There were monsters pacing on all fours, others
humanoid in shape. They leered, hissed, spat, called, menaced, only
to slip back into the shadows and let others come. So far none of
this hideous crew attacked the firelit party. But their very
appearance rasped the nerves, kept one tense. And it was plain that
the nerves of the party were already badly worn, perhaps by earlier
meetings with the same threat.
When something with a goat’s head but very human body,
save for a tail and hoofed feet, gamboled into the light, prancing
and beckoning to the men-at-arms, one of them threw up his head and
howled like a dog. The one who had captured Nick rounded on his
fellow and knocked him flat. The man lay whimpering on the ground.
Goathead snickered, leaping in the air and clapping his hoofs
together.
The monk thrust out with the cross-pole and Goathead uttered a
thin scream, staggered back as if in that lay dire threat. But
there shot up in his place another with a human body that glowed
with golden radiance, having white wings stirring from the shoulder
blades. Mounted on the broad shoulders was the head of an owl. Its
left hand lay loosely on the back of a wolf as large as a
horse.
“Andras!” The monk appeared to recognize this
apparition. “Demon!” Again he struck out with his
weapon.
But this time his attack was not so efficient, for the owl beak
in the feathered visage uttered a sound. The noise swelled higher
and deeper, filling the night, one’s head—Nick flinched from
the pain as that cry went on and on.
The agony grew worse, until he was aware of nothing save that.
And he must have been close to losing consciousness when, he saw,
dimly, that those between the fires had dropped their weapons, even
the monk his cross-pole. They were holding their hands to their
ears, their faces betraying their torment, and they tottered to
their feet and staggered forward.
Not to meet the owl-headed one, for he was gone. No, they
wavered and stumbled into the bushes, drawn by some force they
could not withstand. Men-at-arms; the woman, stumbling in her long,
dragging skirt; last of all, the monk, his face a tormented mask
wavering out into the haunted dark. Nick felt the force, too, and
struggled against his bonds, the cords cutting deep into his flesh
as he sought to obey the command of that screech.
He fought desperately. There was no respite from the pain unless
he obeyed that summons—he must go! Yet he could not. And at last he
slumped, exhausted, only the punishing cords keeping him on his
feet.
His captors had disappeared. The bony horse and the dejected
mule remained. And both animals were attempting to graze as if
nothing had happened. His own head was free of the pain, though he
could hear, fading away, that torturing sound.
What would be the fate of those answering it? Nick did not know.
But that any would return to free him, or kill him, he did not
believe. He was dazed from the assault upon his ears, but he began
to realize he was still trapped.
Bright in the firelight lay the daggers they had drawn for their
protection. But they were as far from his use as if they had been
in his own world.
It was then that he became aware of a sound overhead, and pushed
his head back against the rough bark, striving to find an angle
from which he could see what passed there. Was it a flying
monster?
He caught only a fleeting glimpse. But he was sure he had not
been mistaken. One of the saucers was swinging in the direction of
the fugitives.
Was that sound intended to drive or pull those sheltered here
into the open where they could be taken? Those monsters—the people
seemed able to identify them, he remembered the monk had named the
owl head—what had they to do with this? But such could be used to
disarm and break down the nerves of selected victims.
But if the saucer people made their capture they would learn
about him! Perhaps they already knew and believed him safely
immobilized. He had to get loose!
At that moment Nick feared the saucer people more than any
monster he had seen lurking here tonight. For the monsters could be
illusions, but the saucers were real.
Get free, but how? The daggers—He had no possible chance of
reaching those any more than he had of summoning Stroud, Crocker or
the Vicar. Or of seeing the Herald—The Herald!
Nick’s memory fastened on the picture of the Herald as he
had seen him from the cave entrance. The brilliant tabard seemed to
flicker before his eyes. Slowly his fear ebbed. The stench of evil
that had come with the dark was gone. What Nick now felt against
his sweating face was the clean breeze of the woods, with it a
pleasant scent.
But the saucer! Freedom before its crew could come here! He was
too spent now to struggle against the cords that only drew tighter
as he fought. His hands and feet were alarmingly numb.
The Herald—In spite of his need to think of a way of escape Nick
kept remembering—seeing Avalon. “Avalon!”
What had moved him to call that name? The horse nickered. It
flung up its head, called, was answered by a bray from the mule.
Both animals ceased to graze. They stood looking toward the tree
where Nick was bound.
Then—HE was there!
Another illusion? If so it was very solid-seeming.
“Avalon?” Nick made of that a question. Would the
Herald release him? Or, since Nick had not accepted the bargain,
would he be left to whatever fate the saucer people had in
mind?
“I am Avalon.” Nick could hear that. “Can
you—will you free me?” Nick came directly to the point. Let
the Herald say “yes” or “no” and get it
over with.
