by James Enge
Morlock drew Tyrfing and summoned the lowest level of vision.
It was what Merlin had been waiting for. The fetch bristled suddenly with talic force, striking at Morlock's awareness through his vision. Morlock deflected the lightning-like attack with Tyrfing and watched for lines of talic emanation from Merlin's suddenly blazing fetch.
Aha. There.
Morlock dismissed his vision and walked toward an unremarkable blue-gray stone at the edge of the woods.
“Oh, come now,” Merlin's voice sounded irritably behind him. “That's no way to win a quarrel! If you were any kind of—”
Morlock swung Tyrfing once, shattering the stone. Merlin's voice fell silent, and when Morlock turned around the fetch had disappeared.
In all likelihood, Merlin had other anchors hidden nearby. But probably he would wait to use them. Morlock was free from Merlin's peevish ranting, if not from his observation, for a time.
Morlock went into the house and began to sort through his dead mother's things. There was surprisingly little there: the place was almost like the house-sized mausoleums he had seen in Anhi. The Anhikhs often surrounded a dead body with a replica of the place where it had lived, giving its ghost the illusion of being home, so that it would not wander. Morlock found some books and marked-up sheets of paper, a few clothes, some household implements, cold-lamps for reading after dark, some firewood and firemakers beside the narrow hearth. But he found few clothes and no food or drink at all. It was incomplete, unreal.
One of the sheets of paper was a letter Nimue had written to herself.
Hello—
I am you. (Check your handwriting against mine and see if this isn't so.)
You are feeling confused right now and you don't remember much. Don't worry about that. Your memories will return, or at least some of them will.
Your name is Nimue Viviana. You live in this house. If you try to go far from it, someone will try to stop you. Sometimes he will call himself Merlin, sometimes other things. Whatever he says, don't believe him. He thinks he knows what is best for you, which means you cannot trust him about anything. But he can keep you from leaving this place and he will. There is a troll under the bridge and monsters in the water of the lake, and probably other guards besides.
The confusion you are feeling are the effects of the antideath spell that Merlin has put on you. You must find a way to break it somehow. The more you remember about Merlin the more impossible this will seem but, trust me, you know a lot of magic yourself. You just have to remember it. Don't be discouraged.
Good luck. I'll be rooting for you!
With sincere self-regard,
NIMUE VIVIANA
Morlock was sitting by the window, rereading this odd letter for the second time, when a shadow fell on the page. He looked up to see his mother standing over him, as filthy as if she had just clawed her way out of the grave, which she evidently had. Her face was twisted with anger, and in her unsteady hands she held the shovel he had buried her with. She lifted the shovel and struck him with it.
The blow fell without much weight; he was more stunned by the event itself. When she began to wrestle the shovel aloft to hit him again, he stood up and took it from her.
“Who are you!” she shouted—an accusation of strangerhood more than a question. “Why are you here, going through my things!” She paused and put a filthy hand to her filthy forehead. “Who am I?” she asked, and it was a real question.
He handed her the letter and stood aside to let her sit by the window.
She read the letter through. “Get me something to write with, won't you, dear?” she said presently.
He already had a wax tablet and stylus in his hand, and he handed them to her. She scratched away for a while on the tablet, then looked at the letter, shrewdly comparing the scripts. “Looks the same,” she said to Morlock, finally. “But maybe he wrote the letter. He's a pretty good forger, unless I'm thinking about someone else.”
Guessing she meant Merlin, Morlock said, “He'd have told you to trust him.”
“Unless he wanted to manipulate me by telling me something, as himself, that he really wanted me to disbelieve. I seem to remember now that he likes these little tricks and disguises and things.”
“Yes, but—” Morlock began, and spread his hands.
“—but,” she concluded for him, “he can never stand for these little theatrical games to go on for very long. Like any unprofessional actor, his favorite part of any performance is taking his bows. ‘Oh, Merlin, how clever you are; you've fooled me again.’ Asshole.”
“Yes.”
“I can see you know him well. Even if you don't say much, and you slouch. Stand straight, young man.”
“I'm as straight as I'll ever be,” Morlock replied sharply.
She glanced at him with a watery gray eye. “Oh? Are you one of them? The Ambrosii?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Reluctantly, he said, “Morlock.”
She took it without flinching. “Well. We meet at last, eh? Not one for sentimental reunions, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. I let Merlin think I was crazy about you because it seemed to irritate him, but it would be awkward to assume a doting-mother-with-dutiful-son act this late in our respective lives, wouldn't it? It was different with my daughters. I actually knew them. Are they still…?”
“They were fine when I last saw them, early in winter.”
“Who's in charge? Has Hope taken over?”
“Ambrosia is usually in charge.”
“Still? Must be getting a little elderly, though. Thought Hope would show a little more backbone by now. Anyone would get tired of being pushed around by Ambrosia for—”
“I am very fond of Ambrosia,” he interrupted her.
“Oh, who isn't? She sees to that. Never mind. I love them both better than you ever will, young man.”
