A Wizard in a Feud

13

Alea’s mind raced, seeking words of comfort, racking through what she’d read of Celtic mythology. “You’ve lived a good life, haven’t you, ma’am?”

Emily froze, staring at her; then her eyes lost focus, and Alea knew she was looking back into the past, to the parties and socials of her youth, to her beloved Whitman courting her, the births of her children, the years of long work and little rest caring for them, the fear of battle, the agony when she was wounded, the panic when Whitman took a bullet and lay so long near death, the joy at his recovery, the marriages of their children, the births of their grandchildren, then the agony and grief of Whitman’s death, leaving her heart frozen. Not long after, she’d felt completely swamped by her own Mother Cumber’s dying and passing the care of her brood on to Emily, who stood fast though she knew she couldn’t be strong enough, couldn’t be wise enough, but hang it, she had managed, had led wisely, and her children and grandchildren still lived, still prospered, and their love and care had finally thawed the frost around her heart …

Her eyes focused again on Alea’s; she gave a little nod. Yes. It was good.

“Well, then, you’ve nothing to fear from death.” Alea pressed her hand. “If your soul’s born again, it will be to an even better life than this—and if you cross the river and come to the Afterworld, you’ll find it a place of peace and love and plenty.”

Emily Cumber stared at her in disbelief. Could they be true? Could all those children’s tales be true?

“They’re tales for us all, not for children alone.” Alea patted her hand. “Remember Danu; remember Toutatis; remember the one god whom we see in a thousand forms. There’s peace there, and comfort—and Whitman waiting.”

Hope kindled in the old woman’s eyes.

By the door, her daughter watched in amazement.

Alea talked long then, telling her again the tales of her childhood, the myths of gods and goddesses in which she had ceased to believe. Now, though, at the brink of death, the gateway to the undiscovered country, she listened with almost desperate attention, eager for the words of hope that she had forgotten for so many years.

When Alea’s voice grew hoarse, Moira took up where she left off, until finally the old woman gestured her to silence, then beckoned to her daughter and cawed something incomprehensible. Achalla looked to Alea and the healer told her, “She bids you summon all the clan to her bedside now.”

Achalla stared at her mother a moment, then turned and hurried out of the room.

Alea and Moira sat by the old woman, one holding each hand, until her children and grandchildren began to file into the room. As it grew crowded, Alea relinquished Emily’s hand and stepped back into the shadows, Moira with her.

Emily Cumber didn’t speak, only raised her hands in blessing, eyes locking one by one with each of her brood. Then, finally, she beckoned weakly to her eldest daughter. Slowly, Achalla came to her bedside and knelt. Emily laid her hand on Achalla’s head and cawed to her brood in a tone of command. Alea spoke up from the shadows. “She says that Achalla shall be your grandmother now, all of you, and care for you in Emily Cumber’s place.”

Fear shone in Achalla’s eyes, fear of the awesome responsibility, and she clutched at Emily’s hand. “Don’t leave us, Gram! We’re lost without you! I’m lost!”

But Emily only shook her head an inch to each side, smiling with affection, fairly radiating love—and, so loving, her eyes dulled, and she died.

Regan led them out of the woods and gestured at a clearing. “Here’s home.”

Gar and Kerlew stared. The clearing had been widened by axe and saw, more than a hundred yards across; stumps stood all about it. The logs had been stacked to form cabins, chinked with mud and thatched with, brush. They stood in a circle around a broad swath of lawn where goats and sheep grazed. “This is no camp—this a village!” Kerlew blurted.

“A village it is, a hundred fifty men and women, some of them born and grown here, and thirty children—so all that stops us from being a clan is kinship.” Regan turned, her rifle leveled at Gar’s midriff. “But we’re marrying one another, and the children will be kin soon enough. We’re calling ourselves the Weald clan—it’s an old name for a big forest—and we don’t have much use for small bands.”

“Even less for loners.” Jase gave Kerlew a slap that skimmed the top of his head. Kerlew’s head snapped back; he turned to glare at the youth.

“Oh, you’d wish our Jase ill, would you?” said a young woman, and gave Kerlew another slap.

“What are you staring at, big man?” Regan reached up to backhand Gar across the cheek. “You’ll give us your wares now, and no trading about it!”

“Yeah!” said an older man. “You want respect? Here’s the respect a loner gets.” He slammed a kick at Gar’s shin.

Gar sidestepped, but the glancing blow connected enough to hurt. “What are you talking about? The clans honor peddlers! Nobody will hurt them because they need the goods we trade!”

“We’re an outlaw clan,” another middle-aged woman said, striding up to him. “We make our own rules.” She slammed a punch at Gar’s belly.

Gar blocked it without thinking. “What about hospitality? We’re your guests!”

“Guests, aye, but we didn’t say you wouldn’t have to pay for your food and lodging,” Regan sneered.

“Just hand us your pack—that will do for your fee,” a younger woman said, then turned on Kerlew. “Him, though, we’ll use for sport.”

“Which part of him do you want, cousin?” another young woman asked with a grin.

“Off with you!” Kerlew stepped back, but waved them away, too, glaring. “Or I’ll lay a satire on you!”

