A Wizard in a Feud

14

He reached out a restraining hand. “Wait a minute. You know that dream of fairies and elves I had?”

“The Old Ones? Aye.” Kerlew turned to him, puzzled. “What of them?”

“They told me that if ever I were in trouble, I could go to the Keepers of the Mounds for sanctuary. Do you think we’re in trouble?”

Kerlew glanced over his shoulder at the distant clamor. “I think you could say that, yes.”

“Then let’s throw ourselves on the mercy of the Keepers.” Gar started toward the cottage.

Kerlew stared after him as though he were crazy. Then he shrugged and followed.

Before Gar could knock, the door opened to reveal an old woman and old man, wrinkled faces creased with smiles, white hair straight and flowing (though most of the old man’s was in his beard) and a deep serenity in their eyes. “Welcome, travelers,” said the woman. “How come you to the Hollow Hill?”

“By great good fortune,” Gar told her, “and hard beset by a band of outlaws.”

The old man raised his head. “Yes, I hear their hounds.” Gar frowned. “Don’t you fear them?”

The old man turned his head from side to side, still smiling. “None dare to come here with ill will, for the fairies would lame them in an instant or the eyes lay them low with elf-shot.”

“If you need protection from them, you shall have it,” the old woman said, “if you do not fear the fairies.”

“Which you would be well advised to do,” the old man warned.

“You do not,” Kerlew pointed out.

“True.” The old couple exchanged a warm glance; then the woman turned to Kerlew and explained, “We fled our clans so that we might wed, but they tracked us down, even as they track you right now, and in our flight, we blundered upon this mound in the dead of night. We lay there gasping in each other’s arms, not fearing, for we thought that whatever harm the fairies might render could certainly be no worse than what our kin might do.”

“And the fairies spared you?” Kerlew asked, wide-eyed.

The old man nodded. “We did not even have to ask. They came out and knew us at sight for desperate lovers whose romance defied the hatred of our clans. When our kindred burst from the woods, they found us surrounded by a glowing cloud of fairies, who bade them touch us at their peril.”

“They halted then, and conferred,” the old woman said, “and told the fairies that we would be safe, so long as we never left this clearing. Thereupon the Old Ones declared us the Keepers of the Mound, and we dwelt with the old Keeper and cared for him in his age until he died, then lived here most happily…”

“Well, Joram, there have been arguments,” his wife reminded him.

“There have indeed, Maeve, and times when we chafed at our bondage and wished we could visit our kinfolk,” Joram admitted, “but it would have been death for me if her clan had found me, and shame for her.”

“No, we have been happy here far more often than not,” Maeve told Gar and Kerlew. “Seven babes have I borne…” Sadness touched her face. “…and three buried.” Then she brightened again. “But four did we rear to manhood and womanhood, and ever and anon they come back to stay awhile with us.”

“Where could they have gone?” Gar asked in surprise.

“To any clan who didn’t know theirs,” Kerlew told him, “ones many miles away.”

“Even so.” Maeve nodded. “My Brilla, she married Josh Farland, and Orlin, he wed Beryl Gonigle. Finn went to study with a Druid and came back a bard. He still studies, and will be a Druid himself one day.”

“Moira, though, has a heavy weird,” Joram said, frowning. “Aye, my Moira was touched by the goddesses,” Maeve sighed. “Myself, I scarcely believed in them, but she went past belief—she knew they were real. She had a vision of a man and woman who came to bring peace to all the clans—only the first vision of many—and has gone to tramp the roadways looking for them, preaching peace and forgiveness to all the clans, even to the outlaws.”

“I fear for her safety,” Joram said with a heavy frown, “but I cannot go to guard her—I am bound here by the hatred of our clans.”

“I had never known,” Kerlew said softly, almost in a whisper. “I had heard of the Keepers of the Mounds, but I never dreamt that they themselves sought sanctuary in these clearings.”

