by Lisa Tuttle
2 In Illyria
Count Orsini stepped cautiously into the gloom of the deep forest, alert to every movement, his hand hovering by the hilt of his sword. He hoped he wouldn’t have to fight, for his arm still pained him from the cut he had received in a battle with the valley trolls. There might be another band of trolls lurking in this woodland, which was an area new to him. But although he occasionally glimpsed bright eyes watching from the shadows, no one approached or challenged his right to walk here.
Gradually the trees thinned, the landscape becoming rockier and more open. Hearing the sound of water he paused and looked around. There was a clear spring bubbling up from the rocks. He drank: the water was cool and delicious, and made him feel better immediately. He wondered if the water possessed special powers. He soaked his handkerchief in the flow, and dabbed gently at his wounded arm. The torn and weeping skin began to heal at once. He found he could flex the arm naturally, without pain. Soon only a pale white scar remained.
Count Orsini made a mark on his map to indicate the location of the magic fountain. Then he filled a flask with the precious water and stored it with the map in his knapsack.
He soon left the cool green oasis of the fountain and entered a desert. A rocky hillside rose up ahead of him. Somewhere on its boulder-strewn face, Orsini knew, was the cave that was his goal, the treasure cave marked on the map he had killed four trolls to acquire.
Now he came to the foot of the hill and began to climb. A strange, scorched smell hung in the air, tickling his nose and irritating the back of his throat. It grew worse as the ground rose, although the count could not see any sign of smoke. He wondered if there would be a spell of some sort protecting the treasure – was the smell part of that? But if the treasure belonged to trolls, a spell was unlikely. Trolls did not tend to be very effective magic-users. They were more likely to set crude, physical booby traps.
But Orsini reached the mouth of the cave without mishap. He examined the ground and the rocky walls carefully but could see nothing amiss. The only oddity was the smell, something vaguely, unpleasantly chemical which he could not identify, although he did think he sensed a trace of smoke. Was there a fire burning somewhere? A fire might indicate the presence of a watcher, a guard set to look after the treasure. But he could see nothing but darkness within. Finally, with one hand on the hilt of his sword, he stepped cautiously into the cave.
Enough light entered from behind him to reveal the treasure. It was in a large, open chest, pushed up against the wall not far away; a treasure-trove of gold and silver which gleamed dully and flashed faint jewel-fire where the light caught it. Orsini’s heartbeat quickened, yet still he was cautious about where he put his feet, staring at the ground in search of any traps or tripwire.
From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something moving and metal-coloured. He whirled, his hand closing on his sword, but before he could draw it he was encircled, his arms pinned to his sides and his ribs squeezed by a cold and powerful embrace. Desperately he tried to pull away. His legs were still free, and so he struggled and strained back towards the cave entrance, and managed to emerge, panting and gasping with the effort, still held fast by whatever had caught him. But now, at least, he could see it.
He was encircled by a huge serpent. It was a wyrm, the guardian of the cave treasure. Count Orsini groaned with annoyance at his own stupidity. It wasn’t a troll’s treasure at all, but a dragon’s hoard. The smell should have tipped him off; he should have entered the cave with his sword already drawn to impale the creature before it could grab him. Now he was helpless.
He refused to accept that this was the end. He didn’t know any spells to use against wyrms – in fact, he didn’t know many spells at all. He relied on his sword, his physical strength, or his wits, and now all three had let him down. He thought of the healing water – it might cause pain to evil creatures. But it was out of his reach, in the pack on his back, and by the time the wyrm’s fiercely tightening grip broke the flask, Count Orsini would be little more than a jellied mess of broken bones, probably beyond the range of even magical healing. Already he was dizzy from the shallow breaths he was forced to take and from the smell of the creature which was hugging him to death.
Then he heard the sweet sound of music. The tune was wistful, high and plaintive and haunting, the most beautiful music the Count had ever heard. He managed to turn his head towards the source of the sound, and he saw a stranger, a handsome young man dressed in a long cloak and high leather boots, standing a short distance away, playing upon a silver flute.
