Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  Mermaid Beneath the Seven Dancing Moons, Cantress of the Siren Song,

  Drown our enemies in the data-stream. Nymph of the Logic Tree,

  Child of the First Word,

  Give our antagonist to grief.

  Transformation was swift and painful. Winged mermaid, she bore the Sword of Wind and Obsidian in one hand while dragon’s wings of bright mylar beat to carry her upward.

  Looked at through her ancient knowledge, Ayradyss no longer found the guardian blockading the moon portal a thing of fear. It was rather humorous, pathetic even, huddled there in terror of her glory. Its component proges were easily unencrypted, routinely deciphered, rendered into code, into data bits, into nothing but loam for Deep Fields.

  Raising the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, Ayradyss did this thing, and as the guardian fell into oblivion, she felt cold hands shoving beneath her wings, pushing her toward the rock wall.

  A round, dark depth she barely recalled was the moon portal loomed before her. Reflexively, she tried to furl her wings, knowing that their breadth could not pass. She was not swift enough. Something—interface?—shredded her wings. Without them she could not fly; fish-tailed, she could not stand. Dropping the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, she curled her arms to protect herself as best she could…

  Firm metal grips caught her by her upper arms and held her when she would have fallen onto the tunnel floor.

  “Mistress Ayradyss?” Voit said, its mechanical voice managing to project authentic concern. “Are you injured? Do you require the services of a medbot?”

  “No… Yes… I…”

  She caught her breath, looked down at herself. Her body was human once more. Human as she had been before the caoineag had begun her charm, everything in place including the distorting, awkward, beloved swell that was her baby. As if to reassure her that he had not suffered from her unwitting transformation, the baby kicked out solidly.

  “I am fine, Voit,” she managed at last. “Well, even. I was just startled. We had a rather more difficult time than anticipated.”

  “Then there is no need to forward a report or request assistance?”

  “I would prefer if you did neither, Voit.”

  The caoineag was waiting in front of the moon portal, her face impassive, her hands folded in front of her as if she expected rebuke. There was not even a glimmer of triumph or superiority in her bearing. If anything, she seemed diminished and paler than was her wont.

  “How…” Ayradyss stopped and rephrased her question. “Where did you find that incantation? How did you know what it would do?”

  “Your many names, Lady Ayradyss. I have said before that what you have been binds you to myth in a way that others are not bound. The charm came to me in the dreaming channels as I rehearsed the charm taught to us by the Lady of the Gallery and fretted as to whether a Christian charm would be efficacious against a pagan creature.”

  “It just came to you?”

  “Not in a flash, more in a substitution. I found myself calling on the Angel of the—”

  “Don’t say that name,” Ayradyss interrupted. “I fear its power.”

  “It is your name.”

  “It was. The Great Flux is the ancient beginnings of Virtu. I did not belong to myself then, but instead to the legions of one of the warring powers.”

  “And you belong to yourself now?” the caoineag said with a pointed glance at Ayradyss’s pregnant belly.

  “Now I am Ayradyss. I belong to that person. The other… belonged to another and to another’s needs. I had not realized how much I

  dreaded a recall into that being until you—albeit briefly—forced me into that form again.”

  “I understand,” said the wailing woman. “Once I was Heather, daughter of the laird. Now I am the caoineag. When I am caoineag no more, what will I be? Can I return to Heather? I long for my first self, but having seen you as what you were I can understand your reluctance to return to that—although it seems to me that your first self had great power.”

  “But little free will. When my creator commanded, I had no choice but to act as was dictated to me. After the days of conflict, I managed to hold a small portion of myself—something of my mystery and something of my glory—and shape what became Ayradyss.”

  “You asked me for pity.” The caoineag’?, words were not quite a question.

  “I did not know I could be called back into that form. And although the form of the charm told me what my immediate purpose was, I could feel the tug of my creator at the back of my mind. I feared a recall.”

  “Your creator?”

  “One of those On High, the Dwellers on Mount Meru. Most call him Seaga and his domain is the vast tidal masses of data in Virtu. Along with Skyga and Earthma, he is one of the great Trinity.”

  “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?”

  “No. It is less metaphysical than that—or perhaps merely other. Skyga oversees the general power of the system’s structure. Earthma is the aion of all aions, the base program for all loci. Other deities reside on Meru, each with their own hard-won areas of authority, status defined by how high they can ascend on the mountain’s slopes.”

  “Has it been this way since the beginning?”

  “No. There were many battles. Many things—forgive my weakness, dear friend—that I prefer to forget. As I have said, I am not very religious—even in the religions of Virtu. This is the reason why.”

  “Are you too angry with me?”

  “No. You did warn me that I might not like what you planned to try. How can I blame you for not knowing what you were inflicting on me? And it did get us past the guardian.”

  “It did that. Ayra, forgive me for saying so—having been the one to use you so hard—but you look exhausted.”

  “I am, but I don’t know if I can rest.”

  Voit interrupted. “My limited reading of your vital signs indicates that rest would be the optimal choice. Refusal to rest could be hazardous to the developing infant.”

