Even as he spoke, the woods vanished, disappearing in their entirety. The slope on which they had stood lay quite bare except for a scattered band of hairless ones, and behind them other creatures half obscured by fog.
The hairless ones moved down the slope, shambling along. At the edge of the fen they stopped, staring across the water, then began running up and down the shore, like quartering dogs seeking out a scent. After a time they went back up the slope, walking through the fog bank, which moved to follow them. In a little time they and the fog bank disappeared over the crest of the slope and did not reappear.
"We'll wait here until evening falls," said Scratch. "It won't be long. The sun is not far from down. Then we'll move out. It never gets quite dark out here. There is always some reflection from the water."
Conrad was sitting on a rock near the edge of the island, hunched over, hugging his injured arm close against his body. Duncan made his way down to him.
"Let me see that arm," he said.
"The damn thing hurts," said Conrad, "but I don't think it's broken. I can move it if I have to, but it hurts when I do. A club caught me, on the fleshy part of the arm, just below the shoulder."
The upper arm was so swollen that the skin was shiny. An angry red welt, beginning to change to purple, covered the area from the shoulder to the elbow. Duncan squeezed the arm gently and Conrad flinched.
"Easy there," he said.
Duncan took the elbow in his palm, worked it slowly up and down.
"It's not broken," he said. "You're a lucky man."
"He should have it in a sling," said Diane. "It's easier that way." She reached into the pocket of her new buckskin jacket, brought out the filmy green gown she'd worn.
"We can use this," she said.
Conrad looked at it. "I couldn't," he moaned. "If back home, the word got out…"
"That's nonsense," she said. "Of course you can."
Duncan laid the club beside Conrad. "Here's your club," he said. "Thanks," said Conrad. "I would have hated to lose it. The best of wood, well seasoned. I spent hours shaping it."
Working swiftly, Diane fashioned a sling from the gown, eased it around the arm, tied it at the shoulder.
She laughed gaily. "A bit too much material," she said. "It'll hang on you like a cape. But you'll have to put up with that. I will not tear it up. There may be a time I'll need it."
Conrad grinned at her.
"Everyone must be hungry," he said. "Beauty's down there with Daniel. Someone should take off her packs. We have some food in there."
"No cooking, though," said Duncan. "We can't show any smoke." Conrad grunted. "No wood to burn, anyhow. The packs must have something we can choke down without cooking."
As evening came down Duncan and Diane sat together on a boulder at the water's edge. They had been silent for a time. Finally Diane said, "Duncan, about that sword. The one that Snoopy gave me."
"Yes. What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But it's strange."
"It's unfamiliar to you."
"It's not that. It" s—how do I say this? It's as if someone's helping me. As if another arm than mine is wielding it. As if someone steps inside me and helps me handle it. Not that I haven't control of it, for I have. But as if someone's helping."
"That's your imagination."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. There was a sword that was thrown into a lake…"
"That's enough," said Duncan sternly. "No more fantasy. No more."
"But Duncan, I'm afraid."
He put an arm around her, held her close against him. "It's all right," he said. "Everything's all right."
28
It was, Duncan told himself, like walking through a painting, one of the blue pastel landscapes with an overtone of faery that hung in one of the sitting rooms at Standish House, precious little canvases that had been painted so long ago and hid away so long that no one now could remember who the artist might have been. Not much contrast in color, all executed in various hues of blue, with the only other color a pale moon of rather sickly yellow glinting through the blue of clouds and sky. No contrasts, nothing but subtle gradations of color, so that viewed from a distance the canvas seemed to be little more than a smudge of blue. Closer up one could make out the details and only then could there be some appreciation of what the painter might have had in mind. There had been one of them, he remembered, very much like this, a flat watery landscape showing little but the expanse of water, with deeper tones that hinted at a distant shoreline, and in the sky, as here, the sickly yellow moon.
