Earth Magic

by Alexei Panshin

  “It means that we have arrived on a holiday,” said Oliver. “Today is the Festival Of Joy. See the pole?”

  In the center of the common, a great Joy-tree had been erected, a bare pole stripped of branches and bark, all save the crown. In this top, there were cloths and pennons of many colors tied, and prizes of hard eggs, sausages, and sweetcakes for the young to climb after.

  This was the first day of Joy Month, that month when all the best flowers grow and spring is at its sweetest. On this day, throughout Palsance, men and women set their work aside and gladly played, celebrating the fertility of the Goddess. Little girls dressed their Libera-dolls in ribbons and flowers, and carried them about to show. Their older sisters likewise dressed themselves in ribbons and flowers, and on this day might dare to do that which otherwise was not done. And young boys waylaid travelers and asked them hard questions.

  Giles and Oliver were seen as they approached. A little stream bordered the common. They were met first on the footbridge that crossed it by a holiday guardian, a boy with a bullock horn on a stick and a sprig of green in his shirt.

  “Where is your Libera-leaf?” he challenged them. “Where is your sprig of Joy?”

  “What is that?” Giles asked of Oliver.

  “I don’t know this custom,” said Oliver. “Or perhaps I have forgotten it.”

  “You must be strangers,” said the boy. “All who pass here on the Festival of Joy must wear a leaf like mine, grandfather, or pay the penalty. That is the custom.”

  “What is the penalty?” asked Giles.

  “The penalty is a drenching in the name of the Goddess,” said the boy as he scooped up water in his dipper horn.

  Oliver stepped back. “Isn’t there something to be said otherwise?”

  “Nothing, grandfather,” the boy said, and whistled loudly.

  Oliver dodged back off the bridge in hopes of saving himself a soaking. The boy flung water after him, but it fell short. Oliver did not escape, however. A number of other boys of the same size all armed with dipper horns came pounding up in answer to the whistle. Some ran over the bridge. Some jumped the stream. They surrounded Oliver and knocked him down, and then shoved and jostled to empty their dippers over him as fast as they could scoop them full.

  Haldane, had he been here, might have run like Oliver, wary, disgusted, and panicked. He would surely have fought, and fought more effectively than Oliver.

  But Giles stood his ground and took his baptism with better grace. Could one who swam in the river of the Goddess refuse a drenching in Her name? Wet is wet.

  And by his quiet acceptance, Giles stayed relatively dry. In attempting to escape his penalty, Oliver had attracted to himself all but the first boy, the guardian of the footbridge, and he contented himself to pour three slow cold dipper horns of water over Giles. Then something in Giles’ calm and steady manner made the boy cease.

  Oliver’s cries and the shouts of the boys abusing him brought spectators from the common. Giles heard a sudden commotion amongst the boys, and a girl’s voice saying, “Enough. Enough. You will drown the old man.” And he brushed the water and wet hair from his face to see a blonde maiden driving the boys away from Oliver.

  “But, Mai, we catch so few. It’s our fun,” the boy beside Giles protested.

  The girl looked at them. She was dressed in the gay holiday costume of eastern Palsance, and she wore her own Libera-leaf in her dirndl. She looked at Giles with a frank gaze, and he did not flinch because he was naked. He was one with the moment, and stood steady.

  “Who are you, strangers?” a voice of authority asked.

  Oliver sat on the ground like a soaked gray rat. His rent and bloody smock was now wet and muddy, too.

  “We are serfs escaped from Nestor,” he said. “I am Oliver. This is my poor branded grandson, Giles.”

  But Giles denied this. “He is not my grandfather. He is addled. He but says that because I help him. Black Morca is dead and the Gets are at war amongst themselves. In the confusion the old man and I have made our way to safety here in the West with Libera’s aid.”

  One in the crowd said, “Can it be true that Morca is dead? Did he choke while swallowing an elk?” Great Bad Black Morca, who stood the height of the Joy-tree and ate babies for breakfast, was a legend even here in Palsance—nay, even more of a legend than in Nestor.

  “Why you poor folk,” said an old woman. “You young boys should be ashamed to treat them so!”

  But the man who spoke for the village said, “In Libera’s name, welcome to the Festival of Joy. Join our celebration, we bid you.” And to those around him, he said, “Make them welcome and give them comfort. Hurry. Hurry. Can you not see how tired and hungry these travelers are?”

