Oftentimes we may notice that a hero's external problems are in reality projections of the internal distress of a moral nature which he is currently enduring. This way the reader is treated to a superficial struggle in physical terms, and a more satisfying though hidden victory on an implicit level. I have discovered that in the best literature everything means something else. Speaking from my own experience, I can say that this gets to be a great drain on the author. I would have been content to confront Dore with a succession of giant lampreys, Danton's toads, or woodcats. There is little skill in doing that, unless the reader can be duped into believing that one dragon represents the evils of Intolerance, a second identical monster Science, and a third the Papacy. But I have taken the difficult route.
"We have a difficult road still ahead of us," said Glorian. "We must plan surely, for the stronghold of the Von Glechs is a tough nut to crack. Getting there will be simple enough; but recovering your needful sword and escaping, and following the stream to the River, will be a harrowing experience. Are you up to it, my lad?"
"No," said Dore sarcastically. "I think I'll go home now."
"You're a real puzzle sometimes," said Glorian, "Now listen carefully. We must assume that the Von Glechs are expecting you. If you go in there with me, they'll be put on the defensive and be more likely to treat you roughly. They know me well and have no great liking for me. But I will change my appearance to an identity with which they are unfamiliar, and I will enter the castle separately. You must find your sword and obtain it on your own. In that I can be of no help, as I have my own work to do; but I do not doubt that the woman Narlinia may give you aid. After you have achieved your ends, whatever they may be, you are to meet me at the front gate at midnight. The gate will be locked, and the guards will allow no one in or out until morning. But if you have your Battlefriend I shall be able to pass you through."
"I don't know," said Dore worriedly. "Couldn't I just forget it? I've come this far without the sword."
"And you'll go no farther without it. Don't be afraid. The matter is not so doubtful as it sounds."
"What if I don't —" Dore was interrupted by a sneeze on the other side of a low hedge along the path. He stopped short, an alarmed look on his face. Glorian reached over the hedge and pulled up a small boy.
"Who are you?" asked Dore sternly.
"If it please your lordship," said the boy fearfully, "my name is Regelard, son of Norble, porter in service to the Baron. I could not help overhearing your conversation, through no mischief of my own."
"You could not help skulking behind that hedge, eh?" said Dore.
"No, sir. You are Dore, of the First family?" asked the boy with respect.
"Yes," said Dore with some amusement. "Am I famous even here?"
"No, sir, but the Lady Narlinia told some funny tales of you. I recognized you by her description and by your speeches."
"What shall we do with him?" asked Glorian.
"I can be of great help to you," said the boy.
"Perhaps so," said Dore thoughtfully. "We must either trust him or dispose of him, which I cannot bear considering. All right, Regelard, now you are one of us. Do our plans sound faulty in any way?"
"No, sir," said the boy with a grin, "they're just fine. And, if it please your lordship, my friends call me 'Bucky.' 'Regelard' stinks."
"All right, Bucky," said Dore, clapping his new friend on the back and smiling. The three companions soon reached the small pier where they waited for the ferry to the island of the Baron von Glech.
"Seyt?" asks Lalichë, who interrupts me less frequently since she began writing her memoirs. "Ateichál is here." I am surprised. Our unspoiled sister has not visited me in many weeks.
"Good day, Ateichál," I say. "How goes your reformation?"
"Better than you report," she says bitterly. "I am not the powerless fool you picture me to be. I wish to make a revelation."
I am enthusiastic, always happy to be the forum for interesting events.
"No one but myself has ever seen this," says Ateichál, handing me a square of heavy paper. On the manuscript is drawn an intricate diagram in washable blue ink. Within and around the lines of the strange sketch are many mystic symbols: crescents, torches, bulls, eagles, pointing hands, eyes closed and open, serpents, stars of varying number of points, lions, pyramids, crosses, suns, and virgins. In the very center an agate has been glued to protect the recipient against large spiders. Hebraic letters are scribbled about the middle, and beneath the whole chart, in a box, is written: "I invoke the fiery force of love by the power of Varuna, in thee, for thee. Irresistible desire, as the gods made in the waters, this I invoked to secure thy love for me. Thou wilt love me with consuming desire. As ever, Dore."
