Denner's Wreck

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  "The stranger lifted a hand, and caught his breath enough to say, ‘Halt, enough!’ Then he waved a hand, and behold, the walls rose up from the ground and rebuilt themselves, as sound and whole as ever. The cupboards jumped back into their accustomed places, and the furniture flew back together and arranged itself as it had been before the traveler ever set foot within the door.

  "The wife dropped the spoon in astonishment and watched as the miracle took place, allowing the stranger to recover himself. He stooped and picked up the spoon, and handed it to her, saying, ‘Here, my good woman, you may find this of use.'

  "She took it, and saw that the ordinary wood had been transformed into solid gold.

  "'My apologies,’ the stranger said. ‘I'm sorry for any inconvenience. I must go now, but you have the thanks of Geste the Trickster for your most enjoyable hospitality.’ And then he was gone, vanished as if he had never been.

  "And the farmer and his wife looked around at their home and saw all that they had, that they had not appreciated—four sound walls and a warm roof, well-stocked cupboards and a comfortable home, and they saw how foolish they had been. And they did not sell the golden spoon, or melt it down, but hung it above the fireplace as a reminder of their encounter with the Trickster."

  —from the tales of

  Atheron the Storyteller

  * * * *

  “It's not fair,” Mardon insisted, as he sat poking at the dying cookfire with a broken turnspit.

  Bredon sighed. He had heard this a good many times in the forty-odd wakes since he and his companion had arrived safely back in their home village. “Life is rarely fair,” he pointed out, without moving from where he lay sprawled on his blankets. “You could have spoken up, just as I did, instead of hiding your face in the mud."

  “I thought he was going to kill you!” Mardon said, giving the coals a particularly vicious jab. Sparks sailed upward.

  “According to the stories,” Bredon repeated wearily, “the Trickster never kills anyone.” He rolled over and looked at his comrade, toward whom he was feeling distinctly less comradely of late. “Look, Mardon, you wouldn't have gotten to keep the horse if we'd caught it, we agreed on that, so why do you care about this stupid trinket we got instead?” He sat up and pulled the disk from his pocket. “It's not worth anything. I don't think it will really work, if I ever decide to use it. That was the Trickster, remember? If the stories are true, he lies all the time! He just gave me this to shut me up. If I break it I'll probably just get a faceful of stinkweed or something.” He flipped the disk into the air with his right hand and caught it neatly with his left.

  Mardon was not to be talked out of his sulkiness as easily as that. Abandoning the fire, he turned, still seated cross-legged, to face Bredon and asked, “Why do you keep it, then? Why not give it to me?"

  “Mardon, he gave it to me, not you! Why should I give it to you? You're my friend, but that doesn't mean I need to give you everything I have. Look, you met Geste the Trickster, saw a Power face to face. You've got something to brag about to every girl in the village, a tale for your grandchildren if you ever have any you care to acknowledge. You can pretty up the story all you like and no matter what you say I won't contradict you, you know that. I haven't told anyone that you didn't dare talk to him, and I'm not going to, so no one knows what you did or didn't do. The trinket proves we met him, so no one can doubt that we did. Atheron said so, and everybody accepts that. It doesn't matter which of us has it, for that, and Geste gave it to me. He might not like it if I gave it away. You don't need it, and you wouldn't dare use it if you had it, so why do you care about this thing so much? Isn't the tale enough?"

  “No. Maybe. Oh, I don't know. It's just not fair.” Mardon picked up the turnspit again.

  Abruptly, Bredon felt he had had enough. His strained good humor fled completely. He rose suddenly, almost jumping to his feet, and shouted down at Mardon, “Then go call Rawl the Adjuster about it, but stop whining to me! I didn't make you a coward, and I'll be damned and my soul eaten by demons before I'll give you the stupid thing!” He strode out of the tent, leaving the flap hanging open and Mardon staring after him in dumb astonishment.

  The sun was on the eastern horizon and the midwake darkness was fading rapidly; full daylight would arrive in minutes, and the population of the village was already out and about, abandoning the quiet conversation and indoor work of the midwake dark for the outdoor work that could only be done while the sun was up. The long lights of midsummer were past, and sunlight was not to be wasted.

  Several of his fellow villagers saw Bredon emerge from his bachelor's tent. His brother Kredon smiled and waved from the steps of their parents’ house, and Bredon waved back perfunctorily. Kittisha the Weaver, on her way home from the village well, also waved, and changed direction, heading across the street toward him.

  He growled quietly to himself. He liked Kittisha well enough, and had thoroughly enjoyed her company in his tent just two sleeps before, but in his present mood he did not care to talk to her. She tended to prattle on endlessly. When he was in the right frame of mind it was funny and endearing, but just now he knew it would only irritate him more. He pretended not to see her—just enough darkness remained that he could do that without risk of insulting her—and instead veered off to the right, around the side of his own tent and those of the other unmarried young men, headed out of the village by the shortest available route.

