Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “Very well. ‘Let us go then, you and I…’”

  “‘While the evening is spread out against the sky ’” Like a patient, etherised upon a table Laughing, together, they went.

  Armed with the Lady of the Gallery’s charm, artificial light, and the encouragement of the ghosts, Ayradyss descended into the caverns on the first day of the full moon. Although the moon would technically not be full until the following night, the caoineag told her that it was worth the attempt, for “appearances matter as much as anything in these matters.”

  Voit trailed her, its light revealing the dripping stone, but the ghosts had expressed their doubts as to whether the robot would be able to enter the eldritch realms.

  After wending their way through the now familiar maze of tunnels, the group came to the appropriate corridor. At first glance, it was blocked as always by solid stone, but when the caoineag moved to inspect the wall she turned to Ayradyss with a pleased smile.

  “Turn off your light, Ayradyss, and have Voit do the same, then tell me what you see.”

  Ayradyss obeyed, and as her fingers turned her headlamp’s switch, Volt’s light turned off. The blue-white glimmer of the three ghosts illuminated a round space, darker than the surrounding stone, with a sense of depth.

  “There is a portal, just like last time, but it’s different. It seems more open this time.”

  “Our luck is better,” the caoineag answered. “The guardian creature is not there. Quickly, step through.”

  “I’ll go before the lass,” the crusader said, gathering his chain in his hand, “and give a wee bit of light.”

  Ayradyss glanced back at Voit. “Do you see anything, Voit?”

  “Nothing, mistress.”

  “Then you must stay and guard against our return.”

  “As you wish.”

  She ducked her head then and stepped through the round space, moving quickly lest she should lose her nerve. The two remaining ghosts came through after her.

  The place where they found themselves might have been a section of their own island, for in the distance they could see rock-pebbled beaches and a crashing body of water that could easily have been the North Minch. Here, though, there was no village, no castle. A stand of granite monoliths dominated the prospect, and while they had left a misty late morning behind, here the sun was sinking in the west. Faintly, in the distance, they heard the sound of a river running and behind that the plaintive wail of bagpipes.

  Turning to her companions, Ayradyss began to ask where they should go from here, but their appearance chased the query from her mind. Although she had seen all of Castle Donnerjack’s spectral inhabitants manifest in more or less solid forms, there was always something of the insubstantial about them. Even about the caoineag, who would seat herself in a parlor chair and visit with Ayradyss for all the world like a more usual caller, something of the ethereal always clung. Now, however, they could not be distinguished from ordinary folk.

  The crusader ghost still wore his rags and ankle chain, but now Ayradyss could see that his skin was oily, his beard more patchy than she had realized. A thin white line crossed the bridge of his nose, but she did not believe it was his death wound. Seen more clearly, the blindfolded ghost’s long robe resolved into a priest’s cassock and the indistinct emblem at his waist a carved wooden cross.

  The caoineag’s beauty became more human here—her lips gaining in fullness, her eyes in brightness, her hair darkening to wheaten gold. The loss of her silvery glimmer could have robbed her of some of her loveliness, but instead she flowered out—a white rose rather than a perfect, enfolded bud.

  “You… you are all changed.”

  “We exist in Verite as legends; this is a place where legends are alive.”

  “‘Ware the stones,” said the blindfolded ghost, reaching up and untying the strip of cloth from around his eyes. “They move and crush those who walk among them. So I met my end.”

  “But,” Ayradyss said, finding it strange to see dark brown eyes where she had grown accustomed to white fabric, “you are dressed as a Christian cleric. I realize that my understanding of these things may be imperfect, but these eldritch lands seem to be far older than Christianity. How did you find yourself here?”

  “My father followed the custom of the times, and having more sons than he knew how to employ, he sent me—for I had shown some talent for reading and ciphering—into the clergy. I did well in my education and after being ordained arranged to be sent home again. There I could have done well but for my pride…”

  “Och, pride again,” muttered the crusader.