"What is this?" I ask, confused.
"This was Dore's attempt to win me from my devotion. When he sought himself a mistress he came first to me, and I explained that his special qualities and my religious zeal made our union impossible. He was heartbroken, and tried everything to win my love and my body. But I would not yield, though my secret heart of hearts desired it. He sent me flowers that were picked for him by Dyweyne. He wrote me silly, romantic poems. Finally I told him that I could not receive any more from him, and he went to Dyweyne, his second choice. It is I, not she, that should benefit from the glory of his attentions."
"This is truly remarkable, Ateichál," I say, genuinely puzzled.
"Yes," she says, rising. She smiles minimally at me, gives Lalichë a stern glance, and returns to her tower.
"What do you make of this?" I say, handing the witchery to Lalichë.
"Oh, this!" she says, laughing. "I made this for Jelt, but it didn't work. Ateichál must have found it and put Dore's name on it."
"It was a nice try," I say.
"You mean for Jelt? He was too simple to understand it. I'm going to be more direct from now on."
"No. I meant for Ateichál. She's a very sad person."
Dore, Glorian, and Bucky rode the ferry across the clear water of the pool to Von Glech's island fortress. Glorian was careful to keep himself aloof, even though later he would be in a different guise. It was important to their hasty plans that Dore be thought alone. Bucky chatted with the ferryman, and the ride passed without incident.
"Well, we're safely on the island," said Dore musingly. "I hope getting off will prove as simple a task. What now?"
"Now we follow this street through those shacks to the gate of the castle," said Glorian. "Walk ahead of me. Old Von Glech knows you're coming, and I wouldn't doubt but that so do all these townsfolk. There's probably a price on your head."
"What have I done?" asked Dore. He received no reply.
"I have to leave you here," said Bucky when they passed a filthy hut put together from scrap steel plates and rotten planks. "This is the simple home of my father, and I'll be whipped if I'm late. I wish you gentlemen good luck on your venture."
"He said he'd be of use to us," said Dore, disappointed at losing the boy's aid. "But we can't prevent him from going home."
"He will be of service," said Glorian. "Tonight, after you've secured your sword and I have gotten you through the gates safely, come here. My own mysterious business cannot reach an end before dawn. In any event, there will be no ferry service until morning. I will meet you here at first light."
"Excellent," said Dore. "Unless I'm recognized and captured, of course."
"Of course," said Glorian absently. The air began to shimmer around his body, and for an instant Dore saw flashes of red sparks. There was a glow which brightened until Dore could no longer see Glorian. The brilliance hurt our brother's eyes, and still the light intensified. Then suddenly it was gone, and Glorian stood in a new identity. He was tall and stout, mostly bald with a few tufts of brown hair. He wore plain blue trousers and an open-necked white shirt, with a turquoise ring on one hand.
"What was that?" shouted a man, evidently Norble the porter, as he ran from Bucky's hut.
"What was
what?" asked Glorian innocently.
"That light!" said the porter.
"Oh, nothing," said Dore, and the man shook his head and went back into his house.
"That was close," said Dore, and Glorian agreed. The two men separated, and in a few minutes Dore presented himself nervously to the guards at the gate of Castle Von Glech, seeking entrance.
"Who are you and what is your business?" asked a surly warrior.
"I am a prince from a far-off land," said Dore. "And my business is the wooing of the Lady Narlinia."
"Are you Dore of the First family?" asked the soldier. Dore was chagrined, but admitted his identity. "Go on in," said the guard, "they're all waiting for you."
Inside, in the musty entrance hall, Narlinia von Glech sat in an old, grotesquely carved wooden chair. Dore was sure he had seen its mate in our yard. Narlinia rose when she saw our brother. She came to him smiling.
"Hello, Narlinia," said Dore, his mouth suddenly dry. "We have a chair just like that at home." He felt foolish.
