“I am not deranged,” Finn said patiently. “I am a hero of the Gael. My people need the food the pot can provide. I have paid you for it.”
“Four generations of heirloom can’t be bought for thirty pieces of silver.”
“Only ten…”
“I want my Erin Cory back. I’m calling the police.” With a sigh of consternation, Finn put down the receiver and turned to the closet where shadows flickered and played.
“We cannot raid the Sidhe for supplies,” the sorceress-queen, Ailin, had said to him before he left. “Their magic is too strong. Be successful, Finn. Find the Iarinn Coire, else we die.”
But the proud eyes that had bored into his seemed to say more. Prove me wrong, they had seemed to challenge. Beneath the hope and hunger and despair—prove you’re more like your brother than I think.
That is what he had read in them as he turned from her and vanished into the doorway, the same doorway that he now faced from the other side. He held the handle of the cauldron casually but reverently by two fingers. Yes, he would prove to her, prove to them all, of what mettle was their new champion made.
In spite of his hero status, fear clutched him just a little as he stepped through the shadowy patterns in the back of the closet. The air that met him smelled different, a little musty, but smelled of home. Finn smiled.
He was within the dark passage of the mound; before him was a rectangular patch of blue sky. A white cloud scudded across it, and a bird appeared briefly. He took it as a good omen.
As Finn stepped from the mound, a grey-haired warrior, half nodding with sleep, looked up, gasped, and jumped to his feet.
“Finn! My lord!” In back of him Finn saw a multitude, the army of the Gael ranged around the cooking fires. The grey-haired warrior turned and called. Faces turned to him, and when they saw Finn, several came running.
“I thank the Dagda that I am not too late,” Finn murmured, and lifted the cauldron above his head for all to see. A gasp and a sigh took the whole crowd. Soon, Finn was surrounded by his people, surrounded by expressions of awe, relief, thanks, and from all of them the underlying expression of hopelessness stalled.
The aging Queen Ailin, one of the first to approach him, smiled with relief, and the army surrounding him raised their swords and spears in a cheer so loud the Sidhe must have heard it over their own cookfires.
“Finn,” Lady Ailin said. “You have brought us hope.”
“I have brought you food.” Finn gave the cauldron to one of the squires. “Put it over the fire, and put the lid on. There is no need of water. Now go.” The boy smiled and bowed his head, taking the cauldron reverently, and took off at a dead run. Finn turned to Ailin. “It took longer than I’d hoped in that strange Otherworld. Are my men still well?”
Ailin and her nephew, Lord Marc, exchanged puzzled but amused glances. “My lord,” Marc said. “You were gone but three days and three nights. This is but the morn of the fourth day.”
Finn glanced at him, honestly surprised. “Was I?” He turned to Ailin. “Strange are the ways of your magic, Ailin.”
“Never mind.” They began walking toward the cookfire where a crowd had gathered around the pot. Marc walked ahead. “You are here and safe, and you have brought the cauldron. You are sure it is the cauldron?”
Finn smiled indulgently. “I have seen it work. I have no doubt.”
“You must have many strange adventures to tell of your time in the Otherworld.”
“Indeed I do.”
“I would hear them.”
“And I will gladly tell them, though it will take many nights.”
Ailin’s weary face creased into a smile, and she leaned closer. No one else was near. “I must admit to you, Finn, I had misgivings when you were declared champion after the Sidhe killed your brother.”
“You had doubts as to my ability?” Finn was patient and forgiving, as befits a hero.
“Not your ability, no. You are as strong as your brother. But you have always seemed rash and hasty. Wisdom and patience also befit a warrior.”
Finn arched an eyebrow and changed the subject. “You worry about the Sidhe.”
“As I should. We had agreed to surrender if your brother was defeated by their champion. We broke faith.”
“I will not suffer my people to be destroyed because of the failings of one man, even my brother.”
Ailin smiled again and dropped the subject. “You will be wanting a bath and fresh clothing. My servants can see to this.”
