“And Weetzie was sorry to have been so silly, for Weetzie’s forepeople had often said that trusting a d’bor was like betting on the wind. So Weetzie thought quick, quick, and said, ‘But why did you stop me, d’bor wife? Quick, grodgel down, grodgel down, for just as you caught me, I saw the very edge of the daylight bell.’
“And the d’bor wife was so excited, she dropped Weetzie in the instant and began to grodgel again, with the water flying. And Weetzie took his bone and twanged it, so the d’bor wife was all wound up in her tentacles and tied in a lump. Then he sat down and sang this song:
‘Daylight bell in water can’t be;
Tricksy lie brings tricksy tie.
Give a boon or else you die.’
“And the d’bor wife cried loudly, until all the seabirds shrieked to hear it, and begged the little star to be let go. So Weetzie said, ’Give me the boon, d’bor wife, and I’ll untie you.’
“So they talked and talked while the sun got high, and this was the boon: that Weetzie could go in the water and breathe there as did the d’bor. So he twanged his bone to turn the d’bor wife loose and went on his way, up and down, over and under, back and forth in the wide world until he came to a forest full of tall trees.
“And there in the top of the tallest tree was a flitchhawk in a nest, grimbling and grambling at the clouds as they flew past. And Weetzie cried out, ‘Ho there, flitchhawk, why are you grimbling and grambling at the clouds?’ And the flitchhawk said, ‘Because I’m looking for the daylight bell which is hung up here in the mist where the shadows hid it.’
“‘I’ll help you, then,’ cried Weetzie, and he climbed the tall tree ’til he came high up, and he stood in the nest and reached out for the clouds to grimble and gramble them in pieces. But the flitchhawk screamed and grabbed Weetzie in his huge claws and then laughed and cawed as though to raise the dark, ‘Little star, I’ve got you now.’
“‘Why did you grab me, old flitchhawk,’ cried Weetzie ‘just as I was grambling the clouds? I caught a glimpse of the daylight bell just there where I was grambling when you took hold of me!’ And when he heard that, the flitchhawk dropped Weetzie and went back to grimbling and grambling the clouds, looking for the daylight bell and crying, ‘Where is it? Where did you see it?’ But Weetzie took his bone and twanged it and sang this song:
‘Daylight bell in water can’t be
Daylight bell in treetop shan’t be
Tricksy lie brings tricksy tie.
Give a boon or else you die.’
“And flitchhawk was tied wing and claws so he couldn’t move, and he begged to be let loose, but Weetzie would not until the flitchhawk gave him a boon. And the boon was that Weetzie could fly in the wide sky as the flitchhawk had always done. So then Weetzie twanged his bone and turned the flitchhawk loose.
“Up and down he went, in and out, under and over, until time wore on, and Weetzie came to a broad plain where there was a gobble-mole druggling tunnels, coming up with a snoutful of dirt and heaving it into little hillocks. So, Weetzie said, ‘What’s all the tunneling for old gobble? More tunnel there than a mole needs in a million.’
“And the gobble-mole says, ‘Druggling to find the daylight bell, little star. I know it’s right down here somewhere in the deep earth where the shadows hid it.’
“So Weetzie says, ‘Well, then, I’ll help you druggle for it,’ and he started in to druggle with the mole. But the mole pushed Weetzie in a hole and shut it up so Weetzie couldn’t get out.
“And Weetzie cried, ‘What did you do that for, old mole? I caught sight of the edge of the daylight bell, just then, before you covered it up with your druggling.’
“Old mole said, ‘Where? Where did you see it?’ and he uncovered the hole where Weetzie was so Weetzie could twang his bone and sing this song:
‘Daylight bell in water can’t be.
Daylight bell in treetop shan’t be
Daylight bell in earthways wan’t be
Tricksy lie brings tricksy tie.
Give a boon or else you die.
“And the gobble-mole was all tied up, foot and snout, so he couldn’t move. So the gobble-mole decided upon a boon, and the boon was that Weetzie should be able to walk in earthways as the mole had always done. Then Weetzie twanged his bone and let the mole loose.