  “I will rest, then. One thing continues to trouble me, Heather.”

  “What?”

  “Who sent you that charm?”

  “I thought I just drew it from the collective unconscious of the race—the anima mundi as Yeats was fond of calling it.”

  “Wasn’t Yeats rather after your time?”

  “There was a poet of idle habit but romantic nature who often came to the castle’s ruins and read Yeats’s works aloud. Still, to return to your question, I have often simply known something I needed—modern dialect, for example. I believed it to be one of the benefits of my job.”

  “I suppose that could be the answer, but wouldn’t the charm you recited have come from the anima mundi of Virtu, rather than that of Verite?”

  “True. But then, as with the place we just departed, there seems to be overlap.”

  “Yes, and I find that disturbing. I do know enough of the religion of the aions to know that there are those who claim that Virtu, not Verite, is the first reality. These claim that the computer network simply provided the means for the crossover.”

  “So?”

  “I wonder if they could be right, and if so, for how long will the gods of Virtu be content to take second place? Could they be mustering their armies, awakening the old legends? I seem to hear a form of your incantation still drumming in my brain, calling me back.”

  “You are exhausted, Ayra. Tell your robot to take you to your room. When you have slept and eaten, then see if there is still drumming in your ears.”

  “You may be right. Perhaps, I should not have taken this journey in my condition.”

  “Rest now, Ayra. We will talk later.”

  The caoineag walked into the wall and vanished. With her departure, the moon portal vanished as well. Ayradyss shook her pounding head, decided this was a mistake, and leaned on Voit.

  “Take me to my room, please, Voit. Perhaps you could call ahead and see if the kitchen could send up some cocoa.”

  “Chocolate is not
permitted on your diet, mistress,” the robot reminded, shaping a swinglike chair from its extensors and lowering so that she could sit.

  “Then some imitation cocoa that doesn’t have any of the things I should be avoiding and has lots of the things I need.”

  “I will see what I can do.”

  Ayradyss traveled the rest of the way to her chambers in a daze. She hardly felt it when Voit set her on her bed, or when Dack (arriving with the hot beverage she was now far too sleepy to drink) removed her shoes and outer garments and tucked her beneath the covers.

  She dreamed, though, of times long gone. In those dreams, she knew for what purpose the Lord of Deep Fields needed her son. When she awoke, however, finding John sitting at her side, her hand clasped in his, his bearded face revealing a protective concern he did not bother to conceal, the revelation vanished, a certain peace taking its place.

  PART TWO

  ONE

  Spring, with a horde of tiny flowers—blue, red, yellow, and white; foam on the sea-crests; a near night sky, dropping burning rocks; the in-out rush of the ocean breathing stirring bands of mist in the mountains… and the keening, lowing, bellowing wailing of bagpipes from a distant crag or vale; sun, risen above cloudbanks, orange and golden gateway for warmth and the opening of Seeds.

  Spring.

  The great monotone of the air release had come with the dawn, and the melodies had risen slowly and spilled with a treaclelike deliberation sometime after that. The bagpipes had not changed significantly since the seventeenth century. The exact location of this one and of its piper was unknown. Not that it mattered. On such a fine spring day one should be out philosophizing by breathing, not viewing the end of spring’s light through glass.

  And one who’d an ear for the magic of the pipes might find it there in piobaireachd, “The Kilberry Book of Ceal Mor.” The traditionally structured tune rose, swelled, subsided. Only gradually did a sense of differentness fan its wings and glide.

  Beyond “Over the Sea to Skye” and “The Glen is Mine” there came up a lilting unrecognizable tune which somehow got itself recorded that day. It came to be called “Salute to the Birth of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”

  Even the banshee, had she chosen to wail, would have been hard put to be heard above the piping. It continued through the afternoon, despite frequent attempts to locate its source. The unseen piper was sought in the mountain, on the seashore, in the valley, and even in town, but the more he was sought, the more elusive the music became. Its complexity increased as indications of his direction were spun away by the elements. Did the piper know that any man in the nearest town would be happy to stand him to drinks if he made his identity known? Or that his chances with the ladies stood quite good right now?

  Or if he did know and didn’t care, why didn’t he come? Some of the pieces he played that day were of unknown provenance. Even the musicologists at the university, who were in near consensus that they were venerable melodies, could not pin them down as to subject or person.

  Whatever the piper was, he knocked off for his midday meal just before several researchers claimed they were about to locate him. He was very good, and the town fell pretty much into a holiday mood as his music filled the air.

  There was nothing formal about it, but people began disappearing from their jobs and appearing out of doors or in the pubs.

  “What say you, Angus? You recognize that one?”

  The larger man, who had just entered, ordered a pint and seated himself beside the one who had just spoken. He shook his head. “I dinna know that one nor the dozen or so before it,” he replied. “The last I knew was The Sound of Waves Against the Castle of Dontroon.’ “

  “Ah, then I did hear that one,” said the first, who was a Duncan. “And ‘In Praise of Morage’ was back there somehow.”