For a moment or two the lovely tune possessed Orsini’s soul, driving out all other thoughts, even the awareness of his imminent death. It took some little time before he realized that the pain in his ribs had eased, that he could breathe again without difficulty. The wyrm fell in a slithering heap to the ground. Chest aching and legs trembling, Count Orsini stepped out of its coils. Translucent membranes covered the eyes, but he could see every long breath it drew rippling the glittering scales of its sides. It was not dead, but only slept. Count Orsini drew his sword.
‘No, don’t kill it!’ The young man approached him urgently.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not fair – it’s not necessary. Let it be.’
‘It tried to kill me!’
‘You’re safe enough now.’
‘Thanks to you,’ Count Orsini acknowledged, with a bow. ‘Well, as you ask it of me, of course I will spare the wyrm’s life. There’s a treasure in the cave – will you allow me to share it with you? Or does your feeling for the beast forbid you to take it?’
The young man grinned. ‘Oh, I think we deserve it. The wyrm will sleep for a while, but to make sure, I’ll stand guard here while you get the treasure from the cave. Then if it wakes before you return, I can play it back to sleep again.’
Orsini nodded his agreement but still he hesitated, curious. ‘I am Count Orsini. How are you called?’
‘I am called Roberto.’
‘Do you know Illyria well?’
‘No, this is my first visit.’
‘Welcome! Welcome, indeed! You saved my life! I will always be grateful.’
‘It was luck,’ said Roberto modestly. ‘I have had experience adventuring in other worlds, where dragons could be lulled by music. So I thought it worth trying here. I was coming after the treasure myself. I need to gain experience and wealth, and seeking a hidden treasure was more congenial to me than the prospect of battling with trolls – as you can see, I am not very well armed.’
‘You are well armed with your wits and your music,’ responded the Count. ‘I’m sure I would rather have you at my side than the most muscle-bound, sword-wielding barbarian in the land!’
Roberto smiled, looking shyly pleased. ‘I would be grateful for your company in this strange land. I’ll gladly serve you any way I can.’
‘Let’s shake hands on it,’ said Count Orsini. ‘We’ll be friends and companions to each other. And maybe I’ll be able to repay you someday by saving your life. Now, before this beast wakes, I’ll fetch our treasure while you stand guard.’
*
After he’d exited from Illyria, Orson was too wired to sleep. He got undressed and into bed and treated himself by listening at last to Farren’s tape. Farren had a gift for making tapes and, perhaps even more importantly, he had a unique resource. His dad had started buying LPs in the early sixties and now had what Farren claimed was the biggest LP collection in the state. It included most types of popular music, dominated by rock’n’roll, soul, country-and-western and folk artists of the 1950s through the 1980s. There wasn’t much from the 1990s, but Farren had started his own contemporary collection of CDs and tapes, and also taped off the radio to keep up-to-date. The resulting compilation tapes were works of art, in Orson’s opinion. Farren made the tapes only for friends but wouldn’t make them to order, although he did allow requests, and he enjoyed being set a challenge – to create a theme tape suitable for a sixteenth birth
day, a Halloween disco, music to study by, or whatever.
Orson had requested a tape built around the theme of love, because he felt it was the theme of his own life. Farren, Orson’s closest friend since childhood, was the only person Orson had confided in about his adoration of Olivia Mason, and so, Farren had restricted himself to songs of yearning, one-sided longing, and unfulfilled desires.
Tears came to Orson’s eyes as he listened to the words of some of the songs, but although he was crying there was a smile on his face. The thought of Olivia, his feelings for her, made him both happy and miserable. Thoughts of his adventures in Illyria mixed and mingled with memories of Olivia as the music flowed through him. Orson at last fell asleep.
