Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “I know something of Virtu.”

  “Perhaps we should be returning to our game,” the caoineag said. Our fellows will be wondering what has become of us.”

  “Give me your game’s address and I will guide you back,” Ambry said. “It is neither easy to come here, nor to leave if the genius loci resists you.”

  “We found our way easily enough,” the caoineag said haughtily. “We can find our way out again.”

  “But thank you,” Ayradyss said quickly.

  “Well, certainly you will permit me to walk with you and to assure myself that you are safely away.”

  There was no other way they could refuse such a mannerly request without eliciting unwelcome questions, so they left the cottage in the company of Ambry and Lydia. Neither said anything when Ayradyss and Heather led the way up to the monoliths, but Ambry’s raised eyebrows were eloquent. Ayradyss felt immense relief when she saw that the moon portal remained open.

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” she said, stopping before picking her way across to the rock wall. “Good luck with your baby.”

  “And with yours, Ayra,” Lydia said, her perfect teeth shaping a smile. “Goodbye, Heather.”

  “Farewell.”

  “Wait!” Ambry said, when they turned away. “Where are you going?”

  “There,” Ayradyss said, pointing to where the portal stood round and dark.

  “Where?”

  “Through the opening in the rock. Can’t you see it?”

  “No, I see nothing but rock. Lydia, do you see anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It must be a restricted access port,” Ambry mused. “I don’t believe that it goes to any game site. Tell me, ladies, where does that portal go?”

  “Why should we tell you?” Heather said rather rudely.

  “Because it effectively opens into my backyard.”

  Ayradyss, heady to have home so near, smiled. “And it opens into my basement.”

  “Your basement?”

  “In Castle Donnerjack.”

  “Donnerjack? As in John D’Arcy Donnerjack?”

  Ayradyss would have said more, but the caoineag took her hand and with unsuspected strength pulled Ayradyss through the portal where she tumbled to a heap on the cavern floor.

  “Why did you do that?” Ayradyss said, looking up at the now insubstantial, faintly glowing ghost.

  “I fear what we have learned today. I do not want that man to know more about you until we have learned more about him.”

  Ayradyss shivered and not just from her contact with the cold stone floor. “It was peculiar, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are certain that place was there before the creation of Virtu?”

  “I swear.”

  “As do I,” said the cleric, drifting over, blindfolded once again. “The place is not a site in Virtu—or not just.”

  “Who then are Wolfer Martin D’Ambry and Lydia of New Jersey? I would swear that she, at least, is what she claimed to be. I have seen variations on that virt form hundreds of times before. It is quite the fashion and she spoke like a young thing.”

  “I do not know,” the caoineag said, and the other ghosts shook their heads.

  “I will go back tomorrow,” Ayradyss said, “better prepared. Perhaps when I know more I can bring John. That man seemed to know his name.”

  “John D’Arcy Donnerjack is famous in certain circles,” the caoineag said, “but he would not be known by the average virt tourist.”

  “No,” Ayradyss agreed, gnawing on one fingernail. “Voit, what time is it?”

  “Five in the evening, mistress. The kitchen has dinner scheduled for half-past six.”

  “I should go and clean up, then.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Voit, please query the databanks for a Wolfer Martin D’Ambry.”

  “I shall.”

  That night, Ayradyss dined with John. They talked of his work, of her explorations (though she kept her latest expedition to herself, uncertain how to explain until she knew more). While she and John were working a jigsaw puzzle (this one meant for the baby’s nursery), Voit discreetly reported to her that it could find no record of a Wolfer Martin D’Ambry.

  The next day, Ayradyss, along with the caoineag (but without either the crusader or the cleric) descended again into the tunnels. Although the moon was now full and they could see the portal opening, some force blocked it. When they probed it, they glimpsed the shadowy guardian lurking just beyond the pale.

  “The moon portal has been warded against us,” the wailing woman said. “The eldritch land refuses us entry. Such is not unknown.”

