To all appearances the castle was now
completely solid, but lacking in the coloring of the city. No
rainbow lights played along its walls, climbed the towers, glowed
into the sky. It was gray white as if erected from native
stone.
Though the birds did not reappear there was movement. A portion
of the wall facing his hiding place descended slowly to form a
drawbridge, as if the castle were surrounded by a moat. Over that
rode a brightly clad party.
There was plainly a Herald as leader. Nick could recognize the
tabard at a glance. Behind him were four others, riding the
sky-mounting steeds, two by two. These wore tabards of the same cut
as their leader but of forest green. And only a single emblem,
which Nick could not distinguish at this distance, was on the
breast of each.
They rode easily at what seemed a slow amble but which covered
the ground with a deceptive speed so that they swiftly drew close
to Nick. He did not now try to conceal his presence, sure he was in
no danger. And he wanted to learn all he could of this company and
their visible-invisible castle.
But the Herald and his party had no interest in Nick. They rode
with their eyes forward, nor did they speak among themselves. There
was no expression on their faces. But as they approached, Nick saw
two had hair that brushed their shoulders and one of them was Rita.
Their riding partners were not quite like the Herald but might have
once been as human as the English girl.
Now that they were closer Nick could make out the designs
embroidered in gold and silver glitter on their tabards. Each was
the branch of a tree. The first male had what was unmistakably
oak-leaves and golden acorns carefully depicted. With him was Rita
with her apple branch. The next couple sported patterns Nick did
not know, both depicted in flowers of silver white.
Their passage was noiseless since the paws of their steeds made
no sound. And they might have been caught in a dream with their
sight fixed ahead.
Nick first thought to force a meeting. But their aloofness was
such as to awe him to remaining still and silent to watch them
go.
Just before they reached the woods their long-legged beasts
began to mount into the air. As if that provided a signal there
came wheeling from aloft a pair of birds, white winged, huge. Twice
these circled the riders, then forged ahead of them.
Nick watched them out of sight. Then he turned to look at the
castle. He had half-expected it to fade from sight. But it was more
solid-seeming in the twilight than before. Only the gap of the
drawbridge had disappeared.
Curiosity worked in him. Enough to draw him to that structure?
Nick hunkered down, his full attention on it. Was it real, or
wasn’t it? After his own experience he could not accept
anything here without proof. Should he put it to the proof?
“Nicholas!”
The sharp whisper broke the spell. His hand was on the hilt of
the dagger in his belt as his head jerked to the bush from which
the sound had come.
“Who is it?” Nick had the blade out, ready, though
never in his life had he used a weapon against another.
Cautiously a branch swung up and he saw the Vicar’s face
screened in the greenery. Nick pushed the weapon back with relief.
He slid around his own cover and in a minute was confronting both
Hadlett and Crocker.
“How did you find me?”
“Where have you been?”
The questions mingled together, Crocker’s the sharper,
with anger in it.
But the Vicar’s hand closed about Nick’s upper arm
in a reassuring squeeze.
“How fortunate, my boy. You are safe!”
“Now,” Nick returned. “If anyone can be safe
here.” It was growing darker with a speed he had not
expected. A glance upward showed a massing of clouds. And in the
distance was the lash of lightning fire, a distant rumble of
thunder.
“What happened?” Crocker repeated his demand
aggressively.
“I was caught—by some drifters—” Nick edited his
adventures. With the Vicar he would be more explicit, but his past
contacts with the pilot had not been such as to provoke
confidences. He had not accepted the Herald’s bargain, but he
was just as sure that he was not the same person he had been in his
own world. And if the English looked upon change as a threat and a
reason to outlaw one of their own, there was no need to hand
Crocker a good excuse to get rid of him.
There was a second deep growl of thunder, this time closer.
“It would be better to seek shelter,” Hadlett said.
“The storm is near.”
“Over there?” Crocker pointed to the castle. Though
it did not reflect light from its walls, there were sparks here and
there along the towers as if lamps hung behind windows.
Nick wondered if the others had seen the castle materializing
from thin air. Much as his curiosity was aroused, he was not drawn
to this as he had been to the city.
“We can, I believe, reach a hollow I know before the rain
comes.” Hadlett ignored Crocker’s question.
“Providing we start now.”
It was he, not the pilot, who led the way through the brush,
edging west along the line of the forest. But the first of the rain
hit with great drumming drops before they came to his hollow.
One of the giant trees had fallen long since and its upturned
root mass had in turn been overgrown with vegetation. The curtain
of this could be pulled aside to give on a sheltered place into
which the three could crowd, though they must rub shoulders to do
so.
A certain amount of seepage from the storm still reached them,
but they were under cover. And they had no more than settled in
before Crocker was back with his question.
“So you were caught—by whom?”
Nick obliged with a description of the band. Once or twice the
Vicar interrupted him with a desire that he expand some portion of
his story, namely when he spoke of the monk. But when Nick
described the monsters that had held the camp in siege, he felt
Crocker stir.