The whole band burst out laughing.

“Oh yes, let’s hear your satire, my lad,” an older woman wheezed, wiping her eyes. “It must be a good one; you’ve got us laughing before you begin!”

“Oh, I’m so afraid,” Jase sneered, and the others chorused agreement.

“Afraid you should be,” Kerlew said, his face grim, and began to chant,

The girls shouted with anger and pressed in.

Alarmed, Gar started reaching out with his mind for sticks and rifle stocks.

“Aria! Your face is changing!” one of the girls cried.

Arla looked at her and screamed. “Am I like you, Betsy? Oh, I hope not!”

“Why?” Betsy asked in panic. “What do I look like?”

“Your nose is growing into a hook and your jaw into a nut cracker!” Arla cried. “You’ve warts all over!”

Gar stared but could only see the pleasant features each girl had naturally. They, though, were obviously seeing something else.

“Give us back our faces, sorcerer!” a third girl screamed and lifted her rifle.

“Beware!” Gar cried. “He can’t lift the spell if he’s dead!”

“Curse you!” the girl cried, dropping her rifle, and went for Kerlew with her bare hands.

Kerlew was stunned but had enough presence of mind to duck and dodge, finding breath to cry,

Heads rocked all throughout the band; people cried out, hurt and angry. Several hopped on one foot.

“He’s doing it!” Regan cried in disbelief “He’s causing us the pain he speaks of!”

The whole band drew back in awe and fear. “Now, Kerlew! The woods!” Gar snapped. The two men whirled and dashed into the trees.

Behind them, the band came alive with one massed shout and crashed into the underbrush behind them.

Alea wept, quietly but openly and without shame, as the room slowly emptied. When only Achalla was left with a younger woman by her side—her own daughter, Alea guessed—she let Moira lead her from the room.

“There now, you did all you could,” the seer assured her in a soothing tone. “More than most would have been able to do, I’m sure.”

“But not enough!”

“More than enough,” Moira said, “and I’m sure all her kin will think so, too.”

“Her kin!” Alea looked up, their predicament suddenly breaking in on her grief. Eyes still reddened and teary, she said, “They’ll be outraged with me now. I was supposed to heal her, and there she lies dead!”

“Now, they’ll do no such thing,” Moira said with an edge of sternness to her voice. “You told them you might not be able to heal her, after all.”

“That’s so, but they expected it nonetheless.” Alea saw Achalla coming out of her grandmother’s bedroom and rose, bracing herself for the worst. She had some ability at telekinesis, after all—she could make hot coals fly from the fireplace, let the rifles’ hammers fall, distract them in a dozen ways while she and Moira fled to the door, where her staff stood against the jamb, then out.

First, though, she had to confront Achalla. She blotted her eyes on her sleeve, then squared her shoulders and stood, braced, as the room quieted about them and Achalla advanced on her slowly.

Five feet from her, the new Grandmother of the Cumber clan stopped and inclined her head. “Great thanks we must give you, Lady Healer, and you, Lady Seer, for the consolation you have given our Grandmother in her last hour.”

Alea stood staring, dumbfounded.

“We are glad to have done what little we can,” Moira answered.

“Yes … yes, of course,” Alea said, then burst out, “but it was so little!”

“Not little at all.” Achalla answered with a melancholy smile. “She was in terror of death till you came. You gave her courage and a sweet passage, lady. And of no smaller moment, you gave her the tranquility to appoint her successor.” The new Grandmother shuddered. “Though I don’t know if I’m equal to the task.”

“Neither was she, when it came upon her,” Alea said without thinking.

Achalla frowned, wondering how Alea could know that, but she was distracted by voices on every side crying,

“Indeed you can, Achalla!”

“Of course you can, my dear!”

“Hail Grandmother Achalla Cumber!”

“Well, I’ve only the one grandchild yet,” Achalla answered with a tremulous smile, “but your confidence warms me.”

“We’re all your grandchildren now!” a young man said stoutly.

“So speaks my son-in-law,” Achalla said with quiet pride, then turned back to Alea again. “See how well you have wrought, lady! This clan shall continue and prosper now, for in her death, Grandmother has made us all one, thanks to the strength you gave her.”

“Not me, but the goddesses.” The words seemed to come automatically, even from outside Alea.

“Even as you say.” Achalla bent her head again. “I could almost believe in them again, after seeing the magic they wrought in Gram.”

“Believe in them indeed,” Moira said, her voice low but carrying, “when dark hours come and your world seems to break apart around you, for then the gods and goddesses of our ancestors will make it whole again.”

Achalla turned to her with a slight frown and a longing to believe, but all she said was, “So may it be.”

She turned back to Alea. “Ask of us what you will, lady, and if it is within our power, you shall have it.”

Alea managed a weak smile. “A night’s lodging, and breakfast in the morning, then the escort Alan Cumber pledged in all your names, for you have given me the hope that I may still heal the sick.”

“I shall go with her!” a young man cried. “And I!” a young woman said eagerly. “And II”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“I claim the right to lead this escort,” Alan said gravely, “for it was I who promised it.”

