Enchanted Pilgrimage

by Clifford D. Simak

  “Maybe he won’t get them,” Gib said hopefully. “He may try for them and fail.”

  “Of course he’ll fail,” said Sniveley. “He hasn’t got a chance. All the hellhounds of the Wasteland will be snapping at his heels, and any human who gets out alive will do so through pure luck. But for centuries now there has been peace—at times unwilling peace—between humans and the Brotherhood. But this will light the fires. The Borderland will become unsafe. There’ll be war again.”

  “There is one thing that puzzles me,” said Gib. “You had no great objection to Cornwall going into the Wasteland—foolish certainly, but no great objection. I think you rather admired him for his courage. You were willing to give me a sword for him.…”

  “Look, my friend,” said Sniveley, “there is a vast difference between a lowly scholar going out into the Wasteland on an academic and intellectual search and a minion of the Church charging into it with fire and steel. The scholar, being known as a scholar, might even have a chance of coming out alive. Not that he’d be entirely safe, for there are some ugly customers, with whom I have small sympathy, lurking in the Wasteland. But by and large he might be tolerated, for he would pose no danger to our people. He would not bring on a war. If he were killed, he’d be killed most quietly, and no one would ever know how or when it happened. Indeed, there would be few who would ever mark his going there. And he might even come back. Do you see the difference?”

  “I think I do,” said Gib.

  “So now what do we have?” asked Sniveley of Gib. “There is this journey that you are honor bound to make, carrying the book and ax the hermit gave you for delivery to the Bishop of the Tower. And on this journey your precious scholar will travel with you and then continue on into the Wasteland. Have I got the straight of it?”

  “Yes, you have,” said Gib.

  “You have no intention of going into the Wasteland with him?”

  “I suppose I haven’t.”

  “But I have such intentions,” said the rafter goblin. “I was in at the start of it; I might as well be in at the end of it, whatever that may be. I have come this far and I have no intention whatsoever of turning back.”

  “You told me,” said Hal, “that you had a great fear of open spaces. You had a word for it …”

  “Agoraphobia,” said Oliver. “I still have it. I shiver at the breath of open air. The uncovered sky oppresses me. But I am going on. I started something back there in that Wyalusing garret, and I cannot turn back with it half done.”

  “You’ll be an outlander,” said Snively. “Half of the Brotherhood, half out of it. Your danger will be real. Almost as much danger to you as there is danger to a human.”

  “I know that,” said Oliver, “but I am still going.”

  “What about this matter of you carrying something to the Bishop of the Tower?” Hal asked Gib. “I had not heard of it.”

  “I had meant to ask you if you’d show us the way,” said Gib. “We want to travel overland and I fear we might get lost. You must know the way.”

  “I’ve never been there,” said Hal. “But I know these hills. We’d have to stay clear of paths and trails, especially with this Inquisition agent heading the same way. I suppose he will be coming through the Borderland. So far there has been no word of him.”

  “If he had passed by,” said Sniveley, “I would have had some word of him.”

  “If I am to go,” asked Hal, “when should I be ready?”

  “Not for a few days,” said Gib. “Mark has to heal a bit, and I promised Drood I’d help him get some wood.”

  Sniveley shook his head. “I do not like it,” he said. “I like no part of it. I smell trouble in the wind. But if the scholar lad’s to go, he must have the sword. I promised it for him and it’ll be a sorry day when a gnome starts going back on his promises.”

  11

  They had traveled for five days through sunny autumn weather, with the leaves of the forest slowly turning to burnished gold, to deep blood-red, to lustrous brown, to a pinkness of the sort that made one’s breath catch in his throat at the beauty of it.

  Tramping along, Mark Cornwall kept reminding himself time and time again that in the past six years he had lost something of his life. Immured in the cold, stone walls of the university, he had lost the color and the smell and the headiness of an autumn forest and, worst of all, had not known he had lost it.

