She filled his bottle from her pitcher of goat's milk, cut bread and cheese from her small store, and refused to let him refuse her gift. "You have given me hope, though I had none before," she said. "At least, let me contribute my tiny share to you. If you fail ... I dislike thinking of it, for you would become as I am. That is no light burden, believe me."
He gripped her hands in his brown ones and bent to kiss her lined cheek, which bloomed suddenly firm and rosy beneath his lips. "If that should happen, then I shall return and help you to make brooms. We will keep one another company for the remaining length of our years," he said. "Broon the Broom-Maker. It has a nice rhyme, does it not?"
She laughed, but her eyes held worry, as he straightened. "Take care. I prefer Broon Dream-Walker. Not many have that talent or the courage to use it. Tarkann is a dangerous man, mad with strange sickness that even other madmen do not recognize."
He nodded, shouldered his pack, then slipped his arms through its straps. The forest waited, the thread of path running away into its depths. Overhead, a bird called, its voice more a cry of warning than a chirrup of joy. Broon raised his head, his bright hair flaming red in the morning sun, and stepped forward.
The other forest had been old and weary and full of strange whispers. This, so much nearer the source of unease, was almost quaking with terror. The young leaves on the aspens and the birches, the velvety oak-buds, the young ash leaves held not hope but despair. As he went on, Broon felt some terrible doom wrapping him round. Soon he stopped, finding a great elm tree, and set down his pack.
"What happens in the far edges of this wood?" he asked, setting his hands and his ear against the creased trunk. "Tell me, Sister, what fills you with fear on this bright morning when spring should have set your heart to dancing?"
He stood there for a long time, his hands clenched against the rough bark; more than once his face lined into grooves of anger. When he stepped back, it was a different Broon who stood there. Gone was the twinkle that had lit his brown eyes. Gone was the smile that usually lived upon his face. A dangerous man stood in Broon's bronzed boots, and this new Broon donned his pack with a kind of fury and strode away without even a goodbye to his sister the elm.
He walked for half the day without pausing for bite or sup or rest. Even then it was for only a moment that he paused to gulp a mouthful of milk. Then he took his bread and cheese in hand and went forward, eating as he moved. Before the food was consumed, he heard the chunk of axes in the wood ahead of him. Around the third bend, he was able to see the work causing those sounds.
An ash wood had stood there, silver-gray boles stretching to the sky, bearing lacy leaves to catch the sunlight. Now those trunks lay scattered, stripped of branches. In the midst of the devastation, six men bent over saws and axes. They moved as if their very bones protested at what they were doing, as they rolled the sections of trees together into untidy piles.
"And what might respectable foresters be doing here, destroying a fine wood that might, well tended, supply fuel to their folk for generations to come?" asked Broon, stepping into the ugly clearing.
The nearest man looked up, his face lined with years but more with sorrow. "Tarkann has ordered all forests within the bounds of Madillea to be destroyed," he mourned. "And how we will heat in winter or cook at any time, once our small stores of wood have gone, I cannot tell you. He has ordered that all we cut here be burned. Waste! Waste and destruction!" He was almost wailing.
A young man, enough like to be his son, stepped forward and touched his arm. "Sssh! He will hear you, and you will be served as so many have been!"
The man stared at him, then turned his gaze toward Broon. "I am old, already. Will he then bring back my long-ago youth to pester me? I have lived five dozen winters, and if I cannot say what is in my heart it is best to die."
Broon looked ahead. Behind the workers lay a horrible landscape of stumps and brush piles and raw earth. He shuddered. Some miles distant, he could see a blur that might be a town.
"Might that be the principal city of Madillea?" he asked the old man.
"Yes it is. It was called The City in the Forest, once. Now it must be changed to The City in the Midst of Hell, for those who dwell there are doomed to starvation or freezing or poisoning by our own waters that ran so clear and pure only two winters ago. The prospect from any direction is hideous."
