"How are your backs?" Rod said quietly.
They stared at him, taken aback by the question. Then they looked at one another, saw the stripes and blood, and the wailing began.
Half an hour later, Magnus was just finishing gulping down a tankard of ale. Timon set another in front of him. "Drink,. I pray. Tis the least thanks I can make, sin that thou hast saved my back and brain."
Magnus lowered the tankard with a gasp and reached for the new one, but Gwen laid a hand over his. "Give it time to work," she said gently. "Too much, and thou wilt be the toy of this music that doth surround thee."
Magnus shuddered and pulled his hand back.
"Stew," Rod said to Timon.
"I could not eat!" Magnus protested.
"Let him smell it," Rod assured Timon. "He'll find his appetite."
"Thou hast saved them, Magnus," Gregory said, his eyes huge.
"Aye," said Magnus, "but only by Dad and Geoffrey saving me!"
"At least," said Rod, "you had your question answered."
Gregory looked up. "What question was that?"
"Why," said Rod, "you wanted to know what kind of music it would take to break through the mind's defense of numbness."
Magnus lifted his head. "Aye, even so! Yet what was the manner of it?"
"Sheer ugliness, I guess," Rod said. "Every time people become used to one sort of music, the crafter breaks through to them by coming up with something that's even more distorted. It shocks them into paying attention again." He shrugged. "Just a guess, though."
But Gregory's eyes had filled with tears. "I did not mean…"
"Peace, brother." Cordelia wrapped an arm around him. "These poor folk were entrapped days before thou didst think to ask."
"Aye," said Gwen. " 'Twas not thy doing."
But Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. "Papa, where a wall is breached, there is a captain who commanded a siege engine."
"Yes," Rod agreed. "A musical change like that does seem rather deliberate, doesn't it?"
"Good Timon!" Magnus rose and turned to the tall youth by the inner door. "Whence could that train of youths have come?"
The lad looked surprised, then nodded. "I will ask." He stepped through the door and was gone.
"Shall we spend the night here, Papa?" Gregory asked.
Rod turned to Gwen; she nodded. He turned back. "Yes, son—but I think we'll camp by that stream out there. I'd like to make sure no one goes fishing tonight."
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next afternoon, they finally found out where the blimp was leading them—they, and the half-mile or so of dancers who were following behind them. They found out, because they came into a zone where heavy metal rocks glistened all about them, drowning out the sounds of the blimp. They looked about with astonishment, and Rod put his mouth near Gwen's ear. "Is this its home country or something?"
The dancers thought it was great. They leaped and whirled out into the meadow on both sides of the roadway, .gamboling and dancing to their hearts' delight. Considering how thickly the ground was strewn with music-rocks, it was amazing they didn't break their legs.
"Look!" Geoffrey's voice was just barely audible above the racket. Rod turned, and saw him pointing skyward. He looked up, to see that the blimp had become translucent; the sunlight was shining through it. As he watched, it became even more faint, until it shimmered, and was gone.
The family were dumbfounded.
Then Gregory's voice said, in wonder, Was it illusion, then?
They seized on his idea, using telepathy because the music was too loud.
I had thought it was made of witch-moss, at least, Magnus answered.
Seems it was just a mental construct, purely illusory. Rod frowned. Bait to lead youth here—but what for?
Whither journey we now? Cordelia wondered.
Aye, Gwen asserted. The music is so widespread that we can no longer use the rocks' direction as a guide.
No vector, Rod added.
But Fess's voice interposed smoothly: If the blimp was a projection, surely it had a projector.
Certes! Geoffrey agreed with enthusiasm. Let us find the blimp's maker! He should know whence came these rocks!
But how shall we find him? Magnus demanded.
Gregory pointed. See! The young folk do tend toward the west!
Sure enough, though they weren't single-file anymore, the groups of dancers were more or less all moving toward the west.
Then whoever wanted to bring them here, may still be leading them. Rod nodded. But the blimp was no longer of use, because once its music was drowned out by the rocks, nobody paid any attention to it anymore.
Then let us pay heed to its maker, Gwen suggested. Follow, family!