  He marched on past the tidy herb gardens, past the cornfields—which, he recalled with annoyance, were the domain of Mardon's father, cultivated by the entire family—and well out into the surrounding grassland before he calmed sufficiently to think at all. His pace gradually slowed, and on a whim he turned his steps eastward.

  He walked on, and he thought.

  His life was not going right. He felt that, but he could not really explain it. It all seemed to hinge somehow on his encounter with Geste the Trickster, the most playful of all the Powers. Before that he had seen nothing wrong with his life, but now he could see little that was right.

  Had Geste played some subtle trick on him, perhaps? Something that altered his feelings, something far more devious than the rather silly and simple-minded stunt with Lord Grey's mare?

  He shook his head at the thought. He did not really believe that was it.

  Fifty wakes earlier he had been a normal young man, happily pursuing wealth, glory, and young women. He was a fine hunter, one of the best in the village—that was no boast, but simple fact. He was tall, strong, and if not staggeringly handsome, certainly not ugly. His family was respected and respectable, his brother and three sisters all well enough behaved, both parents alive and healthy, his various aunts, uncles, and cousins causing no problems. He had had no bitter quarrels or disagreements, nothing beyond the ordinary household squabbles that every family had, and even those had been few and mild of late.

  He had almost no money, of course, but that was nothing. An unmarried man needed little enough. All he really owned was his bachelor's tent and a few personal items, but he had never lacked for the essentials, and his future was bright. Hunting was steady work, and prestigious, and a good hunter could make plenty of money once he had paid off his debt to his parents. Bredon's debt was down to a matter of a dozen meals or so, and his parents were not pressing him. If anything, pleased and proud as they were at how quickly he was paying, they seemed to be encouraging him to take his time.

  As for women, for the past few seasons, since he had reached man-height and his complexion had begun clearing, he had had little trouble in finding willing females to share his bedding—though not always those he might have preferred. He had taken the occasional romantic setback in stride. He had had friends of both sexes, and was rarely lonely.

  He had been happy, he knew he had.

  Then he had glimpsed the mare when she wandered near the village, and he had set out in pursuit. A fine horse was wealth he could appreciate. He had spent three wakes chasing her, almost six full li
ghts and five darks, with his childhood friend and inseparable companion beside him, and they had trapped her.

  And that was where everything had gone wrong. By rights, they should have struggled with her, tied her, dragged her back home, and spent weeks breaking and training her. They would have worked hard with her, certainly, but their efforts would have been rewarded with the respect of the village, and with the knowledge of their own skills proven, as well as with a superb mount.

  Instead, they had left the horse out on the plain and had come back with nothing but the strange red disk. A legend had come to life, appearing out of nowhere and snatching their quarry from them.

  Even coming back empty-handed because the mare escaped or died would have been more satisfying, he thought. They would have been honorably defeated, to learn from their mistakes and be better prepared the next time.

  Instead, they had come back, and told their story, which Atheron the Storyteller had declared fully authentic and consistent with the known characteristics of the Powers. They had shown the disk. The villagers had smiled, applauded them, honored them, feasted them—but it was all somehow unsatisfying and empty.

  Bredon realized, with a start, what was really lacking. The villagers treated him with awe and wonder, they honored him—but the respect that he had sought was not there.

  And why should it be, he asked himself silently. He had done nothing worthy of respect. He had not proven his worth as a hunter, as he had set out to do. He had, instead, been the butt of a demi-god's stupid joke. People might stare at him in awe, they might honor him outwardly for his contact with divinity, but inwardly they thought no better of him than before. His encounter had been sheer luck, after all. Geste might have picked on anyone, anyone at all. He had not cared in the least that Bredon was the best young hunter in the village. What did a Power care about hunting?

  And had Bredon come out of the encounter with honor? No, not really. He had done nothing.

  The respect that was truly lacking, he saw, was his own self-respect.

  He should have defied Geste, he thought. The little man was a Power, certainly, but that was no reason for Bredon to have stared at him so stupidly, gaped so awkwardly, spoken so foolishly. He should have at least tried to take the mare, despite what Geste said.

  Of course, Geste was a Power, a demi-god.

  But then, the tales said that most of the Powers, including Geste, respected those who stood up to them despite the incredible danger of doing so. Some stories said that the Powers were only men and women come from another, higher world, a world where fortune had gifted everyone with immortality and magic. If that was so, if Geste was just a man, then Bredon had disgraced himself, given up his own dignity as an adult, in not standing up to his tormentor. He had forsaken his own common-sense view of the world and been overawed by Geste's supposed supernatural power.

  He had done better than Mardon, though. Mardon had cowered and cringed, and that had been eating away at both of them since they had returned to the village. Their friendship was breaking up, Bredon knew. Mardon did not want the red disk so much as he wanted not to have behaved so badly, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. It was all in the past. Neither of them could change the past. The disk was just a symbol of the parts they had played, and if he gave it to Mardon he knew it would do no good. In fact, he suspected it would make things worse, as Mardon could then accuse Bredon of patronizing him.

  Mardon was a coward, and had acted like a coward, and was ashamed of it. He was redirecting that shame into envy of Bredon, and it was destroying a friendship that had endured since the days when both wore diapers.