3 Home Thoughts From Abroad
When Rose got off the bus she was startled to find her grandmother waiting for her. Feelings of irritation, worry and embarrassment competed for expression so that for a moment, as the little old lady’s arms went around her and pulled her into a tight embrace, Rose could not speak. She finally managed to gasp, ‘Is something wrong?’
Gran’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Wrong?’
‘Well … you came to meet me …’
‘Oh!’ Gran smiled and patted her hand. ‘To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t wait another minute to see you. I’ve been fidgeting and clock-watching for the past hour and finally I just had to get out of that house. Now come along out of this heat and into the car. I thought you’d be pleased I’d saved you a long walk in the blazing sun.’
‘It’s not that long a walk …’ But Rose relented, seeing the concern on her grandmother’s face. ‘Thank you, Gran. It was kind of you, but I don’t want to put you out. I’m happy to walk – there’s no need for you to drive up here every day …’
‘Bless you, child, I don’t mind! It’s a pleasure to have something to look forward to. Since your grandfather died I feel I’ve too much time on my hands, with no one to do for but myself. But if you’d rather walk, of course you can. I’ll just come up if it’s raining.’
‘Actually, I was going to ask if you’d mind picking me up from school sometimes. If I wanted to join one of the clubs or do something after school I’d have to miss the bus.’
‘Why, of course, darlin’! Any time, any time at all, just say the word. Your mother was involved in lots of school activities. The drama club, I remember—’
‘Drama?’ It seemed unlike her quiet mother.
‘She designed stage sets and painted scenery. And she was the art director for the magazine, and on the girls’ basketball team, and she belonged to a social club – they were very big in my day, but they stopped them about the time Alice graduated, some notion that they promoted snobbery and the wrong sort of values – you had to be elected, you see, and girls were sometimes blackballed by members if they didn’t come from the “right” sort of background.’
They arrived at the house so discussion of Alice’s high school career came to a halt. Inside, the kitchen smelt deliciously of baking. There were plates of oatmeal and raisin cookies and cinnamon buns on the table.
‘Run, wash your hands and I’ll get you a plate. Would you like a glass of milk or iced tea?’
‘Iced tea, thanks.’
They were soon settled cosily at the kitchen table, with Gran pressing for details of Rose’s first day at school.
‘Well, I think American History should be pretty interesting, since I’ve never studied it before. Chemistry might be hard, and the teacher speaks in such a strange way that I could hardly understand him. English seems pretty boring, unfortunately. The teacher seems to be obsessed with really dull, basic stuff – grammar, and how to write an outline. I mean, I’ve known all that for ages. And I’ve already read at least half the books on the book list …’
Gran waved an imperious hand. ‘You should obviously be in a more advanced class. I’ll tell them they’ve made a mistake, and you’ll be moved. Don’t worry about it. Now, forget about the subjects, I want to hear about people. Who have you met? What about the girls and boys in the classes with you?’
‘Well, I can’t really remember all of their names. I haven’t really had time to make friends yet.’
‘No, of course not, but you must have noticed someone who seemed particularly interesting to you?’
Rose hoped she wasn’t blushing. One face and one name alone filled her thoughts, but to say it would be as good as a confession, she was sure.
‘What a poker face! Darlin’, I hope you didn’t spend your first day at school looking like that! You did speak to someone didn’t you? Surely someone spoke to you? Wasn’t there anyone who showed you around and helped you settle in? I can’t believe you were simply left to sink or swim on your first day in a new school! The people of Locust County have always been known for our hospitality and friendliness – I hope that hasn’t changed in the new generation?’
‘Oh, Gran, of course everyone was perfectly friendly! And I did have a native guide – my very own Helpful Elf.’ Rose giggled. ‘He was the first person I met when I arrived. He’s called Farren Wiles.’
‘Wiles. Hmmm, that’s a local name; there were Wileses at school with me. But I can’t call to mind anyone with a grandson named Farren … Did he happen to mention his grandmother’s name?’