“I will indeed, my queen, but not till my men have eaten.” He sat down at the queen’s cookfire and accepted a cup of watered ale from a servant. As they waited for the wondrous pot to fill with food for the army of the Gael, Finn began to tell them of his wondrous adventures, of silver towers that reached into the sky, of chariots that puffed smoke and had invisible horses inside, of lamps that glowed without fire. He had easily captivated his audience’s attention when one of his men came over and waited for his attention.
The man seemed hesitant, even embarrassed. “My lord,” he said when Finn glanced up at him. “My lord, the pot still gives nothing.”
“Nothing? What do you mean?”
“Nothing. We have waited two hours and more. There is still nothing inside.” His puzzled expression was overcast with the same despair Finn had seen before leaving for the Otherworld.
“How have you used it?”
“We did as you instructed. We put it over the fire, put the top on, and waited.”
“You did not put water in it?”
“You instructed us not to.”
Finn rose. “Let me see this.”
It was as the man had said. The iron pot radiated heat from the fire below, yet when they lifted the lid with a hook, they saw nothing within.
“Perhaps,” the druidess-queen said behind him. “Perhaps it does need water.”
“Perhaps,” Finn agreed, puzzled himself. “Very well. Fill it with water.”
Water was poured in and immediately began to steam. “Not so much. Not so much,” the queen directed. “Leave it only half full.” The men did as she commanded and replaced the lid. Their haggard hungry looks were leaning again toward despair. Finn and the queen walked away.
“Are you sure,” asked the queen quietly, when they were well out of earshot, “are you sure you have the right cauldron?”
He stopped and faced her. “My Lady Ailin, your magic put me within a league of the cauldron, though even then it took me months to find it. The people there live as thickly as sacrifices within a wicker; they crowd out the trees and grass. But I spoke to the dark woman, who told me she only had to put the pot over her fire, put the lid on, and wait.”
“Did she say how long it took?”
“She said it took different times. I assumed it took no longer than a usual meal. Sometimes it gave her barley stew, sometimes game—”
Queen Ailin was shaking her head. “But you did not see this for yourself? You did not see an empty cauldron give forth food?”
“I had no reason to doubt her, my lady.”
“Those of low birth may say anything if they wish to sell you something, if she is interested in your silver rather than the truth.”
“I did not… exactly buy it from her, my lady.”
Queen Ailin paused to look up at him. “What? Did she then give it to you?”
For the first time, Finn looked uncomfortable. “No. I took it.”
“Took it?” The queen frowned, and her voice became harsher. “How do you mean? Took it by force?”
“No, my lady. No one was hurt. I would not hurt a woman. I took it from the house when there was no one there and left a goodly sum of silver in return.”
“But you stole it.”
“The lives of my men, my clan, were at stake. She and her children would not starve without it, and my people would.”
“You stole the cauldron from a woman and her children?” Her voice was louder now, and people nearby had begun to stare.
&nbs
p; “They had no need of it! They would not starve. Look!” He flung his arm out. “The cookfires of the Sidhe are still out there! The smoke from their meals drifts up to our nostrils. They need not attack. They need only wait. And they know it!”
Her face as she looked at him was as stony as her hair was grey.
From a little ways away, one of the men called out. “Finn, my lady. The pot has boiled dry.”
She glanced away from Finn and strode to where the men stood with the cauldron. “It is said”—she turned back to face Finn—“that the cauldron will not boil the food of cowards.”
Finn’s jaw worked as he tried to keep back anger. “I am no coward, lady,” he said slowly. “I entered your magic Door into a strange country of folk darker than night. Your magic with languages was incomplete. Oh, I could understand the language of birds, but they spoke of no cauldron. I only half understood the language of the people. I braved many dangers to bring back this cauldron. I am no coward!”
“You stole it from a woman and her babes. This is not the action of a hero.” Around her the listening army began murmuring among themselves.
“My clan is starving! The Sidhe will destroy us soon!” Around him, his men’s faces were as hard as the druidess’s. “The woman will never miss it. I left silver for it.”
