Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “Where is this place?” he asked.

  “Och, lad, to be so ignorant of your heritage! I’ll gi’ you th’ word while herself gathers strength.”

  “Shouldn’t we move? Take cover?”

  “That we hae doon, laddy. That we hae doon. If th’ crossing through th’ portal dinna tae ye’t’ safety, then hidin’ behind a rock or in a cave will nae do more.”

  “I understand. I think… Where are we? Is this Virtu?”

  Dubhe whimpered. The crusader ghost shrugged.

  “That is a question I dinna care to deal w’. Ask herself. What I do ken is that this place is older than Virtu, old as the legends of the folk of Scotland, and for all I ken, older than that.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  So the ghost crusader told him about the shadowlands, the Lands Under the Hills, Behind the Mist, Beyond the Setting Sun. He gave him the ballad of Thomas the Rhymer and the story of Ossian. As he spoke, the caoineag regained her strength and the proud lift of her walk, and joined them.

  “I brought you here, John, in the hope that—as in the legends—this is a land beyond Death. In the tales, those who cross into the faerie realms do not age, do not die unless slain by the creatures of the place. If this is the case, you are safe. If not, at least your enemy will need to search for you.”

  She paused, raised her head. Jay saw more clearly the paleness of her skin, the darkness of her eyes. She was beautiful, he realized, far more beautiful than Lydia Hazzard—or than Alice—but it was curiosity, rather than desire, that made him wish to see that shadow-guarded face.

  “John, I must be honest with you. Although I have every reason to believe that this realm existed long before Virtu, I also know that it is a Virtuan wild land—accessible from the mapped sites, though only with great difficulty.”

  Jay considered. “Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t a refuge. Perhaps the program has been written to exclude Death.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Who are you, lady? Why are you helping me?”

  “I am the caoineag of Castle Donnerjack. You are that castle’s lord. Although the old castle is gone, the new one on its ruins has its old haunts, and those old haunts their ancient duties.”

  “A banshee warns,” this, unexpectedly, from Dubhe. “That’s all. The boss kept a few on the fringes of Deep Fields. You don’t need to get involved.”

  “Their imperatives are not mine.”

  “Why?”

  “Please.”

  Reluctantly, Jay changed the subject. “The crusader said that you had a charm you could teach me, one that would protect me from the guardian of this place.”

  “I know one. It has a cost, John. You saw how weary I was left, and my flesh is not mortal flesh, nor my soul a mortal soul.”

  “Still, what good is it to bring me here if the guardian can kill me? Didn’t you say that was the only way that Death could access the program?”

  “I said that I hoped that this was the case. Very well. Promise me on whatever you hold holy that you will not use this charm unless your life is in danger.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  The caoineag shuddered. “Very well.”

  And so she recited:

  Angel of the Forsaken Hope

  Wielder of the Sword of Wind and Obsidian

  Slice the Algorithms from our Foe.

  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.

  Then Jay repeated the words after her, nodding when he had it. The caoineag reached out an imploring hand. It was slim and pale, the nails short crescents against the flesh.

  “Only in an emergency, John. Remember.” Jay nodded. He looked around.

  “Even if time passes differently here, I’m not ready to head back. Are we safe to stay?”

  “Until the moon passes full you may return the way you came.”

  “Then let’s look around.” Dubhe tugged at his ear.

  “How about a banana?”

  * * *

  “She beat you, the bitch!” Phecda said, flickering in and out her silvery tongue.

  “Did she?” Death said, more calmly than might have been expected. “I had wondered into what realms Ayradyss had vanished, for I knew she had not come into my keeping. Now I know—and I believe that another will know as well.”

  “Another?”

  “Her creator—the one who made the Nymph of Virtu, the Angel of the Forsaken Hope, the Mermaid Beneath the Seven Dancing Moons to fight his battles in the days of the Genesis Scramble. He must have thought her lost, her programs decaying among the detritus of my Fields. Now, he may know other.”

  “Ah, ssso,” hissed Phecda, pleased.

  “And claim her for his own,” Death laughed. “And I will claim her son as I had ever intended.”

  “So it goes on…”

  Death touched the button on the unit that had been John D’Arcy Donnerjack’s tribute to him. Politian’s Orpheo surged out, the only unbroken sound among the broken business of entropy.

  * * *

  Link Crain knocked on the door to Desmond Drum’s office and hearing the acknowledging grunt walked in. Before Drum switched his newsreader off, Link caught sight of a lurid account of the riot at the Elshie celebration. Even days later, the newsies hadn’t tired of dwelling on the events, complete with suppositions as to what this might mean for the future of the Church of Elish. Link had filed his story (“Caught in the Crush”), collected his eft, and otherwise distanced himself from the events. He had bigger things to concern him.

  Seeing who his visitor was, Drum grinned. “Hey, Link! How’re you doing, kid? Learned not to stop bullets with your arm?”

  “Knew that before. Shame the guy with the gun hadn’t been told.”

  Drum chuckled. “You look grim, Link. What’s wrong?”

