The night-king gave a hoot, nodding its head toward the wolf. The patchwork wizard turned to peer into the gloaming, adjusting his spectacles. "What's this, what's this? A dancing wolf, you say? Well, let him dance!"
The owl hooted again.
"People?" The wizard looked up at Rod and Gwen, startled. "Oh! Good evening. I am Spinball the wizard."
"Um—pleased to meet you." Rod hoped he wasn't staring too obviously. "I'm Rod Gallowglass, and this is my wife, Gwen."
"The High Warlock?" Spinball straightened, startled. "And the Wonder Witch, too! Why, you have no need of me! You could skin and stuff this animal before it even noticed!"
"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but we're a little reluctant, you see. I mean, it's just doing what it was born to do, and we hate to end an innocent life if we can avoid it."
Spinball lifted his head, a glint of respect in his eye. "Ah, well. I can understand that. Of course, yes."
"Cannot this beast be tamed?" Gwen asked gently.
"Oh." Spinball knitted his brows. "You haven't much of a knack with beasts, eh? Well, that makes a difference. I'll see what I can do, then." Abruptly, he smiled. "Nice to have a feeling of purpose for a change." Then he spun away to the wolf.
"He is quite nice," Gwen said carefully.
"Definitely," Rod agreed. "Seems to be a bit of a screwball, though."
"Here, now, Dancer," the wizard said. His tone was firm, but gentle. "You really mustn't bother these people."
The wolf growled.
"Oh, yes, I know you're hungry," Spinball said, "but they have a right to live, too, you know. Now, I can understand the occasional sheep, and possibly even a small cow now and then—but human beings are absolutely forbidden!"
The wolf's growl became more ominous.
"No!" Spinball said, with determination. "Absolutely out of the question! Really, you should limit yourself to deer and rabbits, you know, with now and then a bit of a boar. Taking livestock always brings hunters with wolfhounds, after all."
At that, the wolf threw back its head and howled. Rod and Gwen stared, amazed—but were even more amazed when the howling began to slide up and down in pitch, then to rise and fall with a definite feeling of structure. Somehow, it seemed to synchronize perfectly with the thrumming beat from the music-rocks that littered the meadow. It ended with a long, high, mournful howl that held and rang, then dwindled away into the night. The evening was still, except for the shrilling of crickets and, somewhere in the distance, the drumming of a bullfrog—or was that a music-rock?
But Spinball was nodding. He whisked something long and thin out of a sleeve.
"A magic wand?" Rod asked.
But Spinball put the wand to his lips and began to play. A lovely melody lilted out into the night, wafting toward the wolf, rising and falling in time to the beat of the music-rocks. Then Spinball took the pipe away from his lips, and began to sing:
"One is one, and all alone, And ever more shall be so! Yet two are two, and ever do Have other ones to seek to know!
To reach, and nothing gain, is pain; To reach and touch is warming. To see another may be bother, But often may be charming!
They who slay shall never stay To fulfill themselves in others. They who hate shall never sate The hollowness that shudders!
Reach and touch, and feel and heal! Tumult soothe in sharing! Be kin and kind, and seek and find! Angst unknot in caring!"
The wolf sat, head cocked to the side, studying the wizard, who with a flourish raised his pipe to his lips again, blew a last, lighthearted, skipping tune, then whisked the pipe away as he bowed to the wolf. He rose out of the bow to stand, head cocked to the side at the same angle as the lupine's.
The huge wolf rose, danced lightly up to the wizard, and held up a paw.
Spinball took the huge pads with a grave bow, looked into the wolf's eyes, and nodded. The wolf returned the nod, turned away, and stepped back into the woodland from which it had come.
Gwen released a long-held breath, and Rod said, "Astonishing! Did he really understand what you were trying to tell him?"
"Oh, yes, of course! What I couldn't tell him with words, I told him with melody! After all, a dancing wolf does have music in his heart, you know."
"I do now," Rod said, and Gwen added, "Art thou certain he will harm no human person?"
"Quite sure," said Spinball, "for the music brought our minds into harmony for a brief time. But I promise you, I'll seek out his thoughts every day for a few weeks, just to be absolutely certain."
"I thank thee," Gwen said slowly. "Such befriending of a wild thing doth surpass my gifts."
