The Golden Swan

by Nancy Springer

  “Why have you hurt me?” it asked him.

  “What are you?” cried Eterlane, terribly confused. “And what do you have to do with me?”

  “My name is Eterlane,” said the dragon, “and I have been confined in the dark because you hate me. Why do you hate me?”

  Eterlane stood for a moment stunned. Then, “How can I hate one who bears my true-name?” he whispered. He walked up to the gray slimy beast and greeted it as a second self.

  “So you see,” I said, “all that was necessary was for him to accept.”

  The dragon was anger, of course, or any one of the hidden things that poison people’s lives. I could tell that the tale made Frain uncomfortable. He did not understand it and did not want to.

  “And the hag?” he inquired after looking at the sunrise for a while.

  “Eterlane kept his promise and wed her, and she turned fair and blooming. She was his kingdom, you see, or the womanform of it, and when he took the throne fortune flowered once again for his people. But no good could come to him or to them until he had faced the thing he feared.”

  Frain got up with a gesture of negation or disgust. “Let us go on,” he said.

  He slept only fitfully for some time thereafter, and I noticed that Dair seemed constantly on the alert, for what sort of trouble I was not sure. But there was no more need of swordsmanship.

  Chapter Five

  The hills gradually lowered and lowered, falling away in front of us. We walked over them through the shortening days and the solstice and the lengthening days, eastward, always eastward, following the path of the swimming sun. We began to grow aware of a sort of shine far in front of us, and as we drew nearer to it we thought it was a great inland sea. But how could that be, with water becoming harder and harder to find? The garths were fewer and farther apart, their wells more grudging, the land arid. Only dry and twisted prickly things grew on it. No longer could we find the crabapples and wild pears that had sustained us somewhat.

  We are going to have to live on lizards, said Dair. That is a desert ahead.

  So it was, a sea of gleaming sand with waves and ripples that slowly moved under the touch of the wind. Rocks stood irregularly scattered, carved into anvil shapes by the blowing sand. The warmthless winter sun pounded down, so harsh that the light hurt our eyes. Nothing seemed to live or move on that expanse except wind, sun shadow, and sand.

  And we did not have much food or water. And the call of my unseen Source led us straight across the waste.

  We camped on the last dry, rocky hill to consider.

  “You two could turn into eagles or something and fly right over it,” Frain said. “In fact, I have been wondering for some time why you struggle along as humans at all. You could just fly away.”

  It’s not so simple, grumbled Dair.

  “What?”

  “It’s not so simple,” I translated. “Anyway,” I added, “we would not want to leave you.”

  “That’s nice,” he said, a trifle sarcastically. “But one of you could turn bird and go scouting. Or you could be horses and let me ride you across. Why is it not so simple?” I tried to explain. It was always awkward talking to him because he understood only the crude human languages. “Magic cannot be used, really,” I said. “It comes as Trevyn’s dreams come, or rain—when it will. Usually only for sheerest fun or in time of greatest need.”

  “Don’t we need to get across there?” Frain asked. “Or at least, you say we do.”

  “We do.” I ignored his surliness. “But we are not dying, are we?” “Not yet.”

  “Listen,” I said. “When you had the power, the healing power, would you use it to cure a hangnail?”

  “No, of course not,” he retorted stiffly. “I used it only if someone was very ill or gravely hurt. And then it would shoot through me like lightning and leave me weak for days afterward.…” Frain suddenly looked sheepish. “I was not thinking,” he said. “Do you two bear something like that, some sort of—well, penalty?”

  “No,” I had to admit. “No, nothing like that. But the point is, you knew the power was not to be used for—oh, warts and things.”

  “And you say this is a wart we are sitting on now.” Frain grinned at Dair, and Dair barked out his gruff laugh. The two of them got along even better than usual when they were baiting me.

  “All right,” I snapped. “So what do we do? I am not about to force either of you to come onto that desert with me.”

  “That is where you are going?” asked Frain. “For myself, I have no choice.”

