Arakney eased through the last rank of secondary trunks, the newest ones, limber and pale with a tender bark that bled at a touch. Overhead the ayyanga’s long, blade-shaped leaves rattled in the wind, and bits of papery bark broke loose. She settled cross-legged on the lip of a cliff that fell straight down to the chook that was a scattering of long, narrow stone houses intermittently visible in the shifting light from the roughly circular common outlined by the bonfires that burned around a pit where something was being roasted over a bed of coals. She heard a hissing intake of breath behind her as Yohn saw that. “Quiet,” she murmured. She’d thought about telling the girl to stay behind with her cousins, but didn’t waste her breath trying it. “Sit down and be patient. If we rush at this, we’ll just get everyone killed.”
Flat black forms hurried in and out of the firelight, tearing thatch from roofs and building a shelter over the pit. The wind teased at the fires, whipping bits of burning wood at the houses. The stone wouldn’t burn, but here and there thatching started to smoke; the Oggeri ignored it and continued with preparations for the feast.
Arakney took the Gourd from its pouch, held it in her lap. Piri was close beside her, sitting in the next gap between the secondary trunks, his night sight turning his eyes to yellow fire. “Do you see any of the Were?”
“Nay, ’Kney, but there’s… mmm. I can see about five of the Oggeri hanging about the biggest house. Guards, you think?”
“Could be. Yohn?”
“That’s the Suryo’s Chup.” The girl’s voice was wire taut. “It’s meant to be a safe place, so I s’pose it’s easiest to guard.”
Arakney ran her thumb over the waxy, pimpled surface of the Gourd. “Yohn,” she said. “Listen, this is important. Don’t distract us. You hear? You must be quiet and sit still.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“If you can’t do that, best you go join your cousins.”
“I said I understand.” Quiet as drifting thistledown the girl moved round behind Piri and settled herself beside him, cross-legged, hands on thighs.
Arakney looked at Piri, nodded, lifted the Gourd, and began shaking it gently, shsssh shsssh sh shsssh. When she sang, it was in the Old Tongue, words that belonged to days before Yohn’s first ancestor saw light, and her voice was a whisper sliding on the wind.
Patches of thready mist formed on the black water of the slow-flowing river, formed and drifted toward the fires. Piri’s long breaths were heavy in her ears, then the sound from the flute lifted her chant.
The fog merged with the rain, pulling the silver lines of falling water into itself, weaving a web as delicate as smoke and stronger than steel, anchored by the flutesong’s cable.
It passed through the scattered houses, catching Oggeri as it tightened, driving them closer and closer together until they were a clump of black leaves fluttering in the chup’s common mead, rustling about the fire…
She sang a double note into the chant and the fire exploded.
The Oggeri burned.
Three days later when Arakney clucked to Dapple and started him from Raevlis on the River, Swal and Hersty led a pack of youngers dancing around her, giving her a send-off with the charm she’d crafted for them to help them fight off the next wave of Oggeri that were bound to come this way. She looked around, but didn’t see Yohn among them. Gone back to her own affairs, no doubt. She sighed, a little hurt; she’d grown fond of the girl. “That’s the way the world whimpers,” she murmured to herself and listened to the children singing their charm.
“Shillilly shallilly,” they chanted.
Shillilly shallilly
sing we of Oggeri
Kaniem o kickanem
how do we break them
hammer their toes
pull on their nose
chew on their fingerbones
laugh at their moans
shillilly shallilly
sing we of Oggeri
Sik tay surral tay tay u curral
Hajina waven sassina paven
Efta to KOKE! Mista ka YOKE!
Shillilly Shallilly
Sing we of Oggeri
Poor little beasties gone up in smoke.
The sound of the children’s voices followed them until they rounded a low tor smothered in ayyanga trunks.
A red fox came scrambling down the slope to trot beside Dapple, yellow eyes laughing as she looked over her shoulder—as if to say, You thought I’d forgot, didn’t you.
“Yohn! Get up here.”