  “I lorded my collar and my education over my less formally educated brethren. In time, they grew tired of me and one full moon near the spring equinox they brought me to this place. There they wrapped my eyes and challenged me to use my great knowledge to find my way home again. Needless to say, I failed, and when the great stones lumbered down to the water to drink—as they do twice a year—I was crushed beneath them.”

  Ayradyss looked at the monoliths with doubting respect. “What a horrid fate. And then you found yourself haunting the castle?”

  “That is correct. Something still binds me here—though I believe I have been well-enough punished for my arrogance.”

  “Och, pride…” The crusader’s words were softer this time, but the cleric heard and glared at him.

  “I hear bagpipes; I wasn’t certain before, but they’re louder now,” Ayradyss said, more to stop the incipient quarrel than because she felt comment was needed. “But I can’t place where the sound is coming from. Every time I think I know, the location of the music shifts.”

  “Shall we go down to the shore?” the cleric asked. “We know that piper is not out on the water. Pinpointing where he is on the land should be simpler from there.”

  All agreed and they walked down to the shore, the crusader in front with a loop of his chain in his hand, the ladies between, and the cleric striding behind.

  Now that he had removed his blindfold, Ayradyss realized that he was a handsome man—hawk-nosed and arrogant despite his collar. His gaze restlessly scanned the horizon and his right hand rested as if it expected to find a sword at his waist. No doubt he had resented being shuffled off into the clergy when his blood and early training was that of a warlike clansman. Reaching the shore, they had no better luck locating the piper.

  “The skirl makes my heart sing,” the crusader cried, his blue eyes snapping and his bearing no longer stooped. ” ‘Tis a fine and martial noise.”

  “But where is the piper?” Ayradyss said. “For his sound to carry so, he should be standing on some promontory, but all I see are empty rocks.”

  “Let us go and take a wee gander,” the crusader suggested, “this lad and I. The banshee can keep you company and ‘tis far safer than your clambering on the rocks.”

  “Can you climb with that ankle chain?” the cleric asked. “I don’t fancy the loftier reaches among the monoliths. No one ever called me a coward, but those rocks may have memories.”

  “Dinna think it will be a problem,” the crusader said. “I’ll take the high road and you take the low…”

  He looped his chain about his hand and trotted off into the rocks, his laughter mingling with the shrilling of the pipes. A few steps after, the cleric followed. Left behind, Ayradyss and the wailing woman continued their survey of the heights from the shore. The waves rolling up the beach teasingly licked at the soles of their shoes and tossed bits of foam before them.

  “Is that a cottage down the way?” Ayradyss asked after a while. “I believe it is, only that clump of boulders blocked it from sight before.”

  “Odd,” the caoineag responded. “It is indeed a cottage, but I do not recall one the last time I visited here.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Perhaps a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Time enough for change.”

  “True.”

  “Shall we pay a call? Perhaps the piper l
ives there.”

  “If you wish to do so. The portal to your world should remain open for the next several days.”

  “I do hope to be home for dinner.”

  “We will try to make certain you are. It is difficult to judge time for us.”

  “My watch is still running—at least, as far as I can tell. If it’s right, dinner won’t be for hours yet.”

  “Then let us pay a call, by all means. Let me advise you not to eat or drink while you are here. The old legends say that this can bind a mortal to the fairy realms.”

  “I seem to recall something of that. I will heed your advice.”

  Even before they were within hailing distance of the cottage, Ayradyss could see that it was a pleasant place. Rambling and somehow fat, it was thatched with bright yellow reeds. Its paint—white for the main, green for the shutters and trim—must have been freshly renewed, for it was unchipped despite the proximity of the ocean. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes and daisies lined the oyster shell paths. A few chickens scratched in the sunlight. A lazy calico cat asleep on the roof opened one eye as they drew closer.

  “Hello, the cottage!” Ayradyss called when they were on the fringes of where the beach gave way to unfenced yard. “Visitors!”