  Link took his usual seat in one of the comfortably battered chairs in front of Drum’s desk.

  “I have a confession to make. Afterwards, I might want to hire you for a job.”

  Drum’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. He gestured for Link to continue.

  “First of all, Drum, I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You forget, kid. I researched you.”

  “You researched Lyle Crain—alias Lincoln Crain.”

  “Yep, and I found Alice Hazzard.”

  Link nearly fell off of the chair.

  “You knew? How? I was so careful!”

  “Careful for Virtu, Link. You made a bit of a mistake when you kept living with your mother.”

  “I had my own address in the building!”

  “You did, but I checked and noticed that the bills were sometimes paid by Lydia Hazzard rather than Lyle Crain. Since the two apartments were next door to each other, I asked a few questions. I’ll admit that at first I thought that Lyle was Lydia’s lover. Then I learned that Lydia had a daughter about the same height and general build as Lyle. I watched and I never saw the two together and well…”

  “You hinted at this back when we met, didn’t you?”

  “When I mentioned your actual age? Yep.”

  “I feel really stupid.”

  “Don’t. You did a good job. Most people don’t look at what is going on in Verite anymore. The eft trail from Lydia’s account, though—that was sloppy, kid.”

  “I ran short of my own money. Mom offered to help. I guess I should have had her put the funds in my account.”

  “Even better would have been to have her give you a bank draft and then you transfer that to your account.”

  “Yeah.”

  Link/Alice sat staring at her shoes for a few moments.

  “So, what do you want me to call you, kid?”

  “Call me?”

  “We’re still working together, aren’t we?”

  “
We are?”

  “Why not? Daimon wanted you for your research talents, for your interest in the Elshies, for your young, idealistic fervor. None of that has changed.”

  Link grinned, relieved. “Then call me Link and I’ll maintain the persona for work, just like always.”

  Drum nodded. “Good choice. A rich kid with a weird history would have trouble doing investigative work.”

  “You know about my history?”

  “Only that a major virt tour operation authorized their insurance company to pay a large out-of-court settlement to Alice Hazzard to be kept in trust by her mother Lydia until Alice’s eighteenth birthday. You’ll apparently be a multimillionaire in a couple of years. I didn’t dig any further. Those documents are sealed tighter than I wanted to go.”

  Alice frowned. “I can’t tell you about it. I don’t really know all the details, but something happened to my mom when she was pregnant with me. She asked for the majority of the award to be given to me since she had plenty of money through her parents and grandparents.”

  “That’s right, your family is Hazzard Insurance, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah… Good thing Mom isn’t a snob, or I’d never do anything but go to the right schools.”

  “She seems like a nice lady. Is she single?”

  “All my life. She won’t even say who my father is. I think she still holds a candle for him, though.”

  “That’s a nice, old-fashioned phrase.”

  “That’s how she is about him. When the subject comes up she gets all dewy-eyed and pink. It’s rather sweet.”

  Drum took out a bottle and poured them each a shot. He shoved one across the table to Link.

  “Gift from one of my grateful clients. Now, tell me about this job you want me to do for you.”

  Link shifted uneasily, sipped from her glass. It was a liquor of some sort, deceptively strong beneath the sweetness.

  “I want to find Jason MacDougal—the fellow who helped us during the riot.”

  “I remember him—in a somewhat cloudy fashion. Good-looking boy, dark hair, dark eyes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s the problem? You have a name and a description. I’m certain that you should be able to locate him.”

  “So was I. He even mentioned that he lived in Scotland. However, apparently, there is no Jason MacDougal in all of Scotland who answers that description and was in New York the day of the Elshie riot.”

  “Strange.”

  “Yes. Apparently, even in the middle of the riot, he had the composure to give me a false name.”

  “Well, you did the same to him.”

  “A nom de plume.”

  “Nitpicker.”

  “I want you to find him for me. He saved both our lives and I feel I owe him something.”

  “How about his privacy?”

  “Desmond…”

  Link’s voice was pleading, her green eyes wide and appealing. Desmond Drum was not so old that he had forgotten the power of puppy love. Concealing a smile, he pulled out a hard copy notepad and a pen.

  “Tell me everything you recall about him, Link. Did he mention any friends? family? How about where he was staying in New York?”

  Slowly, Link reconstructed everything she recalled. Now that Desmond had agreed to help, her nervousness vanished and she became again the professional observer. Although Drum had been woozy during most of the encounter, he added a few details to the list.

  “There,” he said when they were done. “Now I have something to start with.”

  “What are your rates?”

  “Kid, you’re a pal.”

  “As you noted, I’m also going to be a multimillionaire. If you charge more than I have now, you can hit me for the rest, with interest, in a couple of years.”

  Drum glanced around his shabby office. Rents were lower now that so much work was done in virt, but conversely it was harder to get a good place now that the demand was reduced. He shoved a standard contract across the desk.

  “There.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For this kind of job.”

  Link pulled an eft stick from her wallet. “Take the money for expenses and this first hour’s consultation.”

