Interim Errantry 2: On Ordeal

by Diane Duane

  While they stayed there they would tell, again and again, the story of the storm that caused their shipwreck, and of the strange dark young god who had appeared out of nothing, stepped off the cliff, and stood on the air above the sea, quieting it with his words and the power of the green fire he wielded, and saving all their lives. There was endless discussion over just who this god might have been, with the sailors holding that it was some demigod-son of Neptune or Poseidon or Set, and the villagers holding that he was undoubtedly Manannán the Young, that mighty lord of the Tuatha de Danaan and ruler of the sea.

  The question was never satisfactorily resolved, and eventually all the shipwrecked slave-traders returned to Wales and made their way through it to the more civilized (or at least more Roman) parts of Britain. Most of them eventually joined one or another of the larger trading companies working the Gaulish coast, and variously got killed in fights with other traders or tribes who’d turned treacherous, got drowned in the course of business, headed inland to take up employment less dangerous, or returned to their home tribes and retired on the profits garnered from the people they had sold. One survivor became a famous breeder of racehorses for the Roman professional racing circuit and amassed a fortune for which one of his impatient children poisoned him. Several other survivors were killed off the coast of North Africa, casualties in a battle between the flagship of a Sicilian trading fleet and a Mauretanian pirate vessel intent on stealing the Sicilians’ cargo of arena sand.

  One man, though, had been profoundly moved and disturbed by the events surrounding his shipwreck, and the sound of a young voice speaking and speaking and speaking all the names of the Sea. The night before the boat on which they would all set sail for Wales was scheduled to leave, that man went down to the foot of Bray Head and picked up from the shingly shore a small flat gray stone about two finger-joints long. He took that stone with him on all his travels ever after, pierced through at one end to take a cord that he wore around his neck.

  In Egypt (where he wound up eventually, doing freight runs between Alexandria and Tyre as part of the murex trade) the man took the stone to an Alexandrine temple of Khepera and paid a priest-scribe there to scratch demotic characters on it saying I THANK THE GOD OF THE WORDS OF POWER AND THE GREEN FIRE FOR MY LIFE. The man wore the amulet all his life through all his remaining journeys, the last of which was to his homeland in Roman Germany, not far from the Rhine. When at last he died there peacefully in old age, he was buried with the flat gray stone around his neck—he never having suspected that its inscription actually said GREAT KHEP-RE PROTECT US FROM CHEAPSKATES WHO ONLY OFFER US A TENTH OF THE GOING RATE FOR CUSTOM INSCRIPTIONS.

  And there the pierced stone lay in the ground among the bones of its owner, until some eighteen hundred years later daylight fell on the stone again as it was exposed in an archaeological dig. The archaeology intern who brushed the dirt away from it was understandably intrigued to find a post-Ptolemaic Egyptian demotic inscription on an amulet buried near Cologne, and he brought it to the dig’s supervisor, a doctor of forensic archaeology from Paris, for further analysis.

  The supervisor was surprised by the find too. She translated the inscription for her associate, and the two of them had a good laugh over it. But afterward the supervisor had to stand quiet for some minutes managing her surprise at having been shouted at by a stone that told her, urgently and with pride, My name is Tek! The wizard knew my name! And when the supervisor said silently in the Speech, What wizard?, all the stone could say (in some slight confusion) was, I don’t know. He hasn’t been born yet.

  So those were the major occurrences in history that flowed from Ronan’s actions in that long-past day. Of course, they may have served only to knit more tightly into the fabric of things other strands of history that were already well woven in. Only the Powers that Be, who see the fabric whole, can say for sure what was or was not or might have been different had Ronan failed to act, or acted otherwise.

  This much, though, is certain: should he ever visit the Römischer Museum in Köln, something in the third display case on the right as you go in the front door will recognize him, and shout its name, and ask for his.

  Completion

  That… was not… fair!

  The rage that accompanied this sentiment was shattering. But the same rage has broken many times, over the aeons, on the good-natured resistance of the other half of this conversation.

  I seem to recall you telling him that nothing was fair, or indeed expected to be. So if someone was unfair to you by winning, that goes squarely into the “self inflicted injuries” category.

  A balked, furious silence ensues.

  So you see, when I told you he was mine, and always had been… it wasn’t just some idle boast.

  More silence. Trouble is, though, you’re just not really a gambler at heart. Otherwise you’d enjoy these little contests more.

  Almost a sense of sputtering. What? How do you mean I—

  You gambled once, and you failed. And since then you’ve always been all about fixing the game in your favor. And you know what? It’s still not enough, and never will be… because the problem runs deeper. You just want to be right. To have been right. And you weren’t! Way back when, in that first moment of the new order, of your own will you made yourself all the things that weren’t right—became the source of them, the fountainhead. You know it, too. But you keep telling yourself that the unfairness isn’t your fault, when in fact you invented it. It’s a pity you can’t face that truth… because that would be the start of your journey back home.

  The tone was almost pitying… and if there was something the other couldn’t bear, that was it. Home, he said in vast scorn. The last place I want to be.

  Yes, the other said. It will be the last.

