“I might try.” It wasn’t available everywhere in the Commonwealth, so I didn’t put the question too hopefully. “Have you any whiskey?”
“Do you think I acquired bodily health, spiritual well-being, mental agility, philosophy, the knowledge and love of my fellow men, and the nine arts, of which the eighth is keeping a good house and the ninth is not going bankrupt while doing so — do you think I acquired all those faculties with the aid of nothing but hot chocolate and water?” He tapped me on the chest. “Sir,” he said, dropping his voice reverently, “I don’t merely have whiskey; I have Glenlivet.”
The Glenlivet was worthy of reverence, being exactly what I needed. One slug of it eased the tension which was the last symptom of my recent bondage to woe. Refilling from the bottle which had been brought to our table, I leaned back with a sigh to listen to Golias and Ambrose.
The latter, it was manifest, prescribed nothing for his patrons that he didn’t consider good for himself. “You’re bound for Riders’ Shrine, of course?” he queried when he had polished off a big hooker.
“I am,” Golias nodded. “Naturally, I wouldn’t miss the trip as long as I’m lucky enough to be in the vicinity. Shandon’s bound for Hippocrene, though.”
“Is that right?” The landlord looked at me with interest. “Well, he’ll go most of the way with us anyhow. It ought to be a good journey. We’ve got a likely lot of pilgrims this year.”
“I’ve been noticing.” Golias sipped, peering over the top of his glass at the people stirring around the tap room. “There’s old Falstaff, Dinadan, Alcestis — you two should get together and swap experiences, Shandon — Helias, Biron, and Maeve. Who else has checked in that I might know?”
“Oh, the incomparable Fiametta, of course, Tartarin, young Juan, Captain Suggs, Glycerium, Gisli, Mrs. Slipslop, and so on. I can’t tick them all off at the moment, but we’ve got a full complement.” Ambrose abruptly hauled himself to his feet. “Richard,” he called out to an attendant, “bring Miss Watson over to our table, please.”
We were all standing by the time the girl who had just entered the room joined us. She was lovely in a quiet fashion, but once you looked in her eyes you didn’t care whether she was or not. While not eyes of great experience, they held the guarantee that they would know how to value experience when she met it.
“No, I’ve never previously met Miss Emma,” Golias said, as he held a chair for her, “but I knew when I waked up this morning that something good was going to happen to me today.”
“Besides the Glenlivet?” she wanted to know. “Not yet, thank you,” she then said by way of answering the landlord’s question. “I’ll have the drink some time when I can’t get flattery.”
“There you go ruining my business,” Ambrose upbraided Golias, “and I have only one night to shake these people down before they leave on their pilgrimage.”
“You along with them,” she reminded him. Next she looked from Golias to myself. “Are you two joining us?”
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Golias swore, “but Shandon — a fickle fellow you’ll do well not to trust — will desert you at the trail to Hippocrene.”
I saw that he had deliberately led up to that in order to make a good impression on my behalf. He got results, for she gave me a grave consideration it warmed me to receive. I said nothing, being content to look at her. It occurred to me that we would get on well, given the chance; and the same idea must have crossed her mind, for she flushed.
“I think that’s splendid,” she said. “I’ve never met anybody who’s made that pilgrimage.”
“Yes, you have,” I corrected her. “The fellow who just held your chair and lied to you about my character knows the place like a gold fish knows its bowl. If you can believe him,” I added as an afterthought.
“And will you be as worthy of belief when you’ve been there?”
“I don’t know,” I said, enjoying the clean lines of her face, “but suppose on my return I told you that you were very sweet and beautiful?”
“I’d admire you for your forthright honesty. Mr. Ambrose, I’ll take that drink now. A glass of sherry, if you please. I find this other stuff going to my head.”