“Each man must free himself. Freedom is offered, the
choice is yours alone.”
“But—I can’t move—even to take that precious apple
of yours, if I want to!”
As before the Herald’s features were untouched by
expression. There was a glow about him that did not come from the
fires.
“There are three freedoms.” Avalon did not produce
the apple. “There is the freedom of body, there is the
freedom of mind, there is the freedom of spirit. A man must have
all three if he would be truly released from bondage.”
Nick’s anger rose. With time his enemy, he had no desire
to waste it on philosophical discussion. “That does not get
me free.”
“Freedom lies in yourself,” Avalon returned.
“Even as it is within all living things—”
He turned a fraction then, his level gaze moving from Nick to
the horse and mule. For a space as long as several deep breaths he
regarded the two animals. Then both of them moved their heads
vigorously, certainly with more alertness than the half-starved
beasts had displayed before.
They walked to the bushes and thrust their heads and necks into
the foliage, turning, twisting with obviously intelligent purpose.
Their motions snagged on branches the thongs about their necks that
were hung with metal bits. Now each lowered its head and jerked
back, so those cords were drawn off, left to swing there.
Freed they came directly to the Herald, lowering their heads
before him. He reached out a hand but did not quite touch their
halters. Those in turn fell away, giving them freedom from all man
had laid upon them.
Yet they still stood and gazed at the Herald and he back at
them, as if they communicated. At last the horse whinnied, the mule
brayed. Together they turned and trotted off into the night.
“If you can free them,” Nick said hotly, “you
can do that for me.”
“Freedom is yours, only you can provide it.”
That there was some purpose in what he said more than just the
desire to frustrate the captive, Nick now believed. The horse and
the mule had had to rid themselves of “cold iron” that
men had laid upon them. But all his struggles had only exhausted
him. He could not free himself—that was impossible.
“How?” he asked.
There was no answer.
“You told the animals!” Nick accused.
Still the Herald was silent.
Freedom that only he himself could provide? Perhaps because he
had not accepted Avalon’s offer the Herald could or would not
aid him more than in such oblique statements. Nick leaned his
weight against the tree and tried to think. Undoubtedly there was a
way. He did not believe that Avalon was tormenting him for some
obscure reason. And if there was a way he must have the will,
patience and intelligence to find it.
Futile struggles did not aid. He could not reach the daggers so
tantalizingly within sight but not within reach. So—what
remained?
Freedom of body he did not have. Freedom of mind, freedom of
spirit—could he use either? Telepathy—precognition—there were
powers of the mind—paranormal powers. But those were talents few
possessed and he was not one of them.
The daggers—within his sight—freedom of mind—
Avalon waited. There was nothing to be gained from him, Nick was
sure. What he had to do was wholly by his own will and strength.
The daggers—a use for them—
Nick stared with all the concentration he could summon at the
nearest blade, the slender one the woman had dropped.
Knife—cord—one meeting the other with freedom to follow.
Knife—cord—He must shut out of his mind all else but that
slender, shining blade, red with the light of the now dying fire,
the thought of the cord about him. Knife—cord—
Sweat trickled down Nick’s face. He felt strange, as if
part of him struggled to be free from his body. A part of him—like
a hand—reaching for freedom. If he could not move the knife with
his desire—what of his hand?
Nick changed tactics. A hand—an arm—free—reaching into the
firelight. His body obeyed his mind in some things, would it now?
Something was forming, thin, misty—touching the knife. So iron did
not prevent this! Nick concentrated. A hand, five fingers—fingers
and thumb to close about the haft. That grayish thing was
there—clasped about the hilt
There was the hand, but a hand must be joined to an arm or it
was useless. An arm—he set himself to visualize a wrist, an arm.
Once more there was the gathering of foggy material. It joined the
hand, yet it also reached back to him.
Now!
He had never in his life centered on any act the intense will he
now summoned. The long, long “arm” of mist began to
draw back toward him. He must hold it—he must!
Nick’s breath came in gasps. Back, draw back—he must bring
the knife!
The blade was out of the firelight now, trailing across the
ground in little jumps as if his energy ebbed and flowed. But it
was coming! Nick knew no triumph, only the need to hold and
draw.
Now the knife lay at his feet, misty hand, elongated arm
collapsed, faintly luminous, coiled like a slackened rope. Nick was
so tired—fatigue of a kind he had never before experienced hung
upon him like a black cloak. If he let it get to him he was
lost.
The knife must come up! The coiled substance thickened, loops
melted into a stouter, more visible column with the hand at the
top, the knife in it. Up! Nick’s whole force of being
centered to his desire.
By jerks the blade arose. Its point pricked his knee. He brought
it higher to the first twist of cord. Cut! He gave the
order—cut!