  Almost immediately, the front door swung open and a startlingly beautiful young woman stepped out. She was no more than seventeen, with jungle-green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. Her smooth pink complexion might never have felt a sea wind and her teeth when she smiled were perfect and dazzlingly white. Although overall she was well made, she was also clearly pregnant, perhaps a bit further along than Ayradyss.

  “Hi!” she said, her accent American. “I’m Lydia. What brings you to this isolated place?”

  Ayradyss was at a loss for words. She had entertained many possibilities of what they might find, but this creature drawn from an American fantasy (despite the incongruous pregnancy) had not even come close. Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The caoineag recovered more quickly.

  “I am Heather and this is my friend, Ayra. We were walking, listening to the piping, and we saw your house. It seemed rude to pass without saying hello.”

  “The piping is my husband, Ambry,” Lydia explained, “and I’m very glad that you decided to stop. It does get a little lonely here.”

  “Here?” Ayradyss managed.

  “Yeah, we’re in one of the wild lands of Virtu—one of the places the programmers lost. It’s not too often that someone stumbles in. Don’t worry. Ambry knows how to get back. He’ll show you the way, but don’t go too soon. I’d really love a chance to visit.”

  Ayradyss could only nod befuddled acceptance and follow Lydia into the cottage.

  “Did you know?” she hissed to the caoineag. “And is your name really Heather?”

  “No. And, yes, or close enough. Let’s talk with this girl. I want to know more about how an ancient place can be mistaken for a site in Virtu.”

  The inside of the cottage was as pleasant as the outside. The table and chairs in the parlor Lydia led them into rested on oval rag-rugs that protected the bright pine floor. Overall the decor was late eighteenth-century rural New England, but Lydia switched off an electronic scribble board as she walked by it. Ayradyss caught a glimpse of long mathematical formulas that reminded her vaguely of some of John’s work.

  Lydia caught her questioning glance. “It’s something to keep me busy—interface theory. Some of my experiences really make me question the conventional wisdom. At first, Ambry argued with me, but I think I’m bringing him around to my point of view.”

  “You and your husband are mathematicians?” Heather asked.

  “Well, yeah. I guess you could say that. Mostly we’re just taking it easy, but it’s nice to have something to talk about in the evening. Like I said, it gets quiet here.”

  “Where are you from originally—if that’s not impolite to ask?” Ayradyss said.

  “New Jersey.” Lydia giggled. “How about you?”

  “Scotland.”

  “Oh, how cool. This locus owes a lot to that part of the world—and not just the terrain features. Ambry likes to say that all the legends have found their way into Virtu.”

  “Really?” said the caoineag dryly. “Which, I wonder, came first?”

  “Well, in one sense the legends,” Lydia answered, not hearing the other’s sarcasm. “One of the first things people loaded into the data-nets—even way back when they were using terminal interface and telephone connections—was raw information: dictionaries, academic papers, fiction, indexes. When the system did the big crash, all that got scrambled and the AIs had lots of data to cannibalize.”

  “So this ‘wild territory’ is just some AFC unauthorized scrambling of data?” Ayradyss said.

  “That’s what the theory says.” Lydia’s tone was suddenly guarded. She switched the subject with an awkwardness that made Ayradyss suspect that she was at least as young as her physical appearance. “When’s your baby due?”

  “Spring. How about yours?”

  “About the same. I’m really pregnant. This isn’t just a virt thing.”

  Again, Lydia quickly shifted the subject, as if by admitting that she was really pregnant she had strayed into dangerous territory.

  “Are you two ladies here on your own? I spotted you first from an upstairs window and I thought I saw a couple other people.”

  “We’re here with two friends,” Ayradyss answered. “They heard the bagpipes and went into the hills to see if they could find the piper.”