“Snake with a woman’s head? Thing with an owl head?
Do you expect us to—”
“Lamia—and Andras,” the Vicar said. “A what
and who?” Crocker sounded belligerent “A lamia—a snake
demon—well known in ancient church mythology. And
Andras—”
It was Nick’s turn to interrupt. “That was
what the monk called him—or at least it sounded like
that!”
“Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell. He teaches those he favors
to kill their enemies, masters and servants. In the army of the
damned he commands thirty legions.” It was as if the Vicar
read an official report.
“But you don’t believe in—” Again Crocker
began a protest
“I do not, nor you, Barry. But if one did believe in a
lamia come to crush one’s soul with its snake body, or in
Andras, Marquis of Hell, then what better place for such to appear
in threat?”
Nick caught the suggestion. “You mean—the nightmares one
believes in, those have existence here?”
“I have come to think so. And if that is true,
the opposite ought to exist—that the powers of good one holds to
will also make themselves manifest. But it is easier for a man to
accept evil as real than it is for him to believe in pure good.
That is the curse we carry with us to our undoing. To those poor
wretches this is Hell but they have made it for
themselves.”
“They were evil.” Nick used an expression that would
not have come easily to him in his own world. “You
didn’t see them. That woman—she was—well, you might call her
a she-devil. And the monk was a fanatic, he could burn heretics in
holy satisfaction. The others—in our time they would be
muggers—have their fun beating up people.”
“Padre.” Crocker might have been only half
listening, more interested in his own thoughts. “If they
thought they could see monsters and devils and did, do you mean we
could think up such things, too?”
“It is very possible. But we come from a different age.
Our devils are not born of the same superstition—they are not, as
you might say, personal. Our evil is impersonal, though it is not
the less for that. We no longer decry Satan and his works and
emissaries. Rather we have the sins of nations, of wars, of
industry, of fanatical causes. Impersonal devils, if you wish. We
speak of ‘they’ who are responsible for this wrong and
that. But ‘they’ seldom have a name, a body. Your monk
was certain his devils had personalities, names, status, so they
appeared to him in that fashion.
“We cannot summon our devils to plague us here because
they lack such identity. There is and always has been great evil in
our world, but its face and form changes with the centuries and it
is no longer personified for us.”
“What about Hitler?” Crocker challenged.
“Yes, in him our generation does have a devil. What of
yours, Nicholas?”
“No one man, no one cause. It follows the pattern you
spoke of, sir.”
“This is all very interesting,” Crocker cut in.
“But how did you get away from that crowd? Did one of the
devils cut you loose and then disappear in a puff of
smoke?”
Nick was uneasy. This was getting close to what he hesitated to
tell. One had to accept many improbabilities in this world, but
would these two accept what had happened?
“Well?” Crocker’s voice sharpened. “What
did happen next?”
He was boxed into telling the truth, which meant bringing Avalon
into it. And he had neglected to speak of his earlier confrontation
with the Herald. That omission might make him suspect.
“You are troubled, Nicholas.” The Vicar’s tone
was as soothing as Crocker’s was a source of irritation.
“Something has happened that you find difficult to
explain.”
Hadlett said that as if he knew it. And Nick believed that the
Vicar would be aware of any evasion or slighting of the truth. He
braced himself.
“It began earlier—” In a rush he told of his meeting
with Avalon, afraid if he hesitated longer his courage would
ebb.
“Repeat those names!” Hadlett’s command
brought him up short at a point which seemed to him to have little
significance. But he obeyed.
“He said, ‘Avalon, Tara, Broceliande,
Carnac.’ ”
“The great holy places of the Celtic world,” Hadlett
commented. “Places that are rumored even today to be psychic
centers of power. Though Avalon, of the four, has never been
completely identified. In legend it lay to the west. Heralds
bearing those names—yes, the proper pattern—”
“What pattern?” Crocker wanted to know.
“That of ancient heraldry. The heralds of Britain take
their titles from the royal dukedoms—such as York, Lancaster,
Richmond. The pursuivants derive theirs from the old royal badges.
And the Kings-of-Arms, who command all, are from the
provinces—Clarenceaux, Norroy, Ulster and the like. If Nicholas has
the correct information, there must be four heralds here, each
bearing the name of an ancient place of great power in our own
world—perhaps once an entranceway to this. Tara lies in Ireland,
Carnac and Broceliande in Brittany—but all were of Celtic heritage.
And it is from the Celtic beliefs that much of our legendary
material about the People of the Hills and their ways have come. I
wonder who is King-of-Arms here?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with
us!” Crocker protested. “We all know what the Herald is
and what he can do to anyone foolish enough to listen to him. You
seem to have listened for quite a while, Shaw. What did he offer
you—enough to make it interesting?”
Nick curbed his temper. He had expected the suspicion Crocker
voiced.