The fox looked back again, flicked her ears, and after that ignored all noise from the van.
Piri chuckled. “Looks like we’ve got us a new companion.” He took out his flute and played a travel song as the van creaked deeper into the moor.
About Rebecca Lyons and “The Erin Cory”
Rebecca received her degree in chemistry, with supporting work in physics and biology, from Roosevelt University in Chicago, although they probably did not expect that her main use for her scientific training would be as background for her science fiction. She currently lives “on a postcard in Colorado” with two feline roommates.
There are many variations (Cerridwn’s Cauldron, the Holy Grail, etc.) on the story of a vessel that never runs out of food or drink, but Rebecca has given this old tale a new setting with an interesting twist, as well as making a good point regarding the proper uses of magic.
The Erin Cory
Rebecca Lyons
Outside her fourth-floor door, Maddy juggled her grocery bag to her other arm and fumbled for her keys. The elevator door whooshed open and with a shriek of excitement Vanessa, dreadlocks flying, burst out. Maddy jumped and dropped the keys.
“Vanessa! If you don’t sound like a banshee. Look, you made me drop my keys.”
“We having pot supper tonight, Mama?” The girl’s dark, smiling face looked not a bit remorseful.
“No. Sale chicken tonight. Don’t want to push our welcome with the pot.”
“No more beans and barley?”
“Not till we finish the chicken. Your brother will be happy. Now are you going to take this bag or pick up the keys you made me drop?”
Vanessa stooped down to pick them up. “Oh, Mom. Look. Our door’s coming apart.”
Wooden splinters stuck out of the door frame and the door was just slightly ajar. “What the—” Maddy set the groceries on the floor as Vanessa turned a worried, frightened look to her. “Vanessa, I want you to go to your grandmother’s house for a while. I’ll call you there.”
“But, Mom—” Rustling noises from inside the apartment made them turn.
“Don’t argue with me! Go!” Vanessa turned and quietly made for the stairs. Heart pumping, Maddy eased the door open. She saw no one inside, but
“Oh, my God.” She had meant to stay silent, but the quiet exclamation came out unbidden. She opened the door farther.
The apartment was a mess—drawers upended over the floor, books and newspapers askew, one bookcase overturned. More rustling noises came from her son’s bedroom. She gasped and started, as if to run, but the figure that came into view was her son Michael, his portable radio hugged close.
“They didn’t take it, Ma.”
“Michael! Honey, how long you been here?”
He shrugged. “Five minutes, maybe.”
“Come over here by me.” He obediently trotted over to her.
She took his hand and guided him into the hall. “Stay here. Was anyone here when you got here?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“No. Nobody else is here. I looked through the whole house.” He still cradled the radio close.
Her face crumpled in dismay. “You did what? Oh, Michael, you should never—Oh, I’ll talk to you later. You stay here. Hear me? Stay here.”
He nodded, and she cautiously reentered the apartment. Her feet trod on crumpled paper. She reached down and picked up some hard copy from her latest project. Her eyes immediately snapped to her des
k.
The computer was still there, and the printer beside it, though her chair was overturned. She walked into the room, paper still in hand. The TV was still there, and Michael’s radio, obviously. As she absently put her hand on the desk, the clink of metal distracted her. She looked down to see a pile of coins, silver ones. A couple fell to the floor as she watched.
The coin she picked up was silver and about the size of a half dollar, but it wasn’t Kennedy staring out at her, and she couldn’t read the words. For some reason they reminded her of—
“Finn.”
“Finn? Finn O’Neil?” It had been a couple days earlier; she had opened the door a crack at his knock.
“Maddy Prudence Jackson?”
“You’ve got the right place. Come in.” She closed the door to take off the chain, then opened it again. “So, you’re the folklorist, Professor Eason’s friend. Please, come in. Excuse the place. It’s kind of a mess. Sit down.”
“Thank you.” He nodded politely, almost a bow, and took a seat. The front room was both living and dining room, with a small table where Vanessa sat and squirmed and a desk where Maddy’s computer sat.
