Children of the Gates (12 page)

He did not waken all at once as when one is shaken out of slumber by alarm. Recognition of reality was slow, gentle, sleep leaving him bit by bit. He could hear faint twitterings, rustlings—

Nick opened his eyes. There were leaves about him, very close above him, the tips of some brushed his face gently. He began to remember the how and why of his coming here. There was daylight around.

His body ached, he was stiff and sore, and there were rings of fire about his wrists, yet he felt wonderful, renewed, as if his body’s hurts did not matter. And he was content not to stir as yet.

This was not the feeling of peace and security that had existed in the deserted farmhouse. It was alien, but it was friendly, as if he had been allowed a step inside a door that gave upon a new and different life.

Hunger and thirst awoke, flogging him into movement. Nick crawled laboriously out from his refuge. His hands were still puffed and the weals about his wrists raw. The stream must lie in that direction.

On his feet he lurched forward. There were the burned-out fires, two of the daggers, the cross-pole, now sunbathed in the open. Nick passed the rock where the woman had sat, fell on his knees beside the water. Then he lay prone, to duck his face, lap at the moisture, dangle his hands and wrists in the chill water that stung his hurts. This roused him from his drowsy contentment.

By the strength of the sun he thought it must be close to midday. Could he find his way back to the cave? And had they come hunting him? Were the saucers out?

Gazing around Nick could see no evidence that the campsite had been visited after its people had been drawn away. He gathered up the other daggers, but left the cross-pole where it lay. Then he turned slowly, trying to guess the direction from which he had come, only to be baffled.

Trees would provide shelter from any hunting saucer, but woods also had strange inhabitants. He could follow the stream as a guide—but a guide to where? As far as he knew there was no such body of water running near the cave. And he was hungry—

The thought of possible fish in the stream was the factor in making his decision to travel along it. Though how he was going to catch any water dweller he had no idea. However, a short distance farther up he found berry bushes well loaded with fruit.

Birds whirred away at his coming, but settled again to their own harvesting. Nick pulled greedy handfuls of the well-ripened globes and stuffed his mouth, the dark juice staining his hands. Blackberries, he decided, and a growth of them that was very heavy. He rounded a bush, picking and eating avidly, and heard a snuffle. Farther along in this wealth of good eating a large brown furred shape was busy. Nick ducked back and away. The bear, if bear it had been, was fully occupied. Nick would keep to this side and let the woods dweller have that.

But in his sudden evasion he was startled by a sharp cry and jumped back. Fronting him, anger and alarm made plain, was—

Nick blinked as the creature flashed away, was gone behind a tall clump of grass. He made no move to follow, he was not even sure he wanted to see more of what had been there.

Only, to prove that he had seen it, there still lay before him a basket. Nick reached down to pick it up. He could just get two fingers through its handle and it was very beautifully woven of two kinds of dried grass.

The berries that had fallen out of it Nick carefully returned. In addition he added enough more to fill it. And he looked toward the grass tuft as he set the basket back on the ground—in full sight, he hoped, of its indignant owner.

“I am very sorry.” He kept his voice hardly above a whisper, remembering the bear.

Then, resolutely not looking back to see whether the harvester ventured out of hiding, Nick went on. His amazement had faded. The Vicar had spoken of legends come true here. And there had always been stories of the true “little people”—elves, gnomes, dwarfs—but the latter were supposed to live underground and mine for treasures, were they not?

Nick no longer doubted that he had seen a very small man, or a creature of humanoid appearance, dressed in a mottled green-brown that would be camouflage in the forest. And surely that manikin was no stranger that anything else he had sighted here.

Dwarfs, elves—Nick wished he knew more. One should have a good founding in the old fairy lore before venturing into this world. Was Hadlett right in his connection that the People had somehow been able to go through the other way in the past, perhaps even been exiled in Nick’s world, thus providing the seed from which the fairy tales had grown? Some of the legendary ones had been friendly, Nick remembered that. But there had been others—the black witches, giants, ogres, dragons—

The berries no longer tasted so sweet. He left the patch behind and forged ahead along the stream. But now he kept a sharp watch on the ground before him, as well as on the bushes. What was spying on him? Nick meant no harm, but would they understand that? And there might be drifters wandering here, such a vicious company as he had just escaped. Those would be enemies to the People, he was certain, and could the People in turn tell the difference between a drifter of good will and one to be feared?

He hoped that they all had protection like the Herald’s. His sympathy for the manikin and his kind was strong. The Herald—Where had Avalon gone last night? And why had he left Nick? Though he had given the American the advice that meant freedom, he had left. Did Nick now have knowledge his own companions could use in their defense?