They trailed off after the dancers.
The witch wasn't hard to find, once they caught up with the head of the mob. She wasn't hard to find, because she was the only person in sight who was clearly middle-aged. She was also one of the very few who was fat.
She must have caught some mental trace of the Gallow-glasses, because she looked up at their approach, and her mouth opened in an unheard scream. She pointed at them, and a searing flower of heat bloomed in their minds. But it withered just as quickly under Gwen's projection of a wintry blast. Instead, a huge barbarian suddenly confronted them, clad in leather and metal armbands, long hair tied in knots, earrings flashing, spear stabbing.
Illusion! Gwen's label was quick, and she and Cordelia fixed their eyes on the image, which thinned and faded even as it strode toward them. But another leaped up in its place, a woman with long, straight black hair, clad in short, tight-fitting leathers, unfurling a bullwhip. The boys stared, fascinated by the combination of pulchritude and punishment, but Rod knew the compound from experience. The flame of his anger lashed out and blasted the image to instant ashes—but rain drizzled onto them, and a manic vampire sprouted up like a plant, blood-red lips gaping wide to show his fangs, mop of hair flapping like a set of banners. His garments fit so tightly they seemed to be painted on.
Geoffrey's surge of disgust rippled through everyone. He was revolted by the notion that such a thing should wear a male form. Under the mental stress produced by him and his brothers the illusion shredded, and blew away in tatters.
The witch gave up and grabbed for her broomstick.
Cordelia was faster, swooping around to cut in front of the woman. She hesitated, just long enough for the boys to catch her robe. They yanked down hard, and the woman fell; then they yanked up, and her robe tore, but she landed gently. A boiling cauldron of anger and fear bubbled out of her, directed at them—but it subsided, stilled, and was gone as Gwen's calming, slowing tide of thoughts rocked her into sleep. The others paid avid attention to her thoughts, and Rod inserted the formless question, only a mental current, that asked (but not in words) where the music-rocks came from. All they gained from her, though, as she slipped into unconsciousness, was the phrase, "… the man who is nowhere…"
Cordelia looked down in exasperation at the sleeping form. How is this? What can she mean?
How can there be a man who is nowhere? Geoffrey demanded.
A man, at least. Gwen's thought was cool water on their inflamed emotions. Seek among this throng, for only the moiety of them came when we did.
The Gallowglasses looked out on a vast, churning mob of young folk.
How many are there here, Mama? Gregory's thought was dazed.
Some thousands, at least, she answered, and Fess thought-corrected, Five thousand three hundred seventy-one, Gregory.
Somebody must know where this witch-moss-crafting man is! Rod insisted. Eavesdrop on their minds, folks—but stay together.
Bravely, they tried. For half an hour, they probed and listened. Finally, Gregory dropped cross-legged on the grass, and Gwen called off the session with a curt finishing thought.
No one knows, Magnus mused, benumbed.
I did at least catch some shady picture of a man bearing stones, Gregory thought wearily.
I too, Cordelia answered, but none had the least notion as to where he dwelled.
Only that he doth exist, Gwen agreed. How can this be, husband?
It's really your field, Rod said slowly, but to me, it smacks of post-hypnotic suggestion.
Gwen looked up at him, amazed. Why, thou hast it! Such few as these as have known of him, have had the memory stolen from their minds!
Magnus frowned. Aye… 'twould not be so hard to do—only to strengthen the resistance of a handful of synapses…
Simplicity itself. Anger tinged Gwen's thought. They seek to keep this man's existence a secret, then.
But why? Cordelia wondered.
Angry peasants. Rod's thoughts weren't exactly halcyon, either. All right, family—how do you find someone whom no one remembers?
They were silent, puzzling it out. Fess waited, and when no one spoke, he explained, Memory is holistic. The
conscious recollection would be relatively easy to erase, yes, but it would be duplicated throughout the cerebrum.
Gregory looked up sharply. Fascinating—yet how shall we apply it?
'Tis not so hard as all that. Gwen stood, resolution in every line of her body. Fetch me one who hath some hazy memory of this man who is nowhere, lads.
