“When do you wish them to begin?” the Imir asked him.
“As soon as possible. This evening, if practical or convenient. We have no time to spare.”
Chapter V
Answering
The Munchkins’ Question
A witch is the term given to any practitioner of potion magic and/ or spells whose practice is based upon a system of religious beliefs.
- IX, 318, 201(a)
Late that afternoon Poquah called on Marge, who had been relaxing on a feather bed in the small room the Imir had brought her to earlier. She had mostly been just lying there, thinking of how good it was to be alive and anticipating, perhaps, romantic adventures to come. That and examining her new body in minute detail.
I was dead inside, she realized, and now through an impossible miracle I’m more alive than ever. Having come so close to death, she wasn’t bothered by risk. In a sense, she was already living on borrowed time and each precious minute was wonderful. The only thing she truly feared and could not entirely shake from her thoughts was that this new life, still so dreamlike and unreal to her practical mind, might end as suddenly as it began. True, total insanity might be like this and, certainly, she was now living in her fantasies and dreams.
What if I’m somewhere inside a rubber room? Somehow, deep down, she wondered if she would ever really be rid of that one fear, if she would ever really know. And, even more of a question, did she fear knowing?
“You will come with me now,” the Imir told her. “It is time for you to begin your instruction.”
She arose and nodded to him. “Where are we going?”
“It was decided that your best potential would be realized by Huspeth in the Glen Dinig,” Poquah replied, explaining nothing. “As you know, we were expecting only the man.
Huspeth, however, is willing, and is better equipped than we.
Can you ride a horse?”
“Yes, I’ve ridden horses. At least I can manage. Why? Is this Glen Whatsis far?”
“Not far,” he said. “But too far to walk. Come with me.
We should make haste to get you there before dark.” With that he turned and walked out of the room and down the hall. She followed, hurrying to catch up.
They went back down, across the drawbridge, and through the outer ring. Just at the start of the road, two beautiful horses, one coal black and the other snow white, waited, being held by an elf groom.
She approached the horses excitedly. “How perfect they are! But no saddles, huh?” It was true. The horses were fitted only with bridles and a smooth blanket tied about their midsections.
“Saddles are a luxury. It is best you learn horsemanship without them. Then a saddle will be a convenience, not a necessity.”
She looked dubious. “Well, okay, but I hope I can hold on.”
With the Imir’s aid, she boosted herself up on the white horse, grabbed the reins, and tried to get as comfortable as she could. It felt a little strange being up, and she felt some muscles being stretched in unaccustomed places.
The Imir mounted the black horse effortlessly and looked over at her. “Shall we ride?”
She nodded. “Take it easy, though, at the start, will you?
I’m a little wobbly.”
“Slow and easy,” Poquah assured her. Giving his mount a light nudge with his foot, he started off. Her horse, apparently very well trained, followed the black one at a slow, comfortable pace.
Riding down the slope from the castle was fairly easy, although they were following no trail. Still, Marge’s horse swayed and twisted with the land, and it took her several minutes and a few near spills to get anything approaching steadiness without saddle or stirrups.
“Who is this Huspeth?” she called to Poquah when they closed ranks.
“She is a witch who lives in the Glen Dinig,” the Imir told her. “She is very old and very wise and very powerful. She is a great one, but she never leaves her forest glades these days.”
“Is she a friend of Ruddygore’s?”
“Hardly. Huspeth has little use for people in general and for sorcerers in particular. She is greatly feared by many, liked by none.”
“Thanks a lot,” Marge said sourly. “And I’m being handed over to her? Is it safe?”
“Nothing in life is safe,” the Imir responded philosophically.
“However, she has her own reasons for wanting this task, which was asked of her but could not be forced upon her. She will do it, not because of the Master, nor for any cause, although bur enemy is also her enemy, but because she chooses to do it. We did not expect her to accept, but we chanced to ask.”
They went on as the sun sank lower in the fields; with this description of her prospective tutor. Marge’s high spirits sank a bit lower, as well.
After more than an hour’s ride, out of sight of the castle but just barely, they came over a rise and Poquah stopped.
Below, the plain gave way to thick forest, a distinct grove perhaps two miles square between the rolling hills and the River of Dancing Gods.
The Imir pointed. “The Glen Dinig,” he told her. “Please dismount.” With that he jumped from his horse with a cat’s balance and turned to her. She found it difficult to move her numbing legs, which throbbed with pain from the unaccustomed ride, but she managed with his help to get one leg over the other and sort of slide down to the ground. Relief shot through her legs, although she staggered a bit from the painful stiffness.
“Wow! I thought I was a better horsewoman than this!”
“Your old body’s muscles were so conditioned, probably,” he said, “but everything is new to you now. This body is drawn from the energies that are around us and those which made up your old self; it is a new body and it will need conditioning.”
She whistled low and nodded, trying to shake the kinks out of her legs. “Yeah. I keep forgetting that.” She looked down at the thick forest. “What now?”
“Huspeth never emerges from the Glen Dinig, and I can not enter it. My instructions were to bring you to this point, then direct you to walk down and into the wood. I will return to Terindell.”
