The Warlock Unlocked wisoh-4

by Christopher Stasheff

  “And didst thou not ride hither in just such a car, from such another world?” The elf watched him keenly.

  Father Al stared at him.

  The elf waited.

  “Indeed I did.” Father Al’s brows pulled down. “How would an elf know of such matters? Hast thy High Warlock told thee of them?”

  It was the elf’s turn to be taken aback. “Nay, what knowest thou of Rod Gallowglass?”

  “That he is, to thee, indeed a puissant warlock—though he would deny it, had he any honesty within him—and doth come, as I do, from a world beyond the sky. Indeed, he doth serve the same Government of Many Stars that governs me, and came, as I did, in a ship that sails the void between the stars.”

  “ ‘Tis even as thou sayest, including his denial of his powers.” The elf regarded him narrowly. “Dost thou know him, then?”

  “We never have met,” Father Al evaded. “Now, since that I have told thee what thou didst wish to know, wilt thou not oblige me in return, and say to me how it can be that elves exist?”

  “Why,” the elf said craftily, “why not the way that witches do? Thou hast no difficulty understanding why she lives.” He nodded toward the witch-girl.

  “That is known to me; she is like to any other lass, excepting that God gave to her at birth some gifts of powers in her mind; and I can see that, when first her ancestors did come to this world, those who chose to come had each within him some little germ of such-like powers. Thus, as generations passed, and married one another again and yet again, that germ of power grew, until some few were born who had it in good measure.”

  “ ‘Tis even as Rod Gallowglass did guess,” the elf mused. “Nay, thou art certainly from the realm that birthed him. But tell me, then, if such a marrying within a nation might produce a witch, why might it not produce an elf?”

  “It might; it might indeed.” Father Al nodded thoughtfully. “Yet were it so, my whistling, and the turning of my coat, would not dispel thy glamour, as was told in Terran legend. Nay, there is something more than mortal’s magic in thee. How didst thou come to be?”

  “Thou dost see too well for easy liking,” the elf sighed, “and I do owe thee truth for truth. I do know that elves are born of forest and of earth, of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn; for we have been here as long as they. And well ought I to know it, for I am myself the oldest of all Old Things!”

  The phrase triggered memories, and Puck of Pook’s Hill came flooding back to Father Al’s mind from his childhood. “Why, thou’rt Robin Goodfellow!”

  “Thou speakest aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night.” The elf grinned, swelling a little with pride. “Nay, am I so famous, then, that all beyond the stars do know of me?”

  “Well, all worth knowing.” Father Al silently admitted to a bit of bias within himself. “For surely, all who know the Puck must be good fellows.”

  “Dost thou mean that I should trust thee, then?” Puck grinned mischievously. “Nay, not so—for some have known me to their own misfortune. Yet I will own thou dost not have the semblance of a villain. Nay, turn thy coat aright, and tell me wherefore thou dost seek Rod Gallowglass.”

  “Why… ‘tis thus…” Father Al took off his robe, and turned it right side out again, getting his thoughts in order. He pulled it on, and began, “A wizard of a bygone age foresaw that, in our present time, a change would come to thy High Warlock, a transformation that could make him a mighty force, for ill or good—a force so mighty as to cast his shadow over all the worlds that mortal folk inhabit. This ancient wizard wrote this vision down, and sealed it in a letter, so that in our present time, it might be opened and read, and we could learn, in time to aid Rod Gallowglass.”

  “And bend him toward the good, if thou canst?” Puck demanded. “Which means, certes, thy notion of the ‘good.’ ”

  “And canst thou fault it?” Father Al stuck out his chin and locked gazes with Puck, hoping against hope as he remembered the long hostility between Christian clergy and faery-folk, and the diminishing of the faeries’ influence as that of the Christ had grown. And Puck glared back at him, no doubt remembering all that, too, but also reassessing the values the clergy preached.

  “Nay, in truth, I cannot,” the elf sighed finally, “when thou dost live by what thou preachest. Nor do I doubt thy good intention; and elves have something of an instinct, in the knowing of the goodness of a mortal.”