“‘Well now,’ said Weetzie. ‘All this talk of the daylight bell has made me curious, so I’ll take my three boons and go looking for it.’ And all the creatures within ear-listen laughed and laughed, for none had ever found the daylight bell where the shadows had hidden it, though the beasts had had boons of their own for ever since. But Weetzie danced on the tip of himself, up and down, in and out, over and under, as he went seeking.”
The old woman sighed. Mavin put the teacup to her lips, and she supped the pale brew, sighing again. “That’s the story of Weetzie and the daylight bell, girl.”
“Is there more to the story, Lily-sweet?”
“Oh, there’s enough for three days’ telling, girl, for it may be he found the bell at the end of it, but I’m weary of it now. Let be. He that calls himself Wizard there may tell it to you if you’ve a mind to hear it. I told it to him, and to that other Wizard – real, he was, sure as my teeth are gone – and to people in Betand, and to children many a time when they were no more than mole-high themselves.” And she leaned back in the chair, shutting her eyes. So the old woman did not much care for Chamferton, either. “He that calls himself Wizard…”
Back at the table where Chamferton sat smiling at her as a fox might smile at a bird, she continued to play the innocent. “I wonder what all that was about?”
“I think it’s about Eesties, Shifter-woman, though I’m not certain of that. Eesties, Eestnies, the Old-folk, the Rolling Stars. Whatever you choose to call them…”
“They say ‘Eesty’ among themselves,” said Mavin, without thinking. Then her throat closed like a vice and she coughed, choking, gesturing frantically for air.
“You mean you’ve spoken to them, seen them? Gamelords, girl, tell me of it!” His face blazed with an acquisitive glow, and his hand clutched her arm. Now, she thought through her suffocating spasm, now I see the true Chamferton.
She shook her head, trying to breathe as her face turned blue. Then the spasm passed, and he nodded with comprehension, handing her a cup. “Don’t try to talk then. I understand. What you’ve seen, what you’ve heard, they don’t want talked about. Well. Pity.” He took paper from a nearby table and wrote on it, “Have you ever tried to write it out?” He turned the paper for her to read.
She shook her head, drawing deep breaths as her throat opened reluctantly.
He put the pen and paper near her hand. She wrote a trial sentence. “I have talked with an Eesty at Ganver’s Grave…” Nothing happened. She turned the paper to face him, and he nodded eagerly.
“Well, Shifter-girl, there is a bit of additional information which I will trade for an account of your … experience.” He nodded toward her hand, resting upon the paper as he turned the page toward her again. He had written, “If you will write me an account of your experience, I will tell something else about Himaggery – also, I will pay you well for the account.”
Mavin shook her head in pretended indecision. “You know, Wizard, from time to time I have been asked to Game for this King or that Sorcerer. All have offered to pay me well, but none has yet told me what I am to do with the pay. What do Shifters need, after all? I cannot eat more than one meal at once, nor sleep in more than one bed at a time. I have little need to array myself in silks or gems. What payment would mean something to me?”
“Perhaps hospitality,” he suggested. “A place to rest, or eat cooked food, or merely to stare at the hills.”
“No. It is not tempting,” she said, having already decided what she would give him which might both allay his suspicions of her and make him careless. “But I will do it because you have something to tell me about Himaggery, and for no other reason.”
He nod
ded, then remarked in passing, almost as though it did not matter. “And – when you go to seek Himaggery, will you seek Arkhur as well? At least, do not close your eyes to him if you see him on the road? And if you see any sign of him, will you send word to me? Again, though it may take time to agree upon a coin, I will pay you well.”
She smiled. Let him take that for assent if he would. She would do no more than write what she had seen of the Eesties and of the dancing Monuments and the shadowpeople upon the hills. She made it brief, leaving most of what had happened out, unwilling to put anything in his hands he might use for ill – as he would. She did mention that the magical talisman, Ganver’s Bone, had been taken back by the Eesty who gave it, believing that it would go ill for the shadowpeople if Chamferton thought they still had it, though why she was so certain of that, she could not have said. When she had finished, it was a very brief account, though Chamferton nodded his head over it, almost licking his lips, when she had finished.