The queen walked to the pot and with a hook turned it to show the empty interior.
“I don’t understand.” Finn strode to it. “I did as she said.”
“It is obvious the magic fails us.” She let go of the pot, and it swung over the blazing fire. “You have shamed us.”
“No.”
“It is you who have brought destruction on us.”
The men around them now began to grumble. “We are doomed!” one whispered.
“No!” Finn began to back up.
The men began to speak. “The Sidhe will have our heads,” one said. “Our women and children will be slaves.”
“No,” said Marc, drawing his sword and advancing on Finn. “Perhaps only one head will suffice.”
“I have brought you the cauldron you seek. Obviously we are not using it properly. Lady Ailin! Stop this nonsense!”
“The gods will forsake us while we have a coward as champion.” She did not look at him.
“I am no coward!” He backed up as Marc approached. “I went through the Door—” He looked behind him. “The Door.” The mound was not far away. He broke and ran for it. The voices of his men roared behind him in anger and anguish. He reached the mound. “The Door. It’s here somewhere.” Something poked him painfully in the ribs. “Ow!”
“Will you die like a champion or like a coward? Draw your sword.”
“There is no need to fight. The cauldron will work. I swear it.”
“Life in the Otherworld has made you soft. I will take your head without a fight if I have to, coward.” He drew back his sword to strike.
Finn drew his own and blocked the blow. “Stand back! I am champion and can outfight you. You have no chance.”
Perhaps he was right. He was their best, save for his dead brother, and Marc was weak with hunger. But Finn had not touched a sword in many months. He had become soft, he realized. And Marc had anger behind him—and many men. Finn could not outfight them all.
Though Finn had nicked Marc’s arm, Marc’s return scored a strike against his leg. Finn cried out and stumbled backward against the mound. To one side, Queen Ailin was chanting, arms upraised. Chanting a curse, Finn realized. The next blow he blocked rammed vibrations all the way up his arm, and he almost lost his weapon. He only half blocked the next blow, and it scored a deep gash against his upper chest and left arm.
He could not hold out, he realized, and broke away, trying to circle the mound, trying to find the Door. A score across his back made him fall. Queen Ailin’s spell reached a climax, and the mound began to buckle beneath him.
“Let you live your curse all the hours of your life. Let you wander until you have found your honor. Let us be rid of you!” The dirt of the mound crumbled in on itself. The fall, though only a few feet, seemed to last for a long time. He landed heavily, his injured arm trapped beneath him, on a hardwood floor. Something lay beneath his head—his Reeboks. The back of his closet shimmered with magic. Briefly he saw the images of Marc and Ailin. He rested his head against the Reeboks, feeling the blood seeping out of him.
A metal clang sounded, and the pot came hurling out of the closet at him. He tried to fend it off with his good arm, but the pot was still hot and burned him. He cried out in pain as the cauldron and its lid went bouncing into the interior of the room. Ailin’s image reappeared once more, mouthing silently at him, then the flickering at the back of his closet collapsed into a shining point at the center before disappearing altogether. He stared at empty shelving.
He had no idea how long he had been away from the Otherworld. He hoped the phone still worked. Crawling to it, he lifted the receiver, heard a dial tone, and punched 911.
“Please help me,” he said into the receiver. “I’m bleeding.” He gave them the address. “Hurry.” He dropped the receiver and rested his head against the floor, sobbing from injuries and shame.
“Mrs. Maddy Prudence Jackson?” The woman’s voice on the phone sounded hesitant.
“Yes. This is she.” Maddy was working at home on the computer that day and was a little annoyed at being disturbed. It was nearly impossible to work in the evening with the kids around.
“Yes, my name is Anne Woloszyk. I’m a nurse at Rush-Presbyterian—”
“Rush-Presby? Oh, my God. The kids. My babies! Are they all right?”
“The kids? Oh, no, Mrs. Jackson. I’m not calling about your children. I didn’t even know you had children.”
