“Not too well,” said Jones. “I could not explain it all to you. I could tell you some things, but they would make no sense.”
“You don’t know, then, how it runs,” said Cornwall.
“No, I really don’t.”
“It must be magic, then.”
“I can assure you that it is not magic. There is no magic in my world. You have to come to this world to find magic.”
“But that is ridiculous,” said Mary. “There has to be magic. Magic is a part of life.”
“In my world,” said Jones, “magic has been swept away. Men talk of magic, certainly, but they talk of something that is gone. At one time there may have been magic, but it has disappeared.”
“And you have to come to this world to find the magic you have lost?”
“That is exactly it,” said Jones. “I’ve come to study it.”
“It is strange,” said Cornwall. “It is passing strange, all these things you say. You must have some magic in you, even if you do deny it. For here you have all these little people working willingly for you, or at least they appear to be quite willing. Tending the fires and food, carrying the beer, taking care of the horses. They have been following us, but they have not come out to help us. They only hide and watch.”
“Give them time,” said Jones. “That was the way it was with me when I first arrived. They simply hid and watched, and I went about my business, paying no attention to them. After a time they began coming out to sit and talk with me. From certain things I did and certain things I had, they thought I was a wizard and, therefore, someone who was worthy of them.”
“You have advantage of us there,” said Cornwall. “There is no wizardry about us.”
“I hear otherwise,” said Jones. “These little ones of mine tell me otherwise. They heard it from your little ones and came scampering to tell me all about it. There is one of you who can pull the horn of a unicorn from the oak, and there is another who carries a very magic sword, and still another who carries a very special kind of stone.”
“How did they know about the stone?” demanded Gib. “The stone is securely wrapped and carried secretly. We’ve not even talked about it.”
“Oh, they know, all right,” said Jones. “Don’t ask me how they know, but it seems they do. Check me if I’m wrong—the stone is one made by the Old Ones very long ago and now will be returned to them.”
Cornwall leaned forward eagerly. “What do you know about the Old Ones? Can you tell me where they might be found?”
“Only what I have been told. You go to the Witch House and then across the Blasted Plain. You skirt the castle of the Chaos Beast and then you come to the Misty Mountains and there, if you are lucky, you may find the Old Ones. I’m told there are not many of them left, for they are a dying people, and they hide most fearfully, although if you come upon them suddenly, you well may be hard put to defend yourself.”
“The Witch House,” said Mary anxiously. “You speak about the Witch House. Is it an old, old house? One that appears as if it may be falling down upon itself? Standing on a little knoll above a stream, with an old stone bridge across the stream? An old two-story house, with many, many chimneys and a gallery running all the way across the front?”
“You describe it exactly. Almost as if you might have seen it.”
“I have,” said Mary. “It is the house where I lived when I was a little girl. There was a troll named Bromeley who lived underneath the bridge. And there was a brownie, Fiddlefingers …”
“Bromeley was the one who popped out to see you last night,” said Hal.
“Yes, he came to see me. While the others all stayed safely hidden, he came out to greet me. He remembered. If it hadn’t been for someone throwing in that horrid head …”
“I worried what might have happened,” said Jones, “when you reached the battlefield. I was a coward and waited. I should have come out to meet you, but I was afraid that my coming might trigger some reaction, that I might do something that I shouldn’t. I started to come down to meet you, then I came back.…”
“But there was nothing to harm us,” Cornwall said. “It was horrible, of course, but there was no danger. The only ones nearby was this gang of trolls and goblins and other little people.…”
“My friend,” said Jones, “I am glad you thought so. The belief there were only trolls and goblins may have helped you through it. With no wish to frighten you, I must tell you there were others there.”
“What others?” asked Sniveley sharply.
“Hellhounds,” said Jones. “A slavering pack of Hellhounds. As well as the little people, they’ve been with you ever since you crossed the ford.”