It moved slowly, too slowly. He almost panicked, and then firmed
his control. Slow it was, but it moved—
Cut!
Feebly the blade sawed back and forth across the tough hide. If
only the edge was sharp enough! Do not think of that—think of
nothing but the action—cut—cut—cut!
A loop of hide fell at his feet. The column of mist collapsed,
the dagger falling with it to the ground. Nick writhed furiously
with all the strength he had left. His bonds fell away and he
toppled over, to fall headlong, spent and breathless.
He turned his head to look for Avalon. But the Herald was gone.
Nick lay alone between the dying fires, one of the wooden crosses
standing in crooked silhouette between him and the limited light.
He was free of the tree, but his hands were still tied and his feet
numb, his body exhausted.
His hands—he must free his hands. There was the knife. Nick lay
watching it. Once more he tried to create the hand. But the power,
whatever power had worked in him to produce that, was gone. If he
would help himself now he must do it by physical means.
Weakly he rolled over, hunched along until he could feel the
blade. Wedge it somehow—but his hands were numb. Wedge it!
Scrabbling in the leaf mold he dug the haft with the weight of his
body into the ground. There was a stone, move that—Patiently he
worked until he thought the blade secure. Up and down, Nick moved
his wrists, not even sure the blade bit the cords.
He was not certain until his arms fell to his sides and the
torture of returning circulation began. Then he pulled himself up
onto his feet. He leaned against the tree that had been his place
of bondage. The knife on the ground—iron. Stiffly, steadying
himself with one swollen hand against the tree, Nick stooped to
pick it up. Though the effort of putting his fingers around the
hilt was almost too much, he managed to thrust the dagger into his
belt.
Once more the danger of attack gripped him. He used the tree as
a support, slipping around it, away from the fire. But his feet
stumbled, he felt as if he could not walk. The bushes—if he could
roll into, or under those—
Nick tottered forward. Ahead, only half to be seen in the gloom,
was a thicker growth. He went to his knees, then lower, pushing,
edging under that hope of shelter until he could fight no longer,
his last atom of energy expended.
It was not real sleep that overcame him then, rather an
exhaustion of body so great he could not lift his hand an inch from
where it lay beside him. He was held in a vise of extreme fatigue
but his mind was clear.
He could not yet understand what he had done. The mechanics of
it, yes. He had brought the knife and freed himself. But how had he
been able to accomplish that?
There were natural laws. He had been taught in his own world to
believe what he had just done was impossible. But here those laws
did not seem to hold. The Herald had spoken of three freedoms. This
night Nick had used one to achieve a second in a way he would have
sworn could not be done.
Nick closed his eyes. Do not think now—stop wondering,
speculating. Close off memory. He needed release, not to think,
concentrate, act—
A lulling, a slow healing—The evil that had been so thick was
gone. The earth under him hollowed a little to receive his aching
body, cradled him. Twigs and leaves brushed his upturned face,
their clean scent in his nostrils. He was one with the ground, the
bush—He was safe—secure—held—The sleep that came to him was
dreamless.
He did not waken all at once as when one is shaken out of
slumber by alarm. Recognition of reality was slow, gentle, sleep
leaving him bit by bit. He could hear faint twitterings,
rustlings—
Nick opened his eyes. There were leaves about him, very close
above him, the tips of some brushed his face gently. He began to
remember the how and why of his coming here. There was daylight
around.
His body ached, he was stiff and sore, and there were rings of
fire about his wrists, yet he felt wonderful, renewed, as if his
body’s hurts did not matter. And he was content not to stir
as yet.
This was not the feeling of peace and security that had existed
in the deserted farmhouse. It was alien, but it was friendly, as if
he had been allowed a step inside a door that gave upon a new and
different life.
Hunger and thirst awoke, flogging him into movement. Nick
crawled laboriously out from his refuge. His hands were still
puffed and the weals about his wrists raw. The stream must lie in
that direction.
On his feet he lurched forward; There were the burned out fires,
two of the daggers, the cross-pole, now sunbathed in the open. Nick
passed the rock where the woman had sat, fell on his knees beside
the water. Then he lay prone, to duck his face, lap at the
moisture, dangle his hands and wrists in the chill water that stung
his hurts. This roused him from his drowsy contentment.
By the strength of the sun he thought it must be close to
midday. Could he find his way back to the cave? And had they come
hunting him? Were the saucers out?
Gazing around Nick could see no evidence that the campsite had
been visited after its people had been drawn away. He gathered up
the other daggers, but left the cross-pole where it lay. Then he
turned slowly, trying to guess the direction from which he had
come, only to be baffled.
