by Jan Siegel
“What’s this?” Abby enquired, picking up the drift of gossamer on the bed.
“It’s mine,” Fern said quickly, almost snatching it from her. “It was given to me—ages ago. Ages ago.” And then, seeing Abby’s expression of hurt: “I’m sorry if I… It’s very fragile. I must put it away. I shouldn’t have left it lying about.”
The intrusion of Yoda put paid to further embarrassment. Abby scooped him up in her arms to prevent him soiling the dress and marveled aloud how he could have managed to climb so many flights of stairs when the treads were nearly his own height. Fern could not resist a sneaking hope that he might slip on the descent and roll all the way to the bottom.
Will and Gaynor walked up the hill toward the moors. The same gleam of sunlight that spun a rainbow from the Atlantean veil as Fern gazed into the mirror danced across the landscape ahead of them, pursued by a gray barrage of cloud. The sun’s ray seemed to finger the farthest slopes, brushing the earth with a fleeting brilliance of April color: the green and straw-gold of the grasses, the brown and bronze and blood-purple of thrusting stems, vibrant with spring sap, and in an isolate clump of trees the lemon-pale mist of new leaves.
“Spring comes later here than in the south,” Gaynor said.
“Like a beautiful woman arriving long after the start of the party,” Will responded. “She knows we’ll appreciate her that much more if she keeps us waiting.”
He seemed to know where he was going, changing from track to track as if by instinct, evidently treading an accustomed route. In due course Lougarry appeared, though Gaynor did not see from where, falling into step beside them. Her coat was scuffed and ruffled as if she had slept out, the fur tipped here and there with dried mud, burrs and grass seeds adhering to her flank. Gaynor tried to imagine her and her owner living in an ordinary house, sharing a sofa, watching Eastenders; but it was impossible. They were, not quite wild, but outsiders: outside walls, outside society, outside the normal boundaries in which we confine ourselves. She sensed that Ragginbone’s knowledge, his air of culture, had been acquired by watching and learning rather than taking part—endless years of watching and learning, maybe even centuries. She could picture him standing sentinel, patient as a heron, while the tumult of history went rushing and seething past. The wind would be his cloak and the sky his shelter, and Lougarry would sit at his heels, faithful as his shadow, silent as the wolf she resembled.
“If Ragginbone is a retired wizard,” she asked Will, “where does that leave Lougarry? Is she a retired werewolf?”
“Reformed,” said Will.
Gaynor had spoken lightly, her manner mock-satirical; but Will, as ever, sounded purely matter-of-fact.
They found Ragginbone on the crest of a hill where the bare rock broke through the soil. Gaynor did not know how far they had come but she was tired and thirsty, grateful for a long drink from the flask he carried. It was cased in leather like a hip flask, though considerably bigger, but the contents tasted like water the way water ought to taste but so rarely does, cool and clear and straight off the mountain, without that tang of tin and the trace chemicals that so often contaminate it. But afterward she thought perhaps its purity was mere fancy: thirst can transform any drink into an elixir. Will related most of her story, Gaynor speaking only in response to direct questions from Ragginbone. He made her repeat the description of Dr. Laye several times.
“Could he be an ambulant?” Will suggested.
“Maybe. However … You are sure his skin was actually gray? It was not an effect of the television?”
“I’m sure,” said Gaynor. “When his hand reached out I could see it quite clearly. I can’t describe how horrible it was. Not just shocking but somehow … obscene. The grayness made it look dead, but it was moving, beckoning, and the fingers were very long and supple, as if they had no bones, or too many …” She broke off, shuddering at the recollection.
“Yet the picture remained flat it wasn’t like your three-dimensional vision of Azmodel?”
“The screen went sort of rubbery, and the arm was pushing at it, stretching it out like plasticine, but—yes, the image behind stayed flat.”
“And this was a program you expected to see?” Ragginbone persisted. “It was listed in the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
To her frustration, Ragginbone made no further comment, his bright eyes narrowing in an intensity of thought. Will, better acquainted with him, waited a while before resuming the subject. “You know him, don’t you?”
“Let us say, I know who he might be. If the skin tint is natural, and not the result of disease, that tone—or something like it—was a characteristic of a certain family, though it has been diluted over the ages. There is the name, too… Clearly, since this was a real program, and he was invited to appear on it, he is a person of some standing in his field. Possibly Gaynor could use her contacts to learn more about him?”
“I never thought of that,” Gaynor admitted. “Of course, it’s obvious. How stupid of me.”
“Not at all.” Unexpectedly, Ragginbone smiled at her, a maze of lines crinkling and wrinkling at eye and cheek. “You had a disconcerting experience, but you seem to have kept your head very well. It was a pity you were so upset by the bats.”
“I hate bats,” said Gaynor.
“What about the Old Spirit?” asked Will. “He has to be behind all this.”
“I fear so. He was weakened by his failure in Atlantis, but alas, not for long. And no other has ever laired in Azmodel.”