  “I cannot begin to comprehend this Source of yours.” He looked at me, sighed and shook his head, then shrugged. “Well, I am not about to force Dair to choose between us,” he said. “I will come with you.”

  Thank you, said Dair, a low and heartfelt murmur. For once Frain seemed to understand. He smiled at his friend. We ventured out onto the sand the next day, naive and undersupplied. At least it was wintertime, so we did not suffer from burning heat. But the footing was soft and the walking difficult. And we rationed ourselves severely; we suffered from hunger and thirst. We walked as steadily as we could, often walking half the night, to cross as much desert as we could before we ran out of water. Dair left the food and most of the water to Frain and me. He ate lizards and things, as he had said he would. I could not do that. Nor could I change to wolf form as readily as he did. I was more stodgily human than he. I kept scanning the glare of the horizon, hoping we would find nomads or gypsies who had learned how to live on this wasteland, or a sign of ending to it, or water somehow; anything.

  Within the week the day came, inexorably, when we were entirely out of water. At once our remaining food became a matter of indifference. Already our lips were cracked and our eyes burning from privation. No one had energy even to quarrel—a bad state of affairs. We stumbled along. The sand seemed to cling to our feet and drag us down, and I for one wanted to yield to it, merely to lie in it and rest, perhaps forever.

  “Time for a change,” Frain mumbled through thickened lips.

  I shook my head, not in negation but in despair. I could not begin to summon a dream or a formthought for change—I had not realized how much vitality was needed to make the change. I felt entrapped in my human self, mired and helpless.

  “Trust the goddess,” I told Frain, telling myself, really.

  We walked through most of that night and stumbled through the next day, hoping to find an end to the endless sand, but of course there was none. When nightfall came again we all by unspoken consent lay down where we were and went to sleep without making camp of any kind. Blessed sleep, it was our only flight. We slept deeply. And sometime in the formless darkness we were all startled awake by a tremendous crack of thunder, and a torrent of rain fell down on us.

  Rain! Dair sprang up and burst into a sort of barbaric dance that was rendered all the more savage by dark drum of thunder and flicker of lightning. Frain, quiet soul that he was, merely lay on his back, stretched himself luxuriously and opened his mouth wide to catch any drops that might happen to fall into it. I found our packs and spread out all our cooking things to catch the water.

  “Stop that,” I shouted at Dair, who was still dancing. “Sit down. If you knock anything over I’ll pound you.”

  He sat, and after a moment’s thought I got out our blankets and spread them open as well, and the clothes that Dair never wore, and I opened the packs themselves into crude cups—anything to catch the rain. The thunder subsided and the downpour became a steady, glorious shower. I let it soak my hair, put the dripping ends into my mouth and sucked them. Such a marvel, rain! Well, it was the season for it, after all. When the occasional desert rain came, it would be at this time of year. But I could not help feeling it was a special favor of the goddess meant for us. And given in a way worthy of her, too—no sunny offerings, hers, but always the thunder startle, the nighttime scare. I smiled. The darkness was turning to dawn, and the rain had turned to trickle and drop. By the first pale gold ray
s of light we could see the rainclouds scudding away westward.

  We set to work pouring caught rainwater into our flasks. There was not really very much, just enough for a few days or perhaps another thirsty week, but we were most grateful for it. We wrung the water out of our blankets into our cooking pans. It was rather dirty, but we drank it. Then we sucked the wet cloth. Then we packed up our things and walked away eastward, nearly merry. Once again we had no thought for food. Water was enough.

  Those were lovely days. All sorts of fragile and astounding blossoms burst out of the sand so fast that we could almost see them growing. They spread delicate petals, dropped their seeds and died in the time it took the sand to dry. Creatures came out too, from dens beneath rocks or far underground, toads and turtles and little rodents, to transact a lifetime’s business in the space of those few days. We feasted on turtle eggs. Dair ate stranger things than that. But within the week all was gone, and so was our water, or nearly so. And our clothes were dry and the sand was as dry and lifeless as before.