  Hal led them, for the most part, along the ridgetops, but there were times when they must cross from one ridge to another or had to leave the high ground to keep out of sight of a ridgetop clearing where a woodcutter or a farmer scratched out a bare existence. While there was no danger in such places; where, indeed, a welcome and a rough sort of hospitality might be accorded them, it was considered best to avoid detection as much as possible. Word would travel fast concerning the movements of such a motley band as theirs and there might be danger in having the fact of their journey noised about.

  Plunging down from the ridges into the deep-cut valleys that ran between the hills, they entered a different world—a deep, hushed, and buried world. Here the trees grew closer and larger, rock ledges jutted out of steep hillsides, and massive boulders lay in the beds of brawling creeks. Far overhead one could hear the rushing of the wind that brushed the hilltops, but down below the brows of the rearing bluffs there was no hint of wind. In the quietness of this deeper forest, the startled rush of a frightened squirrel, his foraging disturbed, through the deep layer of autumn leaves, was startling in itself. That, or the sudden explosion of wings as a ruffed grouse went rocketing like a twilight ghost through the tangle of the tree trunks.

  At the end of a day’s journey they went down into one of the deep hollows between the hills to find a camping place. Hal, scouting ahead, would seek a rock shelter where a fissure in the limestone of a bluff-face was overhung either by a ledge of rock or by the bluff itself, offering some protection. The fire was small, but it gave out warmth against the chill of night, holding back the dark, making a small puddle of security and comfort in a woods that seemed to turn hostile with the coming of the night.

  Always there was meat, for Hal, wise to the woods and an expert with his bow, brought down squirrels and rabbits, and on the second day, a deer, and on other occasions, grouse. So that, as a result of this, they made lesser inroads on the provisions they carried—wild rice, smoked fish, cornmeal, sparse fare, but sustaining and easy to carry.

  Sitting around the fire at night, Cornwall remembered the disappointment of Mrs. Drood when she had been persuaded that she should not have a farewell party for them, inviting in the marsh people, the gnomes and the hill people to speed them on their way. It would have been a good party, but it would have emphasized their going, which all concerned agreed should be kept as quiet as possible.

  Five days of sunny weather, but in the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day rain had begun to fall, at first little more than a gentle mist, but increasing as the hours went on, with a wind developing from the west until, with night about to fall, the rain poured down steadily, driven by the wind that turned it into needles that stung one’s face.

  Throughout the afternoon Hal hunted for shelter but had found nothing that would afford more than minimal protection against the driving storm.

  Cornwall brought up the rear, following Coon, who humped along disconsolately, his coat of fur plastered down with wetness, his bedraggled tail sweeping the forest floor.

  Ahead of Coon, Gib and the rafter goblin walked together, with the marsh-man’s wet fur gleaming in the soft light that still remained, the goblin weary and hobbling, walking with an effort. The march, Cornwall realized, had been tougher on the goblin than on any of the others. His days of walking, from Wyalusing to Hal’s hollow tree, and now the six days of the march, had played him out. Life in the rafters at the university had not fitted him for this.

  Cornwall hurried ahead, passing Coon. He reached down and touched the goblin’s shoulder.

  “Up, on my back
,” he said. “You deserve a rest.”

  The goblin looked up at him. “Kind sir,” he said, “there is no need.”

  “I insist,” said Cornwall. He crouched down and the goblin clambered on his shoulder, balancing himself with an arm around the human’s neck.

  “I am tired,” he admitted.

  “You have traveled far,” said Cornwall, “since that day you came to see me.”

  The goblin chuckled thinly. “We started a long progression of events,” he said, “and not finished yet. You know, of course, that I go into the Wasteland with you.”

  Cornwall grunted. “I had expected as much. You will be welcome, little one.”

  “The terror slowly leaves me,” said Oliver, the goblin. “The sky no longer frightens me as much as it did when I started out. I am afraid now I might even grow to like the open. That would be a horrible thing to happen to a rafter goblin.”