“This goes in my library, Mavin.” Then, after a pause, as though to assure her of his good intent. “And should you not return in a fairly short time, I’ll see that a copy of it goes to Windlow.”
She nodded, in a sober mood. If she did not return in a fairly short time, she doubted Windlow could do much about it. Also, she thought Chamferton would not bother to do anything, no matter what he had promised, unless for some reason of his own. “I’m off north, now, Wizard, so tell me now what thing it is you know.”
For a moment she thought he would deny the bargain, but he thought better of it. “It is only this one fact, Shifter. There are runners upon the road to the north. Strange runners. They come in silence, fleeing along the Ancient Road, without speaking. It was those runners Himaggery followed, and if you see them, they may lead you to the place he went.”
So. She wondered what else he might have told her if he had wished to. How much he had left untold. How many other things he had lied about. Why say Valdon had not been there for a year when he had left only this morning? Why all that careful questioning, that covert watching? What had he hoped to learn?
Well, she would not find out by moping over it. Of the two of them, Mavin had probably learned the more. She went down and out of the place, the door shutting behind her with an echoing slam of finality. She started to turn toward the north, then whirled at a sound behind her.
It was Pantiquod, in Harpy shape, her head moving restlessly on its flexible serpent’s neck, and her pale breasts heaving with anger. Yellow-eyed Pantiquod. Mavin set herself to fight, ready to Shift in the instant.
“Oh, no, fool Shifter,” the Harpy hissed. “I will not attack you here under Chamferton’s walls, where he may yet come out and stop me. Nor in the forest’s shadow, where you and I might be well matched. No, Shifter-girl. I will come for you with my sisters. When I will. And there will be no more shadowpeople singing to help you, or tame Wizards to do your bidding, nor will Shiftiness aid you against the numbers I will bring.”
There was hot, horrid juice in Mavin’s throat, but she managed somehow to keep her voice calm. “Why, Pantiquod? What have I done to you? Your daughter is recovering, and it was she who attacked me, not I her.”
The Harpy’s head wove upon its stork-like neck, the square yellowed teeth bared in a hating grimace. “It was you killed Blourbast, though Huld put the knife in his throat. It was you robbed us of Pfarb Durim. It was you and your forest scum friends who sang away the plague, Shifter-girl. Now it is you who has wounded my daughter, Foulitter. Did you think the Harpies would not avenge themselves?”
“You have not done much for twenty years, loathsome chicken,” Mavin said. “But threats are easy and promises cheap. Do what you will.” Her knees were not as strong as her voice as she turned her back upon the bird, opening a tiny eye in the back of her head to be sure she was not attacked from the rear. Pantiquod merely stood, however, staring after her, her yellow eyes burning as though a fire were lit behind them. Mavin shivered, not letting it show. When she was a wee child, she had been afraid of snakes. Her worst dreams had been of touching snakes. The Harpy moved her with a similar revulsion. She did not want to be touched by that creature. She could not think of fighting it because she would have to touch it. Still, so long as she could Shift, she could not utterly fear the Harpy – even if there were more than one. So long as she could Shift, it would not pay the sag-breasted bird to attack her.
When she had come out of sight of the tower, she entered the trees. There she crouched upon the ground, looking back the way she had come. Two sets of wings circled high above the tower, moving upward upon warm drafts of air. When they had achieved considerable height, they turned toward her and the wings beat slowly as the two figures closed the distance between them. Though she had not shown fear before Pantiquod, now Mavin watched the wings come nearer with a feeling of fatalistic fascination which paralyzed her, that nightmare horror of childhood, that ancient terror children feel when they awake in the dark, sure that something lurks nearby, so immobilized by that knowledge that they cannot move to escape. Only when the Harpies had come almost within hailing distance did she stir herself, melting back into the shadows and changing her hide into a mottled invisibility of green and brown. There had been something hypnotic in the Harpy’s stare, something like…
“I would advise you, Mavin,” her internal voice said calmly, “that you not look into a Harpy’s eyes again. It would be sensible to kill them now, but if you find them too repulsive even for killing, then you should get moving. If you don’t want to fight the creatures, avoidance would be easier if they didn’t find you.”