  “So I recall your saying,” Ayradyss said, “but I find it odd that the land should resist our entry today after letting us in without even the guardian to hinder us just yesterday. Should we attempt to drive the guardian away with the Lady of the Gallery’s charm?”

  “We could, but even if it worked, the charm would not eliminate the barrier.”

  “You’re right. I guess we try again tomorrow, and if that does not work, we try again the next full moon.”

  “As you wish.”

  “You sound reluctant, Heather. Don’t you want to know?”

  “Know?”

  “What that place really is.”

  “It is the eldritch lands, as it has always been. No newer name changes that.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But, nothing, my dear Angel of the Forsaken Hope. Unless you wish to take my place far sooner than you planned, I should take great care.”

  “Care?”

  “The Lord of Deep Fields has free range in Virtu. Do you really wish to bring yourself to him? Your husband has indicated a desire to renege on his part of the bargain they made. What is to keep the Lord of the Lost from taking you hostage and so obtaining his payment?”

  “You’re right. I had considered that possibility. I just have so many questions for those two.”

  “I understand. So do I, but let us not throw caution to the winds.”

  Ayradyss placed her hand upon her belly. Frowning, she turned her back on the dark rock wall, wondering as she did so if she had indeed seen the glint of the guardian’s watchful eye.

  * * *

  They walked the fields of Verite, leaving Castle Donnerjack far behind them.

  “John, why have we come so far?” Ayradyss asked.

  “To avoid my equipment, some of which may be used against me,” he replied.

  “By whom?”

  “Specifically, by someone who drove me into a rough deal.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Whatever memories you have of it must be very strange indeed.”

  “They are. But I don’t understand what you mean about machines.”

  “I am looking for a means of barring his collecting on our arrangement.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “There is no way to exclude death from life.”

  “Death, the phenomenon, no. Death, the personification—whatever he or it really is—maybe. I have some ideas for a field-effect. At first, I was just going to attempt to defend against hypothetical intrusions from the Great Stage. Now, though—I am going to regulate every bit of information that rides the electromagnetic spectrum into Castle Donnerjack. Monitor and record. I’ll build up a great list. Anything that’s uninvited gets scrambled. Simple. Then he won’t be able to seize our firstborn and run.”

  “What if he uses an agent?”

  “A physical one and well treat him the same as any other such. Something else, and I believe I’ll try static first. Then maybe a laser.”

  “What if somebody really gets hurt?”

  “It’s a big, cold, deep ocean out there.”

  “I remember the music. I remember the Throne of Bones. And part of the walk back. When will you have the defenses in place?”

  “The initial set is already there. But it needs considerable tuning. A few weeks more, say.”

  “We have that a
nd more before the baby is due. If the boy doesn’t come early.”

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “Very. And so is our son, if the amount of somersaulting he is doing is any indication.”

  “You haven’t been exhausting yourself exploring, have you?”

  “No, dear. I am careful.”

  “Good. Shall we turn back now?”

  “Let’s.”

  * * *

  The next month, there was no expedition at all. Ayradyss had come down with a flu of some sort that kept her in bed, her anxious husband and a med-unit watching over her. She recovered easily enough, but not in time to investigate the moon portal.

  When next she and her ghostly escort descended into the cavern, she walked like a pregnant woman, leaning back from her increasing belly. Although she said nothing, she knew that if they failed in their quest this time, she would not attempt it again until after her son was born.

  “The ward is gone,” the crusader ghost reported. He had insisted on taking point. Ayradyss had the impression the caoineag had shamed him into accompanying them and that his flight from Wolfer Martin D’Ambry still rankled.

  “And the guardian?” Heather asked.

  “I dinna ken.”

  “Then we go forward,” Ayradyss said, “and deal with it if we see it.”

  “Aye.”

  The crusader gathered his chain, stepped through the portal and vanished. Heather went next, then Ayradyss, and finally, the cleric. This one reached to remove his blindfold as soon as they were through.

  “Why can you do that here and not when you are in the castle?” Ayradyss asked.