Trees would provide shelter from any hunting saucer, but woods
also had strange inhabitants. He could follow the stream as a
guide—but a guide to where? As far as he knew there was no such
body of water running near the cave. And he was hungry—
The thought of possible fish in the stream was the factor in
making his decision to travel along it. Though how he was going to
catch any water dweller he had no idea. However, a short distance
farther up he found berry bushes well loaded with fruit.
Birds whirred away at his coming, but settled again to their own
harvesting. Nick pulled greedy handfuls of the well-ripened globes
and stuffed his mouth, the dark juice staining his hands.
Blackberries, he decided, and a growth of them that was very heavy.
He rounded a bush, picking and eating avidly, and heard a snuffle.
Farther along in this wealth of good eating a large brown furred
shape was busy. Nick ducked back and away. The bear, if bear it
had been, was fully occupied. Nick would keep to this side
and let the woods dweller have that.
But in his sudden evasion he was startled by a sharp cry and
jumped back. Fronting him, anger and alarm made plain was—
Nick blinked as the creature flashed away, was gone behind a
tall clump of grass. He made no move to follow, he was not even
sure he wanted to see more of what had been there.
Only, to prove that he had seen it, there still lay before him a
basket. Nick reached down to pick it up. He could just get two
fingers through its handle and it was very beautifully woven of two
kinds of dried grass.
The berries that had fallen out of it Nick carefully returned.
In addition he added enough more to fill it. And he looked toward
the grass tuft as he set the basket back on the ground—in full
sight, he hoped, of its indignant owner.
“I am very sorry.” He kept his voice hardly above a
whisper, remembering the bear.
Then, resolutely not looking back to see whether the harvester
ventured out of hiding, Nick went on. His amazement had faded. The
Vicar had spoken of legends come true here. And there had always
been stories of the true “little people”—elves, gnomes,
dwarfs—but the latter were supposed to live underground and mine
for treasures, were they not?
Nick no longer doubted that he had seen a very small man, or a
creature of humanoid appearance, dressed in a mottled green brown
that would be camouflage in the forest. And surely that manikin was
no stranger than anything else he had sighted here.
Dwarfs, elves—Nick wished he knew more. One should have a good
founding in the old fairy lore before venturing into this world.
Was Hadlett right in his contention that the People had somehow
been able to go through the other way in the past, perhaps even
been exiled in Nick’s world, thus providing the seed from
which the fairy tales had grown? Some of the legendary ones had
been friendly, Nick remembered that. But there had been others—the
black witches, giants, ogres, dragons—
The berries no longer tasted so sweet. He left the patch behind
and forged ahead along the stream. But now he kept a sharp watch on
the ground before him, as well as on the bushes. What was spying on
him? Nick meant no harm, but would they understand that? And there
might be drifters wandering here, such a vicious company as he had
just escaped. Those would be enemies to the People he was certain,
and could the People in turn tell the difference between a drifter
of good will and one to be feared?
He hoped that they all had protection like the Herald’s.
His sympathy for the manikin and his kind was strong. The
Herald—Where had Avalon gone last night? And why had he left Nick?
Though he had given the American the advice that meant freedom, he
had left. Did Nick now have knowledge his own companions could use
in their defense?
Nick turned slowly, trying to sight something that he could use
as a guide. He wanted to get back to the cave, to tell his story.
And they must believe him! Surely, having faced all the
improbabilities current here, what he had to say would not seem a
complete impossibility.
He thought his way led left. And the woods seemed less dense in
that direction. If he struck through there—resolutely he moved
forward.
There were some more straggling berry bushes and he ate as he
went, snatching at the fruit. But under the trees the bushes
vanished and he hurried, trying to rid himself of the belief that
he was watched, almost expecting to have some forester with an
escort of outlandish animals confront him. But if Nick were paced
by unseen company, they were content to let him go. And he chanced
upon a path, marked here and there with deer prints, which ran in
the direction he wished. So, turning into that, he made better
time.
Nick came out on the edge of open country in midafternoon. He
hesitated there, searching the sky for any sign of a saucer. Birds
flew, a whole brilliant-colored flock of them, crying out as they
went. They were large and their wheeling, dipping flight formed a
loose circle out over the plain.
It was as if they were flying around and around some object.
Prudently Nick took cover and continued to watch. The sun was
bright but he could see nothing—
Or could he? Was something there, rising skyward like the towers
of the wondrous city? But it was of such transparency that it was
virtually invisible—The longer Nick watched the birds the more
convinced he was that this was so.
Then the flock, which had been circling, formed a line and
descended earthward, disappearing one by one as if winked out of
existence when it reached the point where Nick was sure something
did stand.
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. It was—it was becoming more
and more visible. Towers—like the city—but smaller, fewer of them.
Before his eyes they took on an opaque quality, gained substance.
What he now saw was a towered, walled structure resembling a
medieval castle.