"Do you know Sylla, who lives beyond the forest at the edge of the western meadow?" asked Broon. "She makes brooms."
"Indeed I do," said the woodcutter. "She sells her wares in the village near her cottage, but they are traded even in the City, for they are well made and long-lasting."
"I have talked with her. She has told me of Tarkann. Yet I cannot proceed on the word of a single person. Tell me, if I should be able to ... alter ... this prince's ill judgment, would it please or anger his people?"
"If you should slay him and drag his bones through the streets, there would be rejoicing," grunted the man, glancing over his shoulder to see that none of his companions heard his words.
"Ah!" said Broon. "Then I thank you, Friend Woodcutter. Wish me well."
The fellow took his hand in both his own. "Well and more than well. God go with you!"
Broon's boots fairly ate up the miles, spurning the ravaged forest floor beneath their soles. As he approached the city, he saw that walls were being raised about it, though it had obviously been an open and friendly place before.
At the last farm, he stopped beside the well, where a lone aspen bent above the kerb, whispering sorrow through its leaves. The house was small and poor, though well tended, and a young woman sat on a stool beside a stone block, on which stood the goat she was milking.
She turned her head as Broon approached, her hands never missing a stroke of her rhythm. "Greeting, Stranger. If you take my advice, you will bend your steps away from yonder town." Her voice was soft, so as not to startle the goat.
"Yet I must go there. But I thirst. May I try your well?"
She sighed, leaning her head against the goat's warm side. "Indeed you may, and it is good that you come now, for in no little time it, too, may be fouled, like the streams of all Madillea, they tell me. Waters that ran clear are now black and turgid. Never drink from a stream, Sir. It may mean death."
Broon took a wooden pail from its peg and bent to dip it into the water, which was sweet drink for a thirsty man. But what fool would foul the waters of his land, cut his trees, and forbid the planting of its crops? He found himself eager to stand face to face with Tarkann, whatever the danger, whatever the cost.
Thanking the woman, he hurried on, finding gray dust now kicking behind his boots. Indeed, a haze of dust lay in the afternoon sunlight, masking the outlines of the town. He came to the gate of the unfinished wall with his skin coated with grit, his eyes stinging. A guard, clearly uncomfortable with his duty, lowered a pikestaff across the gateway.
"Strangers are no longer welcomed into the City of Tarkann," he said, but his voice was apologetic. His glance flicked away to his right, where the end of the wall was plainly visible, and no guard stood beside the gap.
Broon nodded gravely. "I accept your word, Sentinel. Good evening."
He turned aside to a path through the grass, and as he neared the end of the wall he felt the guard's gaze upon his back. As he proceeded into the city's narrow streets, he found it to be much like others he had known. Busy, even at this afternoon hour, with hawkers and menders and sellers of foodstuffs still at their business.
Hungry, wishing to spare his supplies, Broon paused by a stall and looked over the woman's scanty wares. They were made from wild fruits and nuts, he could see, and he chose a cake made from dried berries baked with honey in a pastry of nut-meal. He offered a copper coin he had received in the next realm but one.
She stared at him with frightened eyes. "I cannot take foreign coin! Such things are not allowed. Guard! Guard! A foreigner has entered the city!" Her shrill cry echoed up the street.
In reply, a fat fellow in blue came blundering from a house, half his supper in his hand. Seeing Broon, he tidied himself, set the portion of bread carefully into his helmet, put the helm on his head, and said, "Sir, you must come with me. The Lord of this City has said foreigners must be arrested, so I arrest you. Come!"
The lockup was dusty, like everything else in the city. But the jailer was nice enough and divided his meager supper with Broon. It return, the Dream Walker shared bread and cheese with the jailer's family, though there was only a bite or two each. The children had not eaten wheaten bread in a year, and it was a welcome treat.
Their father warmed toward the one who provided it. "You are no criminal, Sir," he said. "Law or no, I will not imprison you. Let Tarkann enchant me if he chooses. Be free to go your way, with my good wishes."
