Children of the Gates

by Andre Norton

  “Praise be,” Nick heard Mrs. Clapp’s breathy voice. “Not one minute too soon for these old legs o’ mine. Just get me in, m’lady, an’ let me sit a little. Then I’ll be as right as right again. I’m a mite too old for all this scramblin’ about, that I am.”

  “Nonsense!” Lady Diana propelled her forward with a right good will. “Don’t you forget, Maude, we all took a dose of that hunter’s ray back there. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  There was a glimmer of light in the doorway. As Nick crossed the threshold, Crocker behind him thudded shut a stout door to close out the night. The light was feeble, but it showed the American most of a single big room with a fireplace double the size of any he had ever seen, a bench, some stools and a table—all made of wood and massively heavy.

  Mrs. Clapp dropped rather than sat on one of the stools, and Jean hastened to put Jeremiah’s basket down beside her. There was a pleading mew from the cat. Mrs. Clapp fumbled with the fastening to allow him out. He shook himself vigorously and then looked about, sniffing at the fireplace, and beginning a cautious exploration of the room.

  There were windows, Nick could see, but each was covered with an inner barred shutter. Crocker had just dropped into place a similar but thicker bar across the door. Their light came from a bowl on the table where a cord burned in liquid. There was a pleasant scent from that burning and, in the room itself, an aura of peace and security that was relaxing.

  “What is this place?” Linda put Lung on the floor and he flopped flat at once, his chin supported by his paws. “Somehow—it feels—good!”

  The Vicar seated himself on the bench not too far from Mrs. Clapp. He smiled at the girl.

  “A place to rest, yes, and more than rest, recruitment for the spirit. We have found several such. Some are the work of man’s hands—others are of nature. But from them you may draw peace of mind and relaxation from all tensions. This was perhaps built by one who was an exile here, even as we are. We believe it was once a farm—in days when this land was not so troubled as it now is. There is iron set into the door bar and across the windows—which means that those who built were of our kind. But how they brought into their building this spirit of contentment, that we cannot tell. Perhaps all emotions are heightened in this time-space. We meet terror in some places, this blessed quietude in others. While in our own world, if such exist, our senses are not attuned to recognize them.”

  Stroud had subsided on a stool, his thick legs stretched out before him, his craggy face only partially lighted by the lamp.

  “We could stay, weren’t it so close to the city. At least we can hole up for now.”

  That feeling of peace lulled them all. Nick’s legs ached, he could not remember when he had walked so far. And while the pressure of the need to escape had kept him going, now that that was removed his fatigue settled all at once, bringing every ache and pain of misused and seldom-used muscle with it. A little later he was glad enough to stretch out flat on one of the heaps of dried leaves along the wall to which Crocker pointed him. And sleep came quickly.

  There were dreams, not frightening, but rather the kind one longs to hold onto, to prolong. Even when he drifted awake and knew he was awake, he held his eyes shut and reached again for the dream. However, it was not only gone, but he could not remember it at all.

  “Nick! Oh, why doesn’t he wake up! Nick!” A fierce whisper, a hand on his shoulder.

  Reluctantly he opened his eyes. Linda crouched by him. Though the lamp was out he could see her face in the thin gray light that came from a small opening very high in the walls.

  “Nick!” She shook him harder.

  It took a great effort of will to answer her.

  “Yes—”

  “Be quiet!” She leaned closer. “You’ll wake one of them.”

  The urgency in her tone was enough to make him sit up. It banished the peace of this place.

  “What is it?”

  “Lung—he’s gone!” Now that he showed himself fully aroused, Linda withdrew a little. “There was a whistling and he went!”

  “Went how? The door’s barred—” It was true. The bar Crocker had put there last night was still firmly in place.

  “In the other room—” She jerked at his arm. “There’s an open window. Lung ran—I got there just in time to see him squeeze through—”

  He followed as silently as possible in her wake. Around him he could hear snores, the heavy breathing of those deep in slumber. Linda’s hand reached back for him, drew him on. They passed the fireplace and turned right. There was a brighter glimmer of the gray light.

  Here was another room, the door to it a little open. Inside there was no furniture, but there was the square of an open, barred window, set quite low in the wall. Nick did not have to be told that the bars were iron.

  Linda dropped his hand, ran to the window, her hands gripping those bars as she pressed against them, striving to see out into the light of pre-sunrise.

  Perhaps time had eaten away the strength of that metal barrier, or perhaps there was some concealed catch the girl’s weight activated. The crisscross of bars swung outward and Linda half fell, half scrambled through.

  Nick hurled himself after her. “Linda, don’t be a fool! Come back here!”

  If she heard him she was not about to obey. As he banged into the lattice that had fallen into place again, Nick could see her moving out into the yard calling Lung softly. The bars now seemed solid, but he beat his fist against them, and once more the lattice gave and he went through.

  “Linda!” he shouted. If it awakened the others, all the better.

  He could see her by an opening in the wall.

  “I see him,” she called back. “Don’t follow me, he’s being naughty—he’ll run again unless I can coax him. And he certainly won’t come if he sees you.”

