Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “No.”

  Mizar raised his head from his paws.

  “Jay will come.”

  Death patted him. “I do not doubt that he will try. In his own way, he is as stubborn as his father. However, I do not know how he can turn the tide.”

  “Jay will,” Mizar said.

  Across the field, seen but faintly in the gloom, the green moire was taking on the form of a battering ram. Death reached for the recorder John D’Arcy Donnerjack had brought to him.

  “Einekleine Nacht Musik while we wait. It seems appropriate while we wait to see if our own little night is about to fall.”

  * * *

  Jay D’Arcy Donnerjack howled for the banshee and hoped that she heard.

  “Mom!” he called as he wandered the upper reaches of Castle Donnerjack. “Ayradyss! Cao-whatsis! Mom!”

  He was getting hoarse and Dack, hearing his cries from the castle’s kitchen, was growing concerned for his continuing sanity when the caoineag appeared. As usual she wore a gown pale and flowing, but this time her veil was drawn back and fell in loose folds on her shoulders.

  “Yes, Jay?”

  “Mom, I need the ghosts.”

  “Need the ghosts? Whatever for, son?”

  “To go with me to Deep Fields and defend its lord.”

  “You cannot be serious!”

  “But I am, Mom, as serious as the grave.”

  Kneeling, he poured the contents of the whisky bottle into a series of shallow dishes and set them around the long corridor. Then, with far more composure than he felt, he explained the situation in Virtu to his ghostly mother.

  Sometimes Ayradyss interrupted to forestall an explanation she did not need—as with the nature of the Threefold One who was also Warren Bansa. Sometimes she interrupted to ask for clarification—as when he mentioned Virginia Tallent. Mostly she listened, and as she listened, Jay glimpsed in his peripheral vision that the ghosts of Castle Donnerjack were joining them.

  There were old friends like the crusader and the blindfolded cleric; others, such as Shorty or the Lady of the Gallery, he knew mostly for their more spectacular effects. There were strangers as well—some kilted, bearing claymores and raggedly bearded, others gowned in the fashions of several ages, still others clad in tatters. Mutilated or whole, they drifted into the gallery. Some stirred restlessly, as if even this much materialization was a terrible effort; all gave grave attendance to his words.

  For the imperative that had drawn them there was the voice of the last laird of Castle Donnerjack, the son of Virtu and of Verite, explaining why he needed their help to protect one who most of humanity view as the greatest enemy of all—greater even than devils or demons, for the works of these beings are largely intangible, but every living creature will feel the rent when Death takes a loved one and leaves only emptiness and the bitter solace of hope for reunion.

  “That’s why I need them—you—” Jay said, turning for the first time to address his larger audience.

  “‘Tis a mighty crusade you call us to join,” said one who knew much of these things. He rattled his ankle chain. “And it canna help but be as noble as that for which I gave my all.”

  There were rustles of agreement, a few almost-heard agreements. Jay felt encouraged, but there was one hurdle yet left to leap. He returned his attention to the dark-haired, dark-eyed lady who had borne him and then been taken before she could know the joy that would wipe out the memory of her travail.

  “The moon is past full,” he said. “Can we get into the Eldritch lands? It’s the only way I can think of to get the ghosts into an area that borders on Virtu. Even now the Brass Babboon is seeking a route that will enable him to pick us up there.”

  “We can try,” Ayradyss answered, her voice still slightly disapproving. “Somewhen, the moon is always full. Perhaps with so many here from so many ages past we will be able to effect the transition.”

  “Shall we meet in the tunnels, then?” Jay said. “I’ll join you as soon as Alice gets here. She could have gone with the Brass Babboon, but she insisted that she wanted to try the crossover through the moon portal.”

  “Very well, son. We shall meet you there.”

  The ghosts began to fade out, leaving behind a faint scent of whisky and a collection of empty bowls.

  Dubhe spoke from where he had silently watched the conference.

  “I wonder why Alice made such a peculiar choice.”

