Earth Magic

by Alexei Panshin

  The foolish one said, “We will give you some to take home, lord.” And he proffered a shell smeared with mud.

  Not to be misunderstood, Haldane said, “Your food is unclean. It is not fit to eat. Now, what late signs or portents have you seen or heard tell of?”

  “Nothing, lord,” the older one said.

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, lord,” said the old man. He danced a little shuffling dance in the water as he spoke, shifting from one foot to the other as though he found it cold to stand. Then he balanced on one foot, drawing the other from the water and setting it adrip against his knee.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, lord.” And he shook his head.

  “No signs at all?” said Haldane. “Have you heard aught of a wurox being seen in the forest?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, lord. The woodcutters do speak of a wurox they have seen. I have not seen it myself.”

  Haldane gestured with a questioning hand. “Is that not a portent? Bud Month is the month when the sun is in the sign of the Wurox.”

  “No,” the old man said. “No, lord. There used to be many wuroxen in the forest. Many, many. They have been away. Now they return.”

  “Ah, but if that is not a portent, then what is?”

  The old man shook his head again. He was almost as slow a head as the other.

  “I don’t know, lord. I have seen no portents.”

  “Is that a portent, lord?” the great lout asked. He pointed past Haldane.

  Haldane turned in the saddle. It was Hemming Paleface caught up to him at last. Hemming Paleface, a portent? Hemming was too familiar and small to be anything more than himself.

  “I know him,” said Haldane, “and he is not important.”

  Hemming reined his chestnut mare in on the slope above the bridge pilings. He waved and called to Haldane.

  “Hey, ho, Haldane. Come.”

  Haldane waved back. “Come here yourself,” he called in return.

  But Hemming did not come. He sat his horse and waved again to Haldane.

  Haldane was angered. Who was Hemming that he should refuse him before these peasants?

  The wind blew overhead, scudding heavy clouds across the sky, and the light altered frequently. A sudden shaft of light picked Hemming out as he sat his horse on the slope. And they below were in a cloud shadow. In that moment, Hemming looked very like a portent. Or meat for an arrow.

  Haldane brought his horse around. His jaw was set tight.

  “When will you be putting our bridge back up, lord?” the simple peasant said.

  Haldane looked back at him. Fords were made before bridges as any fool knows, and a Get had no need for more. The Gets were careless of bridges. Bridges that fell in Nestor under Gettish rule would stay fallen.

  “Continue to wade as you are used to do,” Haldane said shortly, clapped heels to his horse, and rode up the hill.

  Hemming Paleface was two years Haldane’s elder, but no bigger or stronger. He was not yet finally grown and his paleness was marred by the red remains of pimples nipped young. He was always pinching at himself. He was a dogged unquestioning would-be-good and only half a Get. Haldane meant to have him left behind in the tail when he and Morca raided into Chastain. He had thought on it overnight.

  Haldane rode up the slope determined to throw Hemming Paleface from his saddle before the eyes of the shell gatherers. He meant they should know Hemming for a Nestorian. Haldane guided his gelding with one hand and uncumbered his bow with the other, and when he reached Hemming he slipped the bow behind his leg and tumbled him. It was an unfair trick fairly played. Haldane laughed at Hemming sitting surprised on his rump on the damp Bud Month roadway. By his hand a solitary daffodil waved with the wind.

  “Pick a bugleflower,” Haldane said and rode beyond the hill.

  But he checked there and waited until Hemming came riding to join him. In his hand Hemming held the lonely bugleflower. It was not what Haldane would have done, or perhaps it was.

  The carl said, “Haldane, you shouldn’t have thrown me. I wouldn’t throw you.”

  “Couldn’t,” said Haldane. “Why would you not ride closer when I called for you to come?”

  “I don’t like me here so far from the dun. Morca said we two should ride together on account of outlaws venturing out with the springtime. I didn’t know those peasants. Where were they from?”

  “I never ask those things,” Haldane said.

  “As ready as peasants, they might have been some outlaws,” Hemming said. He was called Hemming Paleface in the same manner that Haldane was Haldane Hardhead, but he heard his earburner more often. “If they were outlaws, it wasn’t meet to dump me on the road. Here is the flower you asked me to pick.”