  This sentiment was ignored. And as for you, nobody likes a sore winner, he said, and without another word removed himself a near-infinite distance from the Heart of things… far enough away for a casual observer to mistake the removal for something, or someone, being cast out into darkness.

  The one who remained sighed, feeling the tiniest sensation of relief—like a breath that had been held in, being let out—when that conversation was over. Because here and there, up and down the labyrinthine ways at the white-hot Heart of things, every now and then—never shared or spoken openly, never more than breathed—a rumor has been oh so occasionally appearing. A rumor that something new is coming; and that at all costs, the One who presently Walks Alone must never, never hear of it… until it’s too late for anything to be done about it, until the long soft breath of the New has had time to diffuse itself too deeply across and through the structure of existence to ever be dissociated from it.

  Eventually all, absolutely all—the healing of the broken, the mending of the marred—may hang on that one secret never being discovered until it’s too late. About that secret hangs a terrifying sense of possibility, almost of merriment. The matter is urgent beyond all urgency ever known… but it still has the chance to be just a little bit funny.

  If only it works.

  But the resolution to that conditional lies a little way further down the timeline of the world that many of its peoples call Earth. Outside that timeline, of course, it has already happened. In some parts of that timeline, the setup for the punch line has not yet occurred, and isn’t even dreamed of.

  Meanwhile, the one who’d been party to yet another phase of this very long conversation merely shook its head. All right, it said, be that way…

  …Squishy McSnakeface.

  And the One’s Champion, laughing softly to Itself, went onward about Its lawful occasions.

  ***

  Of all possible aftereffects of taking the Oath, the one he’d least expected was that it might get the family to stop calling him “baby Ronan”. And it got him a new bit of name as well.

  Granted, to produce this result he did have to wind up in the hospital with severe hypothermia. But he knew he’d produced another result as we
ll, one that wouldn’t show up on any hospital’s records: and that satisfaction made up (well, mostly anyway) for how fecking sick he felt.

  It was Pidge, of course, the ordinary Pidge, who’d found him; Pidge who’d answered a text that the network had been late delivering and hadn’t got an answer back, Pidge who’d got worried and suspected he knew where Ronan might have gone, Pidge who’d headed along the cliffwalk at the base of the Head on what had seemed at the time to be more a hunch than anything else. And it’d been Pidge who’d found Ronan there, collapsed, soaked through, and as muddy as if he’d somehow slid all the way down the seaward side of the Head.

  Which should have been impossible, everyone agreed: would have been impossible. The impact onto the rocks above the cliffwalk alone would’ve been sufficient to kill him. No, he had to have been up on the Head earlier and tried to get down when the weather changed. Slipped and fell someplace—there was mud enough up there when it got wet—and then worked his way down to the rocks by the cliffwalk, and got himself blown off them by one of the huge gusts that had come up without warning late in the afternoon. Or washed off them by one of those huge swells that had hammered the coastline for an hour or so until the incoming storm went abruptly to pieces and gave the RTE weather lady something interesting to dissect at the end of the Six One news.

  All this, including the ambulance ride, Ronan missed, being only barely conscious at the start of it and then later semiconscious and occupied with being wrapped in antihypothermia blankets and hooked up to warmed saline and otherwise examined and diagnosed on the trolley in the emergency room. But at least he didn’t have to miss the details of the other very welcome side effect of becoming a wizard.

  ***

  The A&E admissions nurse was finding it difficult to deal with the two more senior Nolans who insisted on participating in the admission of the youngest male of that name. “Ronan Nolan,” the nurse said.

  “You can’t call him that,” the two men insisted in unison.

  “Why on Earth not?” said the nurse. “It says that on his school ID.”

  “Because I’m Ronan Nolan.”

  “And I’m Ronan Nolan!”

  “And we’ve both been admitted here so you have to call him something else so the records don’t get confused—”

  The nurse rolled his eyes. “All right, fine, how about Junior. You’re the father, yes?”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “Junior, then.” Busy typing commenced.

  “Ought to be ‘the Third’, by rights—” the older of the two men muttered.

  “Oh come on, Da, who uses that?” said the younger.

  “Blood type?” said the nurse.

  “A negative,” said the occupant of the trolley. “And then can we shut them up and make them go away and get coffee or something? They’re doin’ my head in.”

  The nurse was struck by the laughter in the voice of the youngster on the trolley. Most people recovering from hypothermia as serious as what he’d been brought in with were either too physically sensitive or too emotionally wrung out to feel much like laughing. But he seemed to be recovering with unusual speed, which was a relief.

  “You heard the lad,” the nurse said. “Coffee machine down the hall. Jeannine, will you take Mr. Nolan Junior’s vitals for me please? Need the in-house baseline so we can send him for the cranial scan.”

  And as he glanced sideways he saw the new admission put his head back down on his pillow with a visible sense of satisfaction far too marked for anyone who’d merely seen his da and his granda get sidelined. The nurse shrugged and turned back to finishing the paperwork as one of his colleagues wheeled the new admission away. Family stuff, he thought; who ever knows what’s going on with people? Not my business. And he turned his attention to the next admission.