  “Yes, wouldn’t it?” said Cornwall.

  They plodded along, and there was no sign of Hal. Darkness began to sift down into the forest. Would they keep walking all the night, Cornwall wondered. Was there any end to it? There was no letup in the storm. The slanting rain, coming from the northwest, slashed at his face. The wind seemed to be growing colder and sharper.

  Hal materialized in the darkness ahead, moving like a dark ghost out of the darkness of the tree trunks. They stopped, standing in a knot, waiting for him to come up to them.

  “I smelled smoke,” he said, “and tracked it down. It could have been Beckett and his men, camping for the night; it could have been a charcoal pit or a farmer’s homestead. When you smell smoke, you find out what it is.”

  “Now,” said Gib, “that you have sufficiently impressed us, tell us what it was.”

  “It is an inn,” said Hal.

  “That does us no good,” said Gib. “They’d never let us in, not a marsh-man and a hill-man, a goblin, and a coon.”

  “They would let Mark in,” said Hal. “If he gets too wet and cold, his arm will stiffen up and he’ll have no end of trouble.”

  Cornwall shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me in, either. They’d ask to see the color of my coin and I have no coin. In any case, we stick together. I wouldn’t enter where they’d not welcome all of you.”

  “There is a stable,” said Hal. “Once it is dark, we can shelter there, be out before the dawn. No one would ever know.”

  “You found no other shelter?” asked Cornwall. “No cave?”

  “Nothing,” said Hal. “I think it has to be the stable.”

  12

  There was one horse in the stable. It nickered softly at them when they came through the door.

  “The innkeeper’s horse,” said Hal. “A sorry bag of bones.”

  “Then there are no guests,” said Cornwall.

  “None,” said Hal. “I peered through the window. Mine host is roaring drunk. He is throwing stools and crockery about. He is in a vicious temper. There is no one there, and he must take it out on the furniture and pottery.”

  “Perhaps, after all,” said Gib, “we are better in the stable.”

  “I think so,” said Cornwall. “The loft, perhaps. There appears to be hay up there. We can burrow into it against the cold.”

  He reached out a hand and shook the pole ladder that ran up into the loft.

  “It seems solid enough,” he said.

  Coon already was clambering up it.

  “He knows where to go,” said Hal, delighted.

  “And I follow him,” said Cornwall.

  He climbed the ladder until his head came above the opening into the loft. The storage space, he saw, was small, with clumps of hay here and there upon the floor.

  Ahead of him Coon was clambering over the piles of hay and, suddenly, just ahead of him, a mound of hay erupted and a shrill scream split the air.

  With a surge Cornwall cleared the ladder, felt the rough boards of the hay mow bending and shifting treacherously beneath his feet. Ahead of him the hay-covered figure beat the air with flailing arms and kept on screaming.

  He leaped forward swiftly, reaching for the screamer. He sweated, imagining mine host bursting from the inn and racing toward the stable, adding to the hullabaloo that would arouse the countryside, if there were anyone in this howling wilderness of a countryside to rouse.

  The screamer tried to duck away, but he reached out and grabbed her, pulled her tight against him, lifted his freehand and clamped it hard against her mouth. The screaming was shut off. Teeth closed on a finger and he jerked it free, slapped her hard, and clamped down the hand across her mouth. She did not bite again.

  “Keep quiet,” he told her. “I’ll take the hand away. I do not mean to hurt you.”

  She was small and soft.

  “Will you be quiet?” he asked.

  She bobbed her head against his chest to say she would. Behind him Cornwall heard the others scrabbling up the ladder.

  “There are others here,” he said. “They will not hurt you, either. Don’t scream.”

  He took the hand away.

  “What’s the matter, Mark?” asked Oliver.

  “A woman. She was hiding up here. Was that what you were doing, miss?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Hiding.”

