Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

by Lisa Goldstein

  Her eyes sought him out again, and this time she looked beseeching, filled with hope. I have no sword, he thought, but even as he protested his hand reached for the dagger he wore at his back like every other gallant in the city. Would it be enough? Would it protect him against the great horses that were even now moving into the thick of the fighting? Truly I must be bewitched, he thought, moving slowly into the churchyard. A few of the stationers called to him but he ignored them.

  Blackness enveloped him almost immediately. He realized that he must have stepped into one of the eddies of shadow that covered the red king’s followers. Muffled sounds of fighting came to him, the ring of sword on sword, the neighing of horses, but he could see nothing. Even the solid bulk of Paul’s was lost in the darkness. He flailed around with his dagger and backed away a few paces. If he couldn’t fight he could at least return to the safety of the church.

  Two white eyes peered out at him from the shadows. The eyes looked sickly, like marshlights. Something hissed. He moved toward it, his dagger poised. The eyes disappeared, reappeared to his left. Or were there two of the creatures? He changed his course to counter it. The hissing noise came again, louder.

  The eyes vanished again, and he spun around. This time they reappeared to his right, and slightly closer. I’m going to die, he thought. Who is this woman, that she can ask this of me?

  He heard the hissing noise again, and something else, the sound of a great wind driving across the churchyard. As he watched the wind swept away the blackness. Nay, it did more than that; it seemed to carry with it its own light, a brilliance that suffused the yard. Now he could see the soft, wrinkled creature that stood before him. It was barely three feet high. He moved toward it and it turned and ran. “Coward!” he called to it, laughing wildly in his relief. “Will you attack only in the dark?” In two steps he was upon it, and he hewed it down. The fluid that came from the thing seemed more like foul water than blood.

  The sweep of the light revealed Brownie. He and the water spirit thrust and parried with their swords, first one and then the other gaining the advantage. Alice watched as they moved back and forth across the churchyard, and she remembered that Hogg had spoken to his creature before it had gone out to fight. Had he directed it toward Brownie out of spite? Did he want Brownie dead because he knew of her fondness for him? She had not realized, in all her years, that such malice existed.

  The water spirit gained the shelter of one of the stalls and clambered to the top. From its advantage it moved as if to cut Brownie down, but Brownie overturned the stall with one quick motion and the water spirit fell. She saw Brownie stand over it and slash downward with his sword.

  But the triumph for Oriana was short-lived. As Alice watched the glowing light seemed to dim. Shadows began to creep back, coiling like oozing water over the churchyard. The wind around Margery grew less fierce and her face looked strained, grim. “What is it?” Alice asked, but Margery did not seem to hear her.

  “It’s Hogg,” Agnes said. “Look—he’s fighting back.”

  The blackness seemed strongest by the churchyard gate, where Paul Hogg stood with George. Alice struggled to see through the gloom but she could make out only that his arms were raised, like Margery’s.

  “Now,” Margery said. Her breath came in gasps, and Alice saw to her horror that sweat ran down her face. “I can’t—Arthur. You must—talk to Arthur now. Or they will lose this war.”

  And why shouldn’t they, after what Oriana’s done to me? Alice thought. She took away my only child and left me a stranger instead. John never knew his true son. And Walter—She looked up and saw Walter’s eyes on her. What would he think if she went to talk to the queen? Nay. It felt to her as if she had one last chance at happiness, and she’d be damned if she let Oriana take that away too.

  But she could not say any of this to Margery, could not break the terrible concentration she saw on her friend’s face. She could only watch as the light around them faded to almost nothing. And then another voice came to her out of the darkness. “Aye,” it said. “You’re right—it’s useless to meddle in these affairs. Arthur will not listen to anything you say.”

  “What—”

  “You were never a very good mother to the child,” the voice said. “You couldn’t teach him anything, couldn’t keep him from leaving you finally. Look how quickly he went to Oriana, without even a backward glance. He cares nothing for you. Why should he heed you now?”

  Aye, it was true. She felt something almost like relief. The outcome of the battle could not be affected by anything she did. She would not have to speak to Arthur after all. The red king would triumph, of course, but that was nothing to her.

  There was even a painful satisfaction in being told that she had been a poor mother to Arthur. All those years of wondering, of thinking that if only she had done things differently her son would not have left—all of them were cancelled out, just like that. She had no more questions, only certainties. She had been a bad mother, and she had paid the price.

  “It’s Hogg!” Margery said. “He’s the one whispering these things to you. Don’t listen to him!” She lowered her arms, drained by her effort.

  “I don’t care!” Alice said. “Don’t you understand? I don’t care what happens to Oriana. She took my son and I want her to suffer for it.”

  “I’m not—” Margery said. But all around them folks were raising their eyes, looking to the church’s tower. The dragons had come.

  The red and silver dragons Alice had seen over Finsbury Field circled for advantage near the tower. As she watched the silver dragon gained the air above the other one and flew down toward it, claws extended. The red dragon cried out and spewed flame.