  There was no way Nick could reach her in time. Unheeding of her surroundings, she was already through that gap, now calling again.

  “Lung—here, Lung—Lung—Lung—”

  In spite of her admonition, Nick pushed open the window bars again and went after her. Maybe what she said was true and, seeing him, the Peke would be wary. But he had to reach her, make her understand the danger of wandering out this way. If necessary she would have to abandon Lung for her own safety.

  However, even as he knew the logic of that, Nick also realized he could never make Linda agree to it. It might take physical force to return her to safety.

  “Lung—Lung, you bad, bad boy! Lung—” Linda crouched in the lane, her hand out, her voice coaxing. “Lung—” With her hand she dug into the big patch pocket on her jeans. “Lung—goodies—the kind you like—goodies, Lung!”

  Nick could see the Peke. He had stopped, was looking back at Linda. Nick slowed to a halt. If Linda could coax him to her—

  “Goodies, Lung—” She spoke as if this was a game she had had to play before.

  Lung turned a little, his pink tongue showing, as if he already tasted what she had to offer.

  “Goodies—” Linda made the word a drawn-out drawl.

  One step, and then two, the Peke was returning. Nick held his breath. As soon as Linda could get her hands on Lung it would be his turn to hurry them both back to the house.

  “Good—good—Lung—” The Peke was almost within reaching distance of her hands now. On the palm of one were some broken pieces of brown biscuit. “Good Lung—”

  Sharp, shrill, a whistle.

  Instantly the Peke whirled, looked toward the stand of trees to their left, from which the sound had come. He barked and was gone in a flash.

  Linda cried out, stumbled to her feet, and dashed after him, aware of nothing but the running dog. Nick called, and then went after her, prudence thrown away, knowing that somehow he must stop Linda before she met whatever summoned Lung.

  The Peke was still barking. And Linda shouted in return, calling his name at the top of her voice. Nick kept silent. No use wasting breath when she would not listen.


  He might have caught her, but a stone half-embedded in the ground proved his downfall. As the toe of his boot met that, he sprawled forward, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his body.

  It was a moment or two before he could claw his way to his feet again. Linda had gone, only a swinging branch guided him. But he could still hear the barking and her calls. The little fool—stronger names came to his mind as he went on. Doubtless his folly was as great as hers in following. But if he went back for help she could be lost. He would have to take the chance as it was the only one he had.

  Thrusting his way through bushes at the cost of bloody scratches, Nick won to an open space under the trees. Though the direction of those barks and calls might mislead, they were all he had to guide him. And somehow the sounds were reassuring, at least they were both able yet to make them.

  “Lung—Lung!” Between those two words there was a change in tone. The first utterance had been a call, the second—what? A protest?

  Nick pushed on at the best pace he could, and, without warning, stepped into an open, treeless glade. Before him stood Linda, but she was making no effort to capture Lung.

  The small dog was still barking, sitting up on his haunches, waving his forepaws excitedly in the air. While she whom he was wooing with all his might smiled and enticed him with something held tantalizingly in her hand.

  Linda moved just as Nick caught up with her. Before he could reach out to restrain her—

  “No!” she shouted. Her hand swept through the air to strike at the other’s.

  Swept out—and passed through!

  Linda screamed. The other shrank back. But Linda threw herself to the ground and seized the Peke who struggled wildly in her hold, actually snapping at her in fury.

  Nick pushed her behind him, confronting the other—perhaps a phantom.

  There was a nebula of light about her, seemingly thrown off by the unusual white skin of her face and hands. In part that light misted her, made her from time to time harder to see. But, in spite of what had happened when Linda had tried to strike the morsel from her hand, she seemed to be entirely real and solid. And she looked more human than had the Green Man.

  Her hair was a warm chestnut brown, reaching a little below her shoulders. She wore breeches of forest green, with matching boots and shirt, the sleeves of which showed from beneath a tabard like the Herald’s. Only hers was not multicolored but green, bearing across the breast glittering embroidery, in silver and gold, of a branch of silver leaves and golden apples.

  “Who are you?” Nick demanded. “What do you want?”

  But the stranger continued to back away, and, as she went, the mist about her deepened, clung tighter to her body, until all that could be seen was her face. There was nothing there of threat. Instead from her eyes came the slow drip of tears. And her mouth moved as if she spoke, only he heard nothing. Then the mist covered ail of her, dwindled again to nothingness and they were alone.

  “She wanted Lung!” Linda still held the dog to her with tight protectiveness. “She tried to take Lung!”

  “She didn’t get him,” Nick pointed out. “Get up! We have to get out of here quick.”

  “Yes.” For the first time Linda seemed to realize how far they might have ventured into danger. “Nick, she tried to take Lung!”

  “Maybe—”

  “Maybe? You saw her! She was going to give him something—You saw her!”

  “She was teasing him with it. But she might have had a bigger capture than Lung in mind. You followed him, didn’t you?”

  “Me?” Linda stared at him. “But she didn’t even look at me—it was Lung she called—”

  “Could it be she knew you would follow him?” Nick persisted. Looking back he could not swear that the girl had seemed any menace at all. But he had no way of evaluating the many traps this world could offer. At any rate Linda had better be well frightened now so that she would not be so reckless again.