Spinball reddened with pleasure, but said, "Oh, no, my lady, not at all! I couldn't even come close to your abilities, no, not if you're even half as deft as rumor says. You must be a far greater magician than I!"
That brought a smile to Gwen's lips. "Say not so, good sir. Yet I must also thank your friend, who called you to us in this hour of need."
"Who, Hoot?" Spinball looked up, surprised. "But he didn't call me, you know—he made me!"
Hoot gave an angry call.
"No, it's true, Hoot, and you know it!" Spinball said stoutly, then turned to explain. "He says that it was I who made him, but of course we know that's nonsense, now don't we? Yes, of course it is, for how could such a dizzy-head as I have sense enough to imagine a wondrous bird like Hoot?"
"Who-o-o-o-o-o!" the great owl said, with conviction.
"Oh, that's silly!" Spinball scoffed. "And don't you ever call yourself a birdbrain again! I'll have you know you're my special friend, yes, my closest friend in all the universe, at least in the part that's alive, so there!"
"Who!" the owl said, mollified, and lapsed into a satisfied sulk.
"It's an old argument." Spinball sighed, turning back to Rod and Gwen. "He insists that I made him, and I insist that he made me. I don't expect we'll ever see eye to eye about it. The only thing we disagree on, too."
"A most excellent choice," Gwen said, smiling, "if friends must disagree at all."
"Oh, they must," Rod said softly. "Every now and then, they must. We can't stand being too close, you know."
That earned him a peculiar look from both wizard and wife, but the great owl spoke up with a long and loud "Who-o-o-o-o-o-o!" that sounded very satisfied with Rod's version of the affair.
Rod glanced up, caught by a sudden change in the music. "You know, I think you've had an effect on the ambience."
"What, the rocks' music?" Spinball dismissed the notion with a wave. "Hoot always does that. Every time he shows up, they change their tune. Not that we mind, you understand. Keeps things friendly all around."
"But we did seek to follow, to discover how the rocks progressed!" Gwen turned to him. "We must find where they have begun, for we seek to understand what this new force is that doth strain the land, ere it doth rend it asunder."
Again, Spinball waved the idea away. "Oh, don't be such a worrywart. After all, it's just entertainment."
"I've heard that before, someplace," Rod said, "and I'm beginning to become a little wary of it. You wouldn't happen to know where this all started, would you?"
Spinball shook his head. "I wouldn't, for I seem to have started with it, and so has Hoot. But we think it's south, yes, perhaps south, and certainly west."
Gwen glanced at Rod with doubt; he nodded and said, "Well, I suppose the best we can do is follow where the rocks came from, then. Funny how this one seems to be going north."
"I thought so, too," Spinball admitted. "They seem to grow as a tree does, branching out from a common trunk—but the roots lie in the west, yes, and the south.
Still, as each branch grows older its music seems to change—and, of course, it spreads out, so that you find two rocks with entirely different kinds of music, right next to one another."
"They ought to put labels on 'em," Rod grunted. "That's how we came to follow this branch, in fact—we found a rock near the other ones we were investigating. Well, thanks
for all your help. We're off to the west, then."
"My lord," said Gwen, "we speak to no one."
Rod looked up, startled, and realized that Spinball had disappeared. "Well! Not very polite of him, to run off without saying goodbye."
"Goodbye!" said a voice from empty air, and a long, mournful hoot echoed down from the sky.
Rod and Gwen exchanged a glance, then started quickly toward the dark wood ahead. Over his shoulder, Rod called back, "Bye!"
Chapter Ten
Many miles away, the children followed the guide Puck had assigned them.
"Yet what is a vampire?" Cordelia asked.
"Have a care," said a reedy voice in front of them. "A root doth bulk up, to trip thee."
"Oh! I thank thee, elf." Cordelia lifted her skirts and stepped carefully over the root, following the foot-high manikin who led them. " Tis _hard going as the woods darken."
"It will be night soon," Fess said, "and the vampire will be active. We should return home and come here again by daylight, when the monster sleeps within his cave."
Magnus frowned. "Wherefore doth he so?"
"Because he will turn to dust if sunlight strikes him." Fess lifted his head sharply. "What am I speaking of? Vampires are mythical!"