Nick turned slowly, trying to sight something that he could use as a guide. He wanted to get back to the cave, to tell his story. And they must believe him! Surely, having faced all the improbabilities current here, what he had to say would not seem a complete impossibility.

He thought his way led left. And the woods seemed less dense in that direction. If he struck through there—resolutely he moved forward.

There were some more straggling berry bushes and he ate as he went, snatching at the fruit. But under the trees the bushes vanished and he hurried, trying to rid himself of the belief that he was watched, almost expecting to have some forester with an escort of outlandish animals confront him. But if Nick were paced by unseen company, they were content to let him go. And he chanced upon a path, marked here and there with deer prints, which ran in the direction he wished. So, turning into that, he made better time.

Nick came out on the edge of open country in midafternoon. He hesitated there, searching the sky for any sign of a saucer. Birds flew, a whole brilliant-colored flock of them, crying out as they went. They were large and their wheeling, dipping flight formed a loose circle out over the plain.

It was as if they were flying around and around some object. Prudently Nick took cover and continued to watch. The sun was bright but he could see nothing—

Or could he? Was something there, rising skyward like the towers of the wondrous city? But it was of such transparency that it was virtually invisible—The longer Nick watched the birds the more convinced he was that this was so.

Then the flock, which had been circling, formed a line and descended earthward, disappearing one by one as if winked out of existence when it reached the point where Nick was sure something did stand.

He rubbed his hands across his eyes. It was—it was becoming more and more visible. Towers—like the city—but smaller, fewer of them. Before his eyes they took on an opaque quality, gained substance. What he now saw was a towered, walled structure resembling a medieval castle.

12

To all appearances the castle was now completely solid, but lacking in the coloring of the city. No rainbow lights played along its walls, climbed the towers, glowed into the sky. It was gray white as if erected from native stone.

Though the birds did not reappear there was movement. A portion of the wall facing his hiding place descended slowly to form a drawbridge, as if the castle were surrounded by a moat. Over that rode a brightly clad party.

There was plainly a Herald as leader. Nick could recognize the tabard at a glance. Behind him were four others, riding the sky-mounting steeds, two by two. These wore tabards of the same cut as their leader but of forest green. And only a single emblem, which Nick could not distinguish at this distance, was on the breast of each.

They rode easily at what seemed a slow amble but which covered the ground with a deceptive speed so that they swiftly drew close to Nick. He did not now try to conceal his presence, sure he was in no danger. And he wanted to learn all he could of this company and their visible-invisible castle.

But the Herald and his party had no interest in Nick. They rode with their eyes forward, nor did they speak among themselves. There was no expression on their faces. But as they approached, Nick saw two had hair that brushed their shoulders and one of them was Rita. Their riding partners were not quite like the Herald but might have once been as human as the English girl.

Now that they were closer Nick could make out the designs embroidered in gold and silver glitter on their tabards. Each was the branch of a tree. The first male had what was unmistakably oak leaves and golden acorns carefully depicted. With him was Rita with her apple branch. The next couple sported patterns Nick did not know, both depicted in flowers of silver white.

Their passage was noiseless since the paws of their steeds made no sound. And they might have been caught in a dream with their sight fixed ahead.

Nick first thought to force a meeting. But their aloofness was such as to awe him to remaining still and silent to watch them go.

Just before they reached the woods their long-legged beasts began to mount into the air. As if that provided a signal there came wheeling from aloft a pair of birds, white winged, huge. Twice these circled the riders, then forged ahead of them.

Nick watched them out of sight. Then he turned to look at the castle. He had half expected it to fade from sight. But it was more solid-seeming in the twilight than before. Only the gap of the drawbridge had disappeared.

Curiosity worked in him. Enough to draw him to that structure? Nick hunkered down, his full attention on it. Was it real, or wasn’t it? After his own experience he could not accept anything here without proof. Should he put it to the proof?

“Nicholas!”

The sharp whisper broke the spell. His hand was on the hilt of the dagger in his belt as his head jerked to the bush from which the sound had come.

“Who is it?” Nick had the blade out, ready, though never in his life had he used a weapon against another.

Cautiously a branch swung up and he saw the Vicar’s face screened in the greenery. Nick pushed the weapon back with relief. He slid around his own cover and in a minute was confronting both Hadlett and Crocker.

“How did you find me?”

“Where have you been?”

The questions mingled together, Crocker’s the sharper, with anger in it.

But the Vicar’s hand closed about Nick’s upper arm in a reassuring squeeze.

“How fortunate, my boy. You are safe!”

“Now,” Nick returned. “If anyone can be safe here.” It was growing darker with a speed he had not expected. A glance upward showed a massing of clouds. And in the distance was the lash of lightning fire, a distant rumble of thunder.