“Mother,” he said (the word coming rather awkwardly to his lips), “I am over four hundred years old.”
“What!” she shouted, then sat there bemused for a while, her lips twitching as if she were talking to herself, but no words could be heard.
“I suppose you must be,” she said aloud at last. “Yes, it is starting to come back to me, I guess. I really thought I had beaten him, this time—thought I'd broken his antideath spell and I really was going to go west. Then this young fellow came to the door and I asked him to bury me—oh, that was you, wasn't it?”
“Yes.”
“You were looking for your horse. Did you ever find it?”
“Merlin took him.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. You should see what he does with animals in his workshops; says it's all part of his craft of lifemaking. Cruelty, I call it. Was it a nice horse?” she asked wistfully.
“Not very, but we've been through a lot together.”
“That's what you said last time—have we had this conversation before?”
“Part of it.”
“You must pardon me, young man; I'm almost completely crazy. What was your name again?”
“Is that part of the antideath spell?”
“Is what? The craziness? Yes, exactly. I'm not all here, in any sense of the words. Merlin cut my selfhood in three parts and hid them from each other.”
“Oh?”
“Don't believe me?” She shrugged and reached up both hands to the back of her head. She undid something there, and then abruptly turned her head inside out. There was no skull or apparently any sort of bone or organ inside the empty skin, at least as far as he could see down the fleshy tunnel of her throat. The inner surface of her skin did display a large number of maggots, however.
He was deeply horrified, but he tried not to show it. “No bones, eh?” he remarked.
“No nothing: just my shell,” her voice replied, somewhat muffled.
“I suppose some spell transmitting magnified talic impulses provides the equivalent of skeletal support and organic functions?”
“I guess so,” she said, refolding her head so that her face reappeared. “He wouldn't tell me about it—I suppose he thought I'd try to counter-inscribe the spell somehow. Which I have, a few times, but nothing seems to work.”
“Hm. Er—”
“Oh, for Christ's sake, don't grunt at me. What is it?”
“You seem to have—there's an infestation of…”
“The maggots, you mean? Well, well, quite the observant one, aren't we? Yes, young fellow, one of the hazards of perpetually dying is the occasional infestation, as you so sweetly put it, of maggots.”
“If you rinse yourself out with salt water, that may clear them away.”
“If it were that easy—Salt water, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Sting, won't it?”
“It won't kill you.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? Oh, never mind; I guess it is, sort of.”
“Where's the rest of you?”
“Which one of us is crazy, anyway? Haven't you been listening? I don't know. I'm just the shell of myself. There are three of me now: my shell, my impulse-cloud, and my core self. If there is a way for me to know where they are, I don't know it. I don't know half of what I used to know, and what I do know I often can't remember.”
“But he couldn't have done this unless…” Morlock broke off.
But she had heard. “Unless I consented?” she asked. “Ah, but I did consent. Of course I did. Young man—what's your name?”
“Morlock.”
“Morlock. That was my son's name. I haven't seen him since the day he was born, and yet sometimes I feel that I loved him the most of all my children. When—”
“Enough of that. Merlin's not here.”
“Yes, perhaps you're right. Anyway, have you ever been in imminent danger of death?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Good. Excellent. Well: wouldn't you have done anything, absolutely anything in that moment to go on living?”
“No.”
“What? You're lying.”
“No.”
“I can take your word on that, can I, Epimenides? Well, anyway, I was on the point of death, and he talked me into it. I was afraid, and he…he said he could cure death and even the common cold if he had enough time—this was just a temporary measure. A temporary measure. Do you know how long it's been since then?”
“If he built the house for this purpose: between one hundred fifty and two hundred years.”
Nimue looked at him with somber gray eyes and said in a subdued voice, “That's about right. Say, you sounded a bit like him, just then. You're not him in disguise, are you? What's your name?”
“Morlock.”
“Ha. That's a laugh. My son's name is Morlock.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I tend to repeat myself at times. You'll have to forgive me, young man, but I'm almost completely crazy.”
“Because of the antideath spell.”
“Yes! He was so clever. And I didn't notice: he never said it was a life-spell or a youth-spell. It prevents death, but doesn't really permit life.”
“And you want to break the spell.”
The old woman was silent for a time. “Sometimes I do. When I remember. Then I'm desperate to. But. The other parts of me. They drag me back to life. Anyway. I don't want to die. I just want to be. I just want to be me again, alive, and whole, and in one place, even if I die the next second.”
“You probably will.”
“Doesn't matter. I don't expect you to understand.”
Morlock stared glumly out the window for a moment or two, considering the path that had led him here. At last he said, “I can probably arrange that.”
“What?”
“I can bring the separate segments of your self to the same location. They will reunite and I suspect you will die shortly thereafter.”
“Heh. He won't love you for it. Merlin, I mean.”
“He hates me already.”
“Oh? Then we shall be friends. What's your name?”
“Morlock Ambrosius. I'm your son.”
“That explains why you'd bother, then. Excuse me, young man, I have to go down to the lake and wash. I've gotten all dirty somehow.”
“Don't forget the salt.”