There were monsters pacing on all fours, others
humanoid in shape. They leered, hissed, spat, called, menaced, only
to slip back into the shadows and let others come. So far none of
this hideous crew attacked the firelit party. But their very
appearance rasped the nerves, kept one tense. And it was plain that
the nerves of the party were already badly worn, perhaps by earlier
meetings with the same threat.
When something with a goat’s head but very human body,
save for a tail and hoofed feet, gamboled into the light, prancing
and beckoning to the men-at-arms, one of them threw up his head and
howled like a dog. The one who had captured Nick rounded on his
fellow and knocked him flat. The man lay whimpering on the ground.
Goathead snickered, leaping in the air and clapping his hoofs
together.
The monk thrust out with the cross-pole and Goathead uttered a
thin scream, staggered back as if in that lay dire threat. But
there shot up in his place another with a human body that glowed
with golden radiance, having white wings stirring from the shoulder
blades. Mounted on the broad shoulders was the head of an owl. Its
left hand lay loosely on the back of a wolf as large as a
horse.
“Andras!” The monk appeared to recognize this
apparition. “Demon!” Again he struck out with his
weapon.
But this time his attack was not so efficient, for the owl beak
in the feathered visage uttered a sound. The noise swelled higher
and deeper, filling the night, one’s head—Nick flinched from
the pain as that cry went on and on.
The agony grew worse, until he was aware of nothing save that.
And he must have been close to losing consciousness when, he saw,
dimly, that those between the fires had dropped their weapons, even
the monk his cross-pole. They were holding their hands to their
ears, their faces betraying their torment, and they tottered to
their feet and staggered forward.
Not to meet the owl-headed one, for he was gone. No, they
wavered and stumbled into the bushes, drawn by some force they
could not withstand. Men-at-arms; the woman, stumbling in her long,
dragging skirt; last of all, the monk, his face a tormented mask
wavering out into the haunted dark. Nick felt the force, too, and
struggled against his bonds, the cords cutting deep into his flesh
as he sought to obey the command of that screech.
He fought desperately. There was no respite from the pain unless
he obeyed that summons—he must go! Yet he could not. And at last he
slumped, exhausted, only the punishing cords keeping him on his
feet.
His captors had disappeared. The bony horse and the dejected
mule remained. And both animals were attempting to graze as if
nothing had happened. His own head was free of the pain, though he
could hear, fading away, that torturing sound.
What would be the fate of those answering it? Nick did not know.
But that any would return to free him, or kill him, he did not
believe. He was dazed from the assault upon his ears, but he began
to realize he was still trapped.
Bright in the firelight lay the daggers they had drawn for their
protection. But they were as far from his use as if they had been
in his own world.
It was then that he became aware of a sound overhead, and pushed
his head back against the rough bark, striving to find an angle
from which he could see what passed there. Was it a flying
monster?
He caught only a fleeting glimpse. But he was sure he had not
been mistaken. One of the saucers was swinging in the direction of
the fugitives.
Was that sound intended to drive or pull those sheltered here
into the open where they could be taken? Those monsters—the people
seemed able to identify them, he remembered the monk had named the
owl head—what had they to do with this? But such could be used to
disarm and break down the nerves of selected victims.
But if the saucer people made their capture they would learn
about him! Perhaps they already knew and believed him safely
immobilized. He had to get loose!
At that moment Nick feared the saucer people more than any
monster he had seen lurking here tonight. For the monsters could be
illusions, but the saucers were real.
Get free, but how? The daggers—He had no possible chance of
reaching those any more than he had of summoning Stroud, Crocker or
the Vicar. Or of seeing the Herald—The Herald!
Nick’s memory fastened on the picture of the Herald as he
had seen him from the cave entrance. The brilliant tabard seemed to
flicker before his eyes. Slowly his fear ebbed. The stench of evil
that had come with the dark was gone. What Nick now felt against
his sweating face was the clean breeze of the woods, with it a
pleasant scent.
But the saucer! Freedom before its crew could come here! He was
too spent now to struggle against the cords that only drew tighter
as he fought. His hands and feet were alarmingly numb.
The Herald—In spite of his need to think of a way of escape Nick
kept remembering—seeing Avalon. “Avalon!”
What had moved him to call that name? The horse nickered. It
flung up its head, called, was answered by a bray from the mule.
Both animals ceased to graze. They stood looking toward the tree
where Nick was bound.
Then—HE was there!
Another illusion? If so it was very solid-seeming.
“Avalon?” Nick made of that a question. Would the
Herald release him? Or, since Nick had not accepted the bargain,
would he be left to whatever fate the saucer people had in
mind?
“I am Avalon.” Nick could hear that. “Can
you—will you free me?” Nick came directly to the point. Let
the Herald say “yes” or “no” and get it
over with.