I smiled, partly at what she had said, partly at what I had said, and partly because she knew I meant it. Then, thinking of how it would have enraged Faustopheles to find me enjoying myself after such a fashion, I chuckled. It was my first attempt at open mirth since leaving the Pit, and it broke trail for laughter to follow. And when dinner was over, and Emma had left us to a fine stag evening at which we were joined by Dinadan and Gisli — two good gents — I was, if anything, in a gayer mood. Whether my meeting with her would ultimately mean much or little was of no consequence. What did count was that I was looking forward to seeing her the next day. The promise of new rewards made to me by the spring peepers during Dione’s Watch had been kept.
It was well kept the following morning, too, when we set out, thirty strong in good fellowship, for Riders’ Shrine. I had been leery of mounting the nag they saddled for me, but needlessly so. Nobody was in a hurry, so my progress was hardly more dangerous or uncomfortable than sitting in a traveling rocking chair.
Once assured I could be master of the situation, I felt master of the day. Seeing that my horse was bigger than that of the fellow called Juan, I made it catch up and wedge between his hay burner and the one ridden by Emma. Golias was already on the other side of her, and we rode thus from then on. Emma smiled, and the sun shone from a sky as clear as her eyes. Emma laughed, and a thousand birds sang. Emma’s hair blew in the breeze, and so did myriads of apple, cherry, and plum blossoms. Nor were those the only pleasures of the road.
“As marshal of this pilgrimage,” Ambrose announced, when we had well settled down to our pace, “I call it to order.”
The gabble of a dozen conversations slowly died. “What is the will of the marshal?” the handsome muscle man named Helias demanded. He spoke with courteous interest, but as if he knew the answer.
“It is my will that each of you in turn shall tell a tale according to the best powers of your wit and eloquence,” the landlord responded. “Herein fail not upon pain of my official displeasure.”
“Does that mean you might withhold credit?” Old Falstaff, the one who asked that question, was a veteran lush or I don’t know the signs. “If so I yield.”
“We all yield under them circumstances,” Captain Suggs drawled. He milked his quid and spat. “Get one of the girls to start it up.”
“The fair Fiametta will begin,” Ambrose declared, bowing to the woman on the horse next to his own, “if she will so favor us.”
She did in a voice that had something of the exotic quality of her beauty. It was unthinkable that a woman who looked as she did should tell anything but a love story, and she ran true to form.
In far Chang-an, his capital Ming Huang
Once loved and lost to death the Lady Yang —
she began; and went on to a dramatic if unusual ending. It was a good yarn, and so were those that followed, though some of them would have been barred from the chaste wave lengths of radio. They made the morning pass quickly, and following a leisurely luncheon they resumed to demolish the hours of the afternoon.
Entertained alike by the stories and the intervening conversations with Emma and Golias, I largely forgot about my own pilgrimage until the latter signaled me to lag behind. “What’s on your mind?” I asked, made impatient by the notion that somebody might usurp my place beside the girl.
“We’re coming to the turn off for Hippocrene soon, Shandon.”
“Oh.” That was one thing I had learned not to try to buck. “How do I recognize it?”
“I’ll show you. As a matter of fact, I’d planned to go with you a little of the way, but my turn’s coming up.”
Knowing that he had been itching to sound off ever since the story telling had begun, I grinned. “I wouldn’t have you miss it and explode. Just tell me what I have to do.”
“Around the next bend we’ll come to an alder thicket on the left side of the road. It hasn’t been penetrated often enough for there to be a path, but bull your way through until you come to a cliff.”
I frowned. “I don’t have to go into another cave, do I? I’ve had enough of that.”
“It’s not a cave you’ll be looking for; just a crevice that’ll let you through to a little valley. Work your way up the trough of it and drink at the second spring you come to. The second,” he emphasized, “and no other. And don’t forget you’re to take three drinks, if you can hold them.”
“After the Glenlivet that shouldn’t be hard. What about this gee-gee?”
“You’ll have to go afoot. Don’t worry about your nag when you dismount. He’ll follow his stable mates.”
“So will I, as soon as I’ve finished my chore,” I promised. “If I don’t catch up sooner, I’ll see you at the inn tonight.”
“I hope it’ll break that way, Shandon.”