"Come with me," she said softly. "We must talk." She took his hand and led him through the dank corridors of the castle to a small chamber. The room was square, with a low ceiling and only the one entrance. There were no windows and no furnishings. It looked like a mistake of architecture. "We can speak freely here," said the lovely young woman. The two gazed at each other for a moment, and then embraced.
"Narlinia?" said Dore uncomfortably. "Honey? You know I'm glad to see you, but I don't have time. I want to get my sword back."
"I know. I had hoped that you came for another reason. But I will help you get your weapon. My father plans to use it in his campaign against the peaceful farmers next year. He believes the sword has mystic properties. Is that true?"
"Yes," said Dore softly, "but nothing as beguiling as the perfume of your hair."
Narlinia laughed. "Come. The guard of my father's vault is a customer of mine. By the way, is your companion with you? Glorian?"
Dore's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "No. No, he's not. He's visiting a friend."
"What a shame. My father was hoping to see him."
"That is a shame," said Dore. He followed Narlinia down a secret staircase to the underground vault of Baron von Glech. An unshaven wretch lay sprawled before the massive iron door. Narlinia smiled at Dore and knelt, trying to rouse the drunken man.
"It's me, Crebbit. Narlinia. I've come."
The poor man looked up blearily; he grinned weakly and spoke in a thick voice. "Go on," he said. "Just take it. It's in the back by the secret cheese formula."
Narlinia swung open the iron door and disappeared into the vault. In a few moments she returned with Battlefriend. The sword had grown slightly tarnished and was covered with dust, but Dore was happy to see it. As soon as he touched it the light in the keep brightened considerably. "That was quick. How did he know what you wanted?" asked Dore.
"We're old friends," said the Lady Narlinia.
"I didn't think we'd get it so fast. I have a lot of time to kill now."
"Before what?" asked the Baron's daughter innocently. "Oh, nothing," said Dore.
"Then let us creep upstairs unnoticed, and pass the time in whatever way seems best," said Narlinia with a bit of a leer. Dore punched her shoulder affectionately, and could see no fault with her program.
All too soon it was time for Dore to leave. He regretted having to abandon the young woman once more, but our brother removed her clinging arms and gave her a last kiss. "I must be off," he said. "But I'll come back again someday."
"Dore, I love you," she whispered. "Where are you going? It's nearly midnight"
"I have an appointment," he said, pulling on his clothes. The two said their fond goodbys, and Dore slipped away into the night's concealment.
Glorian was already waiting for him by the gate. "Do you have —"
"Right here," said Dore happily, slapping his enchanted blade.
"Fine. That's real fine," said Glorian. "Now stand back. I'm going to open a way for you through the wall. Get through as quickly as you can. Go straight to young Bucky's home and await me there. Talk to no one and try not to be spotted. Good luck." Glorian waved his arms, and a tiny crack appeared in the high wall of the fortress. Dore squeezed through with some effort and much cursing, and did as he was bidden. In a matter of minutes he was standing before the door of Norble the porter.
Jelt comes in to disturb the flow of my adventure. "I'm glad he got his sword back," he says. He sees Lalichë sitting in a corner of my room, too engrossed in her own literary venture to follow mine any longer. But at Jelt's words she looks up with a beautiful and predatory smile. She takes his hand and they go off to share their lovers' lies. I shake my head patronizingly. Ah, to be young again.
Even as I am preparing Dore for his one, final, moral dilemma, I am being tortured by ethical considerations of my own. There is the problem of Dyweyne. My infatuation for her knows no bounds, but my affection for Joilliena is in no way affected. Joilliena can't understand this, claiming that I'm trying to make a fool out of her. This is surpassingly untrue; I am well content with what I have, but I worship Dyweyne in a special way. The traditions of Courtly Love demand that you weaken at the knees for only the wife of another man. Indeed, Courtly Love forbids a man from treating his own wife that way. There is an organization to the feeling, so that the stricken man is at once the suitor and vassal of his maid. Only the Courtly, i.e., the well-bred, can Love, because only the courtly understand the vicissitudes of Service. It is this that I feel for Dyweyne: a sort of hopeless longing to be her feudal bondsman and, with fortune, her lover.