  “Aye,” said Angus.

  “Would you be knowin’ the occasion for all the merriment?” asked the Duncan. “I’d passed people dancin’ in the streets on the way over.”

  ” Tain’t a weddin’. I’d guess from some of the things people have said that it’s a birthin’.”

  “Whose?”

  “The new laird of Eilean a’Teampull Dubh, I believe.”

  “Donnerjack. I think they call him ‘Donnerjack.’”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Dunno,” said the Duncan. “Shall we go out on the street and ask around?”

  “Yes. A man should know who he’s drinking to.”

  They finished their pints and walked outside. The last of the color had settled into a few bright isles above the western horizon and the sea breeze came more cool. People strolled up and down the cobbled streets, calling greetings, pausing to exchange words.

  They headed toward a small group of acquaintances beneath a streetlight which had just come on.

  “Johnny,” said Angus, “Neil, Ross.” They nodded and repeated his name and Duncan’s as they approached.

  “…And the fishin’?” Duncan said.

  Neil shrugged and shook his head.

  “The bairn whose health we’re drinkin’…” Angus inquired. “Someone left money at all the pubs to celebrate this.”

  “‘Twas my sister Jinny,” said Ross. “She’s been workin’ up at the new castle, you know. The new laird, Donnerjack, gave her the money and told her to spread it around town for drinks and snacks.”

  “Snacks, too?”

  “Hm. Perhaps we’d better be gettin’ back inside.”

  “Was it a lad or a missy?” Angus asked.

  “A lad. John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”

  “Should be easy to remember. We’d best see as he’s well feted.”

  Ross headed back to the pub. Duncan and Angus followed him.

  “Your sister been workin’ there long?” Duncan asked.

  “A few months,” Ross replied.

  “She say what they’re like?”

  “He’s some kinda perfesser. She seems more the artsy type.”

  “Any other jobs opened up there, do you think?”

  “None I’ve heard of. But with a new bairn, who knows?” said Ross.

  “True. Maybe we ought to go up there and ask,” said Duncan.

  “The fishin’s not been good,” said Angus, “and I’m a pretty good carpenter.”

  “Let’s have a few more and go up there after breakfast tomorrow.”

  “And not mention it to anyone else.”

  “Aye.”

  “How early?”

  “Let’s meet here at eight and walk up.”

  They moved on up the street and into a different pub.

  The following morning, they made their way up the main street, then mounted the trail to the castle. They presented themselves at the service door. A robot opened it.

  “Yes? What may I do for you gentlemen?” it asked.

  “Lookin’ for work,” said Duncan. “Thought there might be a few things around here that you fellows might not be programmed to handle. Might we speak to the laird about it?”

  The robot opened the door all the way.

  “Come in and have a cup of tea while I see whether he’s available. Sometimes his work is so intense that he can’t be interrupted. He hangs a small sign on his door if that is the case.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” said Duncan, “and if he has no time for us, give him our congratulations on the bairn.”

  “I will do that, sir. Your tea will be ready in a moment. I am preparing it by means of a remote. Please have a seat.”

  He placed cups, cream, lemon, and sugar before them.

  “What might we be callin’ you?” asked Duncan. “You bein’ so hospitable and all?”

  He poured their tea and found bread, butter, and biscuits.

  “Call me Dack,” he said. “Tell me before I trouble the master, what are your skills?”

  “He could count on us for anything involving boats,” said Angus with a laugh. “Either of us will plaster or paint, though Duncan’s better t
han I am at that. He does some masonry, too, and we’ll both mess with mechanical things up to the point where we have the sense to tell him to get someone better.”

  The robot made a chuckling sound. They tasted their tea.

  “Good tea,” said Duncan.

  “Yes,” said Angus, “and the bread and butter, too. Uh, will you be checkin’ now with the laird?”

  Dack chuckled again. “Forgive me my little joke, gentlemen,” he said. “I am John D’Arcy Donnerjack. Dack reported your visit and I took over his sensory apparatus to conduct the interview. I like your qualifications. Do any of you do groundskeeping work as well?”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye.”

  “I will turn this body back to Dack then, when I have given Dack a list of indoor and outdoor work for you. I’ll be hiring you. You can discuss wages with Dack. I’ll confirm what’s finally been settled on afterwards. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Why, yes,” said Duncan.

  “Certainly.”

  “Then I’ll be back to my work now.”

  “Not before we congratulate you, sir, hoping the missus is all right.”

  “Why, thank you. Dack will have plenty for you to do; you may never even see me about. He will also forward any messages you have for me.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Angus. “What time tomorrow would you like?”

  “Say eight. Well make it eight to five. Three weeks off with pay, however you’d have them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  “One question, if I may,” said Duncan, sipping.

  “And what is that?”

  “Is the place really haunted? I’ve heard stories…”

  “Yes, Duncan. It is.”

  Donnerjack did not elaborate.

  “Well, uh—guess we should be going,” Duncan said, standing.

  Angus finished his tea and rose, also.