  Haldane took the flower, pale yellow trumpet-mouth, white star, green stalk, belated harbinger of spring. He held it gently.

  “They were but peasants gathering shells for dinner,” he said, believing that he made his point.

  “Outlaws must eat too.”

  Haldane knew what outlaws would do because he knew what he would do if he were an outlaw. He had only two standards, himself and Black Morca, and Morca was only to be compared to Morca. He knew outlaws as he knew Hemming, and both of them were much like himself.

  “But not shells,” he said. “Outlaws would have too much pride. And those two sad cattle were no outlaws. They wouldn’t be allowed.”

  Hemming bowed to Haldane’s authority and agreed to judge as Haldane judged. That was because his standards, too, were Black Morca and Haldane.

  “Nay, Haldane,” he said. “Don’t ride away from me. My mare will not keep pace with your gelding.”

  “Why should I stay for you?”

  “I’m your man now. It wouldn’t look right to the others if I were not to ride into the dun with you. They would think it strange. And if you were killed on the road before me, I could not tell Morca. You are my clan, Haldane.”

  Hemming laid a hand on Haldane’s arm, their horses standing nose-to-tail, wind gusts whipping. He spoke earnestly.

  The old clans of the Gets, the Eight, were blurred in the long passage west and broken on Stone Heath. Morca enlisted men without regard to their grandsire’s clan, which other barons might also do, and dealt outside justice, for which he was resented by some. Haldane was a Deldring. Hemming’s father had been a Maring. The gravings on Haldane’s amulet, his boar’s tooth, which he would sometimes study, were Deldring marks. Hemming knew less of Maring.

  Haldane tapped Hemming’s nose with the bell of the flower. “You are not my man. I am not responsible for you or anything that happens to you.”

  Hemming spread his hands. “I am your man. I will hold your horse. I will fight for you. I will follow where you lead me. Keep me close.”

  “Why would you follow me, Hemming Paleface?” Haldane’s mind trembled. He wanted to be followed, but by the right men and for the right reasons. He was not yet like Morca, who only wanted to be followed.

  Hemming said, “Morca has ordered me to.”

  “He ordered you to follow me this morning.”

  “Nay, Haldane. He ordered me to be your man. But I like it. I will do better with you than with Morca.”

  Haldane was angered. There was none of the rightness he wished in having his men tossed to him by Morca as Lothor of Chastain tossed scraps to his dancing lapdog. Not one at a time. Not Hemming. And then Haldane suddenly realized that there would never be a time when he could choose those who would follow him. He could only choose among them. That was more the way Morca would see it.

  As though he were taller and stronger, more powerful and more certain than he was, Haldane asked, “How loyal would you be to me, Hemming? What trust could I place in you?”

  “I will be your man, Haldane, in all things. I will do what you tell me. Then, as your fortune increases, so will mine.”

  “Win my love. If Morca says for you to stay and I say for you to go, what will you do?”

  “What do yo
u ask of me? Morca would wring my neck. And yours too.”

  Haldane leaned to fix his bow in place beneath his leg, still holding the spring flower in his right hand. When he straightened, he looked at Hemming and said, “I wanted to know if you would follow me. Well, if you will not act on my word before my father’s, then return to Morca and tell him you would prefer to follow him.”

  “No, no, Haldane. I will follow you even if Morca wrings my neck.” And the carl touched his throat wonderingly.

  “Then dismount,” Haldane said. And he brought his leg over his black gelding’s neck.

  The two stepped out on the sward, their tunics whipping about their thighs like drying laundry. The light was pale and green. The trees overhead seethed and boiled, cursing like kettles. Haldane bade Hemming kneel before him. Hemming sank to both knees and Haldane addressed him.

  Haldane knew nothing of the ancient Western forms of fealty. He knew only Morca’s practice, and tags of clan oath from childhood games. But he knew how to bind a willing man.