“And so you shall,” Achalla told him. “Now, though, pour mead and break soul-cakes together, and say each what you remember most fondly of Grandmother Emily Cumber!”

Then the wake began and lasted far into the night. At least, Alea thought it did, she went to bed exhausted before more than an hour or two had passed.

Gar and Kerlew crashed through the underbrush, then broke through onto a carpet of brown needles beneath towering evergreens.

“Zigzag!” Gar called. “Run straight and you’re easier to hit!”

“Known that since I was five!” Kerlew snapped, and ran. They twisted back and forth between the trunks, horribly exposed. Any sharpshooter could have sighted them and had a clear field of fire, if he could have known which way they would zag next—and if he’d been near. But Gar reached out with his mind, twisting senses of orientation, and behind them voices called out to one another, shouting contradictory directions. “North! I hear them crashing about!”

“East! See where the brush is broken!”

“Footsteps! I see them clearly! Run west!”

“South! I hear them calling to each other!”

“Calling?” Kerlew gasped. “We’ve been … silent!”

“Not now … you’re … not!” Gar panted. “Run!”

They ran, in and out among the trunks. Finally the evergreens gave out and they blundered in among oaks and elms. Still they ran, hopping over low growth and crashing through bushes until a stream cut across their path.

“Rest!” Kerlew fell to his knees, gasping. “Streams are … boundaries!”

They collapsed, gasping, listening for sounds of pursuit but hearing none—though Gar, opening his mind for thoughts, could hear loud arguments about which way the peddlers had gone. He threw in a few more false clues to keep them arguing. “How could they … fail to find us?” Kerlew wheezed. “These are … their woods!”

“They didn’t expect us to run,” Gar said airily. He caught another breath and said, “They probably spent … long enough screaming in shock… at your satire … that they couldn’t tell … where we’d gone.”

Kerlew frowned. “I’ve never seen satires really hurt people before. Not right away, anyway.”

“Not right away?” Gar gave him a keen glance. “When did they work?”

“Within a week—at least, it would start that quickly. Just bad luck, tripping over things, missing a shot, that sort of trouble.” Gar nodded. “The satire convinced them they’d have bad luck, so their minds made them have accidents. How often have you laid a satire before, Kerlew?”

“Only the once,” Kerlew said, “against Grandpa, when he cast me out of my clan, but I couldn’t stay to see what happened, of course. I didn’t think anything had.”

“Oh, really?” Gar asked with foreboding. “What punishment did you lay?”

“One that fit the crime. He’d a mind to cast me out for speaking for peace, so I said he’d never know peace of mind again.”

Gar thought of the old man constantly worried, constantly fearing something bad would happen, constantly tormented by memories of his past cruelties and fearing revenge, and shuddered. There was no question in his own mind—Kerlew was a powerful esper who didn’t know his own nature. He was a projective telepath who could make people think they saw things that weren’t real, could send their minds into turmoil, and probably make their subconscious minds cause them to trip over their own feet or—worse for these people—jerk the rifle a little whenever they pulled the trigger so they’d begin to miss every shot. He turned to Kerlew. “We’re away and safe. Maybe you could give the girls back their beauty.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Kerlew said doubtfully. He thought a moment, then chanted,

“They’ll see themselves as they really are now?” Gar asked. Kerlew nodded. “If my words have any real power, they will.”

“You didn’t tell me you could make verses that would shame and hurt people.”

“The shame I knew about,” Kerlew muttered. “The hurt, I didn’t.” He shivered. “I never dreamed a satire could really do anything but embarrass!”

“Perhaps you never spoke it with such emotion before,” Gar suggested. “You might want to think about forgiving your grandfather.”

“Him? Never!” Kerlew’s face hardened. “The pain he’s cost by his ridiculing and raging, the dear ones he’s cast out—if my words hurt him at all, it was too little.”

Gar decided it was too early to tell the boy that his grudge really hurt himself more than his grandfather, that it kept him tied to the events that had caused him so much pain and waked the fear and humiliation again and again whenever he thought of them. If Kerlew could ever summon the courage to face the damage that trauma had done, grieve for it, then accept himself in spite of it, there would come a time when he would be able to forgive and cut himself free of the pain—but not yet, it seemed, not yet.

Suddenly a distant yelping broke out. Kerlew leaped to his feet. “The hounds! They haven’t given up! Cross that river, quickly!”

“Find a ford!” Gar snapped.

They turned upstream and jogged along, watching the depth of the water. The brush thickened. Gar was about to cast aside his pack and swim when they suddenly broke through some bushes and found themselves in serenity.

It was a ring of lawn sixty yards across with a huge mound in its center. Goats and sheep grazed the clearing and the slopes, demonstrating how the grass was kept so neatly trimmed. At the eastern edge stood a small cottage, stucco plastered over wattle and daub, beams showing in half-timbering, thatched with straw, and bordered by flowering bushes.

Kerlew froze and stared. “A Mound! We can’t stay here!”

“Why not?” Gar asked.

“Because fairies live inside it and there’s no telling what new mischief they’ll dream up for the man who intrudes on them! Quickly, Gar! Turn and go!”

He spun about, but the breeze shifted and blew the belling of the hounds more loudly to him. Kerlew froze.