Interim Errantry 2: On Ordeal

by Diane Duane

  And it was their turn now. The next ellipse held all those words waiting for him. He started work on them (oleald, yboiveth, roinad-ethosien, onama, who knew there were so many words for seaweed!). And though time was feeling dangerously elastic (or rather, fluid) at the moment, after those he still had to deal with the spell’s littoral area between the breaker-waters and the Head, the shoreline. The big rocks and the small stones, the shingle down on the tiny steep beach at the foot of the Head, all those names had to be spoken too—

  He shook his head and got on with it, because ahead of him there was one last big boundary to cross, and he had to keep his mind focused on that. And it was hard, with the feeling of water washing and washing at him. Not from the outside—the rain was keeping its word—but the inside. Big stones, smaller stones, cliff scree, old glacial occasionals. Seiliu, killaid, tek, chorenn… Ronan walked out a little further on the air to where it was easier to see what he was naming, and spoke those words one after another, more quickly now, because just ahead of him he could see the end of his task, the end of the naming. He stood there with the power he spent running out of him like water out of his hands, like blood out of his veins. But he didn’t grudge it: this was the price he’d agreed to pay. If he was taking the Sea in, it was doing the same with him… which seemed fair. He wanted something of the water. The water wanted something of him. Fair exchange is no robbery, his Da would always say.

  Well, we’ll find out…

  Ronan stood there in the dark, watching the things he was naming get more and more real, more and more defined, the diagram filling itself in with the enhanced reality he was enacting. He named and named and named everything the spell designated for him, everything he could see, until it began to seem to him that the Sea and the shore and the live things down in the water were all the real things there were. He was the dream, the figment, the construct made of words and air, slowly starting to vanish into the darkness as the green fire trickled away at last between his fingers and left his clenched fists empty.

  ***

  But that outcome, Ronan supposed, was inevitable. Because that’s what the Sea does, isn’t it. That was its nature. It was persistence. Though it was at the mercy of the other elements, of fire and air and earth, water got its revenge on them with every cycle through the biosphere; it quenched the fire, it dissolved the air into itself, it wore away the stone.

  And if he wound up getting stuck in this spell with it, the Sea would wear him away too, Ronan knew—subsume the air in his lungs, drown the fire in his nerves, wear him away in a whole lot less time than it would take wearing away any stone. After all, he was mostly water himself.

  The trouble was that the ocean was so seductive about it, so beguiling. He’d done his share of sitting up on Bray Head, in quieter weather, staring out to sea, lulled by it, thought and attention inevitably drawn away from himself and out into that vastness. Here, where all the words were doing their work and drawing them closer and closer together, even with all the drama and the violence roaring and washing back and forth below him in the shallows, Ronan could feel that vast mass of calm already starting to weigh him down into complaisance. And the longer he took about what he was going to do, the less chance there was that he’d ever come back from it.

  …Which wasn’t an attractive option. The thought of what it would be like to be stuck all the rest of his days with the crash and roar of the Irish Sea in his head, drowning out every other thought or wish Ronan might ever have, was terrifying. Or it would be if he allowed himself to dwell on it. Could happen if you got careless. Might happen if you stopped concentrating on the job at hand. Just get past this and do the next thing that needs doing—

  Because the Sea’s regard was already fixed on him, reinforcing what the Speech had told him about it. Though the Sea had life, it wasn’t Ronan’s kind of life. It needed something from living sentient beings, it needed something from wizards… and this kind of exchange, this kind of bargain, it didn’t often get a chance to experience. There was life in it, but that life was not necessarily of it. That some life that didn’t normally belong in the Sea should choose to do that, to become so—even for only a short time—held an irresistible appeal.

  And that I can use. Because it’s already kind of in my debt.

  Now if I can just get it to see things my way…

  The answer in the Speech took him by surprise. And what way would that be?