Again she looked uncertainly down at the forest, which was fast becoming a place of great shadow as the sun sank almost to the horizon. “You’re going to leave me to walk into those woods at dusk alone?”
The Imir did not reply. Demonstrating his little trick once more, he was gone, taking the horses. She looked around but could see no sign of him or the mounts, nor hear anything except a slight whistling of a warm wind. She was alone.
She sighed and shook her head. “Well, on your own again, with not even a highway to bail you out.” She considered walking back to the castle, but it was a fair distance several miles, anyway and most of it would be in the dark. She sighed again. “Well, I’ve trusted old Ruddygore this far. May as well keep doing it now.” With this she walked down the hill toward the woods. It was much cooler in the Glen Dinig, and there was the smell of the damp, with moss and rotting limbs giving it an even eerier look in the gathering gloom. Insects and occasional squirrel like creatures scampered here and there, startling her.
Having no other instructions, she just continued walking, the forest getting thicker and darker as she went. She began to grow nervous, fearing that she might be trapped alone in total dark for the night, and she started having second thoughts about going blindly through the place. She turned to make her way back, but soon realized that back looked the same as forward now. She had no idea how far she had come, nor exactly from which direction. That being the case, and considering the small size of the forest, she finally decided that the best thing to do was to press on in one straight line. Eventually she’d have to reach the edge of the forest or, at worst, the river.
In a few minutes, when things had just turned to a dangerous, nearly pitch blackness, she came upon a small clearing; in the middle of the clearing was an earthen hut. It was a very primitive affair, looking much like a wood and straw igloo, but there was a fire burn
ing in a pit in front of the little hut and some sort of cauldron sat on an improvised stand above the fire, smoke rising from it.
Relieved to see any sign of life, she hurried forward.
“Hold, girl!” came a voice, high pitched and raspy, so grating that it almost sent chills up her spine. She stopped, turned, and looked for the first time on Huspeth.
The woman was not merely old, she was ancient, mostly stretched and wrinkled skin over a bare skeleton. The face was scarcely human, with a long, pointed jaw and a tremendous beaklike nose, and her eyes were like two huge, perfectly round cat’s eyes set in a yellow sea that literally glowed. She was medium sized, but bent over and leaning on a crooked stick.
She looked like everybody’s bad dream of what a witch might look like, down to the black, full length robe, scraggly white hair, and small, pointed black cap.
Huspeth looked Marge over critically, head twisting slightly first one way and then the other, as a bird might examine something before pouncing upon it. Finally she said, “So thou art the one they send. Good! Good! Thou fairly burnest! What is thy name, girl?”
“M Marge, m’am. You are Huspeth?”
The old woman cackled. “Sometimes. Sometimes. But come!
Sit by my fire! We shall get to know each other well over what time is given to us. And stop that cowering! Art thou afraid of an old woman like me?”
“I’m told you are a witch of great power,” Marge responded carefully. “Power is to be respected, and one mark of this respect is fear.”
The old woman roared with laughter. “Fairly said! Oh, truly thou art a goodly one, and clever, too. If thou hast the will, I will take thee farther than thou hast ever dreamed.” She hobbled up to the cauldron, sniffed, and looked a little quizzical.
“Hmmm... I don’t know. Come, girl. Smell and see if thou canst decide if it is ready.”
Expecting some foul witch’s brew, Marge approached hesitantly, took a deep breath, let it out, then leaned over and sniffed.
“It smells absolutely wonderful!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“What is it?”
“A recipe of mine. An old one, but a good one. I will teach it to thee, and many others. Come! Get a bowl there, and a spoon.”
There were two wooden bowls and two small, hand carved wooden spoons beside the fire, and the old woman used one spoon to fill first one bowl, then the other that Marge held up.
The food had the consistency of porridge, but had various pieces of unknown fruits and vegetables and perhaps other substances in it more like a stew. It smelled of all the good tastes Marge could remember rolled up into one, and it tasted even better, at least once it cooled slightly. Suddenly aware of her hunger, she ate unhesitatingly, feeling more relaxed.
Huspeth, too, ate, but said nothing more. Still, she kept looking at Marge with an almost hungry gaze, as if she saw, somehow, something in the younger woman mat was of the elder’s own distant past, something lost forever but never from the mind.
Only when they both had finished and the bowls and spoons were put to one side did Huspeth decide to speak again.
‘Tm sure they told thee a little about me,” she began.
“Probably not the half of it. They think I do them a favor by taking thee, but I do no one favors, and that is something thou must remember.”
“I’ll remember,” Marge assured her. “Actually, they said very little. But they know you’re not their friend.”
The witch cackled. “That is certainly true! Still, when I first knew of thee, before even they came to me as I already knew they would, I knew that we had a destiny, thou and I. Thou art unique. Virginal and with the soul of another world inside.”
“Another world, yes,” Marge agreed, “but virginal? Hardly.”
“Virginal, yes!” the old woman snapped. “Hast thou still not understood what Bakadur, who calls himself Ruddygore, has done for thee? Thou hast cast off thine old body and with it thy taints and sins. Thou art the one thing that all believe is impossible. Thou art truly a virgin for the second time! Were it not so, we would not be meeting here thus.”