  In an instant, people were gathered around the fugitives. Giles’ brand was fingered by curious children until their mothers bade them stop. Giles did not protest, but endured their attentions without comment. He knew the meaning of the letter that he wore on his shoulder, and it was his still center, his constant reminder that he was the dog of the Goddess—like Lothor’s little lap-dog—ready always to be bent to Her will.

  Towels were brought to them and they were dried. They were given new shirts to wear. And they were brought bread and cheese to eat and beer to drink. They were sat down on the common near the Joy-tree. It was a perfect day for a favorite festival, and they were made part of the celebration.

  They watched the games. All day, Giles saw youths try and succeed or try and fail to lift prizes from the top of the Joy-tree. In the evening, a great fire was laid and lit, and there was singing and dancing around the Joy-tree. And young couples passed back and forth from the shadows, while their elders lounged about smoking pipes and savoring the end of the day.

  But Oliver had something on his mind unspoken all this day. He said, “Why did you deny that I was your grandfather?”

  Giles said, “I swore to see you safely to Palsance, and you are safely here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let us take leave of each other. I am not sure we have any farther to travel together.”

  “No,” said Oliver. “I am not home yet.”

  “I never promised to see you home,” Giles said, and looked away. He felt responsible for the old man’s life, but he also felt impatience to be free of him.

  “You feel me as a burden. But listen. Since I have no magic, I need your help more than ever,” Oliver said. “Bear me company home. You can do so much as that. And I will repay you. I will let you stay with me there.”

  “No,” said Giles. He remembered the stories he had heard. Oliver’s family was great. It was one thing for Oliver to call him his grandson here amongst peasants in the eastern marches of Palsance where any raid child might bear a Gettish look. But how could Oliver pass him off as a by-blow to his noble family? Not easily.

  “Listen, Haldane.”

  “I am not Haldane. I am Giles.”

  “No,” said Oliver. “Let me speak to Haldane. I don’t know Giles. Listen to me, Haldane. I know I am not the man I was, but do not despise me. I can be of help to you. This world is not safe for you to walk abroad alone in. There are too many who may recognize Haldane, the son of Black Morca. You need time. You need a place to be small in.”

  “I am not sure that is my way,” said Giles. “I go where I am directed to go. As Libera wills—that is my way.”

  Mai, the pretty blonde maiden who had driven away the boys with their dipper horns, sought them out then. She gave Giles a look that Oliver might remember from Festivals of Joy when he was young. But it was to Oliver she spoke, and not to Giles.

  She said, “How are you now, grandsire? Are you well fed? Are you rested? Are you dry?”

  Oliver said, “I am content. As you see, I have even been given a pipe to smoke. May I thank you for coming to my rescue, sweet young lady? Without your aid, I might have been drowned, and I never thought to die by water.”

  She said, “It is the Festival of Joy,” as though that
were a reason for her rescue, and blushed.

  Then she said, “Since I will likely not see you in the morning, grandsire, let me wish you a safe journey in Libera’s name.”

  Giles took that as a sign. He could not do other. Everything was a sign to him. Anything was a sign to him. And he felt ashamed of his impatience.

  “Thank you,” said Oliver.

  Then Mai said, “May I have leave to speak to your grandson?”

  Oliver pulled on his pipe and blew out smoke again. “Yes,” he said.

  Half-shy, half-bold, she said to Giles, “Will you come with me and sit and comb my hair?” And she drew her comb from her pocket a little way, and showed it to him.

  Without a look at Oliver, Giles smiled at the girl, rose, and walked away with her, accepting the moment. He did say, “He is not my grandfather. Not exactly.”

  “How naughty you are to deny your own grandfather,” she said. “You look so much alike.”

  Some time later, there was a lull in the singing and dancing. In that space, Oliver saw Giles take a sudden run at the Joy-tree and swiftly shinny it. At the top, Giles seized a sweetcake from the brush, and was cheered. When he returned to the ground, he carried the cake off into the dark.

  Oliver could not help but marvel at how changed this Giles was from the young Haldane he had once known. And wondered whether he would depart by himself in the morning. But he thought not.

  He need not have wondered. In the night, a second sign came to Giles, a dream that he had. This was when he slept alone.