  Father Al let out a long-held breath. “Then wilt thou lead me to thy Warlock?”

  “I would I could,” the elf said grimly, “but he hath quite disappeared, and none know where.”

  Father Al just stared at him, while panic surged up within him. He stood stock-still against it, fighting for calm, silently reeling off a prayer from rote; and eventually the panic faded, leaving him charged for otherworldly battle. “Admit me to his wife and bairns, then; mayhap they hold a clue they know not of.”

  But Puck shook his head. “They have vanished with him, friar—all but one, and he’s so young he cannot speak, nor even think in words.”

  “Let me gaze upon him, then.” Father Al fixed Puck with a hard stare. “I have some knowledge gleaned, sweet Puck; I may see things that thou dost not.”

  “I doubt that shrewdly,” Puck said sourly, “yet on the chance of it, I’ll bring thee to him. But step warily, thou friar—one sign of menace to the child, and thou’lt croak, and hop away to find a lily pad to sit on, and wilt pass the rest of thy days fly-catching with a sticky tongue of wondrous length!”

  He turned away toward the cottage. Father Al followed, with the witch-girl.

  “Dost thou think that he could truly change me into a frog?” Father Al asked softly.

  “I do not doubt it,” the girl answered, with a tremulous smile. “The wisest heads may turn to asses’, when the Puck besets them!”

  They passed through the door, and Father Al paused, amazed at the brightness and coziness of the house, the sense of comfort and security that seemed to emanate from its beams and rough-cast walls, its sturdy, homely table, benches, chests, two great chairs by the fire, and polished floor. If he looked at it without emotion, he was sure it would seem Spartan—there were so few furnishings. But it was totally clean, and somehow wrapped him in such a feeling of love and caring that he was instantly loath to leave. Somehow, he knew he would like the High Warlock’s wife, if he should be lucky enough to meet her.

  Then his gaze lit on the cradle by the fire, with the two diminutive, wizened old peasant-ladies by it—elf-wives! They stared up at him fearfully, but Puck stepped up with a mutter and a gesture, and they drew back, reassured. Puck turned, and beckoned to the priest.

  Father Al stepped up to the cradle, and gazed down at a miniature philosopher.

  There was no other way to describe him. He still had that very serious look that the newborn have—but this child was nearly a year old! His face was thinner than a baby’s ought to be; the little mouth turned down at the corners. His hair was black, and sparse. He slept, but Father Al somehow had the impression that the child was troubled.

  So did the witch-girl. She was weeping silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Poor mite!” she whispered. “His mind doth roam, searching for his mother!”

  “Even in his sleep?”

  She nodded. “And I cannot say where he doth seek; his thoughts veer off beyond my ken.”

  Father Al frowned. “How can that be?” Then he remembered that the child was too young to have gained the mental framework that gives the human mind stability, but also limits. He found himself wondering where that little mind could reach to—and if, in a grown man, such searching would produce insanity.

  He looked back at the child, and found its eyes open. They seemed huge in the tiny face, and luminous, and stared up at him with the intensity of a fanatic. Father Al felt an eldritch prickling creep over his scalp and down his back, and knew to the depths of his soul that this was an extremely unusual baby. “Child,” he breathed, “would that I could stay and watch thi
ne every movement!”

  “Thou mayest not,” Puck said crisply.

  Father Al turned to the elf. “Nay, more’s the pity; for my business is with the father, not the child. Tell me the manner of his disappearance.”

  Puck frowned, like a general debating whether or not to release classified information; then he shrugged. “ ‘Tis little enough to tell. Geoffrey—the third bairn—disappeared whilst at play. They called the High Warlock back from council with the King and Abbot, and he drew from his eldest son the place exact where the child had vanished, then stepped there himself—and promptly ceased to be. His wife and other bairns ran after him, dismayed, and, like him, disappeared.”

  Father Al stared at the elf, while his mind raced through a dozen possible explanations. It could’ve been enchantment, of course, but Father Al wasn’t quite willing to surrender rationality that completely just yet. A space-warp or time-warp? Unlikely, on a planet’s surface—but who could say it was impossible?