They had been making their way through the water for hours, keeping very much in line, following close upon one another's heels, each turning as the one ahead of him turned in order to stay on the narrow underwater ledge of rock along which Scratch was feeling his way at the head of the column.
Besides the moon, there were a few stars in the sky, although at times the drifting, filmy clouds blotted out the most of them. But the flat, smooth surface of the fen, acting like a mirror, picked up and reflected every splinter of light that fell upon it. With eyes now well adjusted to the dark, it did not seem that they were moving through night at all, but through twilight, through that time of day, that particular moment, when the last deepening of twilight gives way to final night.
Diane was at the head of the column, close behind Scratch, while Duncan was last in line, with Andrew just ahead of him. The hermit, it seemed to Duncan, was becoming tired. He stumbled every now and then and was doing a lot more splashing with his staff than seemed necessary. Before too long, Duncan knew, they would have to stop to rest. He hoped that soon they would reach another of the little rocky islands. Since they had left the first island, they had come to and passed over two others. He had no idea if there were more ahead. He hoped there were, for Andrew certainly had need of rest, and perhaps some of the others as well. Conrad, despite his rugged strength, must be experiencing heavy going with his injured arm.
The water was not deep, seldom more than above his knees, but the going was slow and laborious, for with each step it was necessary to reach out and feel for solid footing before putting down one's weight.
There had been no interruptions. Twice great bodies had hurled themselves out of the fen, but had been prevented from reaching those upon the ledge of rock by the shallowness of the water. One of them Duncan had not seen, since it had hurled itself at the head of the column. He had only heard the furious splashing as the creature fought to drive itself across the ledge. The other he had seen only momentarily and in the poor light had been unable to gain more than a fleeting impression of it. The body had been huge and thick, the head vaguely toadlike. His strongest impression had been of the single, list-sized eye that for a moment had been caught in the moonlight, blazing red like an angry jewel.
All the night they had heard the far-off wailing for the world, and now it seemed to Duncan that they must be getting closer to it. It was louder and did not fade in and out as it had before. Now it kept on and on, the wailing varying in pitch but never going away. If one concentrated on it, Duncan told himself, it could be not only an annoying, but an unnerving sound. In the last hour or so it had seemed to him that he was, in a degree, becoming accustomed to it. One can get used to almost anything, be thought. Or maybe he only hoped so.
Ahead of him Andrew stumbled and went to his knees. Moving quickly, Duncan seized him and pulled him to his feet.
"You're getting tired," he said.
"I am tired," whined the hermit. "Tired in body and in soul."
"I can understand about the body," Duncan said. "What's this business of the soul?"
"The good Lord," said Andrew, "has been pleased to show me that through all my years of unremitting and conscientious labor I have acquired some small measure of a certain holiness. And how have I used it? How have I put to use this feeble power of mine? I'll tell you how. By freeing a demon from his chains. By overcoming, or helping to overcome, a vicious and a devious heathen
magic, but only with the aid of one sunk deep in witchery. It is an evil thing to collaborate with a witch or any other force or practitioner of evil, my lord. It is worse to take some credit to myself for something that well might have been done by witchery alone, for I have no way of knowing to what degree, if any at all, I was responsible for the opening of the path that freed us from the forest."
"One of these days," said Duncan harshly, "this overwhelming self-pity that you feel will be the death and the damnation of you. Remember, man, that you are a soldier of the Lord—self-proclaimed, perhaps, but still, in your mind, a soldier of the Lord."
"Yes," said Andrew, "a soldier of the Lord, but a poor one. A little fumbling, inept soldier who quakes inside himself with fear, who finds no joy in it, who drives himself to be what he may not be."
"You'll feel better," said Duncan, "once you've had a chance to rest. It has been a bitter day for us and you no longer young. You've shown the true spirit of a soldier in bearing up so well."