“Each man must free himself. Freedom is offered, the
choice is yours alone.”
“But—I can’t move—even to take that precious apple
of yours, if I want to!”
As before the Herald’s features were untouched by
expression. There was a glow about him that did not come from the
fires.
“There are three freedoms.” Avalon did not produce
the apple. “There is the freedom of body, there is the
freedom of mind, there is the freedom of spirit. A man must have
all three if he would be truly released from bondage.”
Nick’s anger rose. With time his enemy, he had no desire
to waste it on philosophical discussion. “That does not get
me free.”
“Freedom lies in yourself,” Avalon returned.
“Even as it is within all living things—”
He turned a fraction then, his level gaze moving from Nick to
the horse and mule. For a space as long as several deep breaths he
regarded the two animals. Then both of them moved their heads
vigorously, certainly with more alertness than the half-starved
beasts had displayed before.
They walked to the bushes and thrust their heads and necks into
the foliage, turning, twisting with obviously intelligent purpose.
Their motions snagged on branches the thongs about their necks that
were hung with metal bits. Now each lowered its head and jerked
back, so those cords were drawn off, left to swing there.
Freed they came directly to the Herald, lowering their heads
before him. He reached out a hand but did not quite touch their
halters. Those in turn fell away, giving them freedom from all man
had laid upon them.
Yet they still stood and gazed at the Herald and he back at
them, as if they communicated. At last the horse whinnied, the mule
brayed. Together they turned and trotted off into the night.
“If you can free them,” Nick said hotly, “you
can do that for me.”
“Freedom is yours, only you can provide it.”
That there was some purpose in what he said more than just the
desire to frustrate the captive, Nick now believed. The horse and
the mule had had to rid themselves of “cold iron” that
men had laid upon them. But all his struggles had only exhausted
him. He could not free himself—that was impossible.
“How?” he asked.
There was no answer.
“You told the animals!” Nick accused.
Still the Herald was silent.
Freedom that only he himself could provide? Perhaps because he
had not accepted Avalon’s offer the Herald could or would not
aid him more than in such oblique statements. Nick leaned his
weight against the tree and tried to think. Undoubtedly there was a
way. He did not believe that Avalon was tormenting him for some
obscure reason. And if there was a way he must have the will,
patience and intelligence to find it.
Futile struggles did not aid. He could not reach the daggers so
tantalizingly within sight but not within reach. So—what
remained?
Freedom of body he did not have. Freedom of mind, freedom of
spirit—could he use either? Telepathy—precognition—there were
powers of the mind—paranormal powers. But those were talents few
possessed and he was not one of them.
The daggers—within his sight—freedom of mind—
Avalon waited. There was nothing to be gained from him, Nick was
sure. What he had to do was wholly by his own will and strength.
The daggers—a use for them—
Nick stared with all the concentration he could summon at the
nearest blade, the slender one the woman had dropped.
Knife—cord—one meeting the other with freedom to follow.
Knife—cord—He must shut out of his mind all else but that
slender, shining blade, red with the light of the now dying fire,
the thought of the cord about him. Knife—cord—
Sweat trickled down Nick’s face. He felt strange, as if
part of him struggled to be free from his body. A part of him—like
a hand—reaching for freedom. If he could not move the knife with
his desire—what of his hand?
Nick changed tactics. A hand—an arm—free—reaching into the
firelight. His body obeyed his mind in some things, would it now?
Something was forming, thin, misty—touching the knife. So iron did
not prevent this! Nick concentrated. A hand, five fingers—fingers
and thumb to close about the haft. That grayish thing was
there—clasped about the hilt
There was the hand, but a hand must be joined to an arm or it
was useless. An arm—he set himself to visualize a wrist, an arm.
Once more there was the gathering of foggy material. It joined the
hand, yet it also reached back to him.
Now!
He had never in his life centered on any act the intense will he
now summoned. The long, long “arm” of mist began to
draw back toward him. He must hold it—he must!
Nick’s breath came in gasps. Back, draw back—he must bring
the knife!
The blade was out of the firelight now, trailing across the
ground in little jumps as if his energy ebbed and flowed. But it
was coming! Nick knew no triumph, only the need to hold and
draw.
Now the knife lay at his feet, misty hand, elongated arm
collapsed, faintly luminous, coiled like a slackened rope. Nick was
so tired—fatigue of a kind he had never before experienced hung
upon him like a black cloak. If he let it get to him he was
lost.
The knife must come up! The coiled substance thickened, loops
melted into a stouter, more visible column with the hand at the
top, the knife in it. Up! Nick’s whole force of being
centered to his desire.
By jerks the blade arose. Its point pricked his knee. He brought
it higher to the first twist of cord. Cut! He gave the
order—cut!