  In the dream, Giles followed the white wurox of the Goddess along distant roads unknown to him, over rivers and through mountains. And Giles was not alone in the dream. Oliver was with him, one step behind. They walked for the longest time where the white wurox went, and it seemed that they wished to stop, but could not. They must follow the wurox and go where the wurox went. But then they came to a place where the wurox turned and plunged into the earth and disappeared, swallowed by the land. Suddenly gone as suddenly appeared. And in that place, Giles looked over his shoulder and saw Oliver, one step behind. And in that place, they were able to stop at last because they knew it was the proper place to halt. Or so it was in the dream that Giles had.

  In the morning, there was no white wurox to be seen and followed. But Giles joined Oliver when he was ready for the road. Giles had his signs.

  Oliver said, “Do you bear me company home?”

  “I’ll bear you company along your road,” Giles said. “I will bear you company home. That, or until I see a place I know. I will take my direction as I see it. But for now I will bear you company along your road.”

  “Very well,” said Oliver. “I am grateful for your company while I have it.”

  Many miles and many days later, they still kept company. It was the end of a day when there had been flowers. There was golden light, and on their left was a storm hanging heavy near the setting sun. The storm was black and the rain could be seen like threads in the sky. The storm paralleled their passage and gave them company as they walked the high road through the temperate golden spring.

  They came over a crest of the hill, and a new world was revealed. Above the road on the hillside was a cottage, not unlike other cottages they had passed. Beyond the house there were sheep at graze, happy in the golden light, knowing nothing of impending storms.

  “We are here,” said Oliver.

  Here? This was no palace or great house. It was an ordinary hut, a little thatched house. Another confession. Another failure.

  Giles looked out over the valley at the gathering storm. And in that instant, his sight was whole and clear and he saw madeness once more. The farther hill had to his eye the look of an animal. In the strange light he saw the head and forequarters of a great wurox, half-sunken in the land. When he saw that great sculpture, Giles knew this was the place.

  He accepted the will of the Goddess. And he turned, and there at his elbow was Oliver, as though their destinies were linked.

  They made their way up the path to the cottage door. There were flowers planted before the cottage.

  “I had forgotten that,” said Oliver. “So much time has passed since I left home.”

  They stood there in the golden glow, the first rising breezes of the storm only reaching them now. The door was painted green. It was a double door, unlike any Giles had seen before.

  The top of the door opened, and a woman stood looking out at them. She was not yet old, but more than middle-aged. She held one plump hand to her large bosom.

  “Yes?” she said uncertainly.

  Oliver said, “Do you not know me, Berthe? It is I, Noll, your own brother, returned at last from my adventures with my grandson Giles.”

  “Noll!” she said. “Can it really be you, Noll? It is. It is! It is my own dear Noll, come home at last as he said that he would.”

  The door was opened to them and they were swept inside. As they were held and cried over and exclaimed upon, the red light of the last sun struck home in the dark storm as it overtook them at last. Thunder crashed, and the red rain fell like fire on the land.

  Giles stood beside his grandfather Oliver—old Sailor Noll returned from his long travels at sea—and watched the rain fall for a moment, and then the cottage door was closed behind them and they were home.

  Also by Alexei Panshin

  Farewell to Yesterday’s Tomorrow

  An excellent companion to Alexei Panshin’s novels, Farewell to Yesterday’s Tomorrow collects twelve of his best stories, the last a novella written in collaboration with his wife, Cory. From the universe of the Nebula Award-winning Rite of Passage, to the first manned exploration of Neptune, to the interstellar quest of a fair lady and a noble beastman to find a home, these engaging fantasies turn the idea of SF as escape on its head, dramatizing how technology may give new expression to empathy and self-sacrifice but never replace them.

  Rite of Passage

  In 2198, one hundred and fifty years after the desperate wars that destroyed an overpopulated Earth, humanity lives precariously on a hundred hastily-established colony worlds and in the seven giant Ships that once ferried people to the stars. Mia Havero’s Ship is a small, closed society. It tests its children by casting them out to live or die in a month of Trial in the hostile wilds of a colony planet. Mia’s fourteenth birthday and accompanying Trial are fast approaching; in the meantime she must learn not only the skills that will keep her alive but the deeper courage to face herself and her world. Originally published in 1968, Alexei Panshin’s Nebula Award-winning classic has lost none of its relevance, with its keen exploration of societal stagnation and the resilience of youth.

  Other Books by ElectricStory

  Terry Bisson

  Bears Discover Fire and Other Stories

  Suzy McKee Charnas

  The Vampire Tapestry

  George R. R. Martin

  “In the House of the Worm”