  Lydia giggled again. “Ambry’s piping is like that. The first time I met him, I wandered all over the hills looking for him. I found him—or really, he found me. I’ll send him a message asking him to join us and to bring your friends along.” She opened a window and leaned out into the yard, making a soft cooing noise. A fat grey pigeon fluttered sleepily from the rafters.

  “Find Ambry for me and ask him to come home and to bring the two people…” She glanced questioningly at Ayradyss and Heather.

  “Two men,” Heather clarified. “One is dressed in a priest’s cassock and the other in rather ragged clothing.”

  “Those two men with him.”

  The pigeon yawned, preened, and fluttered off, blending almost immediately into the grey sky.

  Lydia deliberately kept the conversation inconsequential after that and her visitors were quite content to cooperate.

  Ayradyss could hardly keep up her part in the discussion; her mind kept coming up with unanswerable questions: Was this indeed Virtu? If so, had they really crossed in from the Verite? How could that have been done without the proper equipment? How could the ghosts have crossed at all? Moreover, the caoineag and the cleric had both spoken as if these “eldritch realms” had existed during their mortal existence. If this was the case, the realms predated Virtu—they predated computers. How had Lydia entered them from Verite?

  Gratefully, she heard the crunch of feet on the oyster shell path and put her questions away for later—and hopefully more fruitful—meditation.

  The door opened, admitting a man wearing wool leggings and an unbleached muslin shirt. He was bearded, his hair and shaggy eyebrows wild as if he had been standing in a high wind. A fine set of bagpipes was slung over his shoulder. Crossing to Lydia, he kissed her on one cheek and nodded to the ladies.

  “The pigeon found me and I found the men, but they fled from me as if I were a ghost. I lost them near the standing stones. They were an odd pair—I’m certain that the smaller one was dragging a chain.”

  “We were involved in a mystery game,” Ayradyss said quickly. “They may have thought you were one of the villains.”

  “Quite possibly.” The man sketched a bow. “I am Wolfer Martin D’Ambry, but I hope you will call me Ambry, as Lydia does. The rest is something of a mouthful.”

  “I am Ayradyss and this is Heather. We wandered here and Lydia invited us in.”

  “They’re from Scotland,” Lydia said, almos
t as if she was saying something else.

  Ambry nodded.

  Ayradyss knew there was a certain etiquette to what one did and did not ask in virt; this made her somewhat hesitant to ask questions that could be taken as a cross-examination. Heather, however, had no such compunctions.

  “What is this place? Lydia called it a wild land—seemed to indicate that it wasn’t easily found. What did she mean?”

  Lydia hung her head slightly, looked embarrassed. Ayradyss felt for her. Clearly in her excitement at having visitors—and perhaps out of a good-hearted desire that they not become frightened at finding themselves in a strange area—she had said more than she should have. The caoineags green-grey gaze was pitiless and steady, fixed on Wolfer Martin D’Ambry.

  “Virtu,” he said, as if they had been talking for hours, “is not nearly as regulated and reliable as the tourist bureaus and rental agencies would have their clients believe. Only a handful of specialists will even admit how far-reaching the effects of the worldwide crash were. There are places in Virtu that cannot be found on any map in Verite. This is one of those places.”

  “But this is truly Virtu?” Ayradyss asked, thinking, If this is Virtu, then does the Lord of Deep Fields know I am here?

  “It is accessible from Virtu,” Ambry said. “Its genius loci claims that this place is older than Virtu, but that is foolishness, is it not?”

  “There have always been legends of places existing side by side with the fields we know,” Ayradyss said, quickly lest the caoineag speak the indignation flaring in her eyes. “The sidhe, so legends say, lived in a shadowland side by side with Verite, crossing over from time to time to steal a bride or a babe or a musician. Rip van Winkle drank and bowled for what he believed was a single night and returned home to find that a hundred years had gone by. Then there are the heavens and hells of almost every religion that has been. All of these are far older than Virtu. Perhaps the genius loci of this setting adopted such a legend and now believes it.”

  “A thoughtful response,” Ambry said, sketching a bow over his hand.