  Then he remembered Yorick, and his claim to be a time-traveller. It could be, it could be…

  He cleared his throat. “I think that I must see this place.”

  “And follow them?” Puck shook his head with a sour smile. “I think that five lost are enough, good friar.”

  Father Al hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but now that Puck mentioned it, he felt a creeping certainty. “Nay, I think that thou has said it,” he said slowly, “for where’er thy High Warlock has gone, it could be just such a journey that could wake in him the Power that he knows not of. And I must be there, to guide him in its use!”

  “Art thou so schooled in witchcraft, priest?” Puck fairly oozed sarcasm.

  “Not in witchcraft, but in the ways of various magics.” Father Al frowned. “For, look you, elf, ‘tis been my life’s study, to learn to know when a mortal is possessed of a demon and when he’s not; and to prove how things that seem to be the work of witchcraft, are done by other means. Yet in this study, I’ve of necessity learned much of every form of magic known to mortals. Never have I ever thought real magic could exist; yet that letter that I told thee of warned us that Rod Gallowglass would gain real magic power. Still do I think his strength will prove to be of origins natural, but rare; yet even so, he’ll need one to show him its true nature, and to lead him past the temptations toward evil that great power always brings.”

  “I scarcely think Rod Gallowglass needs one to teach him goodness—an should he, I doubt me not his wife is equal to the task.” But doubt shadowed Puck’s eyes. “Yet I’ll bring thee to the place. Thence, ‘tis thy concern.”

  The witch-girl stayed behind, to help with the baby if she could. Puck led Father Al down a woodland path—and the priest kept an eye on the direction of the sun, whenever it poked through the leaves, to make sure he was being led in a definite direction. Finally, they came out into a meadow. A hundred meters away, a pond riffled under a light breeze, bordered by a few trees. A huge black horse lifted its head, staring at them; then it came trotting from the pool.

  “ ‘Tis the High Warlock’s charger, Fess,” Puck explained. “An thou dost wish to follow after his master, thou first must deal with him.” And, as the horse came up to them: “Hail, good Fess! I present to thee a goodly monk, whose interest in thy master doth to me seem honest. Tell him who thou art, good friar.”

  Well! Father Al had heard that elves had an affinity for dumb animals—but this was going a bit far! Nonetheless, Puck seemed sincere, and Father Al hated to hurt his feelings… “I am Father Aloysius Uwell, of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode…” Was it his imagination, or did the horse prick up its ears at the mention of the good Saint’s name? Well, St. Vidicon had influence in a lot of odd places. “I am hither come to aid thy master, for I’ve been vouchsafed word that he might find himself in peril, whether he did know of it or not.”

  The horse had a very intent look about him. Father Al must’ve been imagining it. He turned to Puck. “Canst thou show me where the High Warlock did vanish?”

  “Yon,” Puck said, pointing and stepping around Fess toward the pond. “Indeed, we’ve marked the place.”

  Father Al followed him.

  The great black horse sidestepped, blocking their path.

  “ ‘Tis as I feared,” Puck sighed. “He’ll let no one near the spot.”

  Suddenly, Father Al was absolutely certain that he had to follow Rod Gallowglass. “Come now! Certes no horse, no matter how worthy, can prevent…” He dodged to the side, breaking into a run.

  The horse reared up, pivoted about, and came down, its forefeet thudding to earth just in front of the priest.

  Puck chuckled.

  Father Al frowned. “Nay, good beast. Dost not know what’s in thy master’s interest?” He backed up, remembering his college gymnastics.

  Fess watched him warily.

  Father Al leaped into a run, straight at the great black horse. He leaped high, grasping the front and back of the saddle, and swung his legs up in a side vault.

  Fess danced around in a half-circle.

  Father Al hit the ground running—and found himself heading straight for Puck. The elf burst into a guffaw.

  Father Al halted and turned around, glowering at Fess. “A most unusual horse, good Puck.”

  “What wouldst thou expect, of the High Warlock’s mount?”

