The Skrayling Tree: The Albino in America

by Michael Moorcock

  The black-and-gold sails of Venice were slightly larger on the horizon now. The tide was beginning to run our way, and I squeezed into a space between the mast and the deckhouse, marveling at the efficiency of these seamen. With a single woollen sail, they could get a ship into battle order in moments.

  The oars bit the water as Gunnar roared the beat. We leaped out of the harbor, oblivious of everything but escape. Dhows and wherries scattered as we shot through the outer walls and into open sea, oars and sail combining to bring the ship about as Gunnar himself stood at the steering sweep, making adjustments with the touch of his hand, the balance was so beautiful. The unshipped oars moved in amazing uniform, like a neatly choreographed dance, and The Swan darted like a live thing under our feet, thrusting out into the deep water long before the Venetians saw us. We were already running for the Mediterranean, and unless they had laid a real trap for us there, we might even leave them behind completely. Once we were seen to reach the safety of Las Cascadas, any other pursuers would give up. Earl Gunnar had always made a point of staying on good terms with the Caliphates.

  Two-masted, slave-rowed, heavy in the water and clumsy fore and aft, built more for endurance and protection than attack, the Venetian ships needed good weather and great luck even to keep pace with us. We quickly saluted farewell as our glorious pursuers fell below the horizon. Then we ran down the Illyrian coast and, with oars at full speed, sail bellying with a powerful southwester, rounded the Italian peninsula with a strong wind for Sicilia and the Tyrrhenian Sea, where we ran into a small flotilla of black-sailed ships expectantly lying in wait for us. Two brigantines and a brig.

  Gunnar stood on his own bridge holding his sides and jeering with laughter as we sped by the lumbering vessels. “Three!” he shouted. “Three ships! Only three to catch The Swan! Your wealth makes you stupid!” He then turned to me. “They insult us, eh, Sir Silverskin?”

  It was clear he felt a bond with me which I did not share.

  I was exhilarated by the ship’s performance. Gunnar, however, continued to act as if being overtaken by the Venetians were imminent. Like me he had learned not to relax too soon.

  Later that night he finally gave the order to slow oars. His men slept instantly over their sweeps. Almost at her own volition The Swan continued to glide through the water. Gunnar planned to hug the Numidian shore all the way to the Magreb. In the west, only a few miles of sea separated the coast from Las Cascadas.

  Gunnar joined me in the prow, where I had found a little solitude and was looking up at the great splash of the Milky Way, staring at stars which were at once familiar and unfamiliar. I had wrapped myself in my deep indigo oilskin cloak. Golden autumn touched the ocean. I remembered the story told to Melnibonéan children of the dead souls who walk the star-roads of the Milky Way, which we called the Land of the Dead. I was, for some reason, thinking of my father, the disappointed widower who blamed me for my mother’s death.

  Gunnar made no apology for interrupting me. He was in good spirits. “Those fat merchant bastards are still wallowing their way around Otranto!”

  He clapped me on the back, almost as if feeling for a weakness. “So are you going to tell me how you think you know my plans? Or am I going to throw you overboard and put you out of my mind?”

  “That would be ill-advised,” I said. “But also impossible. You know I am effectively immortal and invulnerable.”

  “I won’t know that until I put it to the test,” he said. “But I do not believe you are any less mortal than myself.”

  “Indeed?” I saw no point in quarreling with him. He recognized the token I showed him. The ring which seemed fresh-minted.

  “Aye, Elric Sadricsson, I know you from King Ethelred’s time, when he paid you with that ring for your aid against the Danes. But the ring’s far more ancient, eh. I thought the Templars had it now.”

  “Ethelred ruled a century and a half ago,” I said. “Do I seem so old? I am, as you know, not a well man.”

  “I think you are much older than that, Sir Templar,” Gunnar said. “I think you are ageless.” There was a sinister note to his voice, a mocking quality which irritated me. “But not invulnerable.”

  “I think you mistake me for Luerabas, the Wandering Albanian, whom Jesus cursed from the tomb.”

