by Andre Norton
Bright in the firelight lay the daggers they had drawn for their protection. But they were as far from his use as if they had been in his own world.
It was then that he became aware of a sound overhead, and pushed his head back against the rough bark, striving to find an angle from which he could see what passed there. Was it a flying monster?
He caught only a fleeting glimpse. But he was sure he had not been mistaken. One of the saucers was swinging in the direction of the fugitives.
Was that sound intended to drive or pull those sheltered here into the open where they could be taken? Those monsters—the people seemed able to identify them, he remembered the monk had named the owl head—what had they to do with this? But such could be used to disarm and break down the nerves of selected victims.
But if the saucer people made their capture they would learn about him! Perhaps they already knew and believed him safely immobilized. He had to get loose!
At that moment Nick feared the saucer people more than any monster he had seen lurking here tonight. For the monsters could be illusions, but the saucers were real.
Get free, but how? The daggers—He had no possible chance of reaching those any more than he had of summoning Stroud, Crocker or the Vicar. Or of seeing the Herald—
The Herald!
Nick’s memory fastened on the picture of the Herald as he had seen him from the cave entrance. The brilliant tabard seemed to flicker before his eyes. Slowly his fear ebbed. The stench of evil that had come with the dark was gone. What Nick now felt against his sweating face was the clean breeze of the woods, with it a pleasant scent.
But the saucer! Freedom before its crew could come here! He was too spent now to struggle against the cords that only drew tighter as he fought. His hands and feet were alarmingly numb.
The Herald—in spite of his need to think of a way of escape Nick kept remembering—seeing Avalon.
“Avalon!”
What had moved him to call that name?
The horse nickered. It flung up its head, called, was answered by a bray from the mule. Both animals ceased to graze. They stood looking toward the tree where Nick was bound.
Then—HE was there!
Another illusion? If so it was very solid-seeming.
“Avalon?” Nick made of that a question. Would the Herald release him? Or, since Nick had not accepted the bargain, would he be left to whatever fate the saucer people had in mind?
“I am Avalon.” Nick could hear that.
“Can you—will you free me?” Nick came directly to the point. Let the Herald say “yes” or “no” and get it over with.
“Each man must free himself. Freedom is offered, the choice is yours alone.”
“But—I can’t move—even to take that precious apple of yours, if I want to!”
As before the Herald’s features were untouched by expression. There was a glow about him that did not come from the fires.
“There are three freedoms.” Avalon did not produce the apple. “There is the freedom of body, there is the freedom of mind, there is the freedom of spirit. A man must have all three if he would be truly released from bondage.”
Nick’s anger rose. With time his enemy, he had no desire to waste it on philosophical discussion. “That does not get me free.”
“Freedom lies in yourself,” Avalon returned. “Even as it is within all living things—”
He turned a fraction then, his level gaze moving from Nick to the horse and mule. For a space as long as several deep breaths he regarded the two animals. Then both of them moved their heads vigorously, certainly with more alertness than the half-starved beasts had displayed before.
They walked to the bushes and thrust their heads and necks into the foliage, turning, twisting with obviously intelligent purpose. Their motions snagged on branches the thongs about their necks that were hung with metal bits. Now each lowered its head and jerked back, so those cords were drawn off, left to swing there.
Freed, they came directly to the Herald, lowering their heads before him. He reached out a hand but did not quite touch their halters. Those in turn fell away, giving them freedom from all man had laid upon them.
Yet they still stood and gazed at the Herald and he back at them, as if they communicated. At last the horse whinnied, the mule brayed. Together they turned and trotted off into the night.
“If you can free them,” Nick said hotly, “you can do that for me.”
“Freedom is yours, only you can provide it.”
That there was some purpose in what he said more than just the desire to frustrate the captive, Nick now believed. The horse and the mule had had to rid themselves of “cold iron” that men had laid upon them. But all his struggles had only exhausted him. He could not free himself—that was impossible.
“How?” he asked.
There was no answer.
“You told the animals!” Nick accused.
Still the Herald was silent.
Freedom that only he himself could provide? Perhaps because he had not accepted Avalon’s offer the Herald could or would not aid him more than in such oblique statements. Nick leaned his weight against the tree and tried to think. Undoubtedly there was a way. He did not believe that Avalon was tormenting him for some obscure reason. And if there was a way he must have the will, patience and intelligence to find it.
Futile struggles did not aid. He could not reach the daggers so tantalizingly within sight but not within reach. So—what remained?
Freedom of body he did not have. Freedom of mind, freedom of spirit—could he use either? Telepathy—precognition—there were powers of the mind—paranormal powers. But those were talents few possessed and he was not one of them.
The daggers—within his sight—freedom of mind—
Avalon waited. There was nothing to be gained from him, Nick was sure. What he had to do was wholly by his own will and strength.