Annoyance returned. “Well, then—I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain. Do you know someone named Finn O’Neil?”
Annoyance increased. “Yes, I do. Or did.”
“He’s a patient here at the hospital—”
“Patient? What happened to him?”
“He was in some kind of a fight, apparently. Came in with several knife wounds. I’ve been assigned to him. He told me that he had something of yours, an iron cooking pot?”
“My pot! It’s been found?”
“He said he borrowed it and wanted to make sure it got back to you.”
“Borrowed it? Hmph! That’s not my word for it.”
“Would you like me to come by with it? I’ve just gone off shift, and he was very adamant that it be returned to you.”
“Yes, I would like that very much, Mrs. Wo—Wal—”
“Woloszyk. Ms. I can be by in about an hour and a half.”
“Thank you very much, Ms. Wo—Wolosh—”
The other laughed. “Anne. Just call me Anne.”
Later, Maddy opened the door almost before Anne Woloszyk knocked. “I was looking out the window for you. Come in.”
A pretty white girl with glasses stepped in. Her wavy hair was caught back in a barrette, and she was dressed in nurse’s whites and sensible shoes. A Jewel shopping bag hung from her arm.
Maddy closed the door behind her. “It was good of you to come over, Anne. It must have been out of your way.”
“Oh, not that far. I just live in Rogers Park.”
“Let me take your cloak. Is it a bit chilly?”
“Just a little. Thank you.” Maddy put the cloak on a hook and turned back with open curiosity.
“Mr. O’Neil,” Anne began, “was very concerned that I give this back to you as soon as possible.” She took the pot and its lid out of the shopping bag.
“Hmph,” Maddy said in response to Mr. O’Neil. “Yes, there it is. My old cooking pot. My Erin Cory. I sure am glad to have it back.”
“It’s very unusual. Sort of like the cauldron in Macbeth.” She handed it to Maddy and found herself a seat.
“Mm?” Maddy was inspecting the pot.
“Macbeth. Shakespeare. It’s a play. There are these thr
ee witches around an old cauldron, and Macbeth comes by—”
With an indulgent smile, Maddy interrupted her. “Yes, I have been to college. I do know about Shakespeare.”
Anne stammered and subsided as Maddy walked into the kitchen with the pot.
“Now you tell me what this Mr. Finn O’Neil has gotten himself into.”
“Oh, yes. He came in with several severe gashes that required quite a few stitches.”
Maddy reentered the front room and sat down across from Anne. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He lost a lot of blood, but he wasn’t critical.” She hesitated for a moment. “They were talking about moving him to the psychiatric section.” Maddy sat back. “He was talking… strange. Odd things. Did he seem strange to you?”
Maddy nodded, with a wry smile. “Very strange. What kind of things was he saying?”
“He was very… concerned that you get that cauldron back. Gave me the keys to his place and, insisted. That’s what he called it. A cauldron. He said that, uh, that it might save his honor and let the gods favor him again.”
“Gods! He some kind of heathen?”
“I don’t know, Maddy. Perhaps he thought he was.”
“Maybe I should visit him. Poor boy. Show him there are no hard feelings.”
Anne lowered her eyes. “That’ll be a little difficult, Maddy. When I came on shift this morning, I found out he’d disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Gone. Without a trace.”
“How could he disappear, as injured as he was?”
“I don’t know. Though perhaps he heard talk of the psychiatric wing, and it scared him.”
Maddy sighed and leaned back. “You know, it makes me wonder. You think you can trust people, and I let him into my house. Me alone with two children. Perhaps I was crazy to let him in.”
Anne was fishing in her purse. “He left this.” She held out a piece of paper. “It has your name on it. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
Maddy took it. “‘May the dag—dagda? bless you and me,’” she read. “‘I am a hero and cannot live in shame. I go to salve my honor. There might still be time to save my people.’ You’re right. It doesn’t make much sense.”
“At least you’ve got your stew pot back.”
Best of Marion Zimmer Bradley Fantasy Magazine, Volume 2 Page 20