This broke the spell and she ran, under the boughs, quickly away to the north, deep in small canyons and under the edges of curling cliffs, until she had left the Harpies behind her, or lost them, or they had gone on ahead. In any case, the feeling of paralysis had passed – at least for the time. Her voice had been right. She should have killed them then. “I must be getting old, and weak, and weary,” she cursed herself. “Perhaps I should settle on a farm somewhere and grow thrilps.” This was not convincing, even under the circumstances, and she gave it up. Enough that she had not wanted to touch the beasts. Leave it at that.
She had come some little distance north when she saw the first travelers, paralleling her course to the west. They were higher on the sides of the hills, running with their heads faced forward – though there was something odd about those heads she could not precisely identify, even with sharpened vision, as the forest light dappled and shadowed. They were naked, men and women both, with long, shaggy hair unbound flapping at their backs. At first she saw only four or five of them, but as she went on others could be seen in small groups on the hillsides, emerging into sunlight before disappearing momentarily into shade once more.
There was a sheer wall ahead, one which stretched across her own path and that of those on the hill, a fault line where the land on which she walked had fallen below that to the north, leaving a scarp between, that scarp cut by tumbling streams which had left ladders of stone in their wake. The westernmost such path was also the nearest, and as she went on she saw the others gradually shift direction toward the rock stair, toward her own path, toward intersection. Prudence dictated she not intrude upon a multitude though the multitude seemed utterly unaware of her, so she dawdled a bit, trotting rather than striding, letting the others draw ahead.
When she came at last to the stream bed which led upward to the heights, they were assembled there, squatting on the ground in fives and sevens, small intent circles faced inward. She crept into the trees above them from which she could watch and listen without being observed. Their heads were bent. The chant started so softly she thought she imagined it, then louder, repeated, repeated.
“Upon the road, the old road,
A tower made of stone.
In the tower is a bell
Which cannot ring alone.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” The voices went on, breathy, counting, seemingly endl
essly. At last they faded into silence on number one thousand thirteen, as though exhausted. After a time they began again.
“Shadow bell, it rang the night,
Daylight bell the dawn,
In the tower hung the bells,
Now the tower’s gone.
One thousand thirteen, one thousand twelve, one thousand eleven…” and so on until they came to one again.
Some of the heads came up. She saw then what had been so odd. They were blindfolded, their heads covered as far as their nostrils with black masks, like flitchhawks upon the wrist, hooded. They were silent, faced inward, hearing nothing. Mavin rustled a branch. They did not respond. Then, all at once, without any signal which she could see, they stood up and began to run once more, up the stone ladder toward the heights.
Intrigued, she Shifted into something spidery and went up the wall in one concerted rush to confront them at the top of the scarp. They went past her as though she did not exist, not hearing her challenging cry. She fell in behind them, not needing to keep up, for their tracks were as plain as a stream bed before her. There were hundreds of them, sometimes running separately, sometimes together. She set her feet upon their trail and thought furiously about the matter.
Somehow, without sight, they knew where they were going. But sometimes they ran together, sometimes not. Therefore, her curious mind troubled at the thought, therefore? Sometimes the way was single, sometimes separate? Like strands of rope, raveled in places, twisted tight in others? But where were the signs of it? She put her nose up and sharpened her eyes. Whatever it was that guided them, it couldn’t be smelled.
Now they were running all together, in one long clump, straggling a bit, yet with the edges of the group smooth, feet falling cleanly into the tracks of those before. Something along the edges, then. She paused beside the track, peering, scratching with her paws.
Tchah. Nothing she could see. Nothing she could feel. She stopped, puzzled, scratching her hide where the dirt of the road itched it. Perhaps from above.
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