“Hellhounds?” asked Cornwall. “There were other than human bodies on the battlefield. The ones with tails and fangs.”
“You are right,” said Jones.
“I knew of them,” said Sniveley quietly. “They are a part of our tradition. But I have never seen one, never knew anyone who had.” He explained to Cornwall. “They are the enforcers. The executioners. The professional killers.”
“But so far,” said Cornwall, “they have let us pass.”
“They will let you pass,” said Jones, “if you continue as you have. They’ve not made up their minds about you. Make one wrong move and they’ll be down on you.”
“And what about yourself?” asked Cornwall. “Are they watching you as well?”
“Perhaps,” said Jones. “They did at first, of course, and they may still be watching. But, you see, I’ve built up a marginal reputation as a wizard and, aside from that, they may consider me insane.”
“And that would be protection?”
“I have some hope it might be. I’ve done nothing to disabuse the thought, if indeed they have it.”
“There’s someone coming up the road,” said Sniveley.
They all turned to look.
“It’s the Gossiper,” said Jones. “He’s a goddamn pest. He can scent food from seven miles away and a drink of beer from twice that distance.”
The Gossiper came stumping up the road. He was a tall, lean figure, wearing a dirty robe that trailed in the dust behind him. On his shoulder perched a raven, and from a strap slung across one shoulder dangled an oblong package that was encased in sheepskin. He carried a long staff in his left hand and thumped it energetically on the road with every step he took. He was followed by a little white dog with a limp. The dog was all white except for black spots encircling each eye, which made it appear he was wearing spectacles.
The Gossiper came up close beside the table and stopped in front of Cornwall, who swung around to face him. Now that the man was close enough, it could be seen that his robe was very worn and ragged, with gaping rents, through which one could see his hide. Some of the more pronounced rents had been patched, somewhat inexpertly, with cloth of many different colors, but sun and dirt had so reduced the colors that they blended in with the mud color of the robe. The raven was molting, and a couple of loosened feathers hung ragged from its tail; overall the bird looked moth-eaten. The little dog sat down and, with his good hindleg, fell to scratching fleas.
If the Gossiper was human, he was barely human. His ears rose to a point, and his eyes were strangely slanted. His nose was squashed across his face, and his teeth had the look of fangs. His grizzled hair, uncombed, was a writhing rat’s nest. The hand that grasped the staff had long, uneven, dirty fingernails.
He said to Cornwall, “You be the scholar, Mark Cornwall? Lately of Wyalusing?”
“That is who I am,” said Cornwall.
“You are the leader of this band of pilgrims?”
“Not the leader. We are all together.”
“However that may be,” said the Gossiper, “I have words of wisdom for you. Perhaps a friendly warning. Go no farther than the Witch House. That is as far as pilgrims are allowed to go.”
“Beckett wasn’t allowed to go even that far.”
“Beckett was no pilgrim.”
; “And you are sure we are?”
“It’s not what I think, Sir Scholar. It is what they think. I only speak their words.”
“And who the hell are they?”
“Why, fair sir, must you pretend to so much innocence? If you do not know, there are others of your party who are not so ignorant?”
“You are thinking about Oliver and me,” said Sniveley. “I would advise you to be careful of your words. I, as a gnome, and Oliver, as a goblin, here stand on home ground. We can go anywhere we please.”
“I am not so sure,” said the Gossiper, “you can claim that right. You forsook the Brotherhood.”
“You still have not answered me,” said Cornwall. “Tell me of the ‘they’ you talk about.”
“You have heard of the Hellhounds?”
“I know of them,” said Cornwall.
“The Chaos Beast, perhaps. And He Who Broods Upon the Mountain.”
“I have heard of them. In old travelers’ tales. No more than bare mention of them.”
“Then you should pray,” said the Gossiper, “that your acquaintanceship becomes no closer.”
Cornwall swiveled around to look at Jones. Jones nodded tightly. “He told me the same thing. But, as you know, I am a coward. I did not go beyond the Witch House.”
