The Crafters Book One

by Christopher Stasheff

  In Aisling’s voice, Michael now recognized an unmistakable note of authority. Whatever she and her companion were, they were not starving Irish peasants. “What is this about?” he demanded to know. “What more do you want from me?”

  She smiled a disarming smile, which somehow made her seem all the more dangerous. “Broce and I want nothing from you. Not for ourselves. But we had to eat the meat to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That it was magicked, Michael Crafter.”

  Michael went cold all over. “I know not what you mean.”

  Aisling laughed; a tinkling, silvery laugh. “Ah, but you do.”

  “Who are you?” He noticed Broce had lost his accent. “Not of your breed,” Broce interposed smoothly. “But there is a fragment of talent in you akin to talents we possess, and it called to us. We recognize you as one musician knows another.”

  “What . . . breed . . . are you?” Michael asked in a whisper.

  Aisling laughed again. “In Ireland there are several names for us. You would know some, but not others. It does not matter. What is important is the Famine, Ireland’s enemy.”

  She waved one white hand toward the fire on the hearth, and for one heart-stopping moment Michael thought he glimpsed a face there. A hideous face, inhuman. Huge. Skull-like, with famished eyes.

  “Famine,” Aisling said again.

  Michael’s defenses collapsed. “I can do nothing,” he admitted. “Do you not know I have tried? But I am one man only.”

  “A man with a talent. A gift.”

  He shook his head. “I inherited a few arcane secrets, that is all. But I have not the skill to make use of them to any great degree.”

  “Then where did the pig come from?”

  Michael’s shoulders slumped. He half-turned his body so he would not see that monstrous face if it appeared again in the flames. The face of the enemy.

  “I made one last attempt,” he said in a voice so low it could hardly be heard above the crackling of the fire. “But all I was able to produce was that one pathetic piglet. My earlier attempts were not even edible.”

  Aisling leaned toward him. “How did you make something from nothing?”

  “I did not make something from nothing. What I did is to apply a form of science. Do you know the word? I took some of the solid substance of which the world is made, and I rearranged it into a new pattern.”

  “Magic,” said Aisling firmly. “I told you so, Broce.”

  “And did I not agree? Did 1 not?” Broce was speaking deferentially, Michael noted with surprise, as if power lay with the woman. How strange!

  “If you could do even that much, why have you kept it hidden?” Aisling wanted to know.

  “Surely you understand. If it became public knowledge that I practice any magic at all, the priests would have me stoned and the Protestants would have me burned.”

  “So your fear the Christ-men.”

  “I—I suppose I do.”

  “Yet you go to chapel.”

  “Our family have always worshipped. We were of the Protestant persuasion; I daresay that helped my ancestor, Eben Crafter, when he was starting to build his fortune here under the English. It is only in recent years that 1 have begun very quietly attending services in the Catholic chapel in the woods. I do so only because it is . . . the faith of the people. And I like to think of myself as one of the people.”

  “If the authorities knew you were doing that, your few remaining holdings would be confiscated,” Aisling said. “They hate one another, these men of the New Religions. Protestant condemns Catholic. What is sacred to one religion becomes blasphemy to its successor. I assure you, Michael Crafter, our own race has suffered more than you can possibly imagine for that very reason. Now we are reduced to hiding in mounds in the earth.” Her voice rose, quivered with passion. “Yet it is still our earth! And it cries out with the agony of the people starving upon it! We are not left in peace, dreaming away the centuries in our hiding places. So we must seek help, and we come to you.”

  If it had not been for the Book, Michael would have found this whole evening incredible. He would have thought he had gotten hold of some bad poteen and tried to curl up to sleep it off.

  But he had read the Book. He knew that the sum total of reality is contained in the Unknown, not the Known, which is but a minute particle of that reality.

  Whatever else they might be, Broce and Aisling were real and they were in his hall, demanding his help for the victims of Famine.

  Looking at Aisling, Michael thought to himself, Amer Crafter was reputed to have a creature called Willow. Do patterns repeat?

  Was Willow as lovely as Aisling?

  Aloud, he said reluctantly, “You must try to understand. I have hardly any gift for . . . for magic. I only followed directions set forth in a book. I attempted to produce a huge herd of wild pigs, which the landlords could not claim, and which would be enough to feed the people of this district. But my best effort only resulted in one scrawny piglet, and that contained little sustenance, for already my belly growls again. People cannot be fed on thin illusion.”

  Aisling would not be dissuaded. “If you could do even that much, surely you can do more, with our help. You are not a coward. A coward would not go to a chapel to be with the common folk, although he knew it could mean dire punishment. You spoke of a book. Show it to us.”

  “I keep it locked in yonder chest. If it were known I possessed such a thing, it could mean my death.”

  “There are worse things than death,” Broce remarked.

  “ ‘Death can be a friend’,” Michael quoted Amer Crafter, and the other two nodded in understanding. “Can either of you read written words?” he wanted to know.

  Aisling’s chin lifted. “I can even read the patterns birds make in the sky,” she assured him.