  “You heard what she said. She thinks she may be protected by her body.”

  “But she risks being wiped out entirely,” said Dubhe.

  “We discussed that possibility on the train,” Jay reminded him tartly, “and this was the choice that she made.”

  “I still think it’s stupid. I certainly wouldn’t risk my skin if I had the choice.”

  “You can always stay here.”

  “I already explained. That isn’t a choice.”

  “So you say.”

  “I still wonder if she had an ulterior motive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, her heritage is as odd as yours. You’d be a fool to underestimate her.”

  Jay felt vaguely uncomfortable. He had been underestimating Alice. He was so accustomed to being the peculiar one, the one with strange gifts and unusual education, that he tended to think of her as a Veritean who had stumbled into something too big for her. He kicked at a rumpled spot in the runner that ran down the hallway.

  “Thanks, Dubhe. I’ll remember. Now, give me a hand collecting these saucers.”

  The dry sound of monkey paws clapping sounded hollowly against the tapestried walls.

  Alice arrived driven by Milburn in the same vehicle that had brought Jay to New York for the Elishite Celebration. Back activated savoir faire subroutines he had not needed since he escorted Ayradyss and John on their long-ago honeymoon, surprising Jay with his repertoire of courtly compliments that stayed precisely on the correct side of mannerly. He reminded Jay of an uncle meeting his favorite niece.

  Voit carried lights and a parcel of supplies down to the basement. Dubhe and Alice followed. When Jay would have gone with them, Dack stayed him with a polished hand to his arm.

  “Jay, I overheard your oration in the upper gallery.” He shook his head slightly to stop comment when Jay would have interrupted. “I cannot see ghosts, but I have lived in this castle since its completion. Lady Ayradyss believed there were ghosts here, and when her pregnancy made her slow, someone came to visit with her.

  “I know what you are planning to do, and as much as I wish I had some pearl of wisdom for you, all I can offer you is my most sincere wish for your success and safe return.”

  Robots cannot cry, but Jay had the impression that Dack was holding back tears. He threw his arms around the shining torso and hugged him.

  “I’ll be careful, Dack, as careful as I can be.”

  “And be lucky, Jay. It is a quality that I understand exceeds the power of planning.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Jay fled down the stairs before he could start crying. Voit had unlocked the door and the rest were waiting for him.

  “Let’s go,” Jay said, and if they heard a certain hoarseness in his voice, they chose not to comment.

  They hardly needed artificial lighting when they arrived at the appropriate tunnel for the glimmer of ghostlight was strong. Its pale illumination showed the dark shadow of the moon portal, somewhat smaller in circumference than usual and with something of the gritty wall just barely perceptible beneath the darkness.

  “The news is good and bad,” Ayradyss said, without waiting for introductions. “Our concentrated efforts can force the portal to manifest, but its most complete materialization lasts only briefly. You, Dubhe, and Alice must go first. The rest of us will follow, as many as are possible.”

  “And the guardian?” Jay asked, lifting Dubhe to his back.

  “We do not perceive it, but that does not mean that it is not here.”

  “Whenever you
give the word,” Jay said, and Alice nodded.

  The ghostlight concentrated around the round shadow, almost as if by bringing brighter light to the point they could force the distant moon to cast a darker shadow.

  “Now,” Ayradyss said.

  Jay went first, monkey on his back; Alice was so close to his heels that he felt her warmth as they passed from the tunnels into the cooler ocean cliffs. Behind them, the ghosts filtered through, growing in substance and detail as their feet touched the ground.

  “And so here we are,” Jay said to Alice, pleased that thus far his plan was working.

  “So we are,” Alice said, looking around.

  “Not quite like a virt transition, is it?”

  “Not quite.”