He said to the Gossiper, “How about a beer?”
“I do believe I will,” said the Gossiper. “And a slice of meat when it should be done. I have traveled far, and I hunger and I thirst most excessively.”
21
A full moon had risen above the jagged horizon of the trees, paling the stars, filling the glade with light. The fires burned low, for the meal was over, and out on the grass between the camp and road the little people danced in wild abandon to a violin’s shrilling music.
For once the food was eaten, the Gossiper had unshipped the sheepskin bundle he carried and, unwrapping the sheepskin, had taken out a fiddle and a bow.
Now he stood, a ragged figure, with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin, the fingers of his left hand flashing on the frets, while his right arm sent the bow skittering on the strings. The moth-eaten raven still maintained a precarious perch on the Gossiper’s right shoulder, hoping and skipping to keep its balance, sometimes climbing out on the upper arm, where it clung desperately, uttering dolorous squawks of protest at the insecurity of its perch. Underneath the table the little lame dog slept, replete with the meat it had been thrown by the festive feasters, its tiny paws quivering and twitching as it chased dream rabbits.
“There are such a lot of them,” said Mary, meaning the little dancing people. “When we first arrived, there did not seem so many.”
Jones chuckled at her. “There are more,” he said. “There are all of mine and most of yours.”
“You mean they have come out of hiding?”
“It was the food that did it,” he said. “The food and beer. You didn’t expect them, did you, to stay lurking in the bushes, watching all the others gorge themselves?”
“Then Bromeley must be out there with them. The sneaky little thing! Why doesn’t he come and talk with me?”
“He’s having too much fun,” said Cornwall.
Coon came lumbering out of the swirl of dancers and rubbed against Hal’s legs. Hal picked him up and put him on his lap. Coon settled down, wrapping his tail around his nose.
“He ate too much,” said Gib.
“He always does,” said Hal.
The violin wailed and whined, sang, reaching for the stars. The Gossiper’s arm was busy with the bow, and the hopping raven squalled in protest.
“I don’t quite understand you,” Cornwall said quietly to Jones. “You said you never went beyond the Witch House. I wonder why you didn’t. What are you here for, anyhow?”
Jones grinned. “It is strange that you should ask, for we have much in common. You see, Sir Scholar, I am a student, just the same as you.”
“But if you are a student, then why don’t you study?”
“But I do,” said Jones. “And there’s enough to study here. Far more than enough. When you study something, you cover one area thoroughly before you move on to the next. When the time comes, I’ll move beyond the Witch House.”
“Study, you say?”
“Yes. Notes, recordings, pictures. I have piles of notes, miles of tape …”
“Tape? Pictures? You mean paintings, drawings?”
“No,” said Jones. “I use a camera.”
“You talk in riddles,” Cornwall said. “Words I’ve never heard before.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Jones. “Would you like to come and see? We need not disturb the others. They can stay here watching.”
He rose and led the way to the tent, Cornwall following. At the entrance to the tent Jones put out a hand to halt him. “You are a man of open mind?” he asked. “As a scholar, you should be.”
“I’ve studied for six years at Wyalusing,” said Cornwall. “I try to keep an open mind. How otherwise would one learn anything?”
“Good,” said Jones. “What date would you say this is?”
“It’s October,” said Cornwall. “I’ve lost track of the day. It’s the year of Our Lord 1975.”
“Fine,” said Jones. “I just wanted to make sure. For your information, it is the seventeenth.”
“What has the date got to do with it?” asked Cornwall.
“Not too much, perhaps. It may make understanding easier a little later. And it just happens you’re the first one I could ask. Here in the Wasteland, no one keeps a calendar.”