“He offered me,” he said deliberately, “a
golden apple and the safety of this world. He foretold the coming
of great danger; this has overrun the land periodically before, and
is beginning such an attack again. According to him only those who
accept Avalon will have any protection then.”
“A golden apple,” Hadlett mused. “Yes, once
more symbolic.”
“And deadly! Remember that, Padre—deadly!”
“Yes.” But there was an odd note in the
Vicar’s voice.
“So you met this Avalon—then what happened? Did your
men-at-arms grab him also?” Crocker brought Nick back to his
story.
“They tried to, or to kill him—the monk did.” He
told of the fruitless assault with the cross-pole and the
Herald’s disappearance.
“So that was when they grabbed you. Now suppose you
explain how you got away.”
Nick went on to the sound that had been a torment and the
disappearance of the drifters, the fact that he was left behind. He
did not enlarge on his own fears, but continued with the return of
the Herald, the scene with the horse and mule. Then, trying to pick
those words that would carry the most emphasis, he told the rest of
it.
They did not interrupt again but heard him out through his
account of the rest of his wanderings until he had seen the castle
materialize from the air and the emergence of the Herald and his
four attendants.
It was then that the Vicar did question him, not as he had
expected, concerning the actions he had been engaged in, or had
witnessed, but about the designs embroidered on the green tabards
of those who had accompanied Avalon.
“Oak and apple, and two with white or silver
flowers,” Hadlett repeated. “Oak and apple—those are
very ancient symbols, ones of power. The other two—I wonder—But I
would have to see them. Thorn? Elder? It is amazing—the old, old
beliefs—”
“I find it amazing,” Crocker said deliberately,
“that you are still here, Shaw. You took the apple,
didn’t you?”
Nick had expected this accusation. But how could he prove it
false?
“Do I show signs of the changes you mentioned, sir?”
he asked the Vicar, not answering Crocker.
“Changes—what changes?” Hadlett asked absently.
“The changes supposed to occur in those who take the
Herald’s offer. I didn’t. Do you want me to swear to
that? Or have you some way of getting your proof? You have had more
experience with this than I have. What happened to me back
there—when I escaped—I cannot explain. The Herald told me about
freedom, I just tried to use what I thought he meant. It worked,
but I can’t tell you how or why.
But—I—did—not—take—the—apple—” He spaced the words of that
last sentence well apart, repeated them with all the emphasis he
could summon. Perhaps Crocker might not accept that, but he hoped
Hadlett would.
“The changes,” the Vicar repeated again. “Ah,
yes, you refer to our former conversation.”
To Nick he sounded irritatingly detached, as if this
was not a problem that troubled him. But Nick believed he must have
Hadlett on his side before he returned to the rest. Crocker’s
suspicions would, he was sure, be echoed by others there. Jean
would support the pilot in any allegation he made. And Nick had no
faith that Stroud would greet him warmly once Crocker had a chance
to speak. But that the Vicar carried weight with all he was well
aware. Get Hadlett to stand by him and he would have support to
depend upon.
What he could do then, Nick had no idea. He did believe that the
Herald spoke the truth when warning of danger ahead. His own
experience with the drifters and their monsters, real or
illusionary, as well as the threat of the saucer people, argued in
favor of investigating more closely Avalon and its advantages.
Safety, it seemed to Nick, was what they must seek. He had no faith
at all in their plan to head down river. They did not even have
weapons to match those of the medieval group that had captured him.
Slingshots against swords!
“I believe you, Nicholas.”
He almost started. That pause before Hadlett’s answer had
been so prolonged Nick had come to expect the worst.
“Also I believe that what you have learned during your
various encounters may be of future service to us all,” the
Vicar continued. “I think we shall have to make the best of
this shelter until morning, but the sooner we return to the cave
and discuss your findings, the better.”
Crocker muttered something in too low a whisper for Nick to
catch, even close wedged as they were. But he was sure that the
pilot was not in the least convinced. Nick was, however, cheered.
If he could depend upon the Vicar’s support he was assured of
a hearing.
Outside, the storm was impressive, with an armament of
lightning, deafening rolls of thunder, and a curtain of rain. They
were damp, but the main pelting of the downpour did not reach
them.
Nick wondered about the Herald and his followers, were they now
riding the sky through this natural fury? And the saucer people,
how did storms affect their flyers? The cave would be dry, and
certainly the city a good shelter. The city—
His old half-plan of using the Herald to win a way into the city
and learn its secrets without surrendering to the terms of Avalon—Could it be done? He was far from sure, but he longed to try.
And the terms of Avalon—The Herald had saved him in the forest,
not by any direct aid, but by stimulating him to save himself. Nick
thought about that feat of concentration, and his hand went once
more to his belt to finger the hilt of the dagger he had drawn to
his aid in such incredible fashion. If one could accomplish that by
concentrating—what else might one do?
Hadlett said that his late captors had produced their own
hellish monsters to harass them because they expected to see such.
Therefore your thoughts had reality beyond your own mind. Those had
expected Hell and its inhabitants, so that was what they had to
endure and fear. In mankind was the belief in evil stronger than
the belief in good, as the Vicar had also said?