  Fire coursed to the churchyard below, and several of the stationers called out in alarm. The wooden structure of Paul’s burned easily; lightning had destroyed the steeple ten years before Alice had come to London. Smoke began to rise from one of the stalls. A stationer ran out from the safety of the pillars and smothered the fire with his cloak.

  “I’m not talking about Oriana,” Margery said, as if nothing had interrupted their conversation. The yard in front of them grew lighter as the silver dragon harried the red one, keening loudly. “I’m talking about your son. He needs to become independent of both his mothers, so that he may learn how to be a king.”

  Alice looked at her friend, incredulous. Perhaps the battle with Hogg had been too much for her and she had lost her wits. Or perhaps she was older than Alice thought, and had already reached her dotage. “Arthur is not my son,” she said, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “The Prince of Faerie is not my son. He’s a changeling. This woman here—” she turned to Agnes—“told me so herself. She was present at his birth.”

  “There was a woman in the village where I grew up,” Agnes said. “She lost her son shortly after he was born. And there was another family killed by the plague, all but a little boy. And the woman raised the boy as if he were her own son, and soon no one remembered that the two of them were not related. There are other ties than those of blood.”

  “What are you saying?” Alice said slowly. “That Arthur is my son, whether he’s related to me or not?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Agnes said placidly. “Do you think Arthur is your son?”

  Alice looked into the sky to avoid answering. The red dragon had slipped out from the other’s deadly embrace and now flew over the tower. Flames shot from its mouth. The silver dragon darted away but the other was too fast for it. Fire scorched its wing, leaving a gaping wound that showed black against the silver.

  Noises came from the churchyard. Alice saw that the fighting, which had come to a standstill while the dragons grappled with each other, had begun again. The shadowy tide had returned, creeping forward.

  Was Arthur her son? She remembered her thoughts when she had exchanged him for the other boy, her strong feeling that a mistake had been made. And she remembered other things too: how he had sung to her and John in the
evenings, his beautiful voice soaring, the light of the fire reflecting in his eyes. He had been happy then, she would stake her life on it. And the way John had carried him on his shoulders through the churchyard, showing him off to the other stationers, as proud as if he’d fathered a whole brood of sons. And how Arthur had taken her by the hand to show her a birds’ nest in the rafters at Paul’s, his face serious and intent, and how he had watched the birds for hours after that, nearly motionless.

  She looked over to where he stood with the queen. He alone shared her memories of the happy time before John had died, the only one in all the world. He was her family, all that was left to her. What would happen to him if Oriana lost? Probably the red king would take him captive; perhaps they would even put him to death.

  “Arthur does not even remember you,” the voice said in her mind. “Leave him to his fate. What does it matter what happens to him?”

  Was that true? Had Arthur forgotten her already? Then she was truly alone; the time with John might not have even existed.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Margery said at her side. “It’s Hogg who is saying these things to you.”

  What did it matter who said them? She felt them to be true, knew that if she went to Arthur he would not recognize her. She could see his vacant, idiot’s stare in her mind.

  The shadow had coiled forward while she stood there. It seemed that dusk had come to the churchyard, so dark did it appear. She searched for Arthur but could barely see him in the gloom. And yet she thought he looked back at her, and his expression did not seem vacant at all.

  “A trick of the light,” Hogg said. “Nothing more.”

  She shook her head to silence him. She could not rid herself of the idea that Arthur wanted something from her. She remembered how he had looked at her as a child when he had met with something out of his experience, half bewildered and half calmly certain that she would know what to do, and it seemed to her that he wore the same expression now. Perhaps Hogg was wrong; perhaps Arthur still cared for her, as much as these folks cared for anyone. It was that thought more than anything else, her curiosity to see what had become of the boy she had raised, that made her start around the edge of the yard toward where he stood with the queen.

  She could barely find her way in the mist of shadows. Shapes rose up before her: warriors on horses with their lances ready, luminous dragons breathing flame. Something made her push forward and the figures gave way. She thought they might be tricks of the darkness, one last attempt of the red king to keep her from reaching Arthur. If that was true then the battle must be nearing its end, the king too exhausted to send his creatures against her. And what of Oriana? If the darkness was any indication the queen fared even worse.

  Something seemed to light the way ahead of her, a shape as white as a candle. Oriana. She made her way toward the queen, parting the mist before her like a curtain. The horned men moved forward to block her but the queen raised her hand and they fell back.

  She had nothing to say to the queen. All of her concern was for Arthur. The child she thought she had known so well stood before her, light shining from his face. She realized how much she had missed him these past years. She had done him wrong by not visiting him at Margery’s cottage, had done them both wrong. “Arthur,” she said softly.

  “Aye,” he said. He sounded as confused as a child. “Where am I? What is happening?”

  “You are with your mother, your true mother,” Alice said. It hurt her to say it, but she forced herself to go on. “She is the Queen of Faerie, and you are its prince.”

  “Nay,” he said. “I’ve been asleep, and have only woken now. Or I have been awake until today, and this is my dream.” He looked closer at her. “You are my mother, are you not?”

  “Aye.” Oriana looked at her, and Alice felt gratified to see something like fear in the queen’s eyes. “We are both your mothers. One to bear you and one to raise you.”