  Michael found himself on his knees beside the great oaken chest, fumbling with the lock. The lid creaked open. Michael thrust his arms inside and lifted out the Book. A smell of old leather rose from it, and tiny bits flaked off as he carried it to the table and opened its cover.

  Aisling and Broce crowded against his shoulders, peering down. He was intensely aware of Aisling.

  “Hen scratchings,” Broce observed of the spidery writing.

  Aisling asked, “What language is that?”

  “I thought you said you could read.”

  “I can!” she flared. But Michael could tell that the writing conveyed no more to her than it did to Broce.

  “The language is English,” he explained, “or rather, English as it was written in the Colonies in the olden days.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “This is a recipe for reshaping. It is the one I used in molding the pig. I began with a handful of earth, some fungus, and a scrap of pigskin from a ruined pair of gloves.”

  Aisling clapped her hands together with delight. “Magic!”

  “The Science of Magic,” Michael corrected her.

  She shrugged. “Whatever you call it, you were able to create a suckling pig.”

  “I did not create it. The gift of Creation is beyond human ken. What I did was employ certain physical agencies to make matter assume a different form.” His stomach interrupted with a loud growl, and he laughed in spite of himself. “I cannot feed everyone on earth with a pigskin glove, though. So even this book is not proof against Famine.”

  As he spoke the word, he saw Aisling look past him, toward the hearth. In spite of herself he followed her glance.

  The face of Famine appeared again in the flames. This time, however, it was not an amorphous vision, but as solid and real as Aisling and Broce, a malign embodiment drawn to the hall as they had been drawn to the hall.

  Touching the Book, Michael Crafter’s fingers tingled. Aisling turned her back on him and raised her doubled fist
, shaking it in front of the hideous specter. Every line of her body was rigid with defiance. “You are not welcome here!” she cried. “This is an ancient land and a rich land; she has always fed her children!”

  From the face in the fire came a hollow, echoing voice like one emanating from the void between the stars. “No more,” it wailed. “No more. I am here now. I am here now . . .”

  “NO!” screamed Aisling, hurling herself toward the hearth. In one desperate leap, Michael caught hold of her just before she threw herself bodily upon the specter. It took all his strength to hold her. She was shaking with rage.

  He pulled her back from the hearth. Her slim body began to shake with sobs. “The richest of all lands, “ she was saying, weeping. “In the old days, when the gold sparkled in the streams and the apples bloomed on every hillside. Ah,’twas Tir-na-nog then, the Land of the Young! And we danced!”

  She twisted in Michael’s arms, torn with grief.

  With Broce’s help, he got her seated on a bench and forced her to take a sip of wine. When at last she recovered herself, she looked at Michael with a tear-stained face. “Will you help us?” she asked in the softest of voices.

  Born and raised in Ireland, Michael nevertheless had Crafter blood in his veins, good solid New England stock, people who never admitted defeat. With Aisling’s eyes upon him—beautiful, strangely disturbing eyes—he could not admit defeat now. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

  Broce put one hand on his arm. For the first time, Michael realized just how small the other was, almost like a child. A child with great flaring ears so thin that light showed through them, and pointed features that were not really human at all; kinder than human, somehow.

  “If you cannot feed the people yourself,” said Broce, “can you find magic in that Book of yours to change the hearts of their oppressors?”

  Michael considered. “I do not know of any form of science that will soften hearts.”

  Aisling said, “Then is there some charm we can work upon yourself that will give you the power to lead the people in a rising? Encourage them to refuse to give the landlords the produce of their fields and herds?”

  Michael tried to imagine himself becoming such a leader.

  He shook his head. “The magic in the Book is not designed to change human nature, I fear. These are gentle people, as I am myself. There is no spell I could cast, no enchantment I could summon, that would turn them into an army, or me into its leader.”

  Broce lost his temper. “Then what use is that Book of yours? Throw it in the flames!”

  “Stay!” Aisling commanded. “There is magic; the pig is proof. It only remains for us to find a way to use it.”

  Until this very night, Michael had always thought of the Book and its contents as treasure. Now he must consider its limitations.

  Science would not create a herd of pigs, nor magic change human hearts. What good was either, then?

  Yet Aisling’s compelling eyes were fixed on his as if she knew he could do something.

  He began turning the pages of the Book. Spells, potions, incantations, protective symbols. . .

  Michael paused. “Ireland is filled with symbols,” he said, thinking aloud. “Symbols left behind by all the people who have inhabited this island since the beginning of time. The great stone forts of the Fir Bolg, and even older things, the images left carved in stone by vanished races . . .”

  His fingers took on a life of their own, seeking among the pages. Suddenly they stopped. Alone, in the center of an otherwise blank page, was a single form.

  A triple spiral. Three swirling shapes combined into one. Aisling drew in her breath in a hiss. “I have seen that before,” she whispered in Michael’s ear. “There is a forgotten stone chamber under a huge mound of earth, with that sign at its heart. It is the rarest and most sacred of symbols from the ancient times. How did it come to be in your Book?”

  “My ancestor knew many secrets,” Michael told her.

  “Including a sign that has not seen the light of day for thousands of years?”

  Michael could not answer.