“What do you mean you — ” I was asking when the voice of Ambrose interrupted me. “Where’s Golias?”
“Right here,” my companion eagerly called back. “I’ll give you the signal with my thumb,” he murmured before he raised his voice again. “What is your will, good marshal?”
“I demand a tale of you.”
“You shall have it forthwith,” Golias promised.
At Angel’s Camp in Calaveras County
There lived a man who sought to win a bounty
On every fact, or action, or event;
He’d back a hunch with his last buck or cent,
Or let you pick your side; he didn’t care
Which way he bet, just so the bet was there.
He’d bet you where a pup would hide a bone,
Or if a bug was underneath a stone,
Or just whose plate a fly would try to savor,
Or which of fifty cows a bull would favor;
And luck or genius so befriended him,
This Smiley, not Leonidas, but Jim —
As he pronounced the name, Golias jerked his thumb in the direction of the clump of bushes we were passing. Reining in, I dismounted. Emma waved back at me and smiled encouragement. Dinadan winked in passing by way of wishing me well. After peering around at me in surprise, the nag, as advertised, ambled after its mates.
Determined to rejoin the procession as quickly as possible, I didn’t waste much time. The alders were so thick that I decided crawling would be the most comfortable method of entry. Stooping to begin, I could hear Golias continuing.
After the loss of such a gifted dog,
He found much consolation in a frog
He tutored daily, to improve its skill
At jumping and at —
The combination of the bushes and the growing distance between us cut off the rest of it. Doggedly I proceeded on the last lap to Hippocrene.
After a few minutes of painful scrambling, I found the cliff and in due course the crevice. I first doubted if the latter was passable for one of my bulk, but once I had squeezed through for a few yards I had easier going for the half mile or so to the ravine of which Golias had spoken. Seeking the point where the two slopes which formed it met, I began climbing.
The white pine woods through which I was walking soon yielded at the core to allow me a view. The crest of the ridge topping the ravine was not far away, so presumably my goal was close. I stopped for a careful look around.
The little meadow was broken only by some wild cherry trees alight with blossoms, and a group of silver birch. From amidst the latter water shone. This proved to be a sizeable spring, but it was the only one there. Accordingly I proceeded toward the line of blue spruce hedging the uphill side of the clearing.
Beyond was a much smaller opening in the woods. In it were three redbud trees and a huge oak. A white stallion was cropping the little blossoms with which a hollow beneath the oak was floored. Scenting me, he gave a startled stamp and trotted a few yards before he commenced browsing again.
Somehow his hoof must have tapped a main in the water table, for from the spot where he had stamped a spring gushed forth. I watched it fill the hollow before I doubtfully approached. For all the novelty of its origin, here was unquestionably the second spring I had found; and Golias’ instructions had been explicit.
Doubt vanished when I stood on its rim, however. Throughout the pilgrimage on which I had first been driven, and which I had latterly come to accept as inevitable, I had been unable to imagine the nature of the spring. Now I wondered why I hadn’t guessed. Looking at that water — so clear that the faint flush on every petal in its chalice of arbutus blossoms was visible — was the match of smelling the April air around me. With a convulsive surrender of the spirit I threw myself down to drink.
The water bit my throat so that I could only take one gulp without pausing. I could say it reminded me of wood smoke, the taste of snow, a deep kiss, good whiskey, blood, and the smell of earth after rain; but no list of elements would suffice to give the flavor. In any case it took possession of me in a rush. It rocked me, yet I was avid for more and put my mouth to it again. Following the second round I got giddily to my feet.
Vaguely I knew that I was supposed to taste a third time. I could not wait around to do so. My mind was seething with a swarm of wonderful ideas. None of them had quite taken form; but I knew they would in a minute, and I had to be able to tell somebody about them. I had to catch up with Golias and Emma before eloquence burst out of me for the dazzlement of trees and the sparrows only. Yes, and I had something for the others, too. I had been forced to beg off when Ambrose had asked me for a story; but now it was different. I hadn’t precisely grasped the substance of the one in my mind, but I had glimpsed the marvelous shadow it cast. It seemed to me that all I had to do in order to trap and hold the reality was to concentrate when the time came. And that also was too good to keep.