  “Do you really believe that, Nick?”

  “More than I can believe she was only after Lung. And—”

  He had been looking ahead, his grasp on Linda’s arm hurrying her along, intent on regaining the safety of the house with all possible speed. But now he realized that he was not sure of the direction. Though it was much lighter than when he had set forth, he could sight nothing here as a landmark he remembered. As he studied the ground he hoped for some mark there to guide them.

  Yes! His momentary uneasiness passed—here—and there—He need only follow those quite distinct marks and they would lead them back to safety.

  Odd, he would not have believed they were so far from the house. It had seemed, remembering, that he had not been too long under the trees before he had caught up with Linda. But the tracks were plain enough to keep him going.

  Until they pushed under the last tree, past the last bush to face not the building, but an open meadow with knee-high grass and tall spikes of yellow flowers. There were more trees a distance away, but to Nick all of this was totally unfamiliar.

  He had retraced their own tracks—then how—Their tracks? A small chill grew inside him—whose tracks? Or had those been tracks at all? As the lure of the singing, and the whistling that had drawn Lung, had those been signs deliberately made to draw them on, away from safety?

  “What are we doing here, Nick?”

  Linda was caressing the now subdued Lung. Perhaps she had not even paid attention to where they had headed.

  “I thought we were headed for the house. We must have been turned around back there.”

  The only thing to do, of course, was to return in the opposite direction. But he had the greatest reluctance to do that. Fear of the ill-omened glade made him unwilling to voluntarily enter it again. What was happening to him that he was afraid—actually afraid—of the woods?

  “We’ll have to try to go through it.” He spoke his thoughts aloud, more than to her. Nick was determined not to yield to that growing aversion to the necessity for retracing their way.

  “No, Nick!” Linda jerked back when he would have drawn her with him. “Not in there.”

  “Don’t be silly! We have to get back to the house.”

  She shook her head. “Nick, are you sure, absolutely sure, that you can?”

  “What do you mean? This is no forest. We got through it one way, and that didn’t take us hours. Sure we can go back.”

  “I don’t believe it. And I won’t.” It was as if she braced herself against his will. “I won’t go back in there!”

  Nick was hot with exasperation. But he could not drag her, and he was sure he would have to if they went in that direction.

  “We’ve got to get back to the house,” he repeated.

  “Then we’ll go around.” Linda turned her back on him and began to walk along the outer fringe of the brush and trees.

  Nick scowled. He could not leave her here alone, and short of knocking her out and carrying her—

  Kicking at a clod of earth, though that hardly relieved his feelings, he set out after her.

  “We’re going to have to go a long way around.”

  “So we’re going the long way around,” Linda snapped. “At least we can see where we are going. Nothing is going to get behind some tree to pick us off as we go by. Nick, the woods—had things in it besides her! I could feel them, if I couldn’t see them.”

  “The tracks.” He brought into words his own fear. “They led us out here—perhaps to trap us.”

  “I don’t care! I can see anything that comes here.”

  But she was willing to hurry, Nick noted. And they followed the edge of the woods, heading south, at a pace that was close to a trot. He hoped this detour would not take long, he was hungry and he was also worried as to how the others would accept their absence. The English might believe that he and Linda had cut out on their own.

  No, they had left their bags, everything they owned now. A little reassured at that thought, Nick decided that the others would not cl
ear out and leave them. Maybe right now they were in a search party, hunting. Suppose he called?

  But he could not. If Linda was not just running from her own imagination, they could be watched by things from the trees. Or hunted by those to whom his calls would serve as a guide. Though the grass was so tall it was hard to tramp through, he thought he saw ahead the end of the woods.

  “Nick—there’s water.” Linda angled to the left across his path.

  The hollow was not a pond, but rather a basin that the hand of man, or some intelligence, had had a part in devising. For the water trickled from a pipe set in a wall about a hollow. Then that was cupped in a rounded half-bowl and fed once more into a runnel that ran on out into the meadow and disappeared.

  Linda knelt, loosing Lung, who lapped avidly at the basin. She flipped the water over her flushed face and then drank from her palms cupped together. Seeing the water, Nick was struck by thirst, just as an ache within him signaled hunger. But he waited until the girl had drunk her fill, standing on guard, his attention swinging from woods, to sky, to open fields, watchful and alert. As Linda arose he ordered:

  “Keep a lookout.” He went down in her place, the clear, cold water on his hands and face, in his mouth, down his throat. He had never really tasted water before. This seemed to have a flavor—like mint—

  “Nick!”

  7

  He choked and whirled about, water dribbling from the side of his mouth. One look was enough.

  “Get back!” Nick forced Linda, by the weight of his body and his determination, into the brush fringe of the woods.

  “Keep Lung quiet!” He added a second order.

  They were no longer alone in the meadow. Two figures had rounded the rising bulwark of the ridge, were running, or rather wavering forward desperately. They were dressed alike in a yellow brown that could easily be seen against the vivid green of the grass. But they did not try to take cover. It was as if some great terror, or need, drove them by the most open ways where they could keep the best speed they could muster.