It moved slowly, too slowly. He almost panicked, and then firmed
his control. Slow it was, but it moved—
Cut!
Feebly the blade sawed back and forth across the tough hide. If
only the edge was sharp enough! Do not think of that—think of
nothing but the action—cut—cut—cut!
A loop of hide fell at his feet. The column of mist collapsed,
the dagger falling with it to the ground. Nick writhed furiously
with all the strength he had left. His bonds fell away and he
toppled over, to fall headlong, spent and breathless.
He turned his head to look for Avalon. But the Herald was gone.
Nick lay alone between the dying fires, one of the wooden crosses
standing in crooked silhouette between him and the limited light.
He was free of the tree, but his hands were still tied and his feet
numb, his body exhausted.
His hands—he must free his hands. There was the knife. Nick lay
watching it. Once more he tried to create the hand. But the power,
whatever power had worked in him to produce that, was gone. If he
would help himself now he must do it by physical means.
Weakly he rolled over, hunched along until he could feel the
blade. Wedge it somehow—but his hands were numb. Wedge it!
Scrabbling in the leaf mold he dug the haft with the weight of his
body into the ground. There was a stone, move that—Patiently he
worked until he thought the blade secure. Up and down, Nick moved
his wrists, not even sure the blade bit the cords.
He was not certain until his arms fell to his sides and the
torture of returning circulation began. Then he pulled himself up
onto his feet. He leaned against the tree that had been his place
of bondage. The knife on the ground—iron. Stiffly, steadying
himself with one swollen hand against the tree, Nick stooped to
pick it up. Though the effort of putting his fingers around the
hilt was almost too much, he managed to thrust the dagger into his
belt.
Once more the danger of attack gripped him. He used the tree as
a support, slipping around it, away from the fire. But his feet
stumbled, he felt as if he could not walk. The bushes—if he could
roll into, or under those—
Nick tottered forward. Ahead, only half to be seen in the gloom,
was a thicker growth. He went to his knees, then lower, pushing,
edging under that hope of shelter until he could fight no longer,
his last atom of energy expended.
It was not real sleep that overcame him then, rather an
exhaustion of body so great he could not lift his hand an inch from
where it lay beside him. He was held in a vise of extreme fatigue
but his mind was clear.
He could not yet understand what he had done. The mechanics of
it, yes. He had brought the knife and freed himself. But how had he
been able to accomplish that?
There were natural laws. He had been taught in his own world to
believe what he had just done was impossible. But here those laws
did not seem to hold. The Herald had spoken of three freedoms. This
night Nick had used one to achieve a second in a way he would have
sworn could not be done.
Nick closed his eyes. Do not think now—stop wondering,
speculating. Close off memory. He needed release, not to think,
concentrate, act—
A lulling, a slow healing—The evil that had been so thick was
gone. The earth under him hollowed a little to receive his aching
body, cradled him. Twigs and leaves brushed his upturned face,
their clean scent in his nostrils. He was one with the ground, the
bush—He was safe—secure—held—The sleep that came to him was
dreamless.
He did not waken all at once as when one is shaken out of
slumber by alarm. Recognition of reality was slow, gentle, sleep
leaving him bit by bit. He could hear faint twitterings,
rustlings—
Nick opened his eyes. There were leaves about him, very close
above him, the tips of some brushed his face gently. He began to
remember the how and why of his coming here. There was daylight
around.
His body ached, he was stiff and sore, and there were rings of
fire about his wrists, yet he felt wonderful, renewed, as if his
body’s hurts did not matter. And he was content not to stir
as yet.
This was not the feeling of peace and security that had existed
in the deserted farmhouse. It was alien, but it was friendly, as if
he had been allowed a step inside a door that gave upon a new and
different life.
Hunger and thirst awoke, flogging him into movement. Nick
crawled laboriously out from his refuge. His hands were still
puffed and the weals about his wrists raw. The stream must lie in
that direction.
On his feet he lurched forward; There were the burned out fires,
two of the daggers, the cross-pole, now sunbathed in the open. Nick
passed the rock where the woman had sat, fell on his knees beside
the water. Then he lay prone, to duck his face, lap at the
moisture, dangle his hands and wrists in the chill water that stung
his hurts. This roused him from his drowsy contentment.
By the strength of the sun he thought it must be close to
midday. Could he find his way back to the cave? And had they come
hunting him? Were the saucers out?
Gazing around Nick could see no evidence that the campsite had
been visited after its people had been drawn away. He gathered up
the other daggers, but left the cross-pole where it lay. Then he
turned slowly, trying to guess the direction from which he had
come, only to be baffled.