  ***

  Ronan knew that he had some skills as a negotiator. But until now those skills had mostly been exercised in the schoolyard. Meanwhile there was something he was supposed to say first. Dai stiho, he said, great Element’s source.

  Be greeted, said the Sea, young drop in My ocean.

  As greetings went it was casual, and a little on the superior side, but Ronan thought he could cope with that regardless. Better get right down to it.

  Life’s about to be lost, he said. I want to save it. We can do a deal, right? Just say yes.

  Life is lost every day, the Sea said. And engendered again a hundred times over for every life that ends.

  Sure, Ronan said. But these guys, once they’re gone, they’re gone. They weren’t expecting what happened; if they’d known the weather was going to be like this, they’d have gone anywhere else. This is all on me. I just want them to have a chance to walk away from this.

  And that’s your desire?

  For you to let them off? Yeah, Ronan said. Let me help them get away from this alive.

  Why should I?

  It was fascinating that something comprised of so many disparate elements should say “I”. No reason, Ronan said. Or just one reason. Because I asked. I did all this, all this naming, paid all this energy—and it was a lot, he could see the figures written in the spell diagram and it was kind of a scary amount, who knew what kind of shape he was going to be in afterwards—to save them.

  Why? You think they’re evil.

  He had to pause then—partly out of astonishment that his thoughts and attitudes were being perceived so clearly, and partly because he knew he couldn’t lie. Well, maybe. Yeah. But I might be wrong. I might not know the whole story. I— He shook his head in the dark. It’s complicated. Just let them go, all right?

  And what price will you pay?

  What price have I paid, Ronan said. You’re in me. Not something you get to do, or be, every day. He swallowed then, seeing what he needed to do. Go on, he said. Have a look around.

  He braced himself, half afraid that he was going to be subjected to some kind of watch-your-life-flash-before-your-eyes sequence. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead his perception of that diagram-defined, wire-frame world washed away into something more indefinite. It washed away in the sound of rushing water inside his head and behind his eyes—everything gone dark green, a pale diffuse light wavering up above him somewhere, indistinct, beckoning but impossible for him to reach while he was held down under this weight of regard. The burning in his lungs was already starting, but struggling against it seemed counterproductive. I asked for this. Let it run its course—

  The way time seemed to be stretching, Ronan had no sure sense of how long this went on. But he was surprised when one image started blurring itself into reality out of the rushing greenness; his Nan, in her bed, with her remote and her book and the sunshine (watery-looking at the moment) spilling in over her.

  Also washing around Ronan was a peculiar sense of recognition. …I remember her, said the Sea.

  Overlaid on this moment, as if reflected on other water, another image rippled into view: a young girl in an old-fashioned bathing suit, splashing into the water up on the beach at Skerries, diving into a wave and vanishing into it, laughing; coming up again, spluttering, shaking the water out of her hair, laughing again. How many things does it remember? Ronan thought. How many people?

  All of them, said the Sea. …When reminded. There was a pause, filled only with the soft roar and rush of water coming in, going out. Has she been like this lon
g?

  A while, Ronan said. And then, though the thought made his throat tighten up, because it was the truth, he said, Maybe not for that much longer.

  Water coming in, going out. It’s so brief, what we have, Ronan said. Such a short time. Those lads out there in their little boat? It’s the same. Bet they’ve got people somewhere else who think of them this way. And it’s not those people’s fault what these lads do. Let their people have them a while longer, yeah?

  For am endless while there was nothing but the sound of water rushing up a shore, out again; up over the sand and back, like breathing. Up and back. Up and back. Ronan waited, silent.

  …All right, the Sea said. Do what you’ve prepared to do. I won’t interfere.

  ***

  And just like that time seemed to snap back into place and start running again; and Ronan was standing in the middle of a spell diagram that flared bright in completion, the green fire of it flowing away from him, hitting the spell’s outer boundaries, and immediately splashing back toward Ronan, the power ripping back toward him, ready to use.