Half an hour later, they left the peasant youth sleeping with his head on a tussock, and walked off toward a distant hill and the stream at its foot.
We have not hurt him, have we, Mama? Cordelia thought anxiously.
Not a whit, Gwen assured her. When he doth wake, he will find that he hath slept better than ever he hath aforetime. Come, children. We hunt.
There was a desert there, on the other side of the stream. Animal skulls and low scrub decorated barren sand, and clouds of alkali blew over them.
Cordelia shuddered. How could aught live there, Mama?
How canst thou believe thine eyes, after all the illusions we have seen? Geoffrey retorted. Fear not, sister—never have I seen a wasteland bordering a stream before.
Cordelia's head snapped up at his remark, but Gwen didn't give her time to start feeling chagrined. She threw her broomstick out, staring at it. In midair, its form changed, stretched—and it landed as a six-foot-wide set of planks, held together by cross-boards.
Cross over the bridge, Gwen bade her family, and see what we may discover.
Two by two, they followed their mother and father into the forbidding waste.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They ran into the first signs as soon as they crossed the bridge that arched over the stream. It was almost as though they had entered a picture-book land, with graceful willow trees bordering the stream and silver birches spaced widely apart to let in the sun. Finches sang in cherry trees, and the broad expanse of grass was cropped into a lawn.
"Why, how charming!" Cordelia exclaimed.
"Sure is." Rod looked around. "Somebody's putting an awful lot of work into it, too."
"This music is not so loud," Gregory pointed out.
It wasn't, now that Rod thought about it. He hadn't noticed it immediately, because the rock music was still there—but it was muted. He frowned. "Odd—there look to be more rocks than ever."
"One every yard, it doth seem," Gwen agreed. "Yet their music's less painful."
Magnus picked up a rock, staring at it in surprise. " 'Tis only stone, not metal!"
"Aye," said Geoffrey, "and its strains stir my blood, but do not overwhelm it."
"Stir your blood? Here, let me see!" Rod came over and took the rock. "Just as I suspected—it's a march."
"A rock march?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed.
It was a march—but with the characteristic heavy beat underneath it.
"Here is one whose strains are slowed, and pretty!" Cordelia called.
Gwen came over to her and nodded. " Tis quite melodious. "
"This one doth make sounds, but no music," Magnus called. He had picked up another rock. Rod followed him, and heard birdsong, then a wind swelling under it, the birdsong fading as the wind-song merged into a rolling gong, then faded into the sound of rushing water with high, clear tones above it. Yet, underneath it all thrummed a strong, unyielding beat.
Rod took a deep breath. "No, son. That's music— Nature's music, maybe, but it's organized into something more."
Gregory regarded a large pebble in his hand. "This lacks a beat."
Sure enough, it did—and its melody dipped and soared, but the tones were pure and reverberating. Somehow, nonetheless, it was like the music of all the other rocks they'd heard, even without a bass or drum line.
Fess said, "Rod—someone is experimenting."
Rod stilled, feeling apprehension boost his awareness. "You know something, Old Iron? That makes too much sense."
"Papa," Geoffrey called, "yon lies a cottage."
"Let me see," Cordelia commanded, dashing over to him. "Oh! 'Tis enchanting!"
"That's what I'm afraid of." Rod hurried over to look.
Gwen reached the children just ahead of him. "It is, husband—most wondrously made."
It was a small house with a thatched roof, such as any peasant might live in—but where the peasant's cottage would have been plastered with mud, this one was sided with clapboard, painted cherry-red. The windows were curtained, and flowers grew all around.
"Husband," said Gwen, "yon lives a crafter of amazing talent."
"Yes," Rod said, "and one who delights in making things. But it can't be the one we're looking for, Gwen— this one has a sense of beauty."
"If we would know, we must ask," she said with determination, and set out toward the door.
"Hey! Wait up!" Rod leaped after her, and they went up the neat, flagstoned path between borders of hedge-roses. Rod didn't realize it, but the children trailed after them.
They came to the door. "Now what do we do?" Rod demanded. "Knock?"
"An thou sayest?" Gwen rapped on the door.
