Earth Magic

by Alexei Panshin

  And others, the rougher men in skins, said: “Is there to be drink at last?”

  The Duke Girard, rightful heir to Bary in the eyes of some, stood separate from other men, his back to a great standing stone, an ancient raised tongue of rock placed alone there where they camped. Nearby him were several leaders of outlaws, commoner men, come here to confer, and to eat and drink with Girard. Beyond Girard’s shoulders, close by the rock, stood a strange Man of the Woods, one of those who were the first people of Nestor, one of different breed than all the others here. His hair was fine and black, and his robes were brown. And so they all gathered: the party with news and those they had attracted, the outlaw leaders standing together, the strange Man of the Woods standing apart, and Girard alone in their midst.

  Girard was a pretty and well-made youth with the air of a dream-walker lost in some dream other. Among these men, Girard was singular in fashion and dress. He wore his hair long after the style of the Western courts and his clothes were Western clothes of Palsance that had not survived the winter whole. His singularity was one of the proofs by which Girard commanded his fifty loyal men.

  Thus it was that as the sun set, Oliver stood before young Girard and divers other outlaws. The price of a night’s hospitality was on his tongue and his true self was invisible, and he was content to have it so.

  If Oliver had been fully Oliver, he might have worried over the meaning of the raised rock. This place was an old place, and old places are not the same as new places. Oliver might have worried over the rock and its seeming guardian man in his robes of brown.

  Sailor Noll only managed to take in Duke Girard, his back to a stone that stood taller than he. But he was enough Oliver to know before a word was spoken that Sailor Noll could take in Duke Girard indeed. He could see it in Duke Girard’s bearing.

  “Lord, here is one who claims news for you,” said lank Rab. “I think he is a vagrom who would lie to have the advantage of your table.”

  One of the two young soldiers of the duke suddenly declined responsibility for Sailor Noll. He leaned toward those around him to seem one of them. But the other young outlaw saw in Duke Girard something of what Oliver saw. He smiled and stood tall behind queer-looking Sailor Noll.

  “We share with all who visit us, Rab. My table is open to all of Bary. I am duke.”

  “Yes, lord,” said Rab.

  “Nay, I do mean it, Rab.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Is it news of the train to Palsance?” asked Girard. He smiled. “We all shall be less cross when the ambock has arrived. And my wardrobe.”

  “Lord, he has not said what his news is, if news he has,” said Rab.

  “I should not have guessed,” said Girard. “Who are you, strange old man, and with what news have you been sent to me?”

  Oliver said, “My name is Noll and I am an old sailor walking the road from Eduna to Jedburke. My lord.”

  “If you must be a sailor, I will accept that,” said Girard. “Or is that part of the message?”

  It suddenly became evident to Oliver that this dreamy-eyed young boy saw him as a portent. Girard saw through Sailor Noll, not to Oliver behind, but to words of import clothed in strange human form. And with a sudden surge of heart, Oliver realized that Girard saw truly. Sailor Noll, with his news, was a portent in this camp.

  Sailor Noll became a portent. He swung his sack down to the ground. On the instant, he changed his bearing. Without being any less Sailor Noll, he took on stature. He expanded his will. And all present but the Man of the Woods and Girard himself fell back a pace from the sight of ugly shy-eyed Sailor Noll. The Man of the Woods cocked his head on his shoulder and watched Noll steadfastly. It seemed the life of these outlaws was not his life, and great news for them was not great news for him, a man of other kind. As for Girard, he bravely held his ground before momentous words.

  Oliver signed the sign that commands silence and grave attention from all men. His arm outstretched, his hand raised, thumb a-cock, forefinger pointing high.

  He said: “Once there was a king, a barbarian tyrant. Because his skin was black as a frog, they called him the Black King.”

  And he told the story of Morca and Morca’s banquet and Morca’s head as though it had happened in another land many years ago. He made a place for Duke Girard in the story.

  And when he finished, the outlaws asked each other, “What does this mean?” They did not know of what Oliver spoke because the names had not been Nestor and the Gets and Lothor of Chastain and Black Morca. They looked into each other’s faces to see the meaning of what they heard. Some thought it was an aimless story. Some thought it was a riddle. Some thought it was news of strange foreign politics.