If one concentrated just as strongly on believing in paradise
here, would that be true? And would it hold? Nick remembered the
intense weariness that had closed in on him after he had fought for
his freedom. The mind could demand too much from the body. To
sustain any illusion for a length of time might exhaust one
utterly.
The monsters, Nick decided now, must have been unconscious
projection on the part of the drifters. Perhaps, if you continued
to expect to see the same thing, you added reality to it, more
substance every time it materialized. Would it then sometime become
wholly real? That was both a startling and an unpleasant thought.
What he had seen in that night of horror must not obtain real life!
Real, unreal, good, evil—The little man he had encountered in the
berry patch, the visible-invisible castle, Avalon himself—real,
unreal? How did one ever know?
Nick longed to throw some of these questions at the Vicar. But
not with Crocker listening. He would only provide the pilot with
more evidence that he was a dangerously unstable person—someone
who, whether he had had treasonous dealings with Avalon or not, was
better exiled from their company.
Though the great fury of the storm ebbed, the rain continued to
fall. Nick and his companions, in spite of their cramped position,
dozed away the night until a watery, gray daylight drew them forth.
Crocker took the lead, saying little, guiding them on a roundabout
way, keeping out of the full embrace of the woods.
Nick wondered if the castle was still visible, but he had no
excuse to linger to see. He must remain prudently quiet on such
matters pertaining to the People until he was sure he was no longer
suspect. If Hadlett had time to think things over he might be
brought to consider invasion of the city—
Nick was not prepared to bring the women into any council,
though he knew that all three of the English party would have a
voice in any decision. To Nick, Margo’s influence on his
father had been a brutal shock. She had set up barriers one by one
so skillfully that it had been months before Nick was able to
realize what had happened. When he knew, it was too late to do
anything. Dad was gone, there was a stranger, friendly enough, but
still a stranger who spoke with his voice, wore his body—Just as
if Margo had manufactured an illusion to serve her purpose. That
stranger made an effort now and then. Nick could look back at this
moment and understand those advances, tentative and awkward as they
had been. But they had meant nothing, because Margo’s
illusion made them.
And losing Dad, Nick had sealed off those emotions that had once
been a part of him. Sure, he had gone out with girls, but none of
them had meant anything. There was always the memory of Margo, of
her maneuvering, her skill with Dad, to hold as a shield. Linda was
a part of the world in which Margo existed. She, too, was able
perhaps to twist someone into what she wanted instead of freely
accepting him for what he was.
So Nick wanted now to argue out any decision, not with the
women, but with the men whom he believed he could understand. And
perhaps in the end he would find more acceptance, he thought wryly,
from Jeremiah and Lung. Were animals more straightforward, less
devious than men?
They reached the cave as clouds were once more massing,
threatening a second downpour. Lady Diana manned the lookout.
“I see you found him. You don’t look too damaged to
me, young man.” Her voice was far from welcoming.
“Did you expect I might be?” Nick could not resist
countering. He had respect for her sturdy abilities, but he could
not honestly like her.
“The thought occurred to us, yes. Adrian, you are soaked.
You must have a hot drink, shed those shoes of yours at once.
Luckily Maude has just finished stitching up a new pair.
Linda,” she called down into the cave. “Come here,
girl. They’re back safe, and they have your boy!”
Nick stiffened. He was not Linda’s boy! What
claim had she made on him to these others? But when she did appear
in Lady Diana’s place, Lady Diana herself laying hands on the
Vicar to urge him on into shelter, Linda did not look directly at
Nick, nor did she speak to him.
He let Crocker pass him, wanting to say something in denial of
any claim she had advanced. That this was perhaps not the time or
place for that, Nick was uneasily aware, yet he was pressed to do
it.
“You’re not hurt?” Her voice was cool, he
might have been an acquaintance about whom she was inquiring for
politeness’ sake.
“No.” His wrists were still ridged and sore but one
could not claim those as real hurts.
“You were lucky,” she observed, still remote.
“I suppose so.” He might not be hurt, but he had
certainly brought back problems that might cause more trouble than
physical wounds.
“You know what they think.” A light nod of her head
clarified who “they” might be. “They believe that
you may have made a deal with this Herald. You sneaked out—without
telling anyone—after you were warned. And you seem to know
things—”
“Know things?”
“What you said about Jeremiah and Lung.”
“You told them that?” He had been right in not
trusting her.
“Naturally. When they started to wonder what had become of
you. Believe it or not, they were concerned. They are good
people.”
“You are trying to warn me, aren’t you?” he
asked.
“To let them alone! If you’ve made some deal, live
with it. Don’t involve them.”
“Thanks for the advice and the vote of confidence!”
Nick exploded and swung down into the entrance of the cave. But why
had he expected any other response? This was a typical Margo trick,
one he had met many times in the past. He had been put in the wrong
before his case had even been heard.