When expressed in these terms my love is less like heresy, if Dyweyne has been elevated to a position of official adoration. I do not recall where the matter stands. I think Tere overlooks it entirely, but Ateichál is ready to grant Dyweyne some status. Ateichál will do anything, right at the moment. The struggle has been too much for her.
Other matters try to entice me from my righteous posture, also. Although the interest of my brothers and sisters has waned, and I get no more reviews now that Yord and Mylvelane have been processed, the Ploutos Corporation has not forgotten me. On my desk are ten or twelve different proposals for exploiting my history, just waiting for my signature. Even though none of them offer me a fair deal for my rights, they are a potent temptation. I have the means to set myself up as a great and powerful authority. With shrewd management I could cut for myself a reasonable chunk of political power. Fortunately, I am immune to such threats to my peace and indolence.
Dore has yet to learn the depths of his inner resources. He settled himself in a clear space among the piles of trash in the yard and fell asleep. The rising sun broke through his dreams, and it took him a few seconds to recall where he was. He stood and made a careful survey of the house, but no one was awake. He wondered where Glorian was. The inscrutable companion was always so puritanical about such matters as punctuality and caution. But Dore didn't worry, knowing that Glorian had more ways of getting out of trouble than most people had for finding it.
But after the sun had climbed steadily for an hour and Glorian had not appeared, Dore began to fret. The longer their departure was delayed the more chance there was that they'd be discovered in their theft. Dore was uncertain about the best thing to do. He hated to abandon the meeting place, in case Glorian might arrive in Dore's absence and leave our brother on his own.
"Are you waiting for Glorian, Master Dore?" asked Bucky, startling Dore from his deep thoughts.
"Yes, my lad. I was to meet him here."
"I know. The Lady Narlinia has betrayed you to her father. Glorian is held captive within a glass bottle. He's powerless inside blue glass, you know. The Baron is demanding that you return Battlefriend, or your companion dies."
Dore was horrified. "How do you know all this?" he asked.
The boy grinned sheepishly. "It's the talk of the town," he said. "We've been planning it for weeks. I was supposed to lead you to the
castle and lull your suspicions, but you can trust me now."
The boy's speech made our brother furious, but he knew that he was helpless. "Either I can surrender to the Baron, or I can attempt to rescue Glorian," said Dore hopelessly.
"All the Baron's men are armed and waiting," said Bucky. Dore's confused thoughts strayed from his emergency. They flowed backward, over his countless adventures, his victories and defeats. He thought of Narlinia, and then he thought of Dyweyne. He pictured Dyweyne's —
A note from Ateichál: "You need not trouble yourself incessantly about Dyweyne. With one bold stroke I have simplified matters greatly. Our arrogant sister has been 'taken care of.' Yours for a cleaner Home, Ateichál."
A note from Tere: "I am sure that you share my outrage and disgust at Ateichál's most heinous of crimes. Be assured that already we have had our vengeance. Ateichál, that ghoulish apostate, has, in her words, 'been taken care of.' With best regards and deepest sympathy, your brother, Tere (The Kalp)."
"This is it, sir, your moral crisis. You must choose between the life of a friend and the success of your mission. But you can't abandon Glorian, and you just can't go in there. You'll be killed." The boy looked up into Dore's eyes with tears in his own.
Dore looked out over the run-down shacks, down to where the pool lay like Our Mother's glassy eyes, reflecting the unstrained pallor of her skin. A small brook ran out of the pool at one end, Dore knew, and the brook ran on through meadows and sweet forests until it merged with the River.
Our brother looked down at Bucky, and then back toward the castle of the faithless Von Glechs. "You're right," said Dore.
Chapter Eleven
An End—and a Beginning
Dore followed the River, trekking resolutely now as his goal grew nearer. He marched quickly along the side of the rushing water. He stumbled over roots and tangled his feet in clumps of needle grass, but he did not notice. He went on for hours, until his breath was coming in short, painful gasps. His throat was dry from both his exertions and his anticipation. At last he was forced to halt by the evening rains. He sat down among the weeds on the bank of the sacred River, huddling shelterless in the cold storm.
What Entropy Means to Me Page 19