Trees would provide shelter from any hunting saucer, but woods
also had strange inhabitants. He could follow the stream as a
guide—but a guide to where? As far as he knew there was no such
body of water running near the cave. And he was hungry—
The thought of possible fish in the stream was the factor in
making his decision to travel along it. Though how he was going to
catch any water dweller he had no idea. However, a short distance
farther up he found berry bushes well loaded with fruit.
Birds whirred away at his coming, but settled again to their own
harvesting. Nick pulled greedy handfuls of the well-ripened globes
and stuffed his mouth, the dark juice staining his hands.
Blackberries, he decided, and a growth of them that was very heavy.
He rounded a bush, picking and eating avidly, and heard a snuffle.
Farther along in this wealth of good eating a large brown furred
shape was busy. Nick ducked back and away. The bear, if bear it
had been, was fully occupied. Nick would keep to this side
and let the woods dweller have that.
But in his sudden evasion he was startled by a sharp cry and
jumped back. Fronting him, anger and alarm made plain was—
Nick blinked as the creature flashed away, was gone behind a
tall clump of grass. He made no move to follow, he was not even
sure he wanted to see more of what had been there.
Only, to prove that he had seen it, there still lay before him a
basket. Nick reached down to pick it up. He could just get two
fingers through its handle and it was very beautifully woven of two
kinds of dried grass.
The berries that had fallen out of it Nick carefully returned.
In addition he added enough more to fill it. And he looked toward
the grass tuft as he set the basket back on the ground—in full
sight, he hoped, of its indignant owner.
“I am very sorry.” He kept his voice hardly above a
whisper, remembering the bear.
Then, resolutely not looking back to see whether the harvester
ventured out of hiding, Nick went on. His amazement had faded. The
Vicar had spoken of legends come true here. And there had always
been stories of the true “little people”—elves, gnomes,
dwarfs—but the latter were supposed to live underground and mine
for treasures, were they not?
Nick no longer doubted that he had seen a very small man, or a
creature of humanoid appearance, dressed in a mottled green brown
that would be camouflage in the forest. And surely that manikin was
no stranger than anything else he had sighted here.
Dwarfs, elves—Nick wished he knew more. One should have a good
founding in the old fairy lore before venturing into this world.
Was Hadlett right in his contention that the People had somehow
been able to go through the other way in the past, perhaps even
been exiled in Nick’s world, thus providing the seed from
which the fairy tales had grown? Some of the legendary ones had
been friendly, Nick remembered that. But there had been others—the
black witches, giants, ogres, dragons—
The berries no longer tasted so sweet. He left the patch behind
and forged ahead along the stream. But now he kept a sharp watch on
the ground before him, as well as on the bushes. What was spying on
him? Nick meant no harm, but would they understand that? And there
might be drifters wandering here, such a vicious company as he had
just escaped. Those would be enemies to the People he was certain,
and could the People in turn tell the difference between a drifter
of good will and one to be feared?
He hoped that they all had protection like the Herald’s.
His sympathy for the manikin and his kind was strong. The
Herald—Where had Avalon gone last night? And why had he left Nick?
Though he had given the American the advice that meant freedom, he
had left. Did Nick now have knowledge his own companions could use
in their defense?
Nick turned slowly, trying to sight something that he could use
as a guide. He wanted to get back to the cave, to tell his story.
And they must believe him! Surely, having faced all the
improbabilities current here, what he had to say would not seem a
complete impossibility.
He thought his way led left. And the woods seemed less dense in
that direction. If he struck through there—resolutely he moved
forward.
There were some more straggling berry bushes and he ate as he
went, snatching at the fruit. But under the trees the bushes
vanished and he hurried, trying to rid himself of the belief that
he was watched, almost expecting to have some forester with an
escort of outlandish animals confront him. But if Nick were paced
by unseen company, they were content to let him go. And he chanced
upon a path, marked here and there with deer prints, which ran in
the direction he wished. So, turning into that, he made better
time.
Nick came out on the edge of open country in midafternoon. He
hesitated there, searching the sky for any sign of a saucer. Birds
flew, a whole brilliant-colored flock of them, crying out as they
went. They were large and their wheeling, dipping flight formed a
loose circle out over the plain.
It was as if they were flying around and around some object.
Prudently Nick took cover and continued to watch. The sun was
bright but he could see nothing—
Or could he? Was something there, rising skyward like the towers
of the wondrous city? But it was of such transparency that it was
virtually invisible—The longer Nick watched the birds the more
convinced he was that this was so.
Then the flock, which had been circling, formed a line and
descended earthward, disappearing one by one as if winked out of
existence when it reached the point where Nick was sure something
did stand.
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. It was—it was becoming more
and more visible. Towers—like the city—but smaller, fewer of them.
Before his eyes they took on an opaque quality, gained substance.
What he now saw was a towered, walled structure resembling a
medieval castle.