To all appearances the castle was now
completely solid, but lacking in the coloring of the city. No
rainbow lights played along its walls, climbed the towers, glowed
into the sky. It was gray white as if erected from native
stone.
Though the birds did not reappear there was movement. A portion
of the wall facing his hiding place descended slowly to form a
drawbridge, as if the castle were surrounded by a moat. Over that
rode a brightly clad party.
There was plainly a Herald as leader. Nick could recognize the
tabard at a glance. Behind him were four others, riding the
sky-mounting steeds, two by two. These wore tabards of the same cut
as their leader but of forest green. And only a single emblem,
which Nick could not distinguish at this distance, was on the
breast of each.
They rode easily at what seemed a slow amble but which covered
the ground with a deceptive speed so that they swiftly drew close
to Nick. He did not now try to conceal his presence, sure he was in
no danger. And he wanted to learn all he could of this company and
their visible-invisible castle.
But the Herald and his party had no interest in Nick. They rode
with their eyes forward, nor did they speak among themselves. There
was no expression on their faces. But as they approached, Nick saw
two had hair that brushed their shoulders and one of them was Rita.
Their riding partners were not quite like the Herald but might have
once been as human as the English girl.
Now that they were closer Nick could make out the designs
embroidered in gold and silver glitter on their tabards. Each was
the branch of a tree. The first male had what was unmistakably
oak-leaves and golden acorns carefully depicted. With him was Rita
with her apple branch. The next couple sported patterns Nick did
not know, both depicted in flowers of silver white.
Their passage was noiseless since the paws of their steeds made
no sound. And they might have been caught in a dream with their
sight fixed ahead.
Nick first thought to force a meeting. But their aloofness was
such as to awe him to remaining still and silent to watch them
go.
Just before they reached the woods their long-legged beasts
began to mount into the air. As if that provided a signal there
came wheeling from aloft a pair of birds, white winged, huge. Twice
these circled the riders, then forged ahead of them.
Nick watched them out of sight. Then he turned to look at the
castle. He had half-expected it to fade from sight. But it was more
solid-seeming in the twilight than before. Only the gap of the
drawbridge had disappeared.
Curiosity worked in him. Enough to draw him to that structure?
Nick hunkered down, his full attention on it. Was it real, or
wasn’t it? After his own experience he could not accept
anything here without proof. Should he put it to the proof?
“Nicholas!”
The sharp whisper broke the spell. His hand was on the hilt of
the dagger in his belt as his head jerked to the bush from which
the sound had come.
“Who is it?” Nick had the blade out, ready, though
never in his life had he used a weapon against another.
Cautiously a branch swung up and he saw the Vicar’s face
screened in the greenery. Nick pushed the weapon back with relief.
He slid around his own cover and in a minute was confronting both
Hadlett and Crocker.
“How did you find me?”
“Where have you been?”
The questions mingled together, Crocker’s the sharper,
with anger in it.
But the Vicar’s hand closed about Nick’s upper arm
in a reassuring squeeze.
“How fortunate, my boy. You are safe!”
“Now,” Nick returned. “If anyone can be safe
here.” It was growing darker with a speed he had not
expected. A glance upward showed a massing of clouds. And in the
distance was the lash of lightning fire, a distant rumble of
thunder.
“What happened?” Crocker repeated his demand
aggressively.
“I was caught—by some drifters—” Nick edited his
adventures. With the Vicar he would be more explicit, but his past
contacts with the pilot had not been such as to provoke
confidences. He had not accepted the Herald’s bargain, but he
was just as sure that he was not the same person he had been in his
own world. And if the English looked upon change as a threat and a
reason to outlaw one of their own, there was no need to hand
Crocker a good excuse to get rid of him.
There was a second deep growl of thunder, this time closer.
“It would be better to seek shelter,” Hadlett said.
“The storm is near.”
“Over there?” Crocker pointed to the castle. Though
it did not reflect light from its walls, there were sparks here and
there along the towers as if lamps hung behind windows.
Nick wondered if the others had seen the castle materializing
from thin air. Much as his curiosity was aroused, he was not drawn
to this as he had been to the city.
“We can, I believe, reach a hollow I know before the rain
comes.” Hadlett ignored Crocker’s question.
“Providing we start now.”
It was he, not the pilot, who led the way through the brush,
edging west along the line of the forest. But the first of the rain
hit with great drumming drops before they came to his hollow.
One of the giant trees had fallen long since and its upturned
root mass had in turn been overgrown with vegetation. The curtain
of this could be pulled aside to give on a sheltered place into
which the three could crowd, though they must rub shoulders to do
so.
A certain amount of seepage from the storm still reached them,
but they were under cover. And they had no more than settled in
before Crocker was back with his question.
“So you were caught—by whom?”
Nick obliged with a description of the band. Once or twice the
Vicar interrupted him with a desire that he expand some portion of
his story, namely when he spoke of the monk. But when Nick
described the monsters that had held the camp in siege, he felt
Crocker stir.