  “Hemming, son of Wermund, if you serve me truly in all things, following my word whether I am king or whether I am carl, I will make you a main man of mine. I will see to your welfare. I will lead you to your profit. But if ever you play me false, your life is mine. I will kill you where I find you. So I do swear.”

  Haldane kissed the bell of the daffodil. He held it before him.

  “Now, if you swear to serve me, and offer me your life as your earnest, then kiss this bugleflower and wear it as my badge.”

  When they two, Haldane followed by Hemming, rode through the open gates of Morca’s dun harried by a wind turned cold, there were horsemen gathering in the yard. Haldane thought of his resolve to tell Morca not to venture onto Stone Heath, and his tongue touched his chipped tooth. No one had remarked on the tooth but his tongue knew that it was rough and shorter, and worried. But it was not Morca, only Ivor Fish-Eye and a party.

  “Where are you to?” Haldane called.

  Ivor was among Morca’s barons, a narrow dark thinking man who would hide himself behind his dead white eye, then peep round the corner and flash his good eye blackly. His party was bundled against the gathering chill of the day and well armed. Among the party were two of Lothor’s men of Chastain.

  “We are off to hunt the wild cow in the woods. I will show these foreign men how a Get kills. I’ll have the horns. What is that flower in your shirt?”

  “It is my badge he wears,” Haldane said. “He is my army.”

  “Are you a baron now to have your own army, Morca’s Haldane? Will you match your army against mine?”

  “Not yet,” Haldane said. “After I am married.”

  Ivor hid behind his eye. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “I should force you now while you are small.” He laughed, gathered his party with a hand and said, “Let us leave to seek and kill the unknown beast.”

  It was the most lightly spoken Haldane had found Ivor. They were not familiars. The hunting party rode out into the bite of wind and Haldane and Hemming into the warmth of the stable. Haldane left his horse there in the care of his army and crossed the yard to the hall.

  Chapter 6

  THE MAIN ROOM OF MORCA’S HALL WAS SET FOR HEARING. Morca sat alone on the dais in his great chair, ankle cocked on knee, hand on ankle, enjoying his singularity. Before him, within a circle of crowded benches, stood a little baron, Aella of Long Barrow, pleading some case.

  Fires burned warmly in their places. With breakfast long past and dinner a rumbling dream to be quieted with kitchen filchings, the boards and trestles were stacked by the walls. Barons and carls sat the circled benches listening to Aella and watching Morca, or moved about the room talking low amongst themselves, or perched atop the stacks, legs swinging. All but old Svein, conning the room from his staircase.

  Haldane’s ears and cheeks were heated red in the new warmth of the hall. He spied Rolf the carl leaning against the dinner boards. He joined him and asked with an inclination of his head, “What progresses?”

  “Nothing,” said Rolf. “Aella seeks leave to withdraw. He says he has present occupation at home.”

  This was news of small interest to the boy. Aella was a minor man befitted best for long dull errands.

  “Where is your fork?” Haldane asked, for he saw that Rolf’s fork was missing.

  Rolf looked chastened. “I should have taken two when I had the chance. I lost it last night to a stay-at-home. Ludbert Lead-Butt won it from me at dice and he will only give it back in trade for my cord. I’ll kill him and take it back, I think.”

  From the dais, Morca said, “Go then, Aella, You have my leave. But return for the betrothal banquet one week tomorrow and witness the sealing of Haldane to the Princess Marthe of Chastain.”

  “I will an I can, Morca. I will do my best,” Aella said, and smiled. He bowed deeply and withdrew.

  Before Morca could signal for another to come forward, Haldane made his way to the dais, conscious all the while of men’s eyes upon him. It was more attention than he was used to, the result of this marriage of politics. He walked the straighter for it.

  Morca saw him coming. In his great roaring voice he said, “Hey, Haldane, you have affairs to attend to.” He waved to a Nestorian serf, one of Odo’s go-fetches. “Go tell Lothor to prepare his daughter to receive a wooer.”

  Men laughed, led by Morca. Haldane stepped up to the dais and went to one knee by Morca’s elbow. He wanted Morca to know what he had done.

  He said, “Hemming and I have been riding. I have made him my own man now.” He spoke low, for Morca’s ear alone.