"It might have been better," said Andrew, "if I'd remained in my simple cell and not gone adventuring. This journey has revealed to me more of my true self than is comfortable to know. I have accomplished nothing and…"
"Now, hold up," Duncan told him. "It would appear to me that you have accomplished quite a lot. If you had not freed the demon he would not have been able to guide us across the fen."
Andrew brightened up. "I had not thought of that," he said, "although to accomplish that I gave aid and comfort to an imp of Satan."
"He doesn't belong to Satan any longer. Remember that. He ran away from Hell."
"But still he is a thing of wickedness. He has no grace within him and no possibility…"
"If by that you mean he is not a convert to Christianity, it is true. He's not. But in view of what he has done for us, we must count him as a friend and ally."
"My lord, at times it seems to me that you have strange values."
"Each of us," said Duncan, "must decide upon our own values. Take it easy now. If you should stumble once again, I'll be here to fish you out."
Following the still tottery, fumbling hermit, Duncan gazed out across the fen. It was a place of flatness, a great expanse of limpid water stretching out on every side, broken here and there by darker splotches that probably were beds of reeds growing in a patch of shallow water or small islands of willows rooted in a mud flat.
The wailing continued, rising, falling, a lonely sound that could twist the heart of one who allowed himself to listen to it and to nothing else. After a time, even listening to it peripherally, the sound seemed to acquire a weight, as if it were a physical substance that bore down upon one. Duncan found himself wondering if it might be the weight of the wailing, pressing on the fen, that made it so flat and featureless. Nothing, he told himself, not even a watery wilderness such as this, could stand unaffected beneath the weight of the wailing for the world.
Ahead of him loomed a pile of rocks, another island, with those ahead of him clambering over it. He increased his stride, caught Andrew's arm, assisting him over the great slabs of riven stone. He found a flat slab that made a good seat and swung Andrew around and sat him down upon it.
"You stay here and rest," he told him. "Don't move until I come to get you. You're all tuckered out."
Andrew did not answer. He hunched up his knees, put his arms down on them and bent his head to rest it upon the folded arms.
Duncan clambered up the rocks and found the rest of the company on the other side, settling down to rest. He said to Snoopy, "I think we should hold up for a while. Everyone must be tired. Andrew is about played out."
"So are the others," Snoopy said. "Big and tough as he may be, Conrad has almost had it. That arm is hurting him a lot. You'll have to talk with Scratch. Reason with him a little. He's hell-bent for going on. That demon is all whang-leather. He doesn't know what tired is. He could keep on forever. He'll want to go on after we rest only for a short while."
"What's his hurry?"
"I don't know. We must be better than halfway across by now. It is hard to judge. Everything looks the same here. There aren't any landmarks."
"I'll talk with him. He may have a reason. Have you seen anything of Nan?"
Snoopy made a face. "I think she's gone."
"You mean she left us?"
"I can't be sure, but I think maybe. She's not a good flyer. You know that. A flutterer rather than a flyer."
"Yes, I know."
"Over land, where she can come down anywhere or anytime she wishes, she wouldn't mind. But here, if she had to come down, there is nothing solid to set down on, only water. Banshees hate the water. Besides, there's danger here."
"You mean the things that rushed us."
"Well, yes, those. We're fairly safe from them so long as we are on the ledge. Here they can't get at us. The water is too shallow and they're too big. Otherwise, we'd have been gobbled up."
"There are other dangers?"
Snoopy twitched his shoulder. "I don't know. Stories. There are all sorts of stories about the fen. No one knows about it and that's how the stories start. No one ventures into it."
"And you think Nan is gone?"
"I think so. I don't know. She didn't tell me one way or the other."
"Maybe she figured she had done enough for us."
"That could be true," said Snoopy.
Duncan worked his way down the island to the water's edge. There he found Scratch perched on a boulder. He hunkered down beside him.
"The folks are fairly well beat out," he said. "Is there any reason we can't stay here until daylight, get some rest?"
"We should get across as fast as we can," said Scratch. "Look ahead there." He pointed and Duncan peered in the direction he was pointing. "See those peaks over there? Three peaks. They are hard to make out."