  “I know for a fact that story’s nonsense. Prince Elric of Melniboné, your story is far from being finished. And far from judgment.”

  He was trying to disturb me. I did not show him he had succeeded. “You know much for a mortal,” I said.

  “Oh, far too much for a mortal. It is my doom, Prince Elric, to remember everything of my past, my present and my future. I know, for instance, that I shall die in the full knowledge of the hopelessness and folly of existence. So dying will be a relief for me. And if I take a universe with me, so much the better. Oblivion is my destiny but also my craving. You, on the other hand, are doomed to remember too little and so die still hoping, still loving life… ”

  “I do not plan to die, but if I do, I doubt if it will be hoping,” I said. “The reason I am in this world is because I search for life, even now.”

  “I search for death. Yet our quest takes us to the same place. We have common interests, Prince Elric, if not desires.”

  I could not answer him directly. “You have a place, no doubt, in this dream,” I said. “You are some sort of dream-traveler. A dreamthief, perhaps?”

  “You seem determined to insult me.”

  I would not rise to this. I was beginning to get the man’s measure. He did know a great deal more about me than anyone else in this world. True, when I first entered this realm I served King Ethelred, known as the Unready. I traveled with a woman I called my sister, and we were both betrayed in the end.

  But my apparent longevity was only the stuff of dreams, not my own reality. Gunnar was enjoying my supposed bafflement. I had shown him the ring because I had thought it might have meaning for him. It clearly bore more significance for him than I had guessed. I had acquired the thing in Jerusalem, off the same knight from whom I had taken Solomon.

  “Come,” Gunnar said. “I’ve something to show you. It will be interesting to know if you recognize it.” He led me amidships into the little deckhouse. Inside was a chest which he opened without hesitation, swinging the bronze oil lamp over it so that I could see inside. There was a sword, some armor, some gauntlets, but on top of these was a round shield whose painted design was elegantly finished in blues, whites and reds, the pattern suggesting an eight-rayed sun. Was it of African origin? Had he found it in that famous expedition to the South Seas with the Rose? It was not metal, but hide covering wood, and when Gunnar put it into my hands it was surprisingly light, though about the same size and proportions as a Viking shield. “Do you know this plate?” he asked, using the Norse meaning.

  “I had a toy like it once perhaps. Something to do with my childhood? What is it?” I balanced it in my hands. It seemed vibrant, alive. I had a momentary image of a nonhuman friend, a dragon perhaps. But the workmanship was in no way Melnibonéan. “Some sort of talisman. Were you sold it as a magic shield? That could be the sign of Chaos as easily as it could be the points of the compass. I think you have placed too high a value on this thing, Earl Gunnar. Was it meant to enchant me? To persuade me to your cause?”

  Gunnar frowned. He simply did not believe me. “I envy you your self-control. You know the nature of that ring! Or is it self-deception? Lack of memory?”

  “I seem to have little else but memory. Far too much memory. Self-deception? I remember the price I pay for slaying my own betrothed…”

  “Ah, well,” said Gunnar, “at least I am not burdened by such depressing and useless emotions. You and I are each going to die. We both understand the inevitable. It is merely my ambition to achieve that fate for the whole of creation at the same time. For if Fate thinks she jokes with us, I must teach her the consequences of her delusion. Everything in the multiverse will die when I die. I cannot bear the idea o
f life continuing when I know only oblivion.”

  I thought he was joking. I laughed. “Kill all of us?” I said. “A hard task.”

  “Hard,” he agreed, “but not impossible.” He took the bright “plate” from my hands and placed it back on top of his war hoard. He was disgruntled, as if he had expected more from me. I almost apologized.

  “You’ll have a great desire for that shield one day,” he said. “Perhaps not in this manifestation. But we can hope.”