“But why is he targeting Gaynor?”
“Possibly because you put Alison’s television set in her room,” Ragginbone retorted with a flourish of his eyebrows. “Technology lends itself to supernatural control, and after all, what is a television but the mechanical equivalent of a crystal ball? Gaynor was not targeted, she was merely on the spot. It is Fern, I suspect, who is the target.”
“Revenge?” Will asked after a moment’s reflection.
“Possibly. He has always been peculiarly subject to rancor, especially where the witchkind are concerned. The first Spirits hated the rumor of Men aeons before they arrived, fearing them as potential rivals for the dominion of the planet, knowing nothing of who they were or from whence they would come. When they realized that their anticipated enemies were no fiery angels descending from the stars but only hairless apes who had clambered down from the trees, their hatred turned to derision.” Ragginbone paused, smiling a wry smile as if at some secret joke. “Time passed. For the immortals, time can move both very fast and very slow: a week can stretch out indefinitely, or a million years can slip by almost unnoticed. Man grew up while their eyes were elsewhere, the Gift was given, and Prospero’s Children learned to vie with the older powers. And of all the Spirits, his self-blame for such willful myopia the contempt and enmity that he has nourished for mortals ever after—was the greatest. Yet he yearned for Men—to rule, to manipulate, to control. And down the ages he has grown close to them, learning too well their follies and weaknesses, becoming their god and their devil, their genius and nemesis. Learned but never wise, he has remade himself in their image: the dark side of Man. Revenge gnaws him, but power motivates him. And Fern … Fern has power. How much, I do not know. In Atlantis, he must have seen more than we. In the years when the loss he had suffered there drained him like a slow-healing wound, he may still have dreamed of using her, turning her Gift into his weapon. The Old Spirits have sought before now to corrupt witchkind and force them into their service, though such bargains have usually achieved little for either partner in the end. Remember Alimond. Still, it is said that the Fellangels, his most potent servants, were numbered among Prospero’s Children, until both their souls and their Gift were warped into the form of his purpose. Fern would not listen to the whispers of the Old Spirit—at the moment, she listens to no one—but… she might be subjugated through those she loves. Or so he may calculate. I think…”
“You mean us?” Will interrupted.
“Y
ou, and others. You two seem to be the most readily available. You will have to be careful.”
“You aren’t very reassuring,” said Gaynor. “I thought I was scared before, but now… I suppose I could decide not to believe in any of this: it might be more comfortable.”
“Is it comfortable,” Ragginbone enquired, “to be afraid of something you don’t believe in?”
Gaynor did not attempt to respond, relapsing into a nervous habit of childhood, restless fingers plaiting and unplaiting a few strands of her hair. Presently she broke into Will’s murmur of speculation, addressing the old man: “Why did you say ‘them’ all the time?” Ragginbone frowned, baffled. “When you talked about mankind, you said ‘them,’ not ‘us.’ I was wondering why”
“I wasn’t aware of it,” Ragginbone admitted. “You are very acute. Little things betray us … I was born into the dregs of humanity, my Gift raised me higher than the highest or so I thought at the time and when I lost it I felt I was neither wizard nor man. The human kernel was gone: all that remained was the husk of experience. I became a Watcher on the periphery of the game, standing at the elbow of this player or that, giving advice, keeping the score. The advice usually goes unheeded and the score, at least on this last hand, was evidently wrong.”
Will grinned. “That’s how it goes.”
“You’re an outsider,” said Gaynor. “I thought so on the way here. Outside life, outside humanity, perhaps even outside time. Are there—are there others like you?”
“Some that I know of. Probably some that I do not. We are the invigilators: events unfold before us, and occasionally we may try to give them a nudge in the right direction, or what we hope is the right direction. Our task is neither to lead nor to follow, only to be there. I have been an onlooker for so long it is hard to remember I was once part of the action. The human race … that is a club from which I was blackballed centuries ago.”
“But—” Gaynor broke off, gathering her courage for the question she was suddenly afraid to ask.
“But?” Ragginbone repeated gently.
“Who appointed you?” asked Gaynor. “There must be someone—someone you work for, someone who gives you orders…”
“There are no orders,” said Ragginbone. “No one tells us if we have succeeded or failed, if we have done right or wrong. We work for everyone. All we can do is all anyone can do: listen to the voice of the heart, and hope. I should like to think that we, too, are watched, and by friendly eyes.”
“You will never get a straight answer from him,” Will said. “Only twisted ones. He could find curves in a plumb line. Ragginbone, Bradachin said the thing that came out of the mirror was not Alison but a tannasgeal. What did he mean?”
“They are the spirits of those who died but feared to pass the Gate. They have long forgotten who they were or why they stayed; only the shreds of their earthly emotions linger, like a wasting disease. Hatred, greed, bitterness: these are the passions that bind them here. They loathe the living, and lust after them, but alone they have little power. However, the Oldest has often used such tools.”