"Then tell me how to find Tarkann," Broon said. "I have much to say to that unwise ruler. I will not mention you, and I will certainly not say that anyone set me free. I have come, following dream, and it may be I can help your unhappy people."
The jailer gave him directions, and before the moon rose Broon stood before the Prince's House in the center of the City. This was modest enough, but there were signs that the new prince had tried to make it more imposing than its nature intended. A great stone parapet had been raised along the modest front, spoiling the simplicity of its design.
Broon imagined the new prince must harangue his subjects from that eminence. A purple canopy was raised above the center, and torches wavered golden flames at the four corners.
Two guards were asleep there. Broon smiled. The people of Madillea were neither sly nor warlike. Farmer and woodsman stock, they did not take to the regimentation Tarkann was trying to impose. Good, he thought, as he tiptoed around the sleeping pair and into the wide doorway.
He moved down a long hall, lit dimly by lamps in niches. At the end were two tall doors, their leaves almost drawn together. Brighter lamplight streamed through the crack, and Broon stepped close and peered through, to see a tall, thin man sitting at a gilded table, bent over rolls of parchment.
Broon pushed aside the doors and stepped into the room. He reached back and fastened the portal behind him.
Tarkann looked up, startled. His eyes grew wide as he realized that one he did not know stood in his study. "Guard!" he bellowed, but Broon felt the call could not wake the two slumbering at the front of the house.
"Be tranquil," he said to the prince. "I have not come to injure you ... probably. I simply want to alter your unwise and destructive plans."
Tarkann's face flushed. "This is my land," he barked, "and I am its lawful ruler. It is mine to say what will be done and when and how, within my realm, as to all princes, great and small."
"Not to the detriment – even the destruction – of their people," Broon said, perching on the corner of the table. "The grain is gone; did you know that? There will be no vegetables to dry for winter, except for those the people grow in secret, which will not provide for the City.
"Your streams run foul and black. Deer no longer live in your forest – what is left after the destruction you ordered. What is your purpose, Tarkann? What aim could justify such wantonness?"
The prince pulled a hanging strap. Now he smiled. "My soldiers will be here in a moment. Until then I may appease you, for you are obviously mad. There are other ways to feed a population, and I shall experiment until I find those that please me. Water is necessary, I grant you, but I must rid myself of the wastes from my experiments in some way. Draining them into the streams is easiest. The wells are still pure, and that is enough.
"Deer are pretty, but I do not hunt, so they are no loss to me, and I dislike the kinds of trees that grow here. I am taking them out and will re-plant with others of my choice. Nature, you understand, is random and uncontrolled. Where I rule, I control." Madness glittered in his narrow black eyes.
Broon felt a chill at his neck. "Ah," he sighed. "Your father, locked away in the tower as mad, is no madder than his son. I will not allow you to go on, Tarkann, if it is within my power to stop you. The door is secured. Until the soldiers beat it down, you must contend with me."
Tarkann's smile was terrible to see. "That is well. I find pleasure in enchanting those who defy me. Look into my eyes, rash man!"
Broon, unguided by Dream, did as he was told. Now he could only trust in the original Dream that had sent him here. He respected the man he was, and he felt he would not be dismayed by the one he might become in old age. He stared into those dark eyes, and they sparked and glittered, seeking out his innermost self.
Strangely, he seemed to see into Tarkann more clearly than the prince saw into him. But the thing he saw was too alien, too unnatural for his mind to grasp. He closed his perceptions and allowed Tarkann his way.
Broon knew his mind was unlike those of most of his kind who did not follow dreams, but other, deeper differences had dictated his course. Now he let himself look into Tarkann's reaction to himself, and he was startled.
The man was talking softly, his face tense. Broon listened as Tarkann said, "All men have an inner logic. ALL. This holds the one they are, as well as the one they will become. I have never been foiled, following the thread of that logic to its end and bringing that forward into the present. Yet this one man has no logic I can determine. Impossible!