  Morca replied publicly, making their business common property. “I know,” he said. “It is just as I ordered.”

  “No,” Haldane said. “Hemming follows me now. I have bound him to me by oath.” He wanted Morca to know that Hemming was in truth his man now, and not Morca’s. No longer Morca’s to order. “He is the first man of my army and he moves by my word.”

  “Well and good,” Morca said smiling. “And I will give you more men later.”

  He left the boy in doubt whether he did understand or no. If experience were the judge, he did not. He would not. He put his great hand on Haldane’s shoulder and bore him down, bringing him to both knees.

  “Here, sit by me now until your bride is ready to see you.” He signaled for the next piece of business.

  Haldane took his place at his father’s feet. He had never been in battle but his heart bore scars. He looked out over the assembled men and like a good Get warrior showed nothing of his wounds.

  He did not know the man who stepped forward next. It was a stranger to Morca’s dun. But Morca knew him.

  “Well, Soren Seed-Sower, what business do you have with me?”

  Old Svein, sitting his stair, knew him too. “He is a Farthing, Morca,” he called. “His great-grandfather was your uncle’s enemy. Beware. Never trust a Farthing.”

  Morca stood in sudden anger. He waved an arm like an axe blade. “Up the stair, old man! I tire of you, Svein All-White All-Wrong. You’ve lived too long. Open your mouth to me again and I will break your neck.”

  And he sat him down again as Svein scurried up the stair to his stool and safety. Morca winked at Soren. “Say on.”

  Soren was a soft plump man. He was no danger to anyone, Farthing or not, great-grandson of a strong and dangerous man or not. Haldane did not know the man, but he knew his name. He was an example often spoken of. He was called Soren Seed-Sower because he had settled to the land like a Nestorian. No one wanted to be called a Soren Seed-Sower.

  “I ask your help again, Morca. Furd Heavyhand still harries me. Now he has taken five pigs and my fourth daughter back to his dun. I want my pigs back. I want Furd to cease his lazy raids. Let him raid the West like everyone else if he must raid.”

  His tone made it plain that he had better things to do than raid the West or anywhere.

  “The price is the same price you would not pay before,” Morca said.<
br />
  “My oath?”

  “No,” said Morca. “Your life if you break your oath.”

  Soren shook his head. Haldane could not understand why Morca would want the allegiance of such a man. Should strength ally itself with weakness? If he were Morca he would have gone looking for Furd Heavyhand. Better one of Furd than five of Soren.

  Soren said, “What will you do to Furd?”

  “I will make him cease his raids and return your pigs. And your daughter, too, if you like.”

  “That isn’t necessary. Let him keep her. She will make a sober man of him,” Soren said. “All right. I will give you my word, Morca.”

  He was bending his knee before Morca when the serf returned from Lothor.

  “Hold,” said Morca to Soren, and waved the go-fetch forward.

  Soren, fat as a brood sow ready to drop a litter, was left half-bent. He had to make the decision to rise, set, or remain halfway in-between, and he bobbed indecisively, raising a laugh from these onlookers who were ready to find a laugh in him. He flushed, but then apparently decided that since he was to end on his knees eventually, he might as well do it and be done, and plopped down awkwardly.

  The serf spoke to Black Morca. “Lord Morca, the little foreign king says his daughter will receive Lord Haldane now. She waits him in the small room.”

  Morca nodded, waved him away to his corner with one hand, and nudged Haldane with the other.

  “There’s the signal, boy. The Princess Marthe waits for you. Go on, now.”

  “I would as lief not go. I have met the girl. I know already what she looks like.”

  Morca clenched his great right fist and showed it to Haldane. “You are marrying the girl,” he said. “Don’t you think she deserves a second look before you are betrothed?”

  Haldane said hastily, “Oh, all right then.”

  As he left the room, Morca called after, “Don’t let her make a sober man of you.” And there was laughter.

  Haldane paused outside the door of the small room where the princess awaited him. Lothor’s little brown heifer. His price for becoming a king and living an epic. He counted to five and to five again, and opened the door.