  There were mountains on the horizon to the north and east. We watched them warily, scarcely daring to mention them to each other at first, thinking they might be some sort of illusion, they shimmered so. But they grew closer as we walked. And by the time we were due for our second bout with despair, lips parched, tongues thickened and flasks empty, it became apparent that we were going to pass them by to the southward. One evening near sunset, when the slanting light defined every contour of them, Frain abruptly sat down and studied them intently. Perforce, Dair and I stood still and studied them as well.

  “It has to be,” Frain said softly. “I am very weary but not yet insane, and I say there could not be any other such mountains in the world. The feathery shapes of them, the golden stone and the silver aspens on the lower slopes—those are the Lorc Tutosel, the mountains of the night bird. On the other side of them lies Vale.” His voice was vibrant with yearning.

  Let us go see, said Dair excitedly.

  “No!” I said, too sharply. “Our way lies eastward.”

  “There is water at those mountains,” Frain stated dreamily. “Deep pools lie in the hollows of their roots. But that is the least of the tug.…” He got up. “Maeve, I begin to understand the strong call of your Source,” he said. “I see my homeland, and I must go to it. Will you come with me?”

  “I must go east,” I mumbled.

  “Come as far as the foothills, find water and then go east. Dair?” He turned to my son. Dair nodded emphatically.

  Mother, come, Dair urged me. Your death lies eastward unless you do.

  They were seductive, the pair of them. They beckoned and coaxed and pulled at me. And of course it was only common sense to make the detour. Though common sense had had little to do with this quest from the beginning.

  “All right,” I sighed. I shouldered my pack and we trudged off northward. How odd it felt to be going northward. I bent sideways, as Frain bent toward his withered arm to balance the good. But I bent because I was crossing a strong, unseen and soundless tide.

  We reached the mountains a few days later. We were wobbling, nearly crawling, from thirst and exhaustion. But everything was just as Frain had said it would be: deep in the fold of the first sheer slope we found our water. A small riot of tousled greenery surrounded the little rill. It seeped down a beard of moss into a small brown pool, then meandered away and disappeared within a dozen feet. To us it was a heavenly fountain, a vision of delight. We all drank deeply, then lay down where we were and slept.

  In the morning we awoke to clamorous birdsong. Birds wintered in these southern woods, it seemed. The aspens all around were alive with birds, every kind and color of bird, including grouse. I had thought Frain was still asleep, but I saw his hand move stealthily to grasp a stone. In one swift motion he sat up and threw it with startling speed and force. A grouse fell, stunned and flapping, and he ran to secure it. Dair watched, wide-eyed.

  But—when has he grown able to gather game?

  “See how much good it does me to be home?” Frain brought us our breakfast, grinning.

  We ate the grouse and the mushrooms that grew around the pool and a few snails as well; we were ravenous. We foraged all day rather than traveling. In the next mountain hollow we found a larger pool with fish. We caught them in Dair’s unused shirt. They were tiny things, and we ate them bones and all, we were so starved. Dair changed to wolf form at the sight of them and ate them raw rather than waiting for us to cook them. At dusk I saw him digging for frogs with his paws. Later yet he went off to see if he could find us anything warmblooded.

  “We must turn eastward tomorrow,” I said reluctantly. I felt not nearly satisfied, my belly still rumbling, and these mountains seemed like paradise after the desert. Frain merely nodded.

  In the night the goddess sent rain—now that we no longer needed it, as might be expected of her. Nor was it any gentle rain. Thunder so loud that I thought the mountains above us were splitting, the very rocks roaring, and rain sheeting down heavy as ice, and green and orange lightning—I properly cowered, a new experience for me.

  “Winter thunder, the world’s wonder,” Frain chanted, trying to ease the tension; the night felt as though the very air were stretched taut, thin skin on the drumhead of thunder. Then there sounded an eerie screech through the pitch darkness and pouring rain, and wild laughter veered through the sky. In the sudden silence that followed shriek and thunder I heard Frain’s sharp intake of breath.