  As the outlaws looked to each other, Girard put his face in both hands against the force of the words of power this gnarly messenger had borne to him. He believed that he understood the story and who it was who came after the black usurper king. He put his face in his hands to think, but he did not cover his eyes. The words he had heard were weightier than any he had invited to hear.

  He dropped his hands and asked his portent: “Is it Black Morca who is dead?”

  The wildest of the hill outlaws, not a leader of anyone, but one who stood by himself, said: “What is this news? Does he say that my old enemy, the Hammer of Gradis, is dead?”

  “If this be true, then our day’s planning is spent for nothing,” said one of the leader men.

  “Black Morca is dead,” said Oliver.

  Girard, in strange mind, spread his hands. His hands trembled and his face rolled. His soldiers knew that this was the sign he made before he spoke the words by which they were guided. Strangers to the camp, who knew Duke Girard best by repute, watched in wonder.

  He said in a clear and even voice: “If the barbarian king is Morca, then I am the boy Jehan. I am the new Jehannes!” And his face lit with an inner light. “I wish Mainard were here so that I might tell him.”

  He said: “Listen to me, my men. Black Morca is dead and his head sits on a pole like a cabbage! The Gets have fallen on each other with the fury of their own battle pigs. Now is the moment for us to strike them as we may. I am the heir of Jehannes. I will rule Bary. I will rule the world. Have faith and follow me.”

  And the men stirred at that. And then they continued to stir. Someone was arrived, and a cry went up! “Mainard! It is Mainard!” The outlaws fell away and in the still half-light another young man, of cut similar to Girard but wearing a new coat, came running in, stopped, panted once lightly for effect, and threw his arms wide to show himself off for inspection. Then he and Girard made the noises made when good friends meet again, and fell to hugging each other.

  Girard said, “I am the new Jehannes. I’m going to lead us to strike against the Gets wherever we may find them.”

  Mainard said, “I was so hoping I would find you crowding the fires before dinner so that you might truly admire the clothes that I wear. Not in this murk.”

  “No, my good friend Mainard. Hear me: Black Morca is dead. He has been struck down by his fellows and the Gets now rip each other recklessly. We have been given a moment and we must act on the moment we have been given.”

  Mainard fell back. He said: “This explains much. The country is aswarm with Gets. We had to dig a cache and leave the greater part behind us. I could not bring you your wardrobe. You will have to look at me and dream. Why do we stand here? We could be eating.”

  “Only to gather strength,” said Girard.

  “That I will do,” said Mainard.

  “Did you bring nothing with you from Palsance?” the outlaw men asked.

  “Nothing but the ambock,” said Mainard.

  And the men all cried hurray and turned for supper. And there the kegs of dark brew were. Oliver followed behind, his moment as a portent complete, his meal, his beer, and his place as close by the fire as he liked all earned. He remembered ambock from other days and he could taste it now.

  Jana, the moon, showed half
her face in the sky overhead, but her eyes were unveiled. She watched all in silence.

  Chapter 15

  SAILOR NOLL SAT WITHOUT COMPANY at the farthest glimmer of the fire circle. His bag was by his leg where he could be sure of it. He had a well-filled plate on his lap, with a thick slice of good meat. A jack of dark beer sat on the ground before him. He was alone because there was no man nor woman in this company that did not feel that he was best left by himself. That was a safe space in which Sailor Noll could eat his meat as though it were the world-in-all and drink his good dark beer. Oliver attended to the camp only with his ears.

  The air at his back was cool and only lightly stirring. He got but hints from the fire, but was content. The night was close behind his ears. The meat was as good as Morca’s meat. Oliver was well content to sit and fill himself. He did not look up even when he sipped and savored his beer. He did listen.

  This was a restless camp. There was much moving to and fro, voices were quick and intense. He could hear much drinking and the rowdy games born of much drinking. Women laughed. The wild men proved their wildness. There were many arrivals.

  He heard Girard speak to his friend Mainard of being the new Jehannes as it was prophesied. And he heard Mainard answer as though he was but biding his own moment to talk.