  Broce spoke instead. “When you mentioned science, Michael Crafter, you said the word as if we did not know what it meant. But we do know. You are not the only being with ancestors. My people understood science long before yours first glimpsed the concept. In the forgotten times when we dwelt in the lands of Lemuria and Atlantis and Mu, we used that which you call science to fashion the Sword of Light and the Stone of Destiny. The triple spiral was ours then.

  “But people forget with time, and magic grows weak with disuse. As you know. Those ancient secrets have been all but lost. Yet the fact that your ancestor knew enough to put the triple spiral in this Book tells us he met one of our people, or one of his own ancestors knew one of ours. . . . There are links, Michael Crafter. There are links, and they have closed now.

  “We can work together. Aisling is the most gifted of us, but I have my own abilities, as you have yours. You need only believe. If we combine our forces—your New World vigor and our ancient wisdom—perhaps we can use the spiral once again to help the people of this island. Are you willing, Michael Crafter? Whatever the outcome?”

  There was an ominous undertone to his words. Even though he would not let himself look toward the hearth, Michael knew the head of Famine was there again, watching him with ravenous eyes, eager to suck the life from him as it was sucking life from the Irish. By opening himself up to magic, was he giving that monster access to his inner self?

  As if she heard his thoughts, Aisling said, “We will challenge an evil thing, Michael. The face of Famine hides appalling horrors. If we try to use the power of the spiral we may put ourselves at unimaginable risk, for the spiral has always been dangerous. The power it represents is beyond mortal control. It comes from the stars.”

  “Amer Crafter thought he could control it,” Michael told her, his eyes scanning the next page.

  Aisling’s lips curved in an irresistible smile. “Good. Then read aloud to us from his words.”

  She folded her legs and sank gracefully to the stone floor, sitting at Michael’s feet. Broce planted himself on the nearest bench, elbows on knees, body canted forward in a listening posture. With the Book open before him, Michael began to read everything Amer Crafter had to divulge about the symbol of the triple spiral. The attention paid by the other two was so intense it seemed to suck the words out of his mouth.

  Late into the night he read, until the words blurred before his eyes, but each time he tried to stop they made him go back and read again from the beginning, until the wisdom of the Book was carved into their three memories as if carved into stone.

  All the while the fire on the hearth writhed and twisted without any additional fuel, as if the malign life in it was watching them, listening to them, pitting its will against theirs. The flames of Famine gobbled their hunger, and spat and cackled obscenely, as Michael tried to keep his entire attention focused on the message in the Book.

  As the grainy light of a watery dawn seeped in through the long windows, Aisling sighed, stood, stretched. “We shall come back to you tomorrow night, Michael,” she said. “It is the night of moondark, best suited to our purpose according to your book. Be ready then.”

  She plucked at one of the tattered bits of cloth that draped her lithe body, and unexpectedly tossed it toward Michael. The fabric clung to his face, blinding him. When he pulled it away, they were gone.

  Michael stood in his empty hallway and wondered why he had not felt a draft from the open door as Aisling and Broce went out.

  Silence clamped around him. He looked toward the hearth.

  There was no flame upon it, only cold and stinking ashes.

  Ireland seemed to be holding its breath. With infinite weariness, Michael returned the Book to its chest and made his way to bed.

  They came to him when the
moon was dark. As before, he was alerted by a scratching at the door. As before, he felt a certain tension, as any mortal man would do when in the grip of strange forces. But Amer Crafter’s blood flowed in his veins. Michael opened the door to admit Aisling and Broce,

  A silvery light suffused the hall as they entered. On this night, they did not look shabby. Clad in rough brown clothing, Broce looked like a gnarled tree trunk whose knots and whorls formed an almost human face.

  Aisling seemed to have attired herself in rainbows. “Are you certain you even need me?” Michael had to ask.

  “We do indeed,” Aisling assured him. “Your powers are not great, but you provide the link with the wisdom of your ancestor, which we mean to draw upon. The three of us working together will be mightier than three. You can interpret the magic in modem form; we understand it in ancient ways. But it is all the same magic. As the god of the Protestants and the Papists is one with the Creator whom we recognize in tree and stone and river. Swirling and swirling around a center, the spiral turns,” she murmured, using Amer Crafter’s own words from the Book. ‘‘Take my hand, Michael.”

  He took her hand. Aisling’s tiny white fingers were as insubstantial as fog, yet surprisingly strong.

  The three left the old Crafter mansion and made their way through the Irish night, soft and dark and thick with mist. Aisling led the way, her small feet finding paths Michael had never known about. They threaded a sure route through bog and marsh, up hill, down glen. Michael had a sense of vast time passing, eons passing.

  At last Aisling stopped. “Here is the first place we shall use. It is an old ring-fort, long forgotten, with crumbling banks and collapsed stone walls. Once it sheltered three hundred against Viking raids. It can surely shelter some of Ireland’s children now against Famine. Let us begin the protections.”

  The abandoned fort was, like all its kind, built in a circle. Aisling moved into the center and lifted her hands, nodding to Broce and Michael to join her. She was easy to see in spite of the lack of moonlight; she glimmered like a will-o’-the-wisp in the darkness.