  Her lack of enthusiasm made Jay scowl. Alice caught the expression before he could banish it.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Jay. It’s just that so many things have happened in the last several days that…” She struggled to explain. “I found out that my father is a computer program—or possibly a god— or possibly a man who died before my mother was born. Just as I got to like him, I watched him taken away by a face in a cloud. I’ve been to a place that might be heaven and am getting ready to go to hell. The moon portal is neat; the ghosts are wonderful, but I think I’m all awed out.”

  Mentally, Jay kicked himself, realizing that, despite Dubhe’s warning, he had expected Alice to behave like some proge heroine from a virtventure.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You have been through a lot. More than me, really.”

  The caoineag drifted to join them, overhearing Jay’s awkward apology-

  “I don’t know about that, Jay.” Ayradyss smiled at them both. “You learned that your mother is a banshee, went to visit with Death, and took on a great deal of responsibility. How about calling it quits?”

  She extended a slender hand, as substantial as life in this place, to Alice.

  “I am Ayradyss D’Arcy Donnerjack. Before you were born, I met your father and mother. We visited in a cottage in this very place. How is Lydia?”

  Alice took the proffered hand. “She is well, thank you. Worried about Ambry, but otherwise fine. She’s back in the Verite now.”

  J

  “Would you like to see the cottage?” Ayradyss asked. “Jay’s train may find it easier to run along the shore than across the ravines. We can wait there.”

  “That would be nice.”

  They picked their way down to the shore, trailed by a host of more or less substantial ghosts. These, contrary to expectations, did not move silently, but instead sang, laughed, and traded jokes. The crusader ghost seemed to be their informal leader, starting the songs, then rattling his chain in accompaniment.

  The cottage stood much as they had last seen it, neatly sealed but cozy. As they were peering into windows, Ayradyss telling Alice about how her parents had seemed then, about Lydia’s slate of equations, about the haunting sound of Ambry’s pipes through the mist, a plump pigeon flew down from beneath the thatch and landed on Alice’s hand.

  “Oh!”

  “Lydia used such a bird as a messenger,” Ayradyss recalled. “Does it have anything?”

  “There’s a spill of paper tucked into the band on its leg.”

  Alice gently removed it and the pigeon trilled happily, flying to the roof and observing the noisy throng that had invaded its isolated home from a head tilted on side.

  “What does it say?” Jay asked as Alice unrolled the paper.

  “It’s a train schedule,” she turned it so they could see, “and this cottage is listed as a stop. I guess that the Brass Babboon has found the route here.”

  “Good,” Jay said, some of his anxiety leaving him. “We have army and transport. Now all we have to do is win the war.”

  “All?” Dubhe chuckled dryly.

  “Well, one way or another, that’s all that’s left.”

  A wind rose, and almost before they saw the billowing cloud that heralded the arrival of the Brass Babboon, the train was pulling to a halt before the cottage. Spouting fireworks, the Brass Babboon chortled greeting. Drum waved from the cab; Virginia managed a smile.

  “Ready, Jay?” the mocking babboon face called.

  “Ready!” Jay answered. He turned to face the rowdy mob. “All aboard! All aboard for Deep Fields!”

  * * *

  The songs of ghosts, which proved to be not at all like ghostly song, jetted outward from the Brass Babboon as the train traveled its twice-worn track into Deep Fields.

  “This train is bound for glory …”

  “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road…”

  “When Irish eyes are smiling …”

  “Brigadoon …”

  When first they set out, the Brass Babboon sang along as loudly and tunelessly as any of the Scottish spirits, but as the tracks carried them to lower and lower realms (many of these imitations of hells, theologically grounded or purely imaginary) the train’s voice grew quieter and quieter, at last falling purely silent.

  Jay D’Arcy Donnerjack, seated in the cab, reflecting on the version of Dante’s Inferno through which they had but recently passed and his father’s role in the programming of it, noted the change, and when the Brass Babboon remained unwontedly quiet spoke:

  “What’s wrong, B.B.?”

  “Bad vibrations coming back along the track, Jay. I don’t think we’re going to be making it into Deep Fields. Something has been set to bar the way.”