  He didn’t hesitate. He flung his arms out in command and told the water underneath him, Enough of that. Calm down right now!

  Even as he spoke the directive phrase in the Speech, Ronan was aware that “right now” was going to be relative. Huge amounts of energy were involved here, and since that couldn’t be either created or destroyed, it had to go somewhere else. The kinetic energy he was removing from the immediate area was going to be dispersed up and down the coast. But for the moment his main job was to keep it from flowing straight back into the area he was calming.

  As a result the arms-flung-out gesture turned into something more like holding apart a pair of walls that were pushing in against him and trying to crush him. Ronan braced himself at the middle of the spell and locked his arms, refusing to let those walls move even one more inch while his attention was trained on the scene below him. Slowly the waves were subsiding, going flatter. The boat was still driving forward toward Periwinkle Rocks, but yeah, it’s going a lot slower now, come on people, help me out here—!

  Standing there braced, pushing back with everything he had against the energy trying to crash back in and over him and the Sea below him, Ronan could see people running around on the little ship’s deck now that it was safe to let go of whatever they’d desperately been holding onto to keep from being washed off board. And those who’d been below decks were coming up in a hurry. They don’t know why this is happening but they’re not stupid, they know they need to get off. Hurry up you lads, don’t waste the moment!

  The sea kept calming but the ship still had the energy that the waves had imparted to it, and it was heading right for the rocks, sliding across the calming water like a skater sliding across ice. “Come on come on come on!” Ronan shouted at the people on the boat as it headed straight for the biggest of the rocks through water that was bizarrely now as flat and still as a pond on a windless day. A leftover lightning-flash from somewhere up in the clouds above illuminated the scene: the ship, the arrow-like wake behind it, the mirrory surface of the water that reflected the lightning and the clouds almost perfectly—

  And the splashes of people hitting the water, breaking the perfect calm of the surface, the ripples of their impacts to either side sown behind the ship that continued straight for Periwinkle Rock. It was no more than a hundred fifty yards away now and people were still jumping out of that boat, come on, how long can this be taking you, a hundred yards, how many of you are in there, seriously? Twelve, thirteen— Ronan braced himself against the rebounding kinetic energy that was trying to spill back into this space, that was trying to crush him inside the spell, and he hung on, hung on, fourteen, fifteen, come on, just one more, fifty yards maybe, oh God here it comes—

  The boat plowed into Periwinkle Rock and collapsed in on itself like an accordion folding up. The back of the boat pitched up and over the front in a slow disastrous somersault and then crashed down onto the top of the Rock, shattering like a dropped glass. Its masts snapped off like toothpicks and bits of them came raining down into the water.

  But as he hung on, more of Ronan’s attention was focused on the narrow little rocky beach that ran down to the water right at the foot of Bray Head. There he saw the splashes, reflecting another flicker of lightning, as the last of the sailors to escape from the boat—the sixteenth lad whose jump he hadn’t seen, — swam the last few strokes that brought him to shore, and staggered up onto it among the stones and boulders there. Just a quick glimpse of him Ronan got, of a guy in kilt-y clothes that were plastered to him all over, and of a face upturned to him in the green fire that was burning through the rain: a glitter of eyes, a face with its mouth open in astonishment.

  Ronan grinned down at him in pure triumph, and held up his arms with the fists clenched as if he’d scored a goal. Then he hurriedly turned his attention back to the spell. Just a few minutes more, now, he thought, feeling the walls of diverting energy still trying to crush in on him and his little ellipse of calm water. The boundaries were already starting to give way. But those other people were still in the water, they needed just a few more minutes to make it to land—

  Except he was losing it. The walls of rebounding kinetic energy, even though that had been partly dispersed up and down the coastline, were pushing back in on Ronan harder than ever now that he was running out of strength to push them back. He could see a few more of the sailors swimming in to shore, clambering up onto the stones, helping each other, shouting to the ones still out in the water.