  “Apparently somewhat less than he doth expect of me.” Father Al hitched up his rope belt. “But I know better now.” He set himself, watching Fess with narrowed eyes; then he raced straight at the horse, and veered to the left at the last second. Fess danced to the left, too, but Father Al was already zagging to the right. Fess reversed engines with amazing speed, getting his midsection solidly in front of the priest—and Father Al ducked under his belly.

  Fess sat down.

  Puck roared with laughter.

  Father Al came reeling out of the fray, staggering like a drunk. “I think… a change of tactics… might be in order.”

  “So I think, too.” Puck grinned, arms akimbo. “Therefore, try sweet reason, priest.”

  Father Al frowned down at him, remembering Puck’s legendary fondness for helping mortals make fools of themselves. Then he shrugged and turned back to Fess. “Why not? The situation’s so ridiculous, why should a little more matter?” He stepped up to the beast. “Now, look thou, Fess—thy master’s sore endangered. It may be that I may aid him.”

  Fess shook his head.

  Father Al stared. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the horse had understood him.

  Then he frowned—just a coincidence, no doubt. “We had a letter. It was writ a thousand years agone, by a man long dead, who foretold us that, in this time and place, one Rod Gallowglass would wake to greater power of magic than mortals ever knew.”

  The horse moved to the side, tossing its head as though it was beckoning.

  Father Al stared. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake; but when he looked again, the horse was still beckoning. He shrugged, and followed, ignoring Puck’s chortle.

  Fess was standing by a patch of bare dirt, scratching at it with a hoof. Father Al watched the hoof, then felt a shiver run through him as he saw what the horse had drawn. There in the dirt, in neat block letters, lay the word “WHO?”

  Father Al looked up at the horse, facts adding themselves up in his head. “The High Warlock’s horse—and you came with him, from off-planet, didn’t you?”

  The horse stared at him. Why? Oh. He’d said, “off-planet.” Which marked him. “Yes, I’m from off-planet, too—from the Vatican, on Terra. And you…” Suddenly, the priest shot a punch at the horse’s chest.

  It went “bongggggg.”

  Father Al went, “Yowtch!” and nursed bruised knuckles.

  Puck went into hysterics, rolling on the ground.

  Father Al nodded. “Very convincing artificial horsehide, over a metal body. And you’ve a computer for a brain, haven’t you?” He stared at the horse.


  Slowly, Fess nodded.

  “Well.” Father Al stood straight, fists on his hips. “Nice to know the background, isn’t it? Now let me give you the full story.”

  He did, in modern English. Fess’s head snapped up at the name of Angus McAran; apparently he’d had some contact with the head time-spider before. Encouraged, Father Al kept the synopsis going through his meeting with Yorick, at mention of whose name, Fess gave a loud snort. Well, that had sort of been Father Al’s reaction, too.

  “So if McAran’s right,” Father Al wound up, “something’s going to happen to Rod Gallowglass, wherever he’s gone, that’s going to waken some great Power that’s been lying dormant in him all along. Whatever the nature of that power, it might tempt him toward evil—without his even realizing it. After all, some things that seem right at the moment—such as revenge—can really lead one, bit by bit, into spiritual corruption, and great evil.”

  The horse tossed its head, and began to scratch with its hoof. Father Al watched, holding his breath, and saw the words appear: POWER CORRUPTS. He felt relief tremble through him; he was getting through! “Yes, exactly. So you see, it might be to his advantage to have a clergyman handy. But more than a clergyman—I’m also an anthropologist, and my life’s study has been magic.”

  Fess’s head came up sharply.

  Father Al nodded. “Yes. I suppose you might call me a theoretical magician; I can’t work a single spell myself, but I know quite a bit about how a man with magical Power might do so. There’s a good chance I might be able to help him figure out how to use his new Power to bring himself and his family back here!”

  But Fess lowered his head and scratched in the dirt again: AND A GREATER CHANCE THAT YOU, TOO, WOULD BE LOST.

  Father Al thrust out his chin. “That is my concern. I know the risk, and I take it willingly. It’s worth it, if I can help this poor fellow and his family—and possibly avert a spiritual catastrophe. Have you considered the possible heresies that might arise, if a man should suddenly seem to have real magical powers?”