  “Set by the lord of that place or by another?”

  “Another is my feeling. The programming is not like what I encountered on my other visits to that place.”

  “Can it hurt you if you run into it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then brake shy of it. If we have to get out with picks and hammers we’ll clear it off the tracks.”

  “Gotcha, Jay. It may not be a physical analog barrier, you realize.”

  “I know, B.B. I was just speaking figuratively—and possibly optimistically. How’s our supply of strange attractors?”

  “Full up. I agreed to carry some orphaned grohners and herd-mice to a receptive site and in return they loaded my cargo bins.”

  “Thanks.”

  “De nada. I don’t really fancy being reduced to elementary design elements. If a bit of initiative can forestall that…”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Your father called me the ‘prince of puppets,’ but he cut my strings and let me free when he was done with the mission for which he created me. I’ve always appreciated that.”

  “I’ll go back and bring a few of the others up to date,” Jay said. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way through.”

  The only answer they could come up with was to bring a select group into the Brass Babboon’s cab and wait for the first visual data on the barrier. Once through the moon portal, the ghosts were as substantial as the Veriteans, so even when the Brass Babboon expanded the cab to double-wide it got pretty crowded.

  “Coming on to the barrier,” the train announced. “I’m starting to brake.”

  “I don’t…” Alice began, peering through her binoculars. “Wait, I take that back. I do see something. It’s dark, oddly textured: fluttery or wavery. Like a solid heat mirage.”

  “Moire,” Jay said flatly.

  “Not the boss’s,” Dubhe added, raising his voice to be heard over the squeal of the brakes. “The color’s off. Except in rare cases moire at first appears to be black, but the deeper you look (not that many get that opportunity), the more color underlies the surface.”

  “I only see green,” Virginia Tallent said. “And I know that moire. It’s the emanation of Earthma’s child.”

  “That’s the child?” Alice asked, unbelieving.

  “No,” Virginia said, “but the barrier is of its making.”

  As the Brass Babboon came to a halt, they were close enough now that the barrier could be seen with the naked eye. It gave the impression of being solid
ly centered on the gleaming train tracks, but every time Jay tried to see around it, the heaviest area shifted.

  “B.B.,” he said, “can you give me an analysis of that thing?”

  “Sure. Scanning.” A brief pause, then, “As you have said, its substance is like that of moire. Any proge coming into contact with it will be ended.”

  Recalling how the flowers wilted and died whenever Alioth’s tiny bits of shed moire touched them, Jay nodded.

  “Most of us are not proges,” he said. “Alice and I are both here in the flesh. That means that you and Dubhe are really the only ones it will stop.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Jay,” the Brass Babboon said, and for the first time in Jay’s memory it sounded sad. “Further analysis shows that whoever set it there programmed it specifically to destroy you and/or any of your companions. I would suspect that the very fact of your identity would be enough to trigger the program.”

  “What about a virt shapeshift?” Jay asked.

  Virginia Tallent shook her head. “The shape shifts, not the identity. You would still be Jay Donnerjack, even if you made yourself look like some blue-eyed bimbo.”

  As if he did not trust that the window would give him a true image, the crusader ghost had been leaning out the side of the Brass Babboon’s cab studying the barrier.

  “I hae been thinkin’,” he said, “that yonder dubh thing brings’t’ mind somethin’ I hae seen before. Now I recall what it is. ‘Tis jus’ li’ the guardian of the moon portal.”

  Hope made Jay straighten.

  “I’ve never seen it,” he said, “but I know how to defeat that guardian. It just might work here…”

  Without pausing to explain, he began to chant:

  Angel of the Forsaken Hope,

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

  As he began to speak, he heard Ayradyss shriek, “Ah, Jay! No!” He tried to obey, but the words seemed to have a momentum of their own and to shape themselves from his resisting tongue.

  Mermaid Beneath the Seven Dancing Moons,

  Cantress of the Siren Song,

  Drown our Enemies in the data-stream.