  He expected no real response from me. It seemed he sought only to pull me down to his level of misery. My own was of a different order. I had no “memory” of the future, and it was true my memory of the past was often a little dim. My concern was with my own world and an ambitious theocrat who had summoned forces of Chaos he could not now control. I needed to be free of him. I needed to be able to kill him slowly. I was still Melnibonéan enough to need the satisfaction of a long and subtle revenge. To achieve this end I must find the Nihrainian smith who forged the archetype of the black blade. Why it should be here, in a world given over to brutality and hypocrisy, I did not know.

  Having baffled me when he hoped to intrigue me, the faceless captain let an edge creep into his voice. I was reminded of his essential malevolence.

  “I have always envied you your ability to forget,” he said. “And it irks me not to know how you came by it.”

  I had never met the man before. His words seemed like the merest nonsense. Eventually I made an excuse, settled myself in the forward part of the boat and was soon asleep.

  The next day, with a heavy sea mist at last beginning to burn off, we came in sight of the Tripolitanian coast. Gunnar sent a man up the mast to look for ships and obstacles. Few others would sail in such weather, but most of the ships in the region were coast-luggers, transporting trade goods from one part of the Moorish Confederacy to another. The richest and most cultured power in the region, the Arabs had brought unprecedented enlightenment. The Moors despised the Romans as uncouth and provincial and admired the Greeks as scholars and poets. It was to those oddly opposed forces that this world owed most of its creativity. The Romans were engineers, but the Moors were Chaos’s thinkers. Romans had no real notion of balance, only of control. A pattern so at odds with the rhythms and pulses of the natural and supernatural worlds seemed destined to produce disaster.

  Las Cascadas, called by the Moors Hara al Wadim, was a haven in a region too full of ships to be safe for us. I prayed that the Venetians or Turks had not taken their place in the meantime and were lying in wait for us. It was highly unlikely. Though nominally under the authority of the Caliphates, the strongest power in the region, Las Cascadas was a law unto herself, with one easily defended harbor. While the Mussulman Fatimids and their rivals continued to quarrel over stewardship of Mecca, as the Byzantines quarreled over the stewardship of Rome, and so long as the Matter of Jerusalem was the focus of the world’s attention, the island remained safe.

  The Barbary Rose was prudent. She confined her activities to those waters not claimed by the Caliphates or Empire. First fortified by Carthage, Las Cascadas was considered safe, too, because she was ruled by a woman. I had sailed with that woman in my time. Gunnar told me her twin-hulled ship I greatly admired, The Either/Or, was wintering in North Africa, probably in Mirador with an old ally of hers and mine, the Welsh sea-robber and semimortal, Ap Kwelch, who had also been hired by King Ethelred. Ap Kwelch was known in English waters for a cunning foe but an awkward ally.

  I was relieved I would not have to encounter Kwelch. We had an unresolved argument not best settled at Las Cascadas where all weaponry was collected and put under lock and key at the dock.

  Before we ever saw the island, Gunnar ran up his flags, as if they would not recognize The Swan for who she was. Perhaps he had a code to let the defenders know he was still captain.

  We sighted Las Cascadas at midday, approaching her from the harbor side. At first the island fortress was like a mirage, a series of silver veins twinkling in the sunlight. Then it became clear those veins ran down the sides of cliffs formed by the crater of an enormous volcano. There were no evident signs of a harbor entrance, only the still lagoon within. It seemed to me that this mysterious island could only be occupied from the air or from below, and such supernatural forces were no longer summonable.

  I had seen the fate of those forces of nature and super-nature, exiled to bleak parts of the world like the Devil’s Garden and slowly dying. When all such souls died, it was thought by our folk, the Earth died also. This war had been going on for centuries between Law and Chaos. Soon Arabia might be the only region not conquered by thin-lipped puritans.