“Vanessa, don’t you play with those pencils.” Maddy’s daughter stopped with a giggle. Maddy sneaked looks at the stranger as she finished drying her hands on a dish towel—pale skin set off by black hair and ice-blue eyes. Not bad-looking for a white man. “Finn O’Neil, you said?” she confirmed as the man took out pencil and paper.
“Fin? Like in a fish?” Vanessa asked with another giggle.
“Girl, you shush. Shouldn’t you be getting out some dishes for us to eat on? Supper will be ready soon.”
“Oh, Mama.”
“You go on now.” She turned to Finn. “I’m cooking supper in that same old pot you were asking about. You’re welcome to stay to supper if you like.”
His angular face brightened measurably. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Now what do you want to know about that old cooking pot of mine?” She sat down on the couch opposite him.
“Old. Yes. You had said it was very old.”
“Been in my family for, oh, four generations at least. It goes to Vanessa next, then to her daughter.”
Vanessa smiled and glanced shyly at Finn as she set four places around the table.
Finn was writing all this down. “Yes. Can you tell me where the pot was found?”
“Found? I don’t know. My mother gave it to me. Her mother—I was the oldest daughter—her mother gave it to her. She was the oldest daughter, too. Her mother, my great-grandmother, was a slave on a plantation in South Carolina.” Finn nodded. “I don’t know where she got it. My grandma used to call it the Erin Cory, but I don’t know why.”
“Iarinn Coire.” Finn had paused in his writing, his eyes alight. “Iron cauldron.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Gaelge. Irish.”
“I didn’t know that. Irish, hm? You didn’t look like you knew Swahili.” She’d certainly never heard an accent like his in her North Chicago neighborhood.
He didn’t get the joke. “And this iron cooking pot, it is strange and wondrous?” He stared down at his notes.
Maddy gave him a sideways glance, then nodded cautiously. “I wouldn’t say that. But it’s about the only heirloom I have, and it’s been a big help in ways I can’t begin to explain.” Her eyes drifted over to where her daughter was laying out forks and napkins. “My work pays well enough, but trying to raise two kids, both in private school—it ain’t easy. It—” She grimaced as rock music suddenly blared from another room. “Michael! You turn that thing down! Right now! You hear me?”
“But, Mom! It’s U2!” A young kid appeared in the doorway hugging a radio.
“I don’t care if it’s me and you both. That thing goes down or it goes off.”
“Awww.”
“Use those headphones! That’s what your uncle bought them for.”
More protests followed, but the music diminished. Maddy turned back to Finn. “Sorry. I tell him over and over, but… you were asking?”
“This pot. You say it has wondrous powers, and feeds you from nothing.”
Maddy gave him another narrow glance. “Now when did I say that?” she asked quietly after several seconds of silence.
“I… uh, I’ve been studying.”
“Studying? My pot’s in books?”
“Perhaps. If it’s the same one. It does feed you?”
“Beans and barley, beans and barley.” Vanessa started a singsong chant.
“Vanessa, hush, girl. You mean other people know about this? I’ve rarely told anyone about this except family that’s grown up with it. I figured no one would believe me.”
With great sincerity, Finn said, “I believe you.”
Maddy stared at him openmouthed for a moment. “Well, I’ll be—I’ll be—” She broke off and laughed. “Well, if you’d told me this and I hadn’t grown up with it, I’d think you were crazy. It’s a relief to find someone who doesn’t think I am.”
“It does feed you, then?”
“Yes. It’s been a godsend, let me tell you.”
“What does it feed you? How much?” Finn leaned forward.
“Beans and barley—”
“Vanessa, hush! Well, it feeds us about as much as we need.” Maddy leaned back. “We don’t always use it, but we’ve never gone hungry. It’s always there when we need it. All you do is put the pot on the stove—”
“With water? How long does it take?”