“If the rest are like to us, they are happy enough at it,” Maeve said with a smile. “So we herd our goats and tend our sheep, and see to it that the shrubs are pruned and the grass kept short for the fairy folk to dance upon, and wait for our Moira to find her true love and come back to take up our vigil.”

“Brigid grant she does!” Joram said fervently.

“For your sakes, I hope so,” Gar said, “hope so indeed. But surely the Wee Folk don’t really need human caretakers for their hills!”

“I suppose not,” Joram said, “but they do need someone to speak for them to the clansfolk now and again, and we New Folk have need of someone to keep good relations with the Old Ones, whether our kin know it or not.”

“I have heard they can drive a mortal mad,” Kerlew said, his voice low and shaking.

“They can indeed,” Maeve assured him, “though it takes a whole band of fairies to wrench at the mind of one single person. Naetheless, given time enough, they could drive us all mad, and therefore do our clans honor our sanctuary, so that someone may be near to convince fairies and elves alike that not all New Folk are villains.”

“A hard task that is, when we are so busy slaying one another,” Kerlew said darkly.

“Surely not all the Keepers are outcast lovers,” Gar said tentatively.

“They are not,” Maeve confirmed. “The Wee Folk tell us that, most are couples in their middle years, who have lost several of their children—some even all—to the constant battles that are ever brewing. When they can no longer endure it, they speak out against the feuds and are therefore cast out of their clans.”

“It sounds as though many clansfolk hate the fighting,” Gar said.

“Very many indeed.” Maeve nodded. “But few have the courage to speak up.”

Gar and Kerlew slept that night in the moon shadow of the mound, and perhaps it was the fairy folk who put the dreams into Gar’s head, or perhaps it was simply the talk with the Keepers, but Gar dreamt indeed, dreamt all night through, of aged and wrinkled faces, of younger faces slashed with the scars of war, of people of all ages whose bodies bore horrid wounds—and they spoke.

First came an old man, gaunt and grim, who swam out of the darkness behind Gar’s eyes and glared down at him, demanding, “Why do you sleep here when there is work for you to do?”

“Because I’ll work much better if I’m rested,” Gar answered reasonably, “but what work is this you speak of?”

“Peace!” the old man thundered. “My great-great-great-grand-children are still dying because of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s stupid mistake and more stupid pride! You have the ideas and the knowledge to stop the feuds—why do you lie here idle?”

“These things take time,” Gar temporized. “Besides, I don’t have the ideas and I’m not sure I have the knowledge.”

“You have both!” It was a young woman, a ragged, darkrimmed hole in her jacket over the heart, eyes blazing. “You know enough about us all and our clans, you know enough about the Wee Folk, and your own guardian will aid them! I never had children because this idiotic feud killed me too soon! Stop it and give a chance of life to what are left of my kin!”

She turned away, revealing the huge, horrible exit wound, and another face swam up in her place—an old man with a nutcracker chin and grim, accusing eye. “You’ve heard of the Druids, the Old Ones have pledged to aid you, and your own guardian spirit will work with them to aid your cause!”

“What guardian spirit?” Gar asked, frowning.

The ghost went on as though he hadn’t heard. “You know the feuds started because there was no law! You know the clans all honor some laws!”

“Yes, but not the ones that punish murderers,” Gar pointed out.

A fourth face swam near, a woman in middle years with a mole in the center of her forehead. Looking again, Gar could see it was a bullet hole. “You only need to find some sort of law they will all embrace!” she cried.

“What law could that be?”

She, too, didn’t seem to hear his question. “Make your law, then, and send the outlaws to bear word of it to all the clans!”

“The outlaws? They’ll be shot on sight! And who will enforce this law?”

“The Old Ones, as they have pledged to aid you-and it is they who shall protect your outlaw couriers!”