  “I thought that she was my mother. I was unhappy, and I thought I would be happy when I found my true family. But things are different here, so strange and terrible—” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t belong here either. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  She could not bear the pain in his voice. “Take me home with you,” he said. “I want everything the same as it was before.”

  It cost everything she had to summon the strength to refuse him. She could not speak, only shake her head. “If I took you with me you would be happy for a day, no more,” she said finally. “You would always wonder what you had missed, you would go seeking after enchantment the way you did as a child.”

  “Nay—”

  “You are my son, Arthur. You have my strength, and John’s. We taught you as best we could, not knowing what you were. You have lived among us, and so it may be that you have learned something of love, and compassion, and understanding. But your place is with these folks now. You are their king.”

  “King …” he said wonderingly. She saw that he had never realized what that word meant before, had not understood the responsibilities that went with it. “And I am to—to lead my people into battle?”

  So it had come to this, Alice thought. Arthur had missed the Armada but he would go soldiering anyway. She could not say the word to condemn him to that.

  But others could. One of the guards gave him a sword. Another called to the standard-bearer, who took his place at the king’s side, carrying aloft the old rotted banners. A mount was found for him, and someone blew the horn, the ancient call to battle. It seemed to Alice that the darkness stopped a little at that sound, that its forward motion might have halted for just a moment.

  Alice went to Arthur and took him in an embrace. “Come back safely, my child,” she said.

  The horn sounded again, and he mounted and rode into battle.

  All around the churchyard folks lifted their heads at the notes of the hom. One by one Oriana’s soldiers fought free of their attackers and hurried to their king’s side. By the time Arthur reached the center of the yard he had gathered a sizable train. “O-ri-a-na!” they called with one voice. Light came from them, driving back the darkness.

  Arthur wheeled the horned mount and faced the first of the red king’s people. Alice saw that his face had lost the foolish smugness it had acquired the day they gave him to Oriana; instead he looked purposeful, determined. A sea-creature rode up on one of the huge horses, and he engaged it in battle.

  The fighting surged back and forth across the churchyard. Alice caught no more than glimpses of it: Arthur rallying those who fought for the queen; Brownie, his brown eyes shining as he followed his king; Tom looking puzzled but fighting on anyway. The dragons flew above them, circling the tower. Dusk had come, but the churchyard still glowed with its own light.

  Suddenly she became aware that Hogg had turned away from the battle and was looking at the gate. Margery had grown very still, as if she waited for something. Reluctantly, Alice followed Hogg’s gaze. The red king came into the churchyard.

  His crown seemed to burn with a dark fire. Each link of his suit of mail flickered like a small flame. A hellish glare came from his eyes. One of the winged creatures cried out and flew helplessly toward him, like a moth to candlelight, and fell to the ground before it reached him.

  Will he fight? Alice thought. Has it come to that? But instead of joining the battle the red king went to Paul Hogg and said something to him in a low voice.

  A strong heat rose from the red king, and his voice was like flame speaking to wood. Hogg stood his ground, trying not to back away. “You must see to it that your part of the bargain is kept,” the king said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You promised to bring me Arthur.”

  “Arthur? But Oriana has him.”

  “Do you think that’s the end of it? If she has him then you must take him from her.”

  “It was never part of our bargain that I fight for you,” Hogg said. Could he hold off the power of the red king? How much protection would h
is magic circles afford him?

  “Aye, it was,” the red king said. The last word hissed like rotted wood consumed to ashes. “You and your warriors.” He looked at George and Anthony.

  “Nay, I will not.”

  “You will. You will when I tell you what you so desperately need to know.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The true nature of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

  The red king moved closer and whispered in Hogg’s ear. Hogg’s eyes widened with astonishment. The king stepped back, and in his hand was a glowing sword.

  Hogg took the sword from him carefully. It burned against his skin for a moment, then cooled to the temperature of his hand. He studied along its length; it seemed almost made for him. “Come,” he said to George and Anthony, and then, without waiting to see if they would follow, he moved into the thick of the fighting.

  Someone bellowed in his ear; someone nearly knocked him down with the hilt of a sword. A horse neighed close by. It was far more chaotic than he had expected. He thrust his way through the fighting toward Arthur.

  Arthur shone like the sun on water. The light nearly blinded Hogg. One of the horned men stepped out of a knot of soldiers, his sword drawn, and Hogg raised his own weapon to counter him.

  It was not like any sword-work Hogg had ever known. Men on both sides jostled them as they fought, and it was hard work to keep his footing in the shifting tide of battle. He moved in to attack but his opponent seemed to be waiting for him; he backed away but the man came after him. Then someone stumbled against the horned man and he went down, knocked off balance. Hogg bent over him and thrust his sword to the man’s heart.

  He turned and looked for Arthur. As he straightened he felt a sharp pain in his side, fierce as loss. He closed his eyes, overcome with the pain, and when he opened them again he found himself on the ground. Two pairs of boots scuffled near his head.

  What had happened? He raised his head with difficulty and saw that he had been wounded. Blood seeped over his doublet.