  Bredon sighed.

  Geste had done more harm than he knew. Bredon wondered whether the little man would laugh at the unhappiness he had caused.

  He stopped walking, pulled the disk from his pocket, and studied it. It gleamed like a ruby in the light of the fast-rising sun.

  If he broke it, would the Trickster really come?

  And if he did, could he put right the wrong he had done? Could he cure Mardon's memory of his own cowardice, give Bredon back his self-respect?

  Surely, such things were beyond even the Powers. They could move mountains, but could they repair a damaged soul?

  Even if Geste could cast a spell of some sort, and make Bredon and Mardon once again happy and content, would either of them want a magical cure of that kind?

  He put the disk back in his pocket.

  He turned and faced westward for a moment, considering. The sun was well up; he had been walking toward it for an hour or more. If he hurried a little he could get back to the village before the sun reached its mid-secondlight zenith.

  Did he want to?

  What would he find in the village? Mardon might still be in his tent, which would mean chasing him out. That would be unpleasant. He did not want to see Mardon again for awhile.

  There was no one else he wanted to see, either. None of his relationships with the village girls had progressed beyond casual entertainment, really. His siblings were busy with their own affairs, and were still amused by the story of his meeting with the Trickster. His parents steadfastly refused to intervene in his life now that he had reached manhood and pitched his tent, and for the most part, despite their pride in him, they acted as little more than polite strangers—strangers he owed money. And most of his old friends had fallen away, somehow, in the last forty wakes.

  He would be alone in the village.

  That was a depressing thought. He hated being alone.

  If he was going to be alone, he decided, he might as well be alone out in the open. Having other people around him would only make it worse. He turned eastward again and marched on.

  Only hours later, when the last light had died and he had trampled himself a bed in the tall grass for the sleeping dark, did he suddenly decide where he was going.

  Not far to the east stood the so-called Forbidden Grove. He knew the place was reputed to be the territory of one of the Powers, a female Power, called Lady Sunlight of the Meadows. She was by far the closest of the Powers—excluding the wanderers like Rawl and Geste, of course, who could be anywhere. She was more or less the patron deity of the area, as much as there was one. He could not remember any tales about her, or at least none of the details—he had never taken any interest in the stories Atheron and Kithen told—but she was said to be an important Power all the same. Somewhere in the grove, or just beyond it, she was supposed to have her personal demesne, her place of power, a place called, naturally, The Meadows, where she had a great glittering palace.

  Bredon's uncle Taredon had pointed the grove out to him once, when a hunt brought them this way, so he knew where it was. He should, he thought, be able to reach it by the next wake's second sunrise.

  He would go there, he told himself, go right into the grove, taboo or not. He had survived an encounter with one Power already, but had lost his self-respect in doing it. Maybe if he trespassed fearlessly on the lands of another he could regain a little of his pride, show himself that it had been surprise, more than fear, that had let the Trickster get the better of him.

  Of course, that assumed he would survive trespassing in the grove. He could not be sure of that.

  Before meeting Geste he had never paid any attention to the Powers. No one else in the village had ever met one—at least, no one still alive, though tales were told about various ancestors. The Powers had been nothing to him but stories for children, and he had not considered them relevant to the real, everyday world around him.

  He now saw that he had been wrong. The Powers were real and relevant, and if he wanted to understand the world he needed to know how to deal with them, whether to ignore them as he always had, or to actively avoid them, or to seek them out. This mysterious Lady Sunlight was close at hand—if she actually existed—and as good a subject for investigation as any.

  He would not embarrass himself again.

  With that thought circling through his mind he
fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  “...Lady Sunlight of the Meadows is among the most shy and retiring of all the Powers, at least as far as mortals are concerned. She takes no interest in worldly matters, and in fact barely lives in our world at all—her glittering palace is almost impossible to find, for the paths in the Forbidden Grove twist and turn beneath mortal feet, always leading away from the Meadows. When one perseveres and finally, by charm or luck, does reach the place where her palace stands, one might not even see it, for it is not always there. And no one can enter it, for there are no doors. Lady Sunlight wants no guests. Her interests lie in the sparkle of sunlight on a dewdrop, or the shape of a flower's petals, not in the mundane affairs of everyday people. She has no desire to speak with mortals—if, in fact, she can speak at all, for no mortal has ever heard her voice. Those who wander near the Forbidden Grove sometimes glimpse her, as a flash of movement in the corner of the eye, or a reflection in a stream, or a shadow in the sun, but none has ever heard her speak. Those who dare venture into the Grove, perhaps to the boundaries of the Meadows, can sometimes catch sight of her briefly, as she runs laughing through the fields, or tenderly cares for her flowers, or combs the golden hair that reaches to her ankles. Of these who glimpse her, those who return to their villages—and not all of them do, for some pine away for love of her, spending their lives watching for another glimpse or waiting in hope of hearing her speak—but those who do return to their are never quite the same. They speak often of her beauty, though they can never describe any details, and they spend much of their time staring off into space, in the general direction of the Meadows..."

  —from the tales of