  He heard a women shriek and then laugh. And then he heard a man protest and many laugh.

  He did not hear the Man of the Woods. Almost he looked to find him.

  He heard the wild outlaw who had spoken of Morca as the Hammer of Gradis boast of the Gets he would kill.

  A woman came to him and asked him if he would have more beer. Without looking at her, he held his cup to be filled.

  He heard great tumult, laughter, and hooting as many chased one around the campfire and threw him down and beat him. And then there was a turnabout.

  He heard many wild outlaws boast of the beer they would drink.

  There was a serious fight and one was hurt.

  He heard Girard speak to his friend Mainard of his clothes from Palsance that were left behind in the cache and other things. And he heard Mainard say, to avoid answer, “With so many Gets about, we may find one or two to kill, if we be careful.”

  Duke Girard said then, “Mainard, my friend, be serious. With Morca dead, I am certain that this must be the moment to strike at the Gets. But now I am asking you of what is being worn at Richard’s court and who is being talked about and what is being said of my poems.”

  But after that, Oliver opened his eyes and came to his feet. He left his place of silent attention behind. For suddenly, as Duke Girard spoke, there was one more arrival in the great fire circle. And there was a voice that said, “I am Haldane, the son of Black Morca! I will kill all you dream creatures!”

  The voice was not the voice of Haldane. The voice was the voice of Giles, the strange grandson of old Sailor Noll.

  Oliver opened his eyes to see Giles the peasant boy, Giles the fool, the young simpleton in his smock. He was gripped by a great wild outlaw dressed in animal skins. This one threw Giles to the ground before Duke Girard.

  “He says that he is the son of Black Morca. When I spoke of you, he wished to fight, Haldane against Girard, so I brought him here to you.”

  “I am the son of Black Morca. I am Haldane. Had I my sword, I would have slain you, wild man.”

  Drunken men cheered at the audacity of this silly boy’s words. As Oliver stood, he saw the Man of the Woods rise to the boy’s assistance. The man of strange feature and fine black hair knelt to brush the dirt away. But though he beat at the smock of the Nestorian boy, Oliver’s spell held true.

  Girard looked down at the boy sprawled before the fire. “You say you are the son of the King of the Gets.”

  “Do you not believe he is, my lord?” asked Oliver. He was become portent again. His plate was cast aside. His jack was upset. He recked for nothing. “You have been warned, but warned for nought. Now, listen whilst you are warned again. This is a Nestorian boy, a simple lad. But this boy is inhabited by the voice of Haldane, the son of Black Morca. What he says, Haldane would say. Harken to him. Contest with him if you would be heir of Jehannes.”

  The man in brown, the Man of the Woods, withdrew attention from himself then. He became nobody and was not in sight. And so also the wild outlaw. Haldane stood and looked to Duke Girard. And then to Oliver. He raged around and pointed in a circle to all the standing men.

  “I will kill all here,” said Haldane.

  In front of the man of portent, he said, “I know you. I know you, Sailor Noll. I will kill you first, devious one. Are you master of the dream?”

  Duke Girard stepped forth then, casting off Mainard’s restraining hand. He had his look of lostness with him again, as though he saw in leagues but not in lesser distances.

  “Do you dream too?” asked Girard.

  “Who are you?” asked Haldane.

  “I dream I am Girard. It is very strange to be Girard. What do you dream?”

  “I dream . . . I dream . . . I do not know what I dream. I think I dream that . . . No. I do not know what I dream, but I know that I dream.”

  “But you are Haldane?”

  “I am Haldane! Yes. I am Haldane.”

  Girard smiled then, a slow sweet smile. He stepped boldly. His men cheered him. Some threw ale and wounding words at the boy who spoke for Haldane. Even the wild men watched Girard with new respect, thinking they might become soldiers rather than outlaws.

  For Girard said, “In my dream, Morca is dead and his beribboned head sits on a sharpened stake.”

  And Haldane screamed and shook his head and fell to his knees. He struck at the ground with the flat of his hands.

  Men cried at him, “We will kill Haldane and all Gets,” and “We will throw you to the ground as your father threw your mother,” and “The Gets eat dogs.”