“Snake with a woman’s head? Thing with an owl head?
Do you expect us to—”
“Lamia—and Andras,” the Vicar said. “A what
and who?” Crocker sounded belligerent “A lamia—a snake
demon—well known in ancient church mythology. And
Andras—”
It was Nick’s turn to interrupt. “That was
what the monk called him—or at least it sounded like
that!”
“Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell. He teaches those he favors
to kill their enemies, masters and servants. In the army of the
damned he commands thirty legions.” It was as if the Vicar
read an official report.
“But you don’t believe in—” Again Crocker
began a protest
“I do not, nor you, Barry. But if one did believe in a
lamia come to crush one’s soul with its snake body, or in
Andras, Marquis of Hell, then what better place for such to appear
in threat?”
Nick caught the suggestion. “You mean—the nightmares one
believes in, those have existence here?”
“I have come to think so. And if that is true,
the opposite ought to exist—that the powers of good one holds to
will also make themselves manifest. But it is easier for a man to
accept evil as real than it is for him to believe in pure good.
That is the curse we carry with us to our undoing. To those poor
wretches this is Hell but they have made it for
themselves.”
“They were evil.” Nick used an expression that would
not have come easily to him in his own world. “You
didn’t see them. That woman—she was—well, you might call her
a she-devil. And the monk was a fanatic, he could burn heretics in
holy satisfaction. The others—in our time they would be
muggers—have their fun beating up people.”
“Padre.” Crocker might have been only half
listening, more interested in his own thoughts. “If they
thought they could see monsters and devils and did, do you mean we
could think up such things, too?”
“It is very possible. But we come from a different age.
Our devils are not born of the same superstition—they are not, as
you might say, personal. Our evil is impersonal, though it is not
the less for that. We no longer decry Satan and his works and
emissaries. Rather we have the sins of nations, of wars, of
industry, of fanatical causes. Impersonal devils, if you wish. We
speak of ‘they’ who are responsible for this wrong and
that. But ‘they’ seldom have a name, a body. Your monk
was certain his devils had personalities, names, status, so they
appeared to him in that fashion.
“We cannot summon our devils to plague us here because
they lack such identity. There is and always has been great evil in
our world, but its face and form changes with the centuries and it
is no longer personified for us.”
“What about Hitler?” Crocker challenged.
“Yes, in him our generation does have a devil. What of
yours, Nicholas?”
“No one man, no one cause. It follows the pattern you
spoke of, sir.”
“This is all very interesting,” Crocker cut in.
“But how did you get away from that crowd? Did one of the
devils cut you loose and then disappear in a puff of
smoke?”
Nick was uneasy. This was getting close to what he hesitated to
tell. One had to accept many improbabilities in this world, but
would these two accept what had happened?
“Well?” Crocker’s voice sharpened. “What
did happen next?”
He was boxed into telling the truth, which meant bringing Avalon
into it. And he had neglected to speak of his earlier confrontation
with the Herald. That omission might make him suspect.
“You are troubled, Nicholas.” The Vicar’s tone
was as soothing as Crocker’s was a source of irritation.
“Something has happened that you find difficult to
explain.”
Hadlett said that as if he knew it. And Nick believed that the
Vicar would be aware of any evasion or slighting of the truth. He
braced himself.
“It began earlier—” In a rush he told of his meeting
with Avalon, afraid if he hesitated longer his courage would
ebb.
“Repeat those names!” Hadlett’s command
brought him up short at a point which seemed to him to have little
significance. But he obeyed.
“He said, ‘Avalon, Tara, Broceliande,
Carnac.’ ”
“The great holy places of the Celtic world,” Hadlett
commented. “Places that are rumored even today to be psychic
centers of power. Though Avalon, of the four, has never been
completely identified. In legend it lay to the west. Heralds
bearing those names—yes, the proper pattern—”
“What pattern?” Crocker wanted to know.
“That of ancient heraldry. The heralds of Britain take
their titles from the royal dukedoms—such as York, Lancaster,
Richmond. The pursuivants derive theirs from the old royal badges.
And the Kings-of-Arms, who command all, are from the
provinces—Clarenceaux, Norroy, Ulster and the like. If Nicholas has
the correct information, there must be four heralds here, each
bearing the name of an ancient place of great power in our own
world—perhaps once an entranceway to this. Tara lies in Ireland,
Carnac and Broceliande in Brittany—but all were of Celtic heritage.
And it is from the Celtic beliefs that much of our legendary
material about the People of the Hills and their ways have come. I
wonder who is King-of-Arms here?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with
us!” Crocker protested. “We all know what the Herald is
and what he can do to anyone foolish enough to listen to him. You
seem to have listened for quite a while, Shaw. What did he offer
you—enough to make it interesting?”
Nick curbed his temper. He had expected the suspicion Crocker
voiced.