"Hey! I didn't mean…" Rod subsided, mulling it over. "Why not, come to think of it?"
"We do not know he is an enemy," Geoffrey pointed out.
Rod turned. "What're you four doing here? I thought I told you…"
But Magnus was shaking his head, and Rod realized, belatedly, that he hadn't said anything.
Then the door opened, and he whirled about.
His first impression was of supreme, unvarnished happiness. Then he took a closer look, and decided it was only benign good humor. Whatever it was, it was contained in a plump peasant of medium height who was dressed in completely ordinary tunic and hose—completely ordinary, except that his tunic was turquoise and his hose were yellow with red cross-garters. His belt was red, too, and his face was circular and smiling, with a fringe of black hair around a bald top.
"Company!" he cried. "Oh, do come in, come in!" And he pattered away, calling, "A moment, whiles I set the kettle to boiling and fetch some cakes!"
"Cakes?" Gregory was all ears.
"Remember thy manners." Gwen marched in, never at a loss. Rod let the younger contingent pass, then brought up the rear.
The room was a delight, with a circular rug, an intricately carved chair near the window, and a table with three straight chairs near a brick stove. Rod eyed it warily; it looked almost Russian. He found himself braced for the house to lurch; if it rose up on three chicken legs, he was tossing the kids out the nearest window.
"Let me aid," Gwen said, all sweetness and light, and fixed the little pot with an unwavering gaze. It began to bubble; then steam poured out the top.
The plump man stared. "Why, how is this?" He turned to Gwen, smiling. "Gramercy, lady! 'Tis so much quicker thus!"
"I delight in aiding." But Gwen seemed a little discomfited that he had taken it so easily.
He turned back, pouring the hot water into earthenware mugs. "Thou art a witch, then? Nay, of a certainty thou art; none else could do thus! I have another witch who doth visit me from time to time."
"Do you indeed?" Suddenly, he had Rod's to
tal attention.
"Oh, aye!" The man started bringing mugs to the table. "I fear there are no chairs for the young ones; much though I delight in company, I've rarely more than two who come together."
"They're used to it," Rod assured him. "You were saying, about this other witch?"
"Two, though to be sure, one's a warlock. I am, too—did I tell thee that? Oh, 'tis so good to have other witchfolk to natter with! I am hight Ari, Ari the Crafter, as my neighbors do call me. Aye, neighbors, though they'd not have me live in their town. Still, 'tis enough for me to live near a stream, and with birds and small furry creatures for friends, oh yes, it is enough. Wilt thou have honey with thy brew?"
A delicious fragrance rose from the mug. "Uh, no thanks," Rod declined. "Gwen?"
"Nay, though I think the children might." Gwen was off-balance, too, disconcerted by the man's friendliness.
"Nay, certes," he chuckled, handing a honey-pot down to Cordelia. "Was there ever a youngling had no taste for honey?"
"I," said Magnus.
"Well, so, but thou'rt a young man now, art thou not? No longer a child, no. Ah, I do wish I could offer chairs to thee and thy sister! I must make some." He went to the window, lips pursed. "Aye, there is a patch of witch-moss large enough. I think…"
"I would not trouble thee," Magnus said quickly.
"Oh, 'tis no trouble." Ari frowned for a moment.
Rod took the opportunity to lean close to Gwen. "Can this really be the man who made those metallic rocks we've been hearing?"
"Who else could it be?" she responded. "He hath the skill. Yet how are we to set him to talking of it?"
"There! 'Twill be along shortly." Ari stepped over to open the door, then bustled back to the stove. "Now, the cakes. Ah, they're warmed!" He set a platter of biscuits in front of Rod and Gwen, then handed another down to Gregory, with a chuckle of delight.
"Did you make everything in this room?" Rod asked, trying not to stare.
"Each and every. Do taste of my cakes, goodman!"
"Uh, no thanks. Things of witch-moss don't agree with me."
Magnus spluttered into his tea.
"Oh, the cakes are not of witch-moss, no! My neighbors do bring me flour and eggs and such from time to time, yes, in thanks for my crafting small things for them, aye!"
The Warlock Rock Page 20