  This last must hurt Haldane because the Gets would not eat dog and did not like those who did.

  Girard said, “In my dream, Haldane must hide from all other Gets who will kill him. But Girard leads his soldiers against the Gets and sweeps them away in the name of the Goddess, and all holy inspiration. I am the Prince of Bary, the heir of Jehannes who came of Bary. You are no prince. You are not even a baron. If I knew where you were in truth, and not just in word, I would kill you as I would a beetle, with the heel of my shoe.”

  Haldane said, “I am a baron. I am a baron.” But then the stupid peasant boy face he wore broke into pieces in the most comical way. “But my army is dead.”

  And the outlaws all laughed at him in his bewilderment and grief.

  Haldane looked at Sailor Noll, who stood silently watching. He scrambled toward him over the ground like a piglet in panic.

  Haldane said to Sailor Noll, “If you are the dream master, will you not make the whirling stop? I cannot hold on to anything and I am confused.”

  Gay young Girard called, “If you are the dream master, my sailor, then let the dream play on. I know now who I really am, and I thank you. I am grateful.” He laughed.

  All Duke Girard’s soldiers cried for him and longed for Gets to kill. They would become an army, a state, more than a state.

  Mainard called in joy, “I am your good right hand, Girard. I am your good right hand.”

  Girard said, “You doubted me.”

  “I do not doubt you now.”

  “Then shred your coat,” said Girard.

  But such was the force of passion here that Mainard ripped the new court coat from his back in the instant of Girard’s words. He had a knife out and he laid the coat to the ground in strips and pieces.

  Girard stood over Haldane, who lay at the feet of Sailor Noll. Girard said, “You cannot face me in my glory. I have bound myself to Libera and I will rule the world and write poems to her. Do you not see?” And he pointed to the fine court coat of Palsance that was now rags as if it were proof. “I am Libera’s Liege. I am the heir of Jehannes.”

  Haldane the Fool, Haldane
the Double Fool, Haldane the Fool of the Fool of the World; Haldane, in the guise of the Nestorian boy, Giles—he who had been struck by a swinging boom when he was small, he whose eye was like a staring agate—Haldane gazed at Duke Girard, Libera’s Liege, the heir of Jehannes, and at crooked Sailor Noll, the portent, the master of the dream, as these two stood above him, and knew that he was helpless.

  It was wrong. It was not right. He said, “But she told me I was Libera’s Liege. I understand nothing. I understand nothing.”

  Then he cried, “Libera, free me!” in a voice that was all his agony.

  He fainted then. After a moment, he relaxed as he lay and betrayed himself, wetting his smock before the whole camp of outlaws.

  Girard looked down at the incontinent Nestorian peasant boy who lay as dead. Then he turned to his friend Mainard, standing on the rags of his court coat.

  “You saw it all,” young Girard said. “Am I the heir of Jehannes, or am I not?”

  Mainard nodded.

  Duke Girard turned to Sailor Noll. “I am, am I not?”

  Sailor Noll nodded.

  The soldiers of the duke all cried their passions. They cheered Girard for his dream, and they drank to him. They drank into the night, and some of them came to kick Haldane. Haldane did not protest. He lay on the ground and moaned, and sometimes his limbs twitched.

  When Haldane woke, it was some other time. He lay on the hard cold ground. The camp was as silent as a winter grave. All the outlaws did not move, nor could Haldane hear them breathe. They slept as the dead sleep under their warm snow blankets, without turning.

  The moon was set, her eyes no longer witness. Only the Get Fathers watched from above, their distant stare brilliant and crystalline. They had never reached Haldane when he had striven to call upon them. Perhaps they had never tried to come. Perhaps he had never called aright.

  The wind died suddenly.

  The fire embers, red a moment before, ceased to glow.

  Haldane’s heart stilled in anticipation. All his life, it seemed to him, had been a mystery. He understood none of it. All that had seemed secure, seemed secure no longer, as though it had become past mystery antecedent to present mystery. And this moment was the sum of all those that had come before it. This moment he was in the presence of total mystery. He knew nothing. He was nothing. He was helpless, and he sat up, spread his arms and hands upward, and opened his mouth in gaping helplessness.