“He offered me,” he said deliberately, “a
golden apple and the safety of this world. He foretold the coming
of great danger; this has overrun the land periodically before, and
is beginning such an attack again. According to him only those who
accept Avalon will have any protection then.”
“A golden apple,” Hadlett mused. “Yes, once
more symbolic.”
“And deadly! Remember that, Padre—deadly!”
“Yes.” But there was an odd note in the
Vicar’s voice.
“So you met this Avalon—then what happened? Did your
men-at-arms grab him also?” Crocker brought Nick back to his
story.
“They tried to, or to kill him—the monk did.” He
told of the fruitless assault with the cross-pole and the
Herald’s disappearance.
“So that was when they grabbed you. Now suppose you
explain how you got away.”
Nick went on to the sound that had been a torment and the
disappearance of the drifters, the fact that he was left behind. He
did not enlarge on his own fears, but continued with the return of
the Herald, the scene with the horse and mule. Then, trying to pick
those words that would carry the most emphasis, he told the rest of
it.
They did not interrupt again but heard him out through his
account of the rest of his wanderings until he had seen the castle
materialize from the air and the emergence of the Herald and his
four attendants.
It was then that the Vicar did question him, not as he had
expected, concerning the actions he had been engaged in, or had
witnessed, but about the designs embroidered on the green tabards
of those who had accompanied Avalon.
“Oak and apple, and two with white or silver
flowers,” Hadlett repeated. “Oak and apple—those are
very ancient symbols, ones of power. The other two—I wonder—But I
would have to see them. Thorn? Elder? It is amazing—the old, old
beliefs—”
“I find it amazing,” Crocker said deliberately,
“that you are still here, Shaw. You took the apple,
didn’t you?”
Nick had expected this accusation. But how could he prove it
false?
“Do I show signs of the changes you mentioned, sir?”
he asked the Vicar, not answering Crocker.
“Changes—what changes?” Hadlett asked absently.
“The changes supposed to occur in those who take the
Herald’s offer. I didn’t. Do you want me to swear to
that? Or have you some way of getting your proof? You have had more
experience with this than I have. What happened to me back
there—when I escaped—I cannot explain. The Herald told me about
freedom, I just tried to use what I thought he meant. It worked,
but I can’t tell you how or why.
But—I—did—not—take—the—apple—” He spaced the words of that
last sentence well apart, repeated them with all the emphasis he
could summon. Perhaps Crocker might not accept that, but he hoped
Hadlett would.
“The changes,” the Vicar repeated again. “Ah,
yes, you refer to our former conversation.”
To Nick he sounded irritatingly detached, as if this
was not a problem that troubled him. But Nick believed he must have
Hadlett on his side before he returned to the rest. Crocker’s
suspicions would, he was sure, be echoed by others there. Jean
would support the pilot in any allegation he made. And Nick had no
faith that Stroud would greet him warmly once Crocker had a chance
to speak. But that the Vicar carried weight with all he was well
aware. Get Hadlett to stand by him and he would have support to
depend upon.
What he could do then, Nick had no idea. He did believe that the
Herald spoke the truth when warning of danger ahead. His own
experience with the drifters and their monsters, real or
illusionary, as well as the threat of the saucer people, argued in
favor of investigating more closely Avalon and its advantages.
Safety, it seemed to Nick, was what they must seek. He had no faith
at all in their plan to head down river. They did not even have
weapons to match those of the medieval group that had captured him.
Slingshots against swords!
“I believe you, Nicholas.”
He almost started. That pause before Hadlett’s answer had
been so prolonged Nick had come to expect the worst.
“Also I believe that what you have learned during your
various encounters may be of future service to us all,” the
Vicar continued. “I think we shall have to make the best of
this shelter until morning, but the sooner we return to the cave
and discuss your findings, the better.”
Crocker muttered something in too low a whisper for Nick to
catch, even close wedged as they were. But he was sure that the
pilot was not in the least convinced. Nick was, however, cheered.
If he could depend upon the Vicar’s support he was assured of
a hearing.
Outside, the storm was impressive, with an armament of
lightning, deafening rolls of thunder, and a curtain of rain. They
were damp, but the main pelting of the downpour did not reach
them.
Nick wondered about the Herald and his followers, were they now
riding the sky through this natural fury? And the saucer people,
how did storms affect their flyers? The cave would be dry, and
certainly the city a good shelter. The city—
His old half-plan of using the Herald to win a way into the city
and learn its secrets without surrendering to the terms of Avalon—Could it be done? He was far from sure, but he longed to try.
And the terms of Avalon—The Herald had saved him in the forest,
not by any direct aid, but by stimulating him to save himself. Nick
thought about that feat of concentration, and his hand went once
more to his belt to finger the hilt of the dagger he had drawn to
his aid in such incredible fashion. If one could accomplish that by
concentrating—what else might one do?
Hadlett said that his late captors had produced their own
hellish monsters to harass them because they expected to see such.
Therefore your thoughts had reality beyond your own mind. Those had
expected Hell and its inhabitants, so that was what they had to
endure and fear. In mankind was the belief in evil stronger than
the belief in good, as the Vicar had also said?