She started to turn away; Gar shuddered at the thought of seeing the exit wound, but a young man’s face swam up in place of hers, his eyes burning, a raw gash furrowing his cheek—fortunately, his chest wasn’t visible. “I never lived to see my baby born! From beyond the grave I watched him grow and saw him cut down in battle before he was twenty! How many more fatherless sons must there be before you will act?”

“But I don’t know enough yet—”

“See what will happen if you don’t!” The young man’s face swept aside, revealing a meadow surrounded by evergreens, morning mist rising from the long grass. Three clansfolk stepped out into it, warily, looking about them, rifles poised.

A volley of gunfire erupted from the trees ahead of them. They screamed and fell, blood thinning with the dew. Rifle fire blasted from the forest behind them; one or two people screamed from the far side of the meadow and rose into view, spinning about, hands clasped to their chests, and fell. “Murderers!” cried a voice from the far side. “You’ve slain our children!”

“Assassins! You’ve slain our young!” someone called nearby. “Retreat or be blasted!”

But the enemy had reloaded and another volley shattered the peace of the forest. The near clan answered it, and in minutes the meadow was filled with gun smoke. Clansfolk came charging through it, dimly seen, only to be slammed back by rifle fire from the near side. But the bullets were spent now, and clansfolk came charging out to batter at each other with rifle stocks. Here and there, reloaded rifles roared, one or two pistols lit the smoke with lurid flashes, men and women screamed, and dimly seen bodies fell as the smoke thickened, hiding all from Gar’s sight, muffling the gunshots and the screams, making them dwindle away.

“That’s what will happen if you do not act!” a chorus of ghostly voices called. “That’s what will happen again and again and again, thousands upon thousands of times!” With a shudder, Gar sat up.

He looked about him at the gray light of false dawn and realized he’d slept the night through, if you could call that sleep. On the other side of the campfire, Kerlew was sitting up, staring at Gar warily. “You cried out in your sleep.”

“Did I really?” Gar pushed himself to his feet. “Only a bad dream.” At least, he hoped it was only a dream. He shoved sticks into the coals and blew on them until flames licked up along the bark. “Let’s have a hot drink and a little food and be on our way.”

They ate, then thanked their hosts the Keepers and set out along a game trail.

“What did you dream?” Kerlew asked. “You don’t want to know,” Gar said.

“Perhaps not, but I think I must.” Kerlew paled perceptibly, but his chin firmed.

Gar gave him a speculative glance, then said, “As you wish. I dreamed of the ghosts of people who died in this feuding.” Kerlew paled further. “Of which clans?”

“Many,” Gar said, “and every single one of them told me to stop dawdling and start making peace, so that their descendants wouldn’t have to undergo the misery they had suffered.”

“A strong argument.”

“Not so strong as the wounds each bore, and the scene of battle they showed me, one of the many battles that would happen if I couldn’t stop the fighting.” He turned to frown at Kerlew. “How do you suppose they could guess what such a battle would be like?”

Kerlew shrugged. “Memory, I suppose. I don’t reckon things have changed much since our ancestors started shooting at one another.”

“Yes,” Gar said slowly. “A future battle would look much like a past one, wouldn’t it?” Unless someone invented a machine gun. He shuddered at the thought.

“Gunfire is gunfire,” Kerlew said. “But how do these ghosts expect you to stop the fighting?”

“Invent a law banning feuds, and have the outlaws carry word of it to all the clans.”

“They’d be shot dead in their tracks!”

“Not if the Old Ones protected them. At least, that’s what the ghosts said.”

Kerlew turned thoughtful, then nodded judiciously. “That’s so. All it would need would be one elf-shot at a man taking aim at a courier and he’d be left alone. Word would run through the clans like wildfire.” He turned back to Gar. “Your couriers would have to carry a white flag, of course.”

Gar stared at him. “You’re taking this seriously!”

“Why not? It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life—what I was cast out for speaking of. But who would punish a whole clan that broke your law?”

“Again, the Wee Folk—or so said your ancestors.”