“What happened?” Crocker repeated his demand aggressively.

“I was caught—by some drifters—” Nick edited his adventures. With the Vicar he would be more explicit, but his past contacts with the pilot had not been such as to provoke confidences. He had not accepted the Herald’s bargain, but he was just as sure that he was not the same person he had been in his own world. And if the English looked upon change as a threat and a reason to outlaw one of their own, there was no need to hand Crocker a good excuse to get rid of him.

There was a second deep growl of thunder, this time closer.

“It would be better to seek shelter,” Hadlett said. “The storm is near.”

“Over there?” Crocker pointed to the castle. Though it did not reflect light from its walls, there were sparks here and there along the towers as if lamps hung behind windows.

Nick wondered if the others had seen the castle materializing from thin air. Much as his curiosity was aroused, he was not drawn to this as he had been to the city.

“We can, I believe, reach a hollow I know before the rain comes.” Hadlett ignored Crocker’s question. “Providing we start now.”

It was he, not the pilot, who led the way through the brush, edging west along the line of the forest. But the first of the rain hit with great drumming drops before they came to his hollow.

One of the giant trees had fallen long since and its upturned root mass had in turn been overgrown with vegetation. The curtain of this could be pulled aside to give on a sheltered place into which the three could crowd, though they must rub shoulders to do so.

A certain amount of seepage from the storm still reached them, but they were under cover. And they had no more than settled in before Crocker was back with his question.

“So you were caught—by whom?”

Nick obliged with a description of the band. Once or twice the Vicar interrupted him with a desire that he expand some portion of his story, namely when he spoke of the monk. But when Nick described the monsters that had held the camp in siege, he felt Crocker stir.

“Snake with a woman’s head? Thing with an owl head? Do you expect us to—”

“Lamia—and Andras,” the Vicar said.

“A what and who?” Crocker sounded belligerent.

“A lamia—a snake demon—well known in ancient church mythology. And Andras—”

It was Nick’s turn to interrupt. “That was what the monk called him—or at least it sounded like that!”

“Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell. He teaches those he favors to kill their enemies, masters and servant. In the army of the damned he commands thirty legions.” It was as if the Vicar read an official report.

“But you don’t believe in—” Again Crocker began a protest.

“
I
do not, nor you, Barry. But if one did believe in a lamia come to crush one’s soul with its snake body, or in Andras, Marquis of Hell, then what better place for such to appear in threat?”

Nick caught the suggestion. “You mean—the nightmares one believes in, those have existence here?”

“I have come to think so. And if that is true, the opposite ought to exist—that the powers of good one holds to will also make themselves manifest. But it is easier for a man to accept evil as real than it is for him to believe in pure good. That is the curse we carry with us to our undoing. To those poor wretches this is Hell but they have made it for themselves.”

“They were evil.” Nick used an expression that would not have come easily to him in his own world. “You didn’t see them. That woman—she was—well, you might call her a she-devil. And the monk was a fanatic, he could burn heretics in holy satisfaction. The others—in our time they would be muggers—have their fun beating up people.”

“Padre.” Crocker might have been only half listening, more interested in his own thoughts. “If they thought they could see monsters and devils and did, do you mean we could think up such things, too?”

“It is very possible. But we come from a different age. Our devils are not born of the same superstition—they are not, as you might say, personal. Our evil is impersonal, though it is not the less for that. We no longer decry Satan and his works and emissaries. Rather we have the sins of nations, of wars, of industry, of fanatical causes. Impersonal devils, if you wish. We speak of ‘they’ who are responsible for this wrong and that. But ‘they’ seldom have a name, a body. Your monk was certain his devils had personalities, names, status, so they appeared to him in that fashion.

“We cannot summon our devils to plague us here because they lack such identity. There is and always has been great evil in our world, but its face and form changes with the centuries and it is no longer personified for us.”

“What about Hitler?” Crocker challenged.

“Yes, in him our generation does have a devil. What of yours, Nicholas?”

“No one man, no one cause. It follows the pattern you spoke of, sir.”

“This is all very interesting,” Crocker cut in. “But how did you get away from that crowd? Did one of the devils cut you loose and then disappear in a puff of smoke?”

Nick was uneasy. This was getting close to what he hesitated to tell. One had to accept many improbabilities in this world, but would these two accept what had happened?

“Well?” Crocker’s voice sharpened. “What did happen next?”

He was boxed into telling the truth, which meant bringing Avalon into it. And he had neglected to speak of his earlier confrontation with the Herald. That omission might make him a suspect.