"Any myth may gain weight and substance, in Grama-rye," Magnus assured him. "Yet thou hast not answered Delia, Fess. What is a vampire?"
Fess heaved a burst of white noise and answered. "A vampire, children, is a person who lives by drinking other people's blood."
Cordelia froze, horrified. Geoffrey made a retching noise. " Tis disgusting," Gregory said, looking a little green.
"Why do Other folk suffer such a one to live?" Magnus demanded.
"They do not, Magnus. When people learn of a vampire's existence, they generally attempt to slay it—but the monsters cannot truly be killed, for they are no longer completely alive."
"Immortal?" Magnus asked.
"Until they are disposed of, yes. A vampire can be immobilized indefinitely by driving a stake through its heart and burying it at a crossroad—or it can be burned."
"What of their souls?" Cordelia whispered.
"I am not programmed to conjecture about spiritual matters, Cordelia."
"Then there is no certain knowledge?"
"Surely their souls must be lost!" Geoffrey protested. "Have they not slain innocent folk?"
"Not precisely. Vampires generally do not take enough blood to kill a person at one sitting. But after several visits over a period of time, the victim becomes a vampire in his or her own turn."
"Thou dost not say so!" Cordelia gasped. "Is't to Ms that Arachne hath condemned the lass she sold to the vampire?"
"We must save her," Geoffrey said, with decision. Then he frowned, uncertain. "Or hath she already become like to him?"
"How are we to know?" Magnus asked.
"By her vitality, according to the literature. If she is listless and apathetic, the vampire is still feeding upon her; but if she is energetic and burning with greed, she has become a vampire herself."
"We shall know her when we see her, then." Magnus frowned. "If we can see aught, in this gloaming."
" 'Tis still light enough for that," the elf replied. He parted some ferns and breathed, "Behold!"
The sourceless twilight showed them a clearing in front of a cliff face. In its base, a crevice widened into a cave mouth seven feet high and four feet wide, with a semicircle of beaten earth before it and rubble to either side. The rubble must have contained some music-rocks, for a three-chord melody murmured through the clearing. The heavy thrumming of its bass notes seemed to be moving the feet of the girl who danced in front of the cave. Certainly she did not seem to be stepping by herself, for her face was drawn and pale, and her whole body limp and drooping, waving vaguely to the rhythm. She was perhaps sixteen, and should have been bursting with the vitality of youth, but her eyes were only half-open.
"Regard," Geoffrey breathed. "Her throat!"
The children stared, fascinated and repelled, at the cluster of double marks on the girl's neck.
"She is apathetic," Fess murmured.
"Why, 'tis so!" Cordelia lifted her head. "She doth care for naught! She is not yet herself a vampire!"
"We may save her, then." Magnus stood up, purpose settling about him like a cloak. "Come, my sibs." He stepped forward into the clearing.
"Beware," the elf said near his ankle. "When darkness falls, the vampire will come out."
"I await him with hunger to match his own," Geoffrey answered.
"Thou shouldst hide thee, elf," Gregory advised, hurrying after his brothers and sister.
"Why, so I shall," the elf answered. "Yet be sure, a score of Wee Folk do watch, and await thy need." Then he ducked down into the grass, and was gone.
Magnus stepped up to the girl and inclined his head. "Greetings, lass. I am called Magnus, and I would speak with thee."
The girl's glance strayed to his face, then strayed away. She gave no other sign of having heard him.
"Let me try." Cordelia moved in front of Magnus, gazing up at the bigger girl. "I am Cordelia. Wilt thou not pause to speak with me?"
The lass frowned slightly, her gaze wandering toward Cordelia; but it never quite arrived, for her face smoothed out, and she ended by gazing over the younger girl's head.
"Oh!" Cordelia said. "How rude! Wilt thou not cease dancing for a few moments' speech?"
"I doubt me an she can." Magnus beckoned to Geoffrey and Gregory. "Come, brothers! We must catch and hold her, an we wish speech with her."
"Done!" Geoffrey cried, and dove into a flying tackle.
"Not that way!" Magnus threw his arms around the girl, holding her up. Finally her gaze met his, looking up only a little, and her eyes widened, almost completely open.