  Around him, the light was fading out of the spell diagram. Below it, the water was losing its mirrorlike quality, starting to shiver a bit as some of the rebounding kinetic energy started to seep back into it. Still, Ronan thought, gasping as he tried to hang on just a little longer, didn’t do too badly. Just—just a few more minutes—

  But it was going to be a few more seconds if anything. He was losing it. And he was having trouble breathing. He struggled to get one last gasp of the air around him. Remember that air, you may want it later… said a voice in his memory.

  It was a good gasp: it gave him a last boost, a few moments more of hanging on. But the light was almost all gone from the spell now as the rebound started to crush him under it, pushing the walls together beyond his ability to resist any more, weighing him down. Ronan was staring to lose his visualization of what was happening below him in the dimness. And now what? When the rebound, the backwash, washes me away… am I not me any more? Though the situation was desperate, he had to laugh at himself. Shortest wizardly career in history…

  Yet he’d been warned. It wasn’t like I went into this blind. And though Ronan was desperate and terrified, there was still something about this that was almost funny, and he kept on laughing. Well, yeah, blind, but it was the right thing to do, it needed doing, and this needed doing, this is life, saving this is what it’s supposed to be about. Even if I didn’t get it perfect, even if it was just one boat—!

  And here it came: the dissociation-and-completion stage—the end of every spell, so the Speech said, and definitely the end of this one. Everything was coming to pieces around Ronan, going dark, pushing him under. There was nothing he could do to stop it. But though the cold green weight that came down on him left him with no breath to laugh any more, there wasn’t anything it could do about the triumph. Because I did this, he thought, catching one last fleeting lightning-lit glance of someone making it to shore, helping someone else do the same. I did it. I did. Life—!

  …Though not alone. Thank you, yeah? Ronan said to the Sea, as everything faded completely down to darkness. Cheers. That was good.

  Then everything fell apart... and he fell too.

  ***

  …No way to tell how far, or for how long. But there came a moment when Ronan could see the cold hard ground coming up to meet him, and he winced at the sight of it, the way you wince when you’re watching football or rugby in slow motion and you see someone about
to get rammed good and proper. There was that same sense of inevitability, and you sit there going Ow that’s gonna smart, and then it happens…

  Except this time it was him falling, him getting hit, in the head, in the chest, half blind in the dark and not able to see what to do or how to avoid it. In a way it was like one of those falling-out-of-bed dreams when you snap awake and find you haven’t really fallen anywhere. But Ronan knew he had. He went bumping and sliding painfully down into hard things, again and again, and then (when the bumping stopped and he just lay there in ridiculously grateful stillness) into a a slow numbing cold, and wet, why the wet, you promised you’d keep it off me…! he moaned to the rain.

  The rain avoided him for as long as it could, and was eventually much relieved when the moaning stopped and the one who had spoken to it was no longer there, and it could let itself fall onto the salt-wet stones unconcerned about anything but being the rain.

  ***

  In the immediate aftermath of his first intervention Ronan was in no position to see or know anything about the half-dead bedraggled men who hauled their battered, salt-caked bodies up onto the rocks and lay there gasping in the rain. With surprising speed the ocean appeared to recall how to make waves again. Then even the downpour dwindled away under a firmament that swiftly tore its darkness to tatters and revealed, on its far side, a pure and tender blue, as if the world’s sky had briefly been washed clean of all its ills.

  Within am hour or so the boat’s sixteen passengers had recovered themselves enough to struggle their way along to the little settlement at the foot of the Head. There they were given shelter and food and help for their wounds and bruises and broken bones by the villagers, who knew them well since they’d been acting as their middlemen for a loose-knit group of Irish slavers based in the midlands. There in that village the merchant seamen would remain for a month or so, until a ship from a different trading company in south Wales happened to dock at the village in hopes of taking some business away from the slavers that Ronan had saved.