The daggers—a use for them—
Nick stared with all the concentration he could summon at the nearest blade, the slender one the woman had dropped. Knife—cord—one meeting the other with freedom to follow.
Knife—cord—He must shut out of his mind all else but that slender, shining blade, red with the light of the now dying fire, the thought of the cord about him. Knife—cord—
Sweat trickled down Nick’s face. He felt strange, as if part of him struggled to be free from his body. A part of him—like a hand—reaching for freedom. If he could not move the knife with his desire—what of his hand?
Nick changed tactics. A hand—an arm—free—reaching into the firelight. His body obeyed his mind in some things, would it now? Something was forming, thin, misty—touching the knife. So iron did not prevent this! Nick concentrated. A hand, five fingers—fingers and thumb to close about the haft. That grayish thing was there—clasped about the hilt.
There was the hand, but a hand must be joined to an arm or it was useless. An arm—he set himself to visualize a wrist, an arm. Once more there was the gathering of foggy material. It joined the hand, yet it also reached back to him.
Now!
He had never in his life centered on any act the intense will he now summoned. The long, long “arm” of mist began to draw back toward him. He must hold it—he must!
Nick’s breath came in gasps. Back, draw back—he must bring the knife!
The blade was out of the firelight now, trailing across the ground in little jumps as if his energy ebbed and flowed. But it was coming! Nick knew no triumph, only the need to hold and draw.
Now the knife lay at his feet, misty hand, elongated arm collapsed, faintly luminous, coiled like a slackened rope. Nick was so tired—fatigue of a kind he had never before experienced hung upon him like a black cloak. If he let it get to him he was lost.
The knife must come up! The coiled substance thickened, loops melted into a stouter, more visible column with the hand at the top, the knife in it. Up! Nick’s whole force of being centered in his desire.
&nb
sp; By jerks the blade arose. Its point pricked his knee. He brought it higher to the first twist of cord. Cut! He gave the order—cut!
It moved slowly, too slowly. He almost panicked, and then firmed his control. Slow it was, but it moved—
Cut!
Feebly the blade sawed back and forth across the tough hide. If only the edge was sharp enough! Do not think of that—think of nothing but the action—cut—cut—cut!
A loop of hide fell at his feet. The column of mist collapsed, the dagger falling with it to the ground. Nick writhed furiously with all the strength he had left. His hands fell away and he toppled over, to fall headlong, spent and breathless.
He turned his head to look for Avalon. But the Herald was gone. Nick lay alone between the dying fires, one of the wooden crosses standing in crooked silhouette between him and the limited light. He was free of the tree, but his hands were still tied and his feet numb, his body exhausted.
His hands—he must free his hands. There was the knife. Nick lay watching it. Once more he tried to create the hand. But the power, whatever power had worked in him to produce that, was gone. If he would help himself now he must do it by physical means.
Weakly he rolled over, hunched along until he could feel the blade. Wedge it somehow—but his hands were numb. Wedge it! Scrabbling in the leaf mold he dug the haft with the weight of his body into the ground. There was a stone, move that—Patiently he worked until he thought the blade secure. Up and down, Nick moved his wrists, not even sure the blade bit the cords.
He was not certain until his arms fell to his sides and the torture of returning circulation began. Then he pulled himself up onto his feet. He leaned against the tree that had been his place of bondage. The knife on the ground—iron. Stiffly, steadying himself with one swollen hand against the tree, Nick stooped to pick it up. Though the effort of putting his fingers around the hilt was almost too much, he managed to thrust the dagger into his belt.
Once more the danger of attack gripped him. He used the tree as a support, slipping around it, away from the fire. But his feet stumbled, he felt as if he could not walk. The bushes—if he could roll into, or under those—
Nick tottered forward. Ahead, only half to be seen in the gloom, was a thicker growth. He went to his knees, then lower, pushing, edging under that hope of shelter until he could fight no longer, his last atom of energy expended.
It was not real sleep that overcame him then, rather an exhaustion of body so great he could not lift his hand an inch from where it lay beside him. He was held in a vise of extreme fatigue but his mind was clear.
He could not yet understand what he had done. The mechanics of it, yes. He had brought the knife and freed himself. But how had he been able to accomplish that?
There were natural laws. He had been taught in his own world to believe what he had just done was impossible. But here those laws did not seem to hold. The Herald had spoken of three freedoms. This night Nick had used one to achieve a second in a way he would have sworn could not be done.
Nick closed his eyes. Do not think now—stop wondering, speculating. Close off memory. He needed release, not to think, concentrate, act—
A lulling, a slow healing—The evil that had been so thick was gone. The earth under him hollowed a little to receive his aching body, cradled him. Twigs and leaves brushed his upturned face, their clean scent in his nostrils. He was one with the ground, the bush—He was safe—secure—held—The sleep that came to him was dreamless.
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.