“You are troubled, Nicholas.” The Vicar’s tone was as soothing as Crocker’s was a source of irritation. “Something has happened that you find difficult to explain.”

Hadlett said that as if he knew it. And Nick believed that the Vicar would be aware of any evasion or slighting of the truth. He braced himself.

“It began earlier—” In a rush he told of his meeting with Avalon, afraid if he hesitated longer his courage would ebb.

“Repeat those names!” Hadlett’s command brought him up short at a point which seemed to him to have little significance. But he obeyed.

“He said, ‘Avalon, Tara, Brocéliande, Carnac.’ “

“The great holy places of the Celtic world,” Hadlett commented. “Places that are rumored even today to be psychic centers of power. Though Avalon, of the four, has never been completely identified. In legend it lay to the west. Heralds bearing those names—yes, the proper pattern—”

“What pattern?” Crocker wanted to know.

“That of ancient heraldry. The heralds of Britain take their titles from the royal dukedoms—such as York, Lancaster, Richmond. The pursuivants derive theirs from the old royal badges. And the Kings-of-Arms, who command all, are from the provinces—Clarenceaux, Norroy, Ulster and the like. If Nicholas has the correct information, there must be four heralds here, each bearing the name of an ancient place of great power in our own world—perhaps once an entrance-
way to this. Tara lies in Ireland, Carnac and Brocéliande in Brittany—but all were of Celtic heritage. And it is from the Celtic beliefs that much of our legendary material about the People of the Hills and their ways have come. I wonder who is King-of-Arms here?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with us!” Crocker protested. “We all know what the Herald is and what he can do to anyone foolish enough to listen to him. You seem to have listened for quite a while, Shaw. What did he offer you—enough to make it interesting?”

Nick curbed his temper. He had expected the suspicion Crocker voiced.

“He offered me,” he said deliberately, “a golden apple and the safety of this world. He foretold the coming of great danger; this has overrun the land periodically before, and is beginning such an attack again. According to him only those who accept Avalon will have any protection then.”

“A golden apple,” Hadlett mused. “Yes, once more symbolic.”

“And deadly! Remember that, Padre—deadly!”

“Yes.” But there was an odd note in the Vicar’s voice.

“So you met this Avalon—then what happened? Did your men-at-arms grab him also?” Crocker brought Nick back to his story.

“They tried to, or to kill him—the monk did.” He told of the fruitless assault with the cross-pole and the Herald’s disappearance.

“So that was when they grabbed you. Now suppose you explain how you got away.”

Nick went on to the sound that had been a torment and the disappearance of the drifters, the fact that he was left behind. He did not enlarge on his own fears, but continued with the return of the Herald, the scene with the horse and mule. Then, trying to pick those words that would carry the most emphasis, he told the rest of it.

They did not interrupt again but heard him out through his account of the rest of his wanderings until he had seen the castle materialize from the air and the emergence of the Herald and his four attendants.

It was then that the Vicar did question him, not as he had expected, concerning the actions he had been engaged in, or had witnessed, but about the designs embroidered on the green tabards of those who had accompanied Avalon.

“Oak and apple, and two with white or silver flowers,” Hadlett repeated. “Oak and apple—those are very ancient symbols, ones of power. The other two—I wonder—But I would have to see them. Thorn? Elder? It is amazing—the old, old beliefs—”

“I find it amazing,” Crocker said deliberately, “that you are still here, Shaw. You took the apple, didn’t you?”

Nick had expected this accusation. But how could he prove it false?

“Do I show signs of the changes you mentioned, sir?” he asked the Vicar, not answering Crocker.

“Changes—what changes?” Hadlett asked absently.

“The changes supposed to occur in those who take the Herald’s offer. I didn’t. Do you want me to swear to that? Or have you some way of getting your proof? You have had more experience with this than I have. What happened to me back there—when I escaped—I cannot explain. The Herald told me about freedom, I just tried to use what I thought he meant. It worked, but I can’t tell you how or why. But—I—did—not—take—the—apple—” He spaced the words of that last sentence well apart, repeated them with all the emphasis he could summon. Perhaps Crocker might not accept that, but he hoped Hadlett would.

“The changes,” the Vicar repeated again. “Ah, yes, you refer to our former conversation.”

To Nick he sounded irritatingly detached, as if this was not a problem that troubled him. But Nick believed he must have Hadlett on his side before he returned to the rest. Crocker’s suspicions would, he was sure, be echoed by others there. Jean would support the pilot in any allegation he made. And Nick had no faith that Stroud would greet him warmly once Crocker had a chance to speak. But that the Vicar carried weight with all he was well aware. Get Hadlett to stand by him and he would have support to depend upon.