If one concentrated just as strongly on believing in paradise
here, would that be true? And would it hold? Nick remembered the
intense weariness that had closed in on him after he had fought for
his freedom. The mind could demand too much from the body. To
sustain any illusion for a length of time might exhaust one
utterly.
The monsters, Nick decided now, must have been unconscious
projection on the part of the drifters. Perhaps, if you continued
to expect to see the same thing, you added reality to it, more
substance every time it materialized. Would it then sometime become
wholly real? That was both a startling and an unpleasant thought.
What he had seen in that night of horror must not obtain real life!
Real, unreal, good, evil—The little man he had encountered in the
berry patch, the visible-invisible castle, Avalon himself—real,
unreal? How did one ever know?
Nick longed to throw some of these questions at the Vicar. But
not with Crocker listening. He would only provide the pilot with
more evidence that he was a dangerously unstable person—someone
who, whether he had had treasonous dealings with Avalon or not, was
better exiled from their company.
Though the great fury of the storm ebbed, the rain continued to
fall. Nick and his companions, in spite of their cramped position,
dozed away the night until a watery, gray daylight drew them forth.
Crocker took the lead, saying little, guiding them on a roundabout
way, keeping out of the full embrace of the woods.
Nick wondered if the castle was still visible, but he had no
excuse to linger to see. He must remain prudently quiet on such
matters pertaining to the People until he was sure he was no longer
suspect. If Hadlett had time to think things over he might be
brought to consider invasion of the city—
Nick was not prepared to bring the women into any council,
though he knew that all three of the English party would have a
voice in any decision. To Nick, Margo’s influence on his
father had been a brutal shock. She had set up barriers one by one
so skillfully that it had been months before Nick was able to
realize what had happened. When he knew, it was too late to do
anything. Dad was gone, there was a stranger, friendly enough, but
still a stranger who spoke with his voice, wore his body—Just as
if Margo had manufactured an illusion to serve her purpose. That
stranger made an effort now and then. Nick could look back at this
moment and understand those advances, tentative and awkward as they
had been. But they had meant nothing, because Margo’s
illusion made them.
And losing Dad, Nick had sealed off those emotions that had once
been a part of him. Sure, he had gone out with girls, but none of
them had meant anything. There was always the memory of Margo, of
her maneuvering, her skill with Dad, to hold as a shield. Linda was
a part of the world in which Margo existed. She, too, was able
perhaps to twist someone into what she wanted instead of freely
accepting him for what he was.
So Nick wanted now to argue out any decision, not with the
women, but with the men whom he believed he could understand. And
perhaps in the end he would find more acceptance, he thought wryly,
from Jeremiah and Lung. Were animals more straightforward, less
devious than men?
They reached the cave as clouds were once more massing,
threatening a second downpour. Lady Diana manned the lookout.
“I see you found him. You don’t look too damaged to
me, young man.” Her voice was far from welcoming.
“Did you expect I might be?” Nick could not resist
countering. He had respect for her sturdy abilities, but he could
not honestly like her.
“The thought occurred to us, yes. Adrian, you are soaked.
You must have a hot drink, shed those shoes of yours at once.
Luckily Maude has just finished stitching up a new pair.
Linda,” she called down into the cave. “Come here,
girl. They’re back safe, and they have your boy!”
Nick stiffened. He was not Linda’s boy! What
claim had she made on him to these others? But when she did appear
in Lady Diana’s place, Lady Diana herself laying hands on the
Vicar to urge him on into shelter, Linda did not look directly at
Nick, nor did she speak to him.
He let Crocker pass him, wanting to say something in denial of
any claim she had advanced. That this was perhaps not the time or
place for that, Nick was uneasily aware, yet he was pressed to do
it.
“You’re not hurt?” Her voice was cool, he
might have been an acquaintance about whom she was inquiring for
politeness’ sake.
“No.” His wrists were still ridged and sore but one
could not claim those as real hurts.
“You were lucky,” she observed, still remote.
“I suppose so.” He might not be hurt, but he had
certainly brought back problems that might cause more trouble than
physical wounds.
“You know what they think.” A light nod of her head
clarified who “they” might be. “They believe that
you may have made a deal with this Herald. You sneaked out—without
telling anyone—after you were warned. And you seem to know
things—”
“Know things?”
“What you said about Jeremiah and Lung.”
“You told them that?” He had been right in not
trusting her.
“Naturally. When they started to wonder what had become of
you. Believe it or not, they were concerned. They are good
people.”
“You are trying to warn me, aren’t you?” he
asked.
“To let them alone! If you’ve made some deal, live
with it. Don’t involve them.”
“Thanks for the advice and the vote of confidence!”
Nick exploded and swung down into the entrance of the cave. But why
had he expected any other response? This was a typical Margo trick,
one he had met many times in the past. He had been put in the wrong
before his case had even been heard.