Marge just shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry this is all so new and so sudden. It takes time to accept something like this.”
“Time! Aye, time. Tell me, girl, what wilt thou do with thy new life? More properly, what wouldst thou do with it if the choice were entirely thine?”
Marge thought a moment. “I... I guess I really haven’t thought that much about it. Right now I’m just going where I’m pointed.”
The old woman nodded. “And yet that is the first thing thou must decide, and quickly. Think on it now with me. Dost thou have any skills? How wilt thou earn thy bread and board?”
Marge thought some more. “No skills, I guess. I’ve been a flop at most things, and my education wasn’t good for anything back home and is of even less use here.”
“Then thou hast the choices narrowed,” Huspeth pointed out. “Even the most base of peasants has great skills in plowing, husbandry, and a thousand sundry other things that assure his bread and board. There are no repair shops here. If thy roof leaks, thou must patch it. If thou art cold, thou alone must know the arts of sewing, weaving, and suchlike, and the uses of tools and devices here, not in that odd land whence thou dost come. Thou must see now that, alone in this world, thou hast but one great and fragile asset, and that is thy great beauty.”
Marge sighed. “Here, too, I guess, I’m reduced to that. I’m even a total washout in my fantasies.”
“Nay. There are two paths. One is easy and comfortable.
One such as thou can have many years as a dancer or courtesan, perhaps finally finding a man to serve in marriage.”
“I tried that. I wasn’t very good there, either.”
“There is a second way, though, for thee, but it involves great work, nor is it easy to attain, nor comfortable, nor for the weak in spirit. It will involve pain and great sacrifice, but it has much reward as well, the greatest being freedom, that thou needst do but as thou wilt. But the path is hard.”
By the flickering firelight, the young woman turned in a mixture of apprehension and hope to the older. “What path is this?”
“The path of witchcraft, for which Bakadur has uniquely prepared thy body and soul, whether from design or caprice, I know not.”
“Witchcraft!” Visions of dark and evil deeds, devil worship, and women who looked .like Huspeth filled her mind. “I... I don’t know about that.”
“Bah! Prejudice! I see the prejudice inside thee! That same foolish, superstitious fear that marks all thy kind! Thinkest thou of witches as servants of Hell? Thinkest thou that all witches look like this?”
“Why, I “
“Some witches,” Huspeth continued angrily, getting to her feet, “look like this.” With that, the entire area around her body began to glow, enveloping her wizened, shrunken form, whirling and dancing as if alive. And out of the brightness stepped a new form, a young woman of stunning beauty and elegance possibly the most beautiful woman Marge had ever seen. She was beyond mere description, the distillation of all past visions of female grace, beauty, and form.
Stunned by the vision. Marge opened her mouth both in awe and wonder and sat transfixed.
A perfect hand reached out and gestured toward the seated woman. “Arise, child,” the vision said in a voice that was the perfection of every woman’s voice, sensual, musical, yet compelling. Marge got up without even realizing it, feeling inside that her new body, in which she’d so reveled up to now, was like the old witch Huspeth compared with the one who now stood before her.
“Why dost thou gape?” the vision asked. “Nothing has changed except thy perception of me. I was, am, and remain Huspeth, at least to thee now this night.”
Marge managed to find a semblance of her voice. “You... you are the same?”
“The same. It is thy first lesson. Judge not by appearance in any manner. Yet since others do judge by thy visage, the one who controls that
visage holds power in and of the self.
Great beauty and youth yield one set of results, age and infirmity quite another. Such a power, to make others see as thou dost wish, is of the greatest use. Male, female, child, adult all have their purposes.”
“Wh... which are you?”
The vision smiled. ‘That would be telling. But thou must put away thy prejudices here. Hell is as much my enemy as it is Bakadur’s. Not that there are not witches bound to Hetl.
There most certainly are and they are the most attractive of the lot and the most seductive. But that is not a prerequisite for witchcraft. Witchcraft is a methodology that may be applied to many faiths, but it requires a faith to frame improperly for use.”
“I have little faith in much of anything,” Marge admitted.
“First, thou must have faith in thyself, and that is the hardest of all. Thou must believe thyself better than the rest, capable of great things, and thou must couple this with the desire and wisdom needed to fulfill thy faith.”
“That is the hardest faith of all,” she agreed. “How can you know unless you have been tested? How can you have goals when you don’t know what is attainable?”
“I will teach thee these things. Think upon it. What wouldst thou do in this world? What is thy desire? Consider well thine answer, for the wrong choices may yet deny thee these things.”
She thought about it. Just what did she want from this world?
“Adventure,” she decided and told Huspeth. “Excitement. Challenge. The feeling of doing something important.”
The beautiful vision smiled. “Ah! Those answers are the ones that bring joy to my heart. Accept my proposition, and I will teach thee faith and after that power and skill. If thou dost freely join of our order, I will give thee the means to what thou sayest thou cravest. But the way is very hard.”
The River Of Dancing Gods Page 8