  “I am more afraid here,” the cleric answered simply. “Especially here. Oddly, in these lands the calendar is not the calendar of the fields that we know—for the full moon and the equinox always fall together…”

  “At home the equinox is drawing near.”

  “And here on the full moon during the equinox, the standing stones go to the river to drink.”

  “We must take care,” the caoineag said. “I see no sign that the rocks are moving. Perhaps they must wait for moonrise.”

  Or perhaps they are waiting to trap us, Ayradyss thought, but she did not voice her thoughts aloud.

  For the land did not seem welcoming. The gorse buds were one of the few signs of the coming spring; mostly, the terrain was damp and grey. The sky was low and heavy, so dark with impending rain that they could not tell whether the hour was late or early. Except for helping each other to find the best path across the loose rocks, they did not speak as they made their way to the beach.

  “No pipes playing this time,” the cleric said, glancing nervously at the sky where a murder of ravens gliding on the air currents kept pace with them.

  “Aye, an’ yon corbies seem a wee bit too fond of us for my comfort.”

  “Aye.”

  The cottage yard was deserted even of the chickens, pigeons, and cat. The window boxes were empty and the green shutters drawn closed. Leaves and bits of bracken had blown into the tidy yard and the oyster shell path was scored by deep marks from something heavy—perhaps furniture—being dragged across it.

  “They’ve moved,” Ayradyss said unnecessarily.

  “Soon after we were last here, I would guess,” Heather added. “Did Wolfer Martin D’Ambry fear having John D’Arcy Donnerjack in his backyard, or was there some other reason?”

  “I don’t suppose we will ever know,” Ayradyss answered. “I want to look around, see if they might have left a message. Then we’ll go back home. My feet hurt.”

  There was no message. Through a window shutter that had blown open they could see the furniture covered with sheets, the rugs rolled up against dust and damp. With the cleric’s help, the crusader pulled the shutter closed again and cobbled a new latch from a boot lace.

  “How odd,” Ayradyss said, watching their effort. “Ambry and Lydia treated the place as if it were real—not a virt site.”

  “‘Tis real,” the wailing woman said stubbornly.

  “You know what I mean,” Ayradyss said. Somewhat clumsily, she seated herself on a bench alongside the mulched-over herb garden. “Perhaps they plan on returning someday. I’ll leave them a note to say that we came to call.”

  Her note was a simple thing:

  Ambry and Lydia,

  We came to call and found that you had moved. I hope that you are well, wherever you have gone. Good luck with the new baby.

  —Ayradyss D’Arcy Donnerjack

  She folded it into thirds and tucked it into the heavy wooden storm door. A raven quorked approval—or perhaps merely a comment on the weather, which was growing increasingly blustery.

  “Shall we go home now?”

  “Aye. I dinna care for how it’s coming on to blow.”

  “Or that it might be coming on to evening,” the cleric added.

  Their way back up the beach seemed shorter, as traveling back across a familiar route always seems shorter than going over it the first time. The crusader even ventured to whistle as the familiar outcropping beneath which the moon portal manifested came into sight.

  “Just a wee bit up the hill,” he encouraged Ayradyss, “an” we’ll be back to the castle.”

  She leaned on Heather’s arm as they climbed, trying not to breathe too heavily and cursing herself for overexerting. Within her, the baby amused himself by turning somersaults—a sensation that normally delighted her, but now caused havoc with her ability to concentrate on picking her way up the path.

  “Mary Mother of God!” came a shrill voice, rising at the end. “They move!”

  Without looking, Ayradyss would never have believed that the thin, terrified voice could come from the throat of the urbane, arrogant cleric. He had fallen to his knees, head bent, hands clasped in prayer, his shaking fingers plucking at the beads around his waist.

  “Dinna be a fool, man!” the crusader cried, trying to pull the much larger man to his feet. “They go to the river, not to the sea. If we take care, we can pass around them.”

  “I can’t… ‘tis my doom again.”