  While Drum was doing this, Link studied him.

  “Why do you do this, Desmond? It can’t be for the money.”

  “Just nosey, I guess. I like being paid to stick my nose into other people’s business.”

  “Like me.” Link laughed.

  “Guess so, kid.” Drum winked at her. “Let me buy my newest client lunch. I want to talk over the Elshie situation. This riot could change things quite a bit.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too. Have you heard from…”

  “Our employer? No. He’s probably worried, though. Let’s have something for him when he does make contact. Do you mind if we walk to lunch? I’m having the Spinner’s upholstery replaced.”

  “Actually, a walk sounds good. I noticed a Chinese place at the end of the block that smelled wonderful when I walked by.”

  “Great. I’ve wanted an excuse to try it.”

  * * *

  She was as lovely as Fraga with skin of shining grey, deep wrinkles like the currents cut by the wind on a deep pond, and polished calluses on her knees. Tranto noted her swaggering toward a watering hole some distance from where the herd grazed and scented her invitation on the teasing breeze.

  “Muggle,” he said, “keep the others back from the watering hole for me while I check out that intruder.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t like me to do it, sir?” Muggle asked, his trunk extending as he, too, caught the enticing scent. “Scarce always had me check out the newcomers, as you may recall.”

  “Scarco is no longer herd bull,” Tranto said, “and I am.”

  Muggle nodded, shuffled back a few steps, and practiced flapping his ears importantly. Somewhere deep in his heart he wished that he was Tranto (or at least had Tranto’s authority), but he had grown practiced at hiding his resentment even from himself.

  Tranto sauntered over to the new female. Up close, she was even better looking than from a distance, but something about her reminded him obscurely of Lady May and her bowers of flowers. More guardedly than he had intended, he greeted her.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello,” she answered. “Is that your herd grazing out there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a big herd.”

  “Biggest I know of hereabouts.”

  “Been herd bull long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “I think I’ve heard of you. You’re Tranto, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Taciturn, too.”

  “Mm.”

  “I remember where I heard about you. It was from a bull named Scarce. He said he abdicated in your favor—said you weren’t just bigger, you were the ancestral herd bull.”

  “Scarco. How is he?”

  “Well enough, for a lone bull. I think he misses having company.”

  “Wonder why he doesn’t start a new herd. He was pretty impressive.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid that someone else will come and usurp all his hard work.”

  Tranto dug a tusk into the turf, polishing the tip. He no longer found the stranger female attractive; she struck him as distinctly dangerous. She must have sensed the change in his attitude because instantly she became conciliatory.

  “I was sent to find you, Tranto.”

  “Is that so?”

  “By some powerful folks. They’re looking for strong phants to join them in an action they’re planning.”

  “Action?”

  “Virtu has been under the rule of Verite for too long. Their people come in here with their new programs, with their Chaos Factor prods, and push us around.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Don’t be rude, Tranto. You, yourself, bear the wounds of the brutal CF prods, are doomed to suffer insanity
due to their mishandling. Only the rare aion has not had its domain challenged by these interlopers. The time has come to rewrite the base program. I have been sent to ask you whether you and your herd wish to join our side.”

  “What’s in it for us?”

  “A better society, free from the domination of Verite.”

  “Verite doesn’t come to these jungles and plains, not effectively.”

  “Do you like being constrained to a few wild or semiwild sites when all of Virtu is your heritage?”

  “Maybe so. We’re happy here.”

  “You are. Don’t you owe your young bulls room to expand?”

  “Let them fight for the right. I have.”

  “Long ago, Tranto.” The stranger female switched the brush at the tip of her tail. “I think I was misled about you, Tranto. I thought that given everything you have suffered you would believe in justice for all, not just the rights of the strongest.”

  “Lady, I am the strongest.”

  “Here. In any case, I do not believe you will serve. I shall report my failure. It is a pity. We could have been… friends.”

  “As you say, lady. I guess I’ve grown too old.”

  Tranto watched as she walked away, watched until she vanished into the brush at the edge of the jungle, watched until night fell and his herd joined him near the water. That night, he glided away from his customary place near Fraga and their two young and pounded along the perimeter of the herd, alert for a danger he could not name.

  Alert though he was, Tranto did not see Muggle slip away from the herd and vanish into the dark curtain of the jungle, nor did he see him return some hours later.

  * * *

  The meeting of the Church of Elish Elders had dealt with the routine matters: presented thanks to Aoud Araf (whose crisis team had handled the riots as well as could be hoped); presented veiled reprimands to those who had panicked; dealt with budgets, supplies, and slogans. The tone of the gathering had been depressed, defeated. All present were aware that the events in Central Park had jeopardized their growing religion as nothing else—even the revelations of Arthur Eden—had ever done.

  Then the miracle had begun.

  All stared at the head of the table where a chair that always remained empty—a reminder of the Hierophant who was never seen either in Verite (where many suspected he could not manifest) nor in Virtu (where legend said he had his origin)—where the Empty Chair shimmered and a figure took shape on its cushioned seat.