by Tom Deitz
But he smelled land too: earth of varying compositions and degrees of dampness; and the plants that grew upon it, each element of which likewise gave forth its own odor.
And over everything, like the wash of black-gray that was the sky, or the drones of a bagpipe or hurdy-gurdy, lay the scent of magic and the scent of fear.
Magic was hard to define, save that it was strong, clear, pure, and growing closer; and that some part of him identified it with what another aspect would have called gold or yellow. But fear—ah, what sweetness! What strength! What richness! And that fear at once sprang up from the earth where footsteps had fallen upon it, and floated on the air like a breeze presaging thunder, from he who fled ahead.
Aikin-That-Was could see the quarry now; had loped his way near the head of the pack and no longer gazed upon gorse and horses’ hooves and the aft ends of other hounds. But something shifted in his brain at that, for there was a familiarity with that staggering form that went beyond his knowledge of Himself or those who rode their heavy horses with him, always a little way back, watching, observing, but nevertheless poised for the kill. They chased a boy, that was clear: young, dark-haired, healthy as few mortal men he seemed to recall hunting were anymore. He was making good speed, too: had covered nearly a mile, with the pack in steady but leisurely pursuit. There was no hurry, though; for the lad, though quick for his kind, would tire eventually and falter. The Hunt would not. His pack-mates would not. And then the smell of fear would give way to the taste of blood, which though not so ethereal was far more satisfying.
No! another part of the hound protested. That’s my blood you’re thinking about! The one you chase is…me!
It was all very confusing, because when Aikin-That-Was thought about things like that, others came with it, and he remembered he was not one of the Wild Hunt’s pack at all, but a terrified young human lost past redemption in a World not his own. And when he recalled that, his senses overloaded and his reflexes tangled up and he faltered at his running, and the other hounds glared at him accusingly—which so far those who drove the Hunt had not noticed. It was like he imagined LSD would be, though he’d never tried that stuff. Or some of those mind-fucks Carlos Casteneda had dared at the urging of Don Juan. Two realities at once. Two sets of memories. Two sets of instincts. Those that watched and analyzed were his; those that drove the body, the hound’s. But the hound was in control—had to be, to function—and Aikin-That-Was had not the strength to prevent it. As it was, maintaining his sense of self was like trying to talk at a rock concert, with the decibels pounding at his reason and drowning his words and dulling his thoughts and thudding up through his very flesh, so that it was easier simply to run with the flow and be.
Besides, it was fun to smell the fear.
He had no idea how long he’d run, only that they’d gone down at least one slope and up another, that he was near the head of the pack, and that the ground beneath him shook with the hooves behind him. The horn had not winded lately, however; and the Host rode silently, not speaking, not singing, lost, it seemed, in their thoughts, or the hunt itself, or dreams of glory and dripping gore.
In the process of dodging a rock outcrop, the bitch ahead of him turned aside, which afforded the best glimpse yet of a long stony slope; an odd-clad boy halfway up; and a crown of standing stones at the top, athwart a strip of golden light that smelled strongly of magic. He thought it was gold, anyway, but there was an oddness about it, as though it only registered when viewed obliquely. Part of him yipped with joy, and a disturbing word formed in a mind that both understood and denied: home!
Abruptly he stumbled, his forelegs having briefly recalled they ought to be arms—that he ought not to go on all fours.
The dog behind promptly collided with him, and red rage washed away sentience, and he whipped around and snarled. But then the bulk of the pack swept by, and gold-shod hooves pounded perilously close, and he ran again—toward the boy-who-was-not, toward the magic. Toward home.
They were on the Track now, and the smell of magic was strong in his nostrils; and the feel of it was like cold liquid fire against his feet, feeding him energy, feeding him force, feeding him drive—setting every sense to tingling, twisting each perception to sharper focus.
The boy had almost stopped, could barely plod along, there in the shadow of the standing stones. He was cornered, afraid, and knew he gazed on death. It showed in his scent, part of him knew; and it showed on his face, another acknowledged. Die! one aspect gloated. Run! the other countered wildly.