  “Fool! Twill be Lady Ayradyss’s doom if we dinna take care. How can the dead be further doomed?”

  At the caoineag’s urging Ayradyss had walked past the two men.

  “The crusader is right, Ayra,” Heather said softly. “The three of us have little to lose and there is a route around the sliding stones. What I fear is the shadow near the portal. It seems too dark and too solid—with no sunlight or moonlight but only these clouds…”

  “There should be no shadow.” Ayradyss nodded, pressed her hands to her belly in an effort to quiet her son. “We will try the Lady of the Gallery’s charm when we are closer. With how the wind rises, I fear the words will be snatched from its hearing.”

  “I am with you, Ayra.”

  They climbed then and the land itself seemed to extrude more loose rock along the narrow path they must climb along if they were to avoid the silently sliding monoliths. Ayradyss slipped repeatedly, once turning her ankle painfully, but the wailing woman looped a strong arm around her and half-carried her onward.

  Arriving before the rock face that held their portal, they saw that it was indeed guarded. Seen closer, the guardian lost rather than gained in definition. Its claws and fangs swam as if its mass distorted the space near it; its aura was a heat mirage dripping blackness and laughter.

  “We are close enough,” Ayradyss said, pulling herself tall.

  “The crusader is bringing up the cleric behind. I believe that he had to strike him on the head and blindfold him again.”

  “I wish I had more faith in the Lady of the Gallery’s charm.”

  The wailing woman’s expression was enigmatic. “I may have discovered another way to force the guardian to retreat—but I would prefer to reserve it as a last resort.”

  By common consent, rather than by formula, they clasped hands. Sweet and pure, their voices blended over the words of the charm:

 
Mary, Mother of God,

  Lady of the Seven Sorrows,

  Protect us from the darkness. Mary, Queen of Heaven,

  Lady of the Seven Joys,

  Drive away the night. Mary, Cypress of Zion,

  Lady of the Seven Glories,

  Banish our foe and carry us home!

  For a brief moment, Ayradyss thought that the Christian charm was working. The guardian drew into itself, becoming opaque, claws and fangs falling into solidity. But even as she thought it was beginning to retreat and her voice was rising into the final triad of the invocation, the guardian began to chuckle, each puff of noisome breath marking a return to its former deadly insubstantiality.

  Behind them, Ayradyss could hear the crusader’s labored breathing interspersed with colorful curses and clanking as he dragged both cleric and chain up the slope.

  “The alternative you mentioned,” she hinted to the caoineag, “might not this be the time to try it?”

  The wailing woman turned her face away, but not before Ayradyss caught a glimpse of the poignant sorrow in her green-grey eyes.

  “It may bring danger to you in the future, Ayradyss. Would you still have me use it?”

  “If it is the only alternative to remaining here. As you have reminded me, my presence in Virtu is itself a danger to myself and to my baby. Is this a danger of the same order?”

  “Not the same, but the charm is potent. It may draw the attention of the Lord of the Lost—or center it more fully if he is already aware of you.”

  “Sing!” Ayradyss said, glancing nervously over her shoulder, although she knew that Death could come from any side. “I accept whatever risk this brings.”

  “Very well.” The caoineag faced the guardian.

  Hearing the initial wordless wail with which she opened her charm the guardian ceased its laughter. Watching for unseen enemies, Ayradyss hardly listened to the charm until she felt the words reach out and pluck at the sleeping places in her mind.

  Angel of the Forsaken Hope,

  Wielder of the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, Slice the algorithms from our Foe.

  “No!” Ayradyss screamed. “Have pity!”

  Her terrible eyes streaming tears, the wailing woman continued her chant. Ayradyss felt herself transforming into her otherself from the time of the Genesis Scramble—an otherself for whom she recalled the titles, but not the heady, ruthless power. As her swelling abdomen flattened and her mermaid’s tail formed the unborn baby kicked in protest. Ayradyss screamed again as her wings budded and then tore free in a shower of blood and numbers.