  ***

  Ronan was admitted too close to visiting hours to have any peace for a good while, no matter how his head ached. His Mam appeared and cried over him, and when he was allowed back in again his Da stood there actually holding his hand and looking like if anyone got too close to Ronan he’d fight them off. It was unnerving, in some ways, because there was no way to tell how long it was going to last.

  The urge to tell them everything—because now that Ronan was done with it, he had to admit that it had frankly been brilliant and he was really pleased with himself—lasted about three seconds. I’ve just had my head scanned for thumps and bumps, he thought, they’ll think I’ve gone ‘round the bend. Some other time maybe.

  Yet at the same time he had to tell them something. Rather to his surprise, Ronan’s explanation that “he thought he’d seen some people in trouble down there” turned out to hold water—not only because it was true (which at the moment seemed like the important thing), but because there actually had been some tourists, Greek ones, up on the cliffwalk when the weather started to go south. They’d got themselves down off the Head just in time to avoid the worst of the huge waves that had started flinging themselves against the cliffs in the wake of the afternoon’s sudden unexpected squall.

  But there were other things on Ronan’s mind. Not too long before visitors’ hours were ending, and his Grandda took himself away to the pub to regale his cronies with the story of his grandson the hero who saved the tourists, Ronan found that one issue was weighing on his mind. Gotta tell them, he thought, no point in putting it off. “I got suspended yesterday,” he said.

  “Oh, well,” his Mam said, as unconcernedly incredulous as if he’d just announced he’d broken a dish she didn’t like. And to his astonishment his Da said, “Must’ve had a good reason.”

  Surprised, Ronan kept on going lest this sudden turn of good fortune should unexpectedly run out. “Seamus McConaghie was talkin’ racist shite about Maurice Obademi and I laid him out.”

  “Good,” his Da said with a look of grim satisfaction.

  Ronan blinked. “Three days,” he said, half expecting this to be the straw that broke the momentary camel’s-back of good fortune.

  His mam actually shrugged. “Well, they said they were going to keep you in here tomorrow anyway. So you won’t lose any more school.”

  Ronan and his Da exchanged a glance. The logic behind this was eluding Ronan completely, and he thought maybe it was doing the same for his Da. “Okay,” Ronan said.

  At that point the bell went off down at the nurses’ station and a soft PA voice started telling everybody it was time to leave. His Da kissed him—Ronan managed to hold still and just grin at him, because that kind of thing had stopped between them when he was about ten—and so did his Mam. “Kiss Nan good night for me, will you?” Ronan said. “I don’t want her worrying.”

  “She wasn’t worried,” his Da said. “She said things were all right.”

  Ronan put that one aside to think about. “Good,” he said. “Lunchtime then?”

  “I’ll drop by,” his Mam said. “Too long a drive for some of us.”

  “I might grab the DART,” said Ronan’s Da. “They might be able to spare me a half day, I’ve got some flexitime days coming.”

  And as a nurse looked meaningfully in the door at them, they waved at Ronan and went away.

  He let his head drop back on the pillow again (and then spent a few moments resolving not to do that again for a while because it ached and made him feel sick). He sighed.

  That was it, he thought. The worst thing… gone just like that. I should fall down a cliff more often.

  …And I’m a wizard. How fecking great is that…?!

  ***

  He must have dozed off, because when he was noticing stuff again things were dimmer, except for the not-really-Pidge Pidge, who was leaning over the rail of the bed, looking casually around at the machinery, the heart monitor and the blood oxygen thing on Ronan’s finger and all the rest of it. So, any last thoughts? Pidge said.

  About the complete heap of bleeding shite you just put me through? Oh no, no thoughts at all, get away with ye.

  No, but seriously.r />
  Well… Ronan trailed off, while the other watched him anxiously. But he couldn’t leave him just hanging like that, especially when he wasn’t really pissed off. It was good for me, okay? Absolutely worth it all.

  Good, Pidge said.

  How was it for you?

  Pidge looked a bit stunned. What?

  Well, I’m kind of your hire, aren’t I? So how’d I do?

  Pidge’s expression went amused. Pretty well. A lot of people’re really pleased. And he grinned. One of them… is really not pleased.

  Our lad Mr. McSnakeface, yeah? Good, Ronan said. Heard you two arguing. Didn’t much care for his tone.

  Neither do a lot of other people, Pidge said, sounding quite dry. …He may give you a wide berth for a while. It’s not unusual, in these circumstances. He sighed. But it usually doesn’t last… so take advantage of it.

  Right. Ronan looked up at the being who he was quite clear was masquerading as his friend to keep things easy. And I’ll see you again… when?

  Later on, probably. Usually not quite like this. Better to keep a low profile about this particular relationship for a while: even from you.

  Ronan nodded. Okay. Except—

  Pidge gave him a look. What?

  We still need that Irish version.

  The other looked at him in brief bemusement. Of the Oath, Ronan said.

  Oh? Best get busy with your translation then, Pidge said.

  Ronan was indignant. You can’t mean there aren’t any yet! You said—