He lifted the flap of the tent and motioned Cornwall in. Inside, the tent seemed larger than it had from the outside dimensions of it. It was orderly, but crowded with many furnishings and much paraphernalia. A military cot stood in one corner. Next to it stood a desk and chair, with a stubby candlestick holding a rather massive candle standing in the center of the desk. The flame of the lighted candle flared in the air currents. Piled on one corner of the desk was a stack of black leather books. Open boxes stood beside the books. Strange objects sat upon the desk, leaving little room for writing. There was, Cornwall saw in a rapid glance, no quill or inkhorn, no sanding box, and that seemed passing strange.
In the opposite corner stood a large metallic cabinet and next to it, against the eastern wall, an area hung with heavy black drapes.
“My developing room,” said Jones. “Where I process my film.”
Cornwall said stiffly, “I do not understand.”
“Take a look,” said Jones. He strode to the desk and lifted a handful of thin squares from one of the open boxes, spread them on the desk top. “There,” he said. “Those are the photos I was telling you about. Not paintings—photographs. Go ahead. Pick them up and look.”
Cornwall bent above the desk, not touching the so-called photos. Colored paintings stared back at him—paintings of brownies, goblins, trolls, fairies dancing on a magic green, a grinning, vicious horror that had to be a Hellhound, a two-story house standing on a knoll, with a stone bridge in the foreground. Tentatively Cornwall reached out and picked up the painting of the house, held it close for a better look.
“The Witch House,” said Jones.
“But these are paintings,” Cornwall exploded in impatience. “Miniatures. At the court many artisans turn out paintings of this sort for hour books and other purposes. Although they put borders around the paintings, filled with flowers and birds and insects and many different conceits, which to my mind makes them more interesting. They work long hours at it and most meticulously, sparing no pains to make a perfect picture.”
“Look again,” said Jones. “Do you see any brush strokes?”
“It proves nothing,” Cornwall said stubbornly. “In the miniatures there are no brush strokes. The artisans work so carefully and so well that you can see no brush strokes. And yet, truth to tell, there is a difference here.”
“You’re damn right there is a difference. I use this machine,” he said, patting with his hand a stran
ge black object that lay on the table, “and others like it to achieve these photos. I point the machine and click a button that opens a shutter so that specially treated film can see what the camera’s pointed at, and I have pictures exactly as the camera sees it. Better, more truthfully than the eye can see it.”
“Magic,” Cornwall said.
“Here we go again,” said Jones. “I tell you it’s no more magic than the trail bike is. It’s science. It’s technology. It’s a way of doing things.”
“Science is philosophy,” said Cornwall. “No more than philosophy. Putting the universe into order. Trying to make some sense out of it. You cannot do these things you are doing with philosophy. It must be done with magic.”
“Where is that open mind you said you had?” asked Jones.
Cornwall dropped the photo, drew himself up, stiffening in outrage. “You brought me here to mock me,” he said, half wrathfully, half sorrowfully. “You would humble me with your greater magic, while trying to make it seem it is not magic. Why do you try to make me small and stupid?”
“Not that,” said Jones. “Assuredly not that. I seek your understanding. When I first came here, I tried to explain to the little people. Even to the Gossiper, disreputable and benighted as he may be. I tried to tell them that there is no magic in all of this, that I am not a wizard, but they insisted that I was, they refused to understand. And after their refusal, I found there was some benefit to being thought a wizard, so I tried no longer. But for some reason I do not quite understand I do need to have someone who at least will listen. I thought that, as a scholar, you might be that person. I suppose, basically, that I need to make at least an honest effort to explain myself. I have, underneath it all, a certain contempt for myself parading as something I am not.”
“What are you, then?” asked Cornwall. “If you are no wizard, then what are you?”
“I am a man,” said Jones, “whit different from you. I happen to live in another world than yours.”
“You prate of this world and of your world,” said Cornwall, “and there are no more worlds than one. This is the only world we have, you and I. Unless you speak of the Kingdom of Heaven, which is another world, and I find it difficult to believe that you came from there.”
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