Duncan shook his head. "I'm not sure I can. One minute I think I see something and the next I don't."
"The peaks are the Island of the Wailing for the World."
"The place where the dragons are."
"That's exactly it," said Scratch. "They may not see us in the dark. Dragons maybe can see in the dark. I'm not sure. But if so, not very well. If we could reach the island before dawn we might not have too bad a time with them. But if they spot us open in the water and we still have a long way to go they'll peck us to death; they'll get us one by one."
"We'd have a better chance if we were on the island that they guard?"
"Yes, a better chance. They couldn't fly at us. They've got a big wingspread and they can't get in close to the island's rocky crags. They'll come at us, of course, on the ground, but they'll be easier to handle there. Kill a couple of them and the others may sheer off. Basically dragons are a cowardly lot."
"Then you think we should push ahead?"
"What's to hold us up?"
"Andrew is on his last legs. Conrad is hurting a lot and is getting shaky."
"Put one of them on the horse."
"Meg already is riding Daniel. She doesn't weigh much more than a feather, of course, but I'd hate to put more weight on him. I'd hate to tire him out. He's the best fighter that we have. When it comes time to face the dragons, I want him there and able to fight the best tie can."
"My lord," said Scratch, "I think it is important that we make a try to reach that island not later than dawn."
"Once we get to the wailing island, how much farther across the fen?"
"A short distance. A mile or so. It's hard by the western shore."
"From the island we could make a run for the shore despite the dragons?"
"If they saw us leaving the island they might not be after us so hard. Their job is to guard the island. Leaving it, we'd no longer be a threat. I think it might work out that way. I'm just guessing."
From overhead came a soft rustling. Duncan looked up and saw Ghost floating in.
"I bring sad tidings," said Ghost. "The unexpected has come about." He paused dramatically.
"All
right," said Duncan. "Quit your silly posing, catch your breath, and dump all the misery on us."
"My breath I do not need to catch," said Ghost. "As you well know, I have no breath to catch. And I have no intent to dump misery on anyone at all. I only tell you truth."
"Then out with it," said Duncan impatiently. "Tell us this great truth."
"The Horde has ceased its northward progress and has turned back," said Ghost. "It is encamped on the western shore opposite the wailing island and its components are beginning to form into a massive sphere."
"My God," said Duncan, "a swarm. They are starting to form a swarm."
"A swarm?" asked Ghost.
"Yes, a swarm." Duncan turned to Scratch. "You told me about their swarming habits."
"I told you what I'd heard," said Scratch.
"A defensive swarming, you said. Gaining strength by personal, almost one-to-one contact of all the members of the Horde. A pulling together. A gathering to face danger."
"That," said Scratch, "was the interpretation I had heard put upon it."
"Against us, for the love of God," said Duncan.
"If any of this that I earlier told you is true," said the demon, "I would assume the defense would have to be against us. We're the only possible danger around."
"Cuthbert told me the Horde was running scared," said Duncan. "He had no idea of what it might be scared. But why should they be scared of us? They have faced us and beaten us. We have fled repeatedly from them. What danger do we pose?"
"There is ample evidence of their fear of you," said Ghost. "They have never really come against you, not the members of the Horde. Only a few of them, a half-dozen at the most. They have sent the hairless ones against you and the hairless ones may not even be members of the Horde. They may be no more than beings created by their magic—foot soldiers, the carriers-out of orders who may not have the sense to know of fear."
"What the ghost says is true," the demon said. "If the Horde had no fear of you, you'd have been dead days ago."
"What do you do now?" asked Ghost. "They lie in wait for you."
"We can't retreat," said Duncan. "We've come too far to think of turning back. The quicker we get across the fen, the quicker we'll confront them. We may be able to slip past them. I don't know. The one thing we can't do is give them time. It may take them a while to complete the swarming."
All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories Page 79