Unfortunately the riding pilgrims had gained a mile or more on me and would double that lead before I could get back to the road. Turning to run for it, I caught sight of the white stallion, nibbling redbud petals. He was the answer to my need, and I bounded toward him.
It was immaterial that I was without skill as a rider. That the nag was without a saddle meant no more to me, nor the fact that it would be impossible for a horse to negotiate the crevice. I was a man of inspiration in a hurry.
A factor which aided me was that the stallion, now that I was in a position to see him better, had a feathered appendage folded along his flank. The bone supporting it offered a good hand hold when I scrambled astride.
The horse hadn’t been able to evade me, because the redbud tree cut off his retreat. I had hardly thrown a leg over him, however, before he was in motion. He wasn’t fooling around, either. He cleared the blue spruce in one leap, and he didn’t come down. While I hung on by the base of his pinions, he soared and then spiraled. Apparently this was to gain his bearings, for in a minute his wings were sweeping us toward the afternoon sun.
My state of exhilaration prevented me from being alarmed at the flight. At the outset, moreover, I seemed to be doing exactly what I wished, heading right for the procession of pilgrims. It was only when the stallion failed to descend in spite of my commands, entreaties, and gymnastics that I realized I had overreached myself by mounting him.
The perception snapped me out of wildness on the instant. My cleared head knew that I should have obeyed the injunction of the Delian by taking that third drink of Hippocrene. But the same clarity made me see that I would probably not have been able to rejoin Golias, Emma, and the rest anyhow. I had drunk of Hippocrene and something different was in order. It had to be so. I had been to Hippocrene, and it was too great a thing to be merely an incident on even so pleasant a journey as that to Riders’ Shrine. I had won my passport to the Commonwealth and must expect to take all the chances, for good and bad, that befall an independent operative.
For if I glimpsed what I had failed to gain by no
t drinking all I should have, I saw what the two draughts I actually had downed had done for me. They say the events of his life slide through a drowning man’s mind. Similarly all the things I had seen and done since reaching the Commonwealth had returned to me during the first upward surge of my flight. They had returned to fix themselves in my consciousness in order and proportion, a portable spectrum of values, graded for all occasions. To one so equipped new places would never be too strange, nor would old ones lack the lustre of novelty.
Peering backward and downward at the procession, I could see one of the tiny figures — possibly my old friend, still recounting the exploits of Jim Smiley, the frog trainer — throw out his arm in a storyteller’s gesture. I threw out my own arm in a salute of farewell, meant partly for Emma and the rest but mostly for Golias.
After that I turned to see if I could find out where the stallion was taking me. This was more difficult to determine, because low clouds were banking to westward. In another hour we were flying over them, and so continued until the sun had dropped through them to give its final rays to the world below.
Made drowsy by the wind in my face, I had been nodding when the bottom fell out. I grabbed for my mount’s mane, but that didn’t help the hollow feeling in my stomach. The nag had peaked his wings like a striking hawk, and gravity had given him the green light.
Once I had accepted the fact that the horse was ready to make a landing, I felt better. I did while I still expected to see land, that is. When we were through the clouds, I found we were plummeting towards either a vast inland lake or the ocean.
The only refuge from water in sight was a large passenger ship almost directly below us. I had time to observe that its decks were deserted, as was to be expected at an hour dedicated to the bar, the dining saloon, and the coffee lounge. I also had time to wonder what my mount was going to do when it neared the high waves. My question was soon answered. He suddenly put his head down and bucked.
Off I went, hitting the water at an angle that made for a deep dive. The stallion had almost reached the clouds again as I surfaced; but I didn’t bother to swear at him. My thoughts were for the ship in whose wake I was tossing. By the fading light I could just make out it was the Western Star out of San Francisco; and it wasn’t getting any nearer. I raised my voice in a healthy bellow.
Silverlock (Prologue Books) Page 41