"I have her feet," Geoffrey called out from below.
"And I have her arms." Magnus leaned back a little. "Now, lass! Tell me thy name!"
The girl just blinked at him, not understanding.
"Thy name," Magnus urged. "Thy name that folk do call thee by!"
She blinked again, and said, "What matter?"
"What matter!" Cordelia cried. "Wilt thou forget thyself also?"
The girl's eyes strayed to her. She blinked again, and yawned. "Mayhap. 'Tis naught."
"Naught!" Geoffrey exploded. "Is 'naught' thy name, then? Are we to call thee 'Naught'?—'Ho, Naught! How dost thou fare? 'Tis a fine day, Naught, is't not? Come, Naught, let us…' "
"Geoffrey!" Cordelia pinned him with a glare. "The poor lass hath grief enow, without thy…"
"Nay, I have no grief." The girl puckered her brow. "Yet thou art truly a rude fellow. An thou must needs know it, my name is Nan."
Geoffrey returned Cordelia's glare. "There are times when rudeness doth serve purpose, sister."
"Aye, it angered her enow to draw her from her apathy a moment." Gregory studied Nan, watching her face smooth into blandness again. "Yet only a moment. Dost thou care so little for thy name, lass?"
"I ha' told thee, 'tis naught," the girl murmured.
"And thy life?" Gregory whispered.
Finally, Nan sighed. "What matters life? The days do pass; one doth sleep, then doth wake to another day that swimmeth by."
"Wouldst thou liefer be dead?"
"I care not." She blinked several times and yawned again.
"Thou must needs care for summat!" Geoffrey insisted.
But Nan only shrugged once more, her eyelids fluttering, closing. Her head lolled to the side.
"She sleeps," Gregory observed with a start.
"Why, certes!" Cordelia lifted her head. "She hath so little of life within her that if she doth cease to move, she doth sleep! Brother, wake her!"
"Wake?" Magnus protested. "I do well to uphold her!"
" 'Tis thine office, sister," Gregory explained. "Thou art most skilled at moving thoughts within another's mind."
"Thou art not greatly less so," Cordelia huffed, but sh
e turned to gaze intently at Nan, brow wrinkling with concentration. After a moment, the bigger girl sighed; her eyelids fluttered again, and she lifted her head, blinking and looking about her. She started to speak, but the words turned into a yawn, and she passed her tongue-tip over her lips as she looked about her. "What… ? Oh. Thou art not dreams, then?"
"Nay," Magnus assured her, "but thou shalt be little more than such, an thou dost not come away with us."
"Come away?" Finally, Nan's eyes opened almost fully. "Yet wherefore ought I?"
"For that an thou dost stay, thou wilt be turned into a thing of evil!"
Nan frowned, considering, then shrugged. "What matter what I shall become? I have a dry, warm chamber within. Its walls are hung with tapestries and the floor is covered with thick carpets. There be chairs and tables that glow with the rich gleam of grand woods, and a great couch with soft feather beds. Nor am I lonely, for a proud gentleman doth company me. In truth, he doth dote upon me, bringing me rich foods and fine wines, and doth dance and talk with me till I do sleep."
"Then doth he drink thy blood," Magnus told her, his face grim. " Tis therefore thou art so listless; 'tis therefore thou hast those marks upon thy throat."
Nan raised a hand, fumbling toward her neck. "These… they are but…" Her voice trailed off in confusion.
"He is a vampire," Cordelia explained, more gently. "He doth keep thee to bleed thee for his supper."
Nan frowned. "Oh. Doth he truly so?"
"I assure thee that he doth," Cordelia said, shocked. "Dost thou care naught?"
Nan's gaze strayed. "I think I do not. Upon a time, I might have—yet I do not now."
"Oh, but thou must!" Cordelia cried. "Come away with us! We may still save thee!"
"Save me?" Nan frowned, blinking. "From what?"
"From becoming thyself a vampire! An he doth continue to drain thee, thou shalt become like to him!"
"Oh." Nan pursed her lips, considering. "Is that so bad?"
"Why, 'tis horrible!" Cordelia insisted. "Wouldst thou do to another what he hath done to thee? Wouldst thou take the very life from another's veins?"
Nan concentrated, thinking it over…
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