  The loft was not quite dark. Heavy twilight still filtered through the louvered windows set at each end of the gables.

  The woman stepped away from Cornwall, then at the sight of Oliver, shrank back against him. A frightened breath caught in her throat.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Oliver is a very friendly goblin. He is a rafter goblin. You know what a rafter goblin is?”

  She shook her head. “There was an animal,” she said.

  “That was Coon. He’s all right, too.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt a flea,” said Hal. “He is so downright friendly that it is disgusting.”

  “We are fugitives,” said Cornwall. “Or very close to fugitives. But non-dangerous fugitives. This is Hal, and over there is Gib. Gib is a marsh-man. Hal is hill people.”

  She was shivering, but she stepped away from him.

  “And you?” she asked. “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Mark. I am a student.”

  “A scholar,” said Oliver, with fidgety precision. “Not a student, but a scholar. Six years at Wyalusing.”

  “We seek shelter from the storm,” said Cornwall. “We would have gone to the inn, but they would not have taken us. Besides, we have no money.”

  “He is drunk,” said the girl, “and smashing up the furniture. Madam is hiding in the cellar and I ran out here. I was afraid of him. I’ve always been afraid of him.”

  “You work at the inn?”

  “I am,” she said with some bitterness, “the wench, the scullery maid, the slops girl.”

  She sat down suddenly in the hay. “I don’t care what happens,” she said. “I am not going back. I will run away. I don’t know what will happen to me, but I’ll run away. I will stay no longer at the inn. He is always drunk and madam is handy with a faggot and no one needs to put up with that.”

  “You,” said Oliver, “can run away with us. What matter if there be one more of us? A brave but a sorry company, and there’s always room for another.”

  “We go far,” said Hal, “and the way is hard.”

  “No harder than the inn,” she said.

  “There is no one at the inn?” asked Cornwall.

  “Nor likely to be,” she said. “Not on a night like this. Not that there is ever any crowd. A few travelers now and then. Charcoal burners and woodcutters in to get a drink, although not too often, for they seldom have the penny.”

  “Then,” said Gib, “we can sleep till morning with no fear of disturbance.”

  Coon, who had been investigating the crannies of the loft, came back and sat down, wrapping his tail around his feet.

  “One of us will have to stand guard for a time,” said Cornwall, “then wake another one. We’ll have to take turn
s throughout the night. I will volunteer for the first watch if it’s agreeable with the rest of you.”

  Gib said to the serving wench, “Will you be coming with us?”

  “I don’t think it wise,” said Cornwall.

  “Wise or not,” she said, “I will leave as soon as it’s light enough to travel. With you or by myself. It makes no difference to me. I’m not staying here.”

  “I think it best,” said Hal, “that she travel with us. These woods are no place for a human girl alone.”

  “If you are to travel with us,” said Oliver, “we should know your name.”

  “My name is Mary,” said the girl.

  “Does anyone want to eat?” asked Gib. “I have some cold cornbread in my knapsack and a bag of shelled walnuts. Not much, but something we can chew on.”

  Hal hissed at them.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  They listened. There was only the muffled patter of the rain and the mutter of the wind underneath the eaves.

  “I hear nothing,” Cornwall said.

  “Wait. There it was again.”

  They listened and it came again, a strange clicking sound.

  “That’s a horse,” said Hal. “A shod horse, the metal of the shoe striking on a stone.”

  It came again and with it came the faint sound of voices. Then the sound of the stable door creaking open and the shuffle and the thump of feet as a horse was led inside. Voices mumbled.

  “This is a foul place,” said one whining voice.

  “It is better than the open,” said another. “Only a little better, but this is a noisome night.”

  “The innkeeper is drunk,” said the other.

  “We can find our own food and beds,” said his fellow.

  More horses were led in. Leather creaked as saddles were taken off. The horses stamped. One of them whinnied.

  “Find a fork and get up that ladder,” someone said. “Throw down some hay.”