  Gunnar again took the steering sweep. He wrapped his huge arm around one of the sail ropes, guiding his ship as if it were a skiff. Beyond the rocks which guarded the harbor, I saw a great cluster of houses, churches, mosques, synagogues, public buildings, markets and all the dense richness of a thriving, almost vertical city. It was built up the sides of the harbor. The rivers and waterfalls which gave Las Cascadas its name sparkled and gushed between buildings and rocks. The whole island glinted like a raw silver ingot. Pastel-colored houses were dense with greenery and late-summer flowers. From their roofs and balconies, their gardens and vineyards, people raised up to look at us as we came about before the sea-gates of Las Cascadas. Two enormous doors of brass and steel could be drawn over a narrow gap between the rocks, just wide enough for a single ship to come or go. I was reminded vividly of Melniboné, though this place lacked the soaring towers of the Dreamers’ City.

  I heard shouted greetings. Figures moved about the stonework which housed the doors, levers turned, slaves hauled huge chains and the sea-gate opened.

  Gunnar grunted and touched his steering sweep a little to port, then a little to starboard. Delicately he guided us through the narrow gaps, swift and smooth as an eel. The gates groaned closed again behind us. We rowed in slowly beneath the gaze of Las Cascadas’s citizens. Everyone here lived off the proceeds of piracy. They were all devoted subjects of the pirate queen. The beautiful Barbary Rose had diplomatic skills which made her the equal of Cleopatra.

  A great variety of ships already stood at anchor in the harbor. I recognized a Chinese junk, several large dhows, a round-hulled Egyptian ship, and the more sophisticated fighting galleys, most of modified Greek pattern, which were the favorite vessels of corsair captains. I had a feeling I might meet old friends here, but not recent acquaintances. Then, as I hauled my gear to the dock, I heard a name being called. “Pielle d’ Argent, is it you?” I turned.

  Laughing, the little redheaded Friar Tristelunne came bustling along a quayside already crowded with the riffraff of Las Cascadas turning out in hope of casual employment. But whatever booty Gunnar brought to Las Cascadas to pay for his security, it was not cargo. For a while Tristelunne disappeared in the crowd, then bobbed up again nearby, still smiling. “So you took my advice,” he said. “You spoke to the old ladies and gentlemen?”

  “They spoke to me,” I said. “I thought you headed for Cordova.”

  “I was about to disembark. Then I heard Christians and Jews were again out of favor with the caliph. He believes there has been a fresh conspiracy with the Empire. He’s considering expelling all Franks. Indeed, he is wondering if expelling might not be too good for them. I thought it wise to wait out the winter here, administering to what faithful I can find. I’ll see how the weather feels in spring. My alternative, at present, is the Lion-heart’s England, and quite honestly, it’s no place for a gentleman. The forests are full of outlaws, the monasteries full of Benedictines and worse. Their divinely appointed king remains a prisoner in Austria, as I understand it, because his people have no particular interest in paying his ransom. John is an intellectual and therefore not trusted by anyone, especially the Church.” Gossiping continually, Tristelunne guided me up steep, cobbled streets to the inn, which he insisted was the best on the island.

  Behind me Gunnar roared a question. I told him
I would see him at the inn.

  I sensed his unease with my independence. He was used to control. It was second nature to him. He was baffled, I suspected, rather than angry.

  Amused by all this, Friar Tristelunne led me into the inn’s sunny garden. He sat me down at a bench and went inside, returning with two large shants of ale. I did my best with this hearty stuff, but yellow wine was the only drink that suited my perhaps overrefined palate. The fighting friar was not upset by this. He fetched me a cup of good wine and finished the ale himself. “You got advice, I hope, from the Grandparents?”

  “They seemed more in a prophetic mood,” I said. “Some mysterious visions.”

  “Follow them,” he said firmly. “They’ll bring you the thing you desire. You know already, in your heart, what the thing you desire will bring you.” And he sighed.

  “I have no interest in foreknowledge,” I said. “My fate is my fate. That I understand. And understanding it releases me to drift wherever the tides of fate take me, for I trust in my own fortune, good or bad.”

  “A true gambler,” he said. “A veritable mukhamir!”

  “I’d heard all that before,” I told him. “I belong to no society nor guild. I practice no formal arts, save when necessary, and I believe in nothing but myself, my sword and my unchangeable destiny.”