But the boy merely turned and limped into the circle of megaliths where the yellow-gold magic finally welcomed him. He stepped on it, but didn’t seem to notice, though Aikin-That-Was felt it flare beneath his feet, and saw the magic brighten. Wide that boy’s eyes were, and fearful, but bravely he stood: legs braced, chest thrown out, and a weapon—an edge of what his nose told him was the dreaded steel—flared like flame in his hand. It would be hot if it touched him, for the fires of the Worlds’ first making never slept in iron or its kindred alloys. But Himself would not let it come near—and if it did, he could endure it: the pain a balance to the joy of the hunt.
Dimly he noted the rest of the pack fanning out to either side to encircle the stone-crowned hilltop. Dimly, too, he sensed the Hunt moving to range their mounts behind. Himself alone remained on the Track, pacing his stallion solemnly forward, as though he had all the time in the World. Hooves clopped loudly against bare rock as he ambled along, with the golden stuff of magic swirling and eddying around his horse’s legs well past its hocks. Aikin-That-Was smelled pleasure and brazen armor and boiled wyvern-leather, and with it, anticipation—and the faintest underwhiff of confusion. One hand dropped from the reins to the spear beneath his arm, then paused, while the other sought the horn. He lifted it, then paused again, pulled his mustache (What good were teeth that small?) and said one word, softly, slowly, and very very clearly, even in the wind.
Aikin-That-Was didn’t know that word by its sound, but the hound recognized it sure enough, and that one word was “kill.”
The pack lunged forward. He lunged with it—saw black-furred bodies leap across naked stone like a tide of hot, quick shadows, teeth flashing like polished stars against the nothingness of night-toned hair.
The quarry’s fear exploded as they attacked, and the scent well-nigh clogged Aikin-That-Was’s nostrils, so rich it was. And then the dog to his left leapt forward, and the one to his right followed suit, and one hurled himself skyward from behind the lad to fall full upon his shoulders. The boy staggered, then sprawled. The narrow flame of iron flew from his hand to skitter across the granite. It brushed a bitch. She twisted around it. The wind stank of burning hair.
A cry broke the night: free of language yet full of fear, its sharpness abruptly strangled, as a strong scent of blood filled the air.
Aikin-That-Was fell into blackness, like being far-gone on a drunk. There was no way to stop the hound now, its instincts were too strong, were undergoing too much stimulation. Vaguely he felt it shouldering aside its fellows; distantly he knew it had reached his alter self. And for all that, he still knew far too clearly when it somehow gained the boy’s throat and drove its canines home.
He tasted blood, and the joy was overpowering. But then a sound split the sky, as though the very clouds were shrieking. He jerked his head up, jaws dripping gore, to see Himself slowly dismount and walk forward, spear clutched like life in his hand.
The boy was dead—or dying, had lived but instants with his throat torn open. “Get away,” the Huntsman spat, eyes flashing like the gathering lightning, mustache black as the hovering storm. Aikin-That-Was still didn’t recognize the language, but he grasped the meaning well enough and withdrew, risking a snarl at being deprived at such a moment.
Himself glared at him—too long, perhaps—then kicked a malingering bitch aside, to stand beside the lifeless body. Grimly he crouched down and fingered the boy’s clothing, his shoes, the pack that had weighted his ba
ck. A finger brushed the metal buckle at his waist, and he hissed and yanked it back as though burned, then laughed a cold, dull chuckle.
“Will you drink this one’s soul?” someone called behind him—a woman, giddy to the point of insanity, afire with the madness of the hunt. Her, he understood.
“It would not mix well with those I have already tasted tonight,” the Huntsman sighed in the same tongue. “But if you would have some token, may I offer this?” And with that, he took the fallen knife delicately by its plastic handle, and deftly sliced off the dead boy’s ear. He held it aloft, grinning wickedly, then paused, as though deciding whether to present it to the hounds or the wild-haired woman whose face was a mask of hungry anticipation, her hair red as the blood just shed. “Give me!” she yelled, and flung out her hand.