  “The Luoni are out,” he said.

  “The Luoni?” I inquired weakly, still cowering.

  “The—they are great, ugly birds with the heads of starved women. They live on the crags. They will not harm the living, they only look at you with eyes like—like fate, but they harry the dead. And they smell their game tonight.”

  We sat up all night in unspoken fear. The next morning the sun came up sullenly, a clot of dried blood. Frain looked up at the mountaintops, tired, half fearful but keen-eyed.

  “I just have to go up,” he said.

  “I must go east,” I protested. “I sense the wrath of the goddess already. Make your decision, Frain, whether you are going with me.”

  “How can I decide until I know where I stand? Look.” He pointed toward a notch in the towering peaks. “There is a pass. From it I will be able to look beyond, to see if it is truly Vale there, and you will be able to scan your way eastward. It will only take a few days to get there, and then I will make my decision. All right?”

  “All right,” I muttered, though I knew he was leading me a dance. I could bear to part from him, if need be, but I could not bear to part from him churlishly.

  We climbed up through the aspens and the rock that lay among the aspens. Frain was in a state of suppressed excitement, color riding high in his cheekbones, his brown eyes sparkling. The thought of a look at his home after all the years had blotted out all other considerations for him, all fear and caution. He climbed tirelessly, sometimes surging far ahead of Dair and me. If he had had two good arms I think he could have left us behind altogether. As it was, he set a hard pace, and by evening we had reached the heather above the treeline. We could look back over the desert we had traversed. In fact, we sat and looked in fascination tinged with terror. For the sun was going down flanked by ominous dogs.

  I have never seen that before, said Dair.

  “Nor have I,” I mumbled.

  “I have heard of it,” Frain said in hushed tones. “The sun is called Aftalun in my country; he is a great golden immortal, first Sacred King and first to die, he who wed Adalis. He gave man fire and metal and cattle and staghounds. Dogs.”

  The sky was naked of clouds, glazed and glaring with orange sunlight. The sun dogs were squat, off-colored ruddy flares to either side of the main orb.

  A rumble sounded in the darkening sky.

  “Let us see if we can get some sleep,” sighed Frain.

  But we did not sleep, not with the whistlings and cracklings and weird shout
ings in the sky. A ball of fire leaped over the mountaintops like a giant hound, and there was blood on the hazy moon. I huddled under my blanket, watching, and even Dair stayed close to our small fire. A blazing streak of light—had that been a comet?

  “Comets fly when great men die,” said Frain softly, fear in his voice. He was thinking, I believe, of Tirell.

  Before dawn had well broken he urged us to start again up the mountainside.

  “You are leading us into peril,” I argued. “Can you not sense it?”

  “I sense omens, portents. I must find out what is happening.”

  “I sense the anger of the goddess,” I retorted. “It fills the air like lightning.”

  “One more day,” he said. “Please.” And I could not refuse him.

  Chapter Six

  It was dusk, the day between dog and wolf, when we topped the pass.

  “There,” Frain breathed, panting from the climb.

  I jumped and shuddered, not even looking at the distant landscape of what might have been Vale, for I was having my first confrontation with a Luona. A great, dirt-colored, dumpy-looking bird clung to the rock with yellowish claws, and drab hair streamed down around its wings from its human head—the head of an emaciated woman. It looked straight at me with its sunken eyes, facing me at shoulder height, not much more than an arm’s length away.

  “Laifrita thae,” I greeted it hoarsely. Any living thing deserves a greeting. It did not answer; it only stared at me, an appraising look that was very hard to bear. At my side, Dair also felt that stare and moved uneasily. But Frain ignored the ugly thing, gazing out over the fallow folds of land.

  “It is Vale,” he said in a hushed voice. “I can see the towers of Ky-Nule—just on the horizon, there.” He pointed the place out to us. “I know them well,” he assured us, as if our silence doubted him. “That is my father’s court city—Fabron, I mean. And look, there is a hunt.”