"So," Broon said to himself, "that is what makes the difference." He laughed aloud.
"I do have logic, purpose, pattern to my life," he said to Tarkann. "But it is not that used by others. You – and they – live within a surface self on the level of the here and now. I live by instinct and dream and the workings of my interior self, which is hidden from eyes and perceptible only to spirits."
Tarkann's eyes narrowed. There seemed a pressure within Broon, pushing at the walls of his mind. He relaxed his will and allowed the alien force to have its way. It strained desperately, he could feel, to split apart the self he had become. Something glimmered at the back of his mind, and he caught a glimpse of an elderly man, stooped a bit yet merry-eyed and smiling. He greeted him silently, and those eyes looked into his.
"Not for us," the lips said silently. Then the shape was gone.
Tarkann leaned against the table, his face pale, his eyes dull. Behind Broon there was a crash against the door. Ignoring it, Broon stepped close and looked once more into the prince's eyes. They were closed in on themselves, as if focused inward. He moved his fingers before the prince's face, but there was no reaction.
The Dream he had not been able to recall stepped forward into his mind. He looked about him and saw a small parchment, scrolled with gold and scarlet, stamped with owls. He lifted it and read the words it held into the ear of the frozen prince.
The eyes locked more tightly into their focus. They would remain so, said the remnant of the Dream, for always.
Broon stepped to the doorway and loosed the lock, then slipped behind the panel as it opened. The soldiers ran through into the room, their attention fixed upon their ruler, and he moved into the passage beyond. He strolled, unobstructed, back into the street.
He looked at the roofs of the house. Only one tower rose against the sky, and he found a way to its foot. As he set his hand upon the door, a voice said, above him, "What am I doing in this tower? Where is my seneschal? What has that rascally son of mine been up to now? Let me out! You, down there! Break that pesty door in, if you must. I've a feeling that mischief has been brewing in my realm."
Obligingly, Broon kicked in the door and let the indignant old prince out of his prison. No trace of madness tainted those clear brown eyes or the ruddy face.
"Now tell me what has been going on," barked the prince.
As they turned toward the House, Broon told him, and at the door he shook the old man's hand. "I must go now," he said. "There is a lady beyond what is left of the forest, and I must see if she, too, has been freed of her enchantment. If you have need of me, send to Sylla Broom-Maker, who is, I suspect, again Sylla the Beautiful.
"If, in time to come, dire need comes upon you, why dream, Sir Prince. Dream heartily, and it may well be that I shall come again."
Then he walked away into the slaughtered wood, toward the forest where grateful trees whispered to him as he returned to the house of Sylla.
THE TWILIGHT DANCER
By late afternoon I could go no farther. No particular area seemed to offer safety, but, straining my eyes to see through the glare between the burning sky and the blindingly bright desert, I could see no movement behind me. I hoped that meant my pursuers were very far back.
At least I was no longer on the wide flats, for here the desert drew inward, becoming a narrow tongue of sand and rock confined between two eroded ranges of mountains that promised neither water nor shade. The heights did not tempt me – I would lose valuable time and gain nothing, for there was no water aboveground on this part of the planet, and precious little below, according to our scans.
My only hope lay in out-distancing the dangerous beings who were behind me. I must make it through this corridor of Hell to reach the Station from which I had been sent out two months ago to explore the assigned quadrant.
If I had possessed the energy, I would have laughed.
With the confidence of the ignorant, we had assigned exploration areas. I was to cover the southeast quadrant, mapping the topography from ground level (high-level scans, we found, did not offer warning of important elements like grasslands that covered quagmires or unexpected dust pockets that could swallow up anyone crossing them). Arnold would do the same with the southwest, and in another month, rested and ready to go again, we would do the same for the northern half of our present assigned location.
When that was done, this corner of Alhazred would be neatly pinned down for the use of those who were eventually to follow us down. No one had ever located any indication of native inhabitants.
THE TWILIGHT DANCER Page 7