she could saw through the strand of web with it.
Twice only did the steel touch the web. Sara sat back on her heels with a cry of amazement. From the spot where she had tried to cut through, the threads were shriveling. In a matter of seconds the web was gone and the path open. The fox barked in approval and Sara flung her arms about his neck, hugging him while he politely touched his nose to her cheek.
She kept the knife ready in her hand, but they came upon no more of the elastic webs as they started to climb a gradual slope. Though the trees became smaller and fewer there were still many bushes and the fox kept close to these, pushing Sara into their shadows time and time again.
At last they were faced with a wide space where only grass grew. The fox barked twice and crouched low, wriggling forward a length or so, demonstrating caution to the girl. So, worm-fashion, hot and scraped, Sara was guided to the top of a small knoll from which the fox indicated they were to spy out the country ahead.
From the knoll the ground sank once again. Sara, seeing what lay in the hollow, could not help shuddering. There was a wood of trees. But they were all stark and dead, pointing leafless branches to the sky. Around the outer edge of the wood, bands of gray stuff reached from tree trunk to tree trunk, as if lengths of material had been tightly stretched into a wall reaching higher than Sara’s head. And that gray stuff was spider webs, hundreds, millions of spider webs, woven one above the other into a thick blanket.
Where were the spinners of those choking strands? Sara tried hard not to think about what they must look like, how big they would be. Surely the fox did not mean for them to go in there! Only, inwardly, Sara was sure that was just why she had been brought to this place.
The knife had broken one web. But would it work as well against that wall binding the whole dead forest? And if she did cut a path for them would they then be faced by some kind of creatures who liked to live in a dead wood protected by a spider-web wail? For that wall must have been fashioned to protect or imprison something, something Sara did not wish in the least to meet.
However, the fox did not urge her forward to attack the sticky wall. Instead he retreated, working his way back to the wood from which they had come. When they were once more in the cover of the forest, the fox lay down, his head resting on his outstretched forepaws. He closed his eyes slowly and then opened them.
They were to stay there and rest, she translated. A nest of dried leaves against a fallen tree trunk seemed very soft to her as she curled up in it. She was sure her companion would not allow either bird or spider near her, and she was very tired indeed.
Something soft, maybe the blanket, moved against her chin. . . . Sara opened her eyes. The fox stood over her, the paw with which he had roused her still raised. He whined very softly deep in his throat, and she took that as a warning, pulling out of the leaf nest with as little noise as possible.
It was close to sunset. The shadows under the trees had grown long. From the top of the fallen log the fox whined again. Sara climbed up beside him and on the ground ahead saw a strange sight.
The dark soil had been cleared of leaves and sticks. In the middle of the space sat the picnic basket, and ranged out from it were stones of all sizes and shapes laid out in the form of a star within a circle. At the five points of the star small piles of green leaves were heaped.
Again the fox whined and pushed against her. Sara walked forward until she stood beside the basket. As she looked back at the animal his head bobbed up and down in approval. She was doing as he wished.
Completely puzzled she waited, watching as he trotted purposefully from one small pile of leaves to the next. He shoved at each with a forepaw, having first nosed it. What he was doing, or why, she could not guess.
When he had completed his circle he sat down on his haunches and then reared up, holding his front paws into the air. As he barked and whined he moved his paws, and for some reason Sara found it necessary to sit down. No, not really to sit down, but to kneel, her hands on the ground as if she must copy the usual four-footed position of the fox.
Thin trails of mist rose from the leaf piles, though Sara was sure they were not afire, for she could see no flames. She smelled a wonderful spicy scent, like a combination of pine needles warmed by the sun and the cloves Mrs. Steiner used in cooking. The smoke from the little piles of leaves grew thicker and thicker, closing about her. Now Sara could not see the fox, nor anything outside the star and circle.
The smoke had made her head dizzy and queer. She wondered if she was dreaming all this, for everything looked so odd. A little frightened, she tried to get up. But her hands did not push properly—in fact, she no longer had hands!
Paws covered with gray fur rested on the ground. And there was the same gray fur up her arms! Sara swung her head about—gray fur all over her body—a gray tail behind her. Who—what was she?
Sara tried to scream. But the sound she made was very different indeed—
“Merrrow!” That was the wail of a terrified cat!
The smoke was lifting. She could see the star points, each marked by a cone of white ash where the leaves had been. And, as that curtain disappeared, she saw the fox, now looming well above her in a very disturbing way.
“Come!” The word might have been a bark to Sara-the-girl’s hearing, but to Sara-the-cat it made sense. However, she remained where she was, letting the fox kick and paw inside some stones of the pattern to approach her, her protests and demands for explanation expressed in a series of yowls and hisses, while the hair stiffened along her humped spine and her tail lashed angrily.
“Come!” The fox stood over her. “The shape-changing does not last past tomorrow’s dawn and there is much to do.”
“What have you done to me?” Sara demanded. “I am not a cat!”
“That is true. But as a human you could not enter the Castle of the Wood. And that you must do, lest all of us of the woods and fields of Avalon be put to the service of the Dark Ones.”
“How?”
“Did not Huon tell you of Wizard Merlin’s ring? He who wears it upon his hand can shape and make animal and bird, tree and bush, either for good or ill. While Merlin wore it, it was used only for good—the good of all good things—the ill of all evil things. But now it has fallen into the hands of evil, so will its use be wholly to the ill of all. But evil does not yet dare to use it openly. So it has been hidden away in the Castle of the Wood, where only one armed with cold iron and the magic of cold iron may enter to bring it forth. Since evil knows at once when a human approaches its secret places, you must put on the guise of one of us. The shape you now wear will last until the rising of tomorrow’s sun. So you must hurry, taking with you that iron which
is your own magic.”
He nosed the basket open and pointed to the knife Sara had used against the web. Bracing her paws against the edge of the basket, Sara pulled it from the webbing. It was an awkward thing to carry in her mouth as now she must.
Her earlier fright and anger were ebbing. Somehow the longer she wore the cat body the more natural it seemed. And this was going to be an exciting adventure. She was eager to be off.
The fox gave a last warning. “You must return here, to this place, and enter into the circle and star before you change, lest you be given another shape which is not of my choosing. If evil flows behind you, it cannot follow here. Be on your way now, gray sister!”
Sara skimmed up the hillock once more. She found she could run without a sound and that her new body was good for such sly work. It was already dusk in the vale, and in that gloom the spider-web walls had a soft glow of their own.
The Sword
In the stone wasteland of the mountains Greg felt so alone. As the chime of the bells sounded he stood very still, his head up, looking about. The stretch of mountain wall was far away and none of the strange pillars were crowned with belfries. Some thin and lazy wisps of smoke rose from the charred logs of the fire, but there was nothing else to be seen.
The pillars! While the bells still clamored, Greg returned to the pillar he had leaned against. To the eye it was a tall, rough, column of stone. Yet to the touch it was far different.
Once more Greg put out his hand, and the tips of his fingers moved not over stone but over the smoothness of metal and the soft texture of leather. For the second time he jerked away from that contact. Why should stone feel like a body dressed in scaly armor and leather? Why did his eyes tell him one thing, and his fingers another?
“Is—is there anyone here?” He meant that call to be louder than the bells, but it came from his lips hardly above a whisper. The rock pillar remained a rock to his eyes. Nothing moved. But now the sound of the bell, instead of chiming from all parts of the plateau, centered on one point across the dying fire. And more smoke puffed from the ashy brands, although no more wood had been added.