Himself grinned—and tossed it to her. She skewered it on a dagger: a thing like ice and needles, that had appeared in her hand as if by magic.
“And the body?” someone else called.
“The Track will devour it soon enough,” Himself replied, swinging up on his vast horse again. “Now let us ride, for surely the night will grant us other quarry.”
And with that, the Huntsman whirled away, with the rest of the shadowy Host in his wake. The pack followed for a change, as though being denied their quarry had robbed them of their strength.
Aikin-That-Was found himself alone—standing amid sweet-scented magic in the center of a circle of standing stones, staring through canine eyes at his own torn and bloody corpse.
And with that, the hound was swept aside. Aikin reached out to touch his other self—but it was still a black-haired paw that moved. He wanted to weep, but no tears could he call from his eyes. His cry of anguish was a whimpered yip.
Things could get no worse. Far from home he had already been, and terrified; but now his one tenuous means of returning lay dead before him, and he could not even mourn in his own body. Hunter he had been, then hunted, and after that hunter again. But what was he now besides lost and frightened and trapped? Left alone with the dead on the day the dead were said to rise.
But the boy was not rising, was simply sprawled across the stones with his throat torn out.
Only…hadn’t the eyes been open when Aikin had last dared glimpse them? And hadn’t the fingers of the nearer hand been curled? And surely the mouth had been bent in a rictus of pain…
Yet the eyes were closed now, the fingers extended, the lips ever so faintly curved.
And then, faint but clear, came the slow liquid hiss of labored breath.
He jumped back reflexively—and saw the chest shudder, then slowly rise. A choke, then another, and the eyelids fluttered.
He stepped forward again, then froze, for the horn had sounded, calling the pack across the moors, or sending it on ahead. But his human aspect was ascendant now, and had been more intent on soft human breathing close by than gold and ivory horns winded afar. And the echoes were diminishing.
Another breath—another—and the boy opened eyes that were bright with fear and agony, and somehow scrambled up on his elbow. The wound in his neck pulsed, and bright blood fountained. Fear redoubled in those eyes, and before Aikin could react, the boy raised his free fingers to his throat and set them to the wound where the blood ran out most eagerly. He grunted, as though that effort cost him pain on top of what already had to be agony; his jaw clamped tight as a steel trap. But then red ran down his arm—and with one smooth motion, the boy swung the ensanguined hand away from his neck and toward his doppelganger.
Aikin shrank back, but the hound had scented blood again and reawakened, and before he could stop himself, he leapt forward and licked that limb.
And for the second time in less than an hour, Aikin’s world turned over.
His body was aflame—no, was freezing like ice—no, was exploding. It stretched here, shifted there, contracted other places. Cold washed certain parts, heat others. Colors grew stronger, as sounds and scents and tastes receded. And then, with one final twist that wrung forth a cry that was both canine howl and young man’s scream, he once again was human.
—Sprawled naked on rock the color of death, with a circle of gray stones around him like lurking vultures. The sky had gone entirely black, and the wind was howling. Rain, that had been sporadic mist, suddenly fell in torrents like a hail of tiny knives.
From somewhere a sharper pain lanced into his forearm. He flinched, even as he jerked his head around to see the boy gnawing away at his wrist: teeth not designed for such duty ripping and tearing at flesh that had not expected it. “Shit!” he spat, and tried to wrench free—from pain and image both. No one should see himself from without this way, and certainly not trying to devour his own body. Yet in spite of his disgust, he closed his eyes and accepted, gritting his teeth as his other self ground those dull little incisors home.
He screamed once—couldn’t help it—as agony shot both ways up his limb when the boy’s teeth broke skin and muscle and finally found a vein.
And released him.
Aikin was glad he didn’t have to feel the change that warped his clothed twin’s body. He looked away, where a day before he’d have sworn many oaths he would’ve watched the transformation through or died. But he’d been too close to death now, and knew it too well, with its cousins fear and pain. A long time he waited, as the groaning snaps of muscles stretching and bones reshaping and joints realigning mixed with the roar of the soaking rain.