“No, you don’t even need water. You can smell it when it’s cooked, then you can take the top off, and it’s done. It’s potluck.” She chuckled. “Literally. Sometimes you get soup or stew, sometimes bread. Once I took the top off and there were two little game hens surrounded by carrots and onions. Good, too.”
“Beans and barley, Mom,” Vanessa interrupted shyly.
“Oh, yes. Beans and barley. Sometimes it gets a run on something and we’ll eat that for days, sometimes weeks at a time. There were times, well, after my husband left, we ate out of the pot every night in the week.”
Finn looked very excited. “Yes. This is miraculous.”
Maddy shrugged. “It’s just an old iron pot. You see, what you do is—”
“Mama,” Vanessa interrupted again. “I think it’s ready.”
Maddy sniffed the air. “You’re right.” She moved to the kitchen. “The top came off, so I guess it is done. Beans and barley, Vanessa, beans and barley. We’ve had a run on beans and barley for a couple weeks now,” she said to Finn.
“I like it,” Vanessa said.
“I know you do, girl, but your brother isn’t terribly fond of it. Me, I’m getting a little bored with it myself. Not that I’m complaining, pot,” she said to her supper. “Finn? Where are you going? Aren’t you going to stay to supper?”
Finn had risen, and bowed slightly in her direction. “I must go. I have the information I sought.”
“But there’s more. I haven’t finished telling you—”
“I have all the information I need. Thank you.”
“But—well…” Maddy replaced the pot lid and went to open the door for him, since he seemed quite adamant about leaving. “Well, I hope I was able to be of some help in your research.”
“Yes, much help. More than you realize. Thank you!”
“Uh, Finn. You’re not going to tell everybody about this, are you?”
“No. I promise. I will tell no one. Thank you so much, Maddy Jackson.” He left, leaving Maddy staring after him.
“He was kind of a strange man, Mama.”
“Yes, he was. But I guess it takes all kinds. Wish he’d let me finish, though. Vanessa, give your brother the bad news and then finish setting the table. All this talking is making me hungry.”
* * *
“Mom? Mama?” Maddy’s focus drifted away from the silver coin. Her son stood in the doorway, his eyes large and wary. “Can I come in now, Mama?”
“What? I—oh—”
“I checked the whole place. Ain’t no one else here.”
“Oh, I suppose so, Michael.” Clutching the coin in her hand, she reached for the phone.
In a small sleeping room a neighborhood away, Finn reverently examined the old cook pot. It seemed nothing special, just a three-legged pot with a lid and a handle to hang it over the fire, but Finn had no doubt that it was the treasure he sought. Carefully he set it down, kicked off his Reeboks, and struggled out of his jeans.
Soon he was attired in a red tunic, embroidered knotwork on the edges, over a white undertunic. His feet were clad in fine leather boots, and a sword hung from his belt. He slipped a golden torc around his neck and opened the door to the closet. A rectangular patch in back flickered like a broken TV.
Only one more thing left. He picked up the phone and punched out numbers, smiling in satisfaction.
“Maddy Jackson?” The voice on the other end sounded tinny and distracted.
“Yes? Who—”
“This is Finn. We talked about your Erin Cory?”
“Finn! What—what do you want? Oh, you have to call back; I have to call—”
“Do not be afraid. Nothing was hurt. I took only what I needed.”
Alarm made the voice on the other end shrill. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I had to make you think it was an ordinary theft until I was away. I took only the Erin Cory, and I left you a goodly sum of silver for it.”
“You? You left the silver? Broke into my apartment?”
“I did not take your electronic things. I took only what I came for, the cauldron.”
“My cooking pot? Just a second. You just wait.” After a couple moments she was back. “My pot! You stole it!”
“Did you find the silver?”
“I don’t want your silver, damn it! I want my Erin Cory!”
“I am a champion of my people, and they have great need. You have children. I’m sure you can understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. You scared me and my two babies half to death to steal an old cooking pot, and you want me to understand? You’re deranged. You’re crazy.”
Best of Marion Zimmer Bradley Fantasy Magazine, Volume 2 Page 19