‘Strangely enough, he didn’t. But he did mention having one grandmother, and he knew who you were.’
‘That’s not surprising, dear,’ said Gran, mildly rebuking. ‘I have lived in these parts all my life, and I’m not exactly a hermit. His granny must be his mother’s mother. Did he say—’
‘His mother died in a car crash a few years ago. And his sister.’
Gran drew in her breath sharply. ‘Lana Allcock,’ she said softly. ‘Vera Allcock’s daughter. That’s right, I recollect now, Lana married that Wiles boy just out of high school. Vera’s a bit younger than me, so I don’t know her so well. But of course, Farren is her grandson.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then.’
Gran gave her a sharp look. ‘I’m not asking these questions for nothing, you know. It’s very important to me that you should settle in and enjoy yourself while you’re here – and that means having friends. If you find it too difficult to make friends at school I could call up some of my friends and have them bring their grandchildren over some evening, throw a little party to introduce you. In fact, that’s not a bad idea …’
Rose thought it a very bad idea: a public audition for friends, everybody performing for their doting grannies. She said hastily, ‘I think people mostly get to know each other in after-school activities. I was thinking about trying out for the drama club myself – there’s an audition on Wednesday, after school.’
‘Fine, you stay for that. And maybe you should think about auditioning for the mixed chorus as well. You have such a lovely voice.’
‘Oh, Gran …’
‘I was listening to you singing in the bath last night, and I thought to myself, that girl really must sing in the school chorus. You’d be a positive blessing for it. The school has won state prizes in the past, although I think they’ve fallen down a bit in recent years. Sarah Duckett’s granddaughter is in the chorus, although frankly I think it was the family name which got her a place, rather than her own talents. Still, that doesn’t stop Sarah bragging about her every time we meet! It would be nice to tell her that my granddaughter is in the mixed chorus, too.’
‘Oh, I see, I’m just a tool in your plan to lord it over the other grannies of Duckett Green!’ Rose grinned. She did like to sing, although she doubted her voice would win prizes.
‘Now, Rose, it’s not like that. Well, maybe it is, a teensy bit. Sarah is my dearest friend, but she thinks her granddaughter hung the moon. It never hurts to remind her that other people also have clever, talented granddaughters. But the important thing is for you to be happy. You know I’ll be proud of you, and brag about you, whatever you decide to do.’
‘So it’s a win-win situation. Very nice. Thanks, Gran.’ Rose lean
ed over and kissed the old lady on the cheek. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy.’
‘You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. Just your being here is the best present I could have hoped for. Goodness, look at the time! I’d better get dinner started!’
‘What, you mean there’s more to come? Keep feeding me, and I’ll be the biggest granddaughter in Locust County, no contest.’
‘You’re a growing girl. You need feeding. Now, do you want to go and have a rest while I cook?’
‘I’ll help you. Just tell me what to do.’
Rose yawned over dinner, so Gran suggested she go straight to bed.
‘Sounds good, but first I want to write a quick note to Mum and Dad, and one to Simon as well.’
‘That’s a good idea, dear. Make a habit of it, and they won’t seem so far away. Letters are even nicer than phone calls, somehow. More special. I’m always hoping the mailman will bring me something from Alice.’
‘You should get on the Internet, then you wouldn’t have to wait for the post. You send something by e-mail and if you’re lucky and the other person’s on-line, you might get an answer back in minutes!’
Gran looked faintly disbelieving. ‘Even from Africa?’
‘Ah. Well, no, when Mum and Dad are out in the bush with no phone lines I can’t reach them. But e-mails still get to them quicker than snail mail – they download all their messages whenever they check back with the base.’
‘Well, call me old-fashioned, dear, but I prefer putting pen to paper. I think a person’s handwriting tells you a lot about them. Letters on a screen are so impersonal; they could come from anyone. You could never be sure of their honesty …’ Gran gave a delicate shudder. ‘Still, it’s a part of your modern world; I expect you take it for granted.’