“The salt. Oh, that's right. My son was just here telling me about maggot infestations, the insolent son-of-a-bitch, and I should know. Or was that a dream?”
Morlock didn't answer, and Nimue, taking a basin and a block of salt, went down to the lake behind the cottage. Morlock went down to the bridge. As soon as he stepped onto it, the troll appeared again and landed on the bridge ahead of him.
“Now I've got you!” the troll shouted.
“I still haven't crossed the bridge without permission,” Morlock pointed out.
“No, but you will.”
“I was going to, yes. I wanted to go into the woods and feed deeply and richly on walnuts and acorns until I had swollen up to twice my natural size. Otherwise I'd hardly be worth eating, as you see; I've been living on flatbread and dried meat—and not much of that—for months.”
“You might be more worth eating then, but I'd never get the chance. If you get off the island you'll keep on going into the woods and someone else will get to eat you.”
“No, I plan to come back and talk with the woman in the cottage.”
“You won't be back. She's crazy, you know. I always hide when she comes down by the bridge here. She scares me.”
“She's my mother.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Several of the troll's faces peered at him. “I guess I see the resemblance at that,” it admitted. There was a long pause. “Walnuts, eh?” The troll licked several of its lips. “All right. Go on: don't be too long.” It jumped off the side of the bridge and disappeared.
Morlock crossed back over the bridge and went off into the woods. He built a potter's wheel, found some clay, and threw a vase. It was long and narrow in external form, about two feet long; he folded the outside through a higher dimension so that the inside was about the size of a small room. He had no kiln, but he took out his choir of flames and explained to them what he needed. They were not very bright, as flames go: the few survivors from the debacle in the winterwood had propagated to fill the nexus, and most of the flames were rather youthful. But Morlock explained to them what he needed and stayed there to keep them on task, and by the following morning the vase was baked and glazed to Morlock's exacting specifications. He stowed the nexus and the jar in his backpack and returned to the wooden bridge leading to the island in the lake.
When he stepped onto the bridge the troll climbed out of the water and drew itself up onto the walkway. The majority of its eyes looked doubtfully at Morlock and it said, “You don't seem to be twice your previous size. What was that? Hyperbole? I dislike rhetorical tropes that verge on dishonesty.”
“Unfortunately, there are no walnuts or acorns in the woods. It's spring and they won't be ripe until autumn.”
“Now wait a moment. Just wait a moment.”
“I expect my mother will give me a good breakfast. Mothers are famous for that.”
“I wouldn't know,” the troll replied. “We reproduce by fission.”
“I'd heard. You must be pretty close to splitting, to judge by the number of extrusions from your central body.”
“Yes, pretty close now, pretty close. If I can ever get anything to eat.”
“I'll be headed back this way after I speak with my mother, whether she gives me anything to eat or not.”
The troll's mouths were tight with skeptical sneers. Morlock guessed that if he were trying to leave the island instead of entering it there would have been more discussion. As it was the troll nodded him on with one of its smaller heads and it climbed with quiet dignity back under the bridge.
The door was closed. He knocked on it. Nimue half opened the door and peered through the gap, her watery gray eyes unlit by any recognition. “Yes?” she asked su
spiciously.
“I'm your son, Morlock Ambrosius. Yesterday I offered to reassemble the segments of your self.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
He went through the whole matter with her again. Sometimes she remembered him; more often she did not; sometimes it seemed as if she did, but it turned out she was thinking of someone else. Not infrequently she railed at him, thinking he was Merlin.
He found it went easier if he didn't think of her as one person but as a group of people. He had to discuss the matter with all of them and bring them all to agreement before they could go on. Every now and then someone new would come in and he would have to start over. It was not the kind of work he had ever been good at, but there it was: the task he had to do, the task he had set himself.
Around noon they had reached a point in the conversation where Nimue said, “But how is this going to work? There is a troll down by the bridge who says the most offensive things about me whenever I go down there—I've had to speak quite sharply to him about it. I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to eat either one of us. And Merlin must have set other protections around the place besides.”
He showed her the jar and explained his plan.
She drew herself up and looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure you're not Merlin? He was always putting me in jars.”
He shrugged. “I think this will work. If you have another idea—”
“You shouldn't shrug like that. It draws attention to your shoulders.”
He looked her in the eye and shrugged.
She snickered. “All right. I get the message. And no I don't have any ideas. If I had any ideas I would have told them to that young fellow who came here looking for his horse; he was much politer than you are.”
Morlock took a stoppered green bottle out of his backpack and released the morpheus-bird, its wings feathered with every shade of dim green. It flew once around Nimue's head and then returned to its bottle. He restoppered the bottle as his mother's shell lumped to the ground.
He laid her out flat on the floor and rolled her up as tightly as he could, like a scroll of thick paper with irregular edges. Then he slid her into the narrow mouth of the jar he had made in the woods. There was a cap for the jar but he left it off, in case she needed to speak to him about anything when she awoke. He stowed the jar and the bottle in his pack and went back down to the bridge for the last time.