“The clans might heed the Old Ones at that,” Kerlew said thoughtfully. “Surely they wouldn’t all drop dead at a fairy’s word, but if one after another died or went spastic, they’d mark what the Old Ones said.” He turned back to Gar, hope alight in his eyes. “What law would you make?”

“That,” Gar said, “is the flaw in the scheme. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Kerlew stared at him, the flame of hope guttering, but before it could turn to ashes, the game trail broke out into an actual road, and they saw a dozen clansfolk coming toward them.

“Outlaw!” the strangers cried, and rifles leveled at them, but one of the women cried, “Gar!” and ran to meet him. Staring, Gar saw Alea, and just had time to wonder if the Old Ones had been directing his steps before she threw her arms about him and pressed her head into his shoulder. “Thank Heavens we’ve met!”

“I don’t think it was Heaven who brought it about.” Gar smiled down at her. “But whoever it was, I’m very grateful to them.”

Alea stepped away from him, beaming up into his face. “I’ve so much to tell you!”

“Lady, is he to be trusted?” asked one of the older clansfolk. “With my life.” She spun to face them. “He’s a healer, too.” Kerlew looked up at him in surprise.

“More than that.” Moira stepped forward, a weird, distant look on her face. “This is the other I’ve foreseen, the second of the two who will knit up the wounds of war and bring peace to this poor, sad world.”

“Is he indeed!” cried Rowena.

“A peace-preacher? We can’t have that!” cried another. “Outlaw!” cried a third. “His clan has cast him out for weakening their wills to fight!”

But they spoke with too much force or too little, eyeing one another out of the corners of their eyes to make sure their protests were noticed. It didn’t take telepathy for Gar and Alea to realize that hope soared in most of their breasts when they heard Moira’s prophecy. Only a few of the younger ones spoke with the fire of zeal, and one of the older ones with the flaring of hatred.

“This is my companion, Kerlew,” Gar said, gesturing to the young man.

“A pleasure to meet you, Kerlew.” Alea turned back to beckon. “And this is my companion, Moira.”

A young, dark-haired woman came forward with a tentative smile, eyeing the two men warily.

Kerlew stared at her, and Gar was suddenly sure nothing else seemed to exist for the young man.

Moira frowned at him as though wondering if he’d lost his wits. Then her eyes widened and she stared even as he did. Alea smiled, amused. “I think they’ll get along.” She turned back to her escort. “Thank you so much for your protection, Rowena, but I’ll be safe enough now.”

“With only two men to guard you?” Rowena cried, scandalized. “And one of them an outlaw?”

“And the other not even carrying a rifle,” one of the younger men said, lip curling.

“He can do more without a rifle than most men can with one.” Alea smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“A man who can outfight a rifle barehanded?” The young man grinned. “This I’d like to see!”

“No you don’t,” Rowena barked. “Back into place, now!” She turned to Alea, uncertain. “Are you sure, Lady Healer?”

“I am, Rowena.” Alea rested a hand on Gar’s arm, smiling. “Thank you for bringing us here, but there’s no reason to take you away from your homestead any longer. May you have a good journey home.”

“If you say so,” Rowena said dubiously, then glared at Gar. “If any harm comes to her, lad, you’ll have three clans to answer to!”

“She’ll be as safe as though she were in a fortress,” Gar assured Rowena solemnly.

“All right, then, we’ll leave you with her.” Rowena turned to press Alea’s hand. “Long life to you, lady!”

“And to you, Lady Warrior.” Alea smiled. “And tell Achalla I wish her long life, and your clan prosperity.”

“I shall.” Rowena couldn’t help a smile. “Farewell, then.” They watched the clan out of sight. Then Alea spun to Gar. “Now! Tell me everything you’ve seen, face to face, for there’s so much you leave out of your thoughts!” Then she remembered their company and glanced to see if either Kerlew or Moira had heard—but they were still staring at one another, just beginning to move again. Alea smiled and drew Gar far enough away so that the others wouldn’t hear unless