Only when they ended in a long soft sigh, did he look around again.
To see his old friend/nemesis/problem/research subject/quasi pet the enfield struggling out of a pile of torn and thoroughly soaked clothing.
It whistled at him and grinned. He whistled back—tried to. It pranced up to him and licked his wounded arm—which already seemed to be healed. He scratched its head through its sodden fur. It trilled. A troubling thought struck him, and he reached down to probe its neck with shaking fingers that found no injury. There was something odd about it, however, though it took a moment to determine what. The beast was missing an ear.
“Wonder if the other one changed back,” he giggled punchily, as he made his unsteady way upright. The Track was gone—almost; the merest hint of glimmer pooled about his wet, bare, and very cold feet. He danced there in place, hugging himself, and wished for hot food and dry clothes and a roaring fire.
Instead, he had cold and rain and blasted moors, a magical animal, and a circle of standing stones, amidst which he stood naked as a newborn god.
He had barely located his glasses and commenced to untangle his clothing when the worst sound in the world assailed his ears: the pounding of distant hooves that could only mean the Hunt was returning.
Chapter XVI: Reunion
(The Straight Tracks—no time)
Magic…
Though it had been part of his life for over four years now, David had forgotten what magic was truly like.
Once it had been an abstract: a concept desired, yet as remote as traveling through time or to other planets; real in a sense that it was part of his cultural heritage, and—in books, films, and games—an exotic ornament to his everyday life, but not really real. But then it had become real, and with it had come wonder beyond belief, joy beyond expressing—and fear, trouble, and pain in easily equal portions. Nothing in his daily life had ever threatened his existence as his adventures in Faerie had. Nor had he ever had to fight simply to survive up in Enotah County, or make snap decisions that determined the fates of everyone he remotely loved while at UGA.
Faerie—and the magic that was its lifeblood—had forced those experiences upon him, and had thus come to be distrusted, its capricious incursions into his life events to be avoided. And the fact that it complicated his life had, over the last two years, when it had grown increasingly removed, made it a topic to be shunned, so that eventually his perception of it had superseded the fact.
But the fact was back again, in spades; and in spite of himself, he couldn’t restrain
the joy—the energy—he felt as he rode a jet black Faery steed, that was also a mysterious woman, bareback down a golden Straight Track. Liz rode with him, on the white stallion; sometimes alongside, sometimes—when the briars that braced the Track whorled close or the Road itself narrowed—behind. They spoke little, lost, as both of them seemed to be, in thought—and the rebirth of wonder.
It’d been an odd journey, that was for sure. Time had at once compressed and expanded, so that he had no idea how long they’d been trotting along. He’d noted the usual sequence of effects, of course: how they’d seemed to pass among the woods of the Lands of Men, until those woods gradually changed, becoming richer, denser, more lavish—more primeval: transfigured by magic into what he could only term a forest archetype.
It’d all been woods, too: not once had they traversed other “places” or marched into lands, that by some fundamental…oddness were blatantly not their own.
Still, Aikin had gone this way, the Faery woman had assured them before her change, and they had no choice but to trust her if they would recover their friend. But surely even fleet-footed Mighty Hunter Daniels could not have come so far, not as curious as he was. Shoot, the first time he glimpsed anything even vaguely outré, he’d have been at it like a shot, notebook, ruler, and camera firmly in hand.
That image prompted David to vent a grim chuckle. It would’ve been his reaction too, a few years back. In fact, Aik reminded him of how he’d been the first time he’d come face-to-face with Faerie, unaware of its dangers. Though almost exactly the same age as his forester friend, he suddenly felt eons older.
So did his bod. For however energizing treading a Track might be, he was astride a horse when he hadn’t ridden in a while; that horse held a probable grudge toward him; and his legs were paying the price. Already twinges were shooting up the muscles inside his thighs, where they stretched in unaccustomed ways to accommodate the mare’s impressive girth. Never mind the friction all that bouncing and sliding produced, which, lubed by sweat both equine and human, would play merry hell on sensitive skin.