“How could it look like Alison?” Will demanded.
“People—and events leave an impression on the atmosphere. Such creatures are parasites: they batten on the memories of others, taking their shape. No doubt the tannasgeal saw her in the mirror.”
“Mirrors remember,” said Gaynor.
“Exactly”
They were silent for a while, leaning against the rock where once, long before, Ragginbone had shown Will and Fern the Gate of Death. Every so often there was the rumor of a passing car on the distant road, but nearer and clearer were the tiny sounds of insects, the call of an ascending skylark. The colors of the landscape were dulled beneath the cloud cover; the wind was chill.
“What can we do to protect Fern?” Gaynor said eventually, shivering now from cold rather than the recollection of horror.
“I don’t know,” said Ragginbone.
“I thought you were supposed to advise us?” Gaynor protested indignantly.
Will laughed.
“Advice is a dangerous thing,” the Watcher responded. “It should be given only rarely and cautiously, and taken in small doses with skepticism. What can I say? Keep your nerve. Use your wits. Premonition is an unchancy guide to action, but there is a shadow lying ahead of you through which I cannot see. Remember: the Old Spirit is not the only evil in the world. There are others, less ancient maybe, less strong—as the tempest is milder than the earthquake, the tsunami cooler than the volcano—but not less deadly. And mortality gives the Gifted an edge that the undying cannot match. Your dream about the owl puzzles me, Gaynor. Of all the things you have told me, that is the one that does not fit. There is something about it that I ought to recognize, a fragment that eludes me. Tread carefully. The shadow ahead of you is black.”
“We’re supposed to be having a wedding tomorrow, not a funeral,” said Will somberly.
“Maybe,” said Ragginbone.
When Will and Gaynor left him they found a lonely pub that served a ploughman’s lunch and stopped for a snack. A little to their surprise, Lougarry accompanied them. They fed her the rind of the cheddar and some crusts under the table. “What will Fern say if she comes home with us?” asked Gaynor. “Or Mrs. Wicklow?”
“Oh, they’re accustomed to her,” said Will. “She comes and goes very much as she pleases. All the same, she’s usually rather more unobtrusive about it. She obviously thinks we need looking after.”
“She can sleep in my room,” said Gaynor, “if she likes.”
Back at Dale House, Abby was less enthusiastic. “Couldn’t you have told your friend it wasn’t convenient?” she said. Will had explained that he was minding Lougarry for an absent owner. “I know you enjoy having her around, and she’s always been well-behaved, but—she’s so big. She may frighten Yoda. He’s very highly strung. I’m sure she wouldn’t hurt him really, it’s just—”
“She’s an excellent guard dog,” Will interposed. “We think there’s been someone sneaking around at night. Yoda wouldn’t be much good at dealing with a burglar.”
“No—no, he wouldn’t,” Abby agreed warmly. “He attacked a spider the other day, a big one with knobbly legs, but … Anyway, you will keep her away from him, won’t you?”
“I’ll try,” said Will.
Meanwhile, the juggernaut rolled on. A tent sprang up on the site of the old barn and ranks of tables and chairs were frog-marched inside. People rushed to and fro carrying boxes of glassware and cutlery, tablecloths, napkins, potted palms. Everything was carefully arranged and then had to be completely rearranged in order to leave room for the band. As so often on these occasions, there was a great deal of pale pink in evidence: the table linen, the roses and carnations in vase and garland, the lipstick of the female supervisor who gave the orders and subsequently presented Fern with the appropriate forms to sign. And Fern duly signed, smiled, said “thank you,” made and answered last-ditch phone calls, spoke for half an hour to the caterers, for five minutes to Marcus Greig. Gaynor thought she looked exhausted, not so much from shortage of sleep but from that weariness of the will that shows itself in a certain glassy-eyed fragility, an abstracted manner, a slowness of response. For all her polite competence, her mind was elsewhere. Minor frictions enlivened the afternoon. Abby upset Mrs. Wicklow with constant offers of tea to all and sundry, something the latter felt was within her sole jurisdiction. Trisha surveyed the preparations and suddenly burst into tears, revealing upon sympathetic enquiry that her fiancé had just terminated their engagement. The mother of the bridesmaids, seven-year-old twins with coordinated faces, curls, and clothes, rang to announce that a drop of cola had been spilled on the front of one of the dresses (“She can hold the bouquet over it,” said Fern). Someone bearing a box of champagne glasses tripped over Yoda, with consequent oaths and breakages. However, by seven o’clock the final place card had been laid, the excess helpers were gone. Food and wine were due to arri
ve in the morning. Fern and Gaynor went out to survey the results. The tent looked like a huge wedding cake. The wedding cake looked like a small tent. In the kitchen, Abby and Mrs. Wicklow were talking to Trisha, Abby vaguely soothing, Mrs. Wicklow astringent, while Will dosed her periodically with medicinal sherry. In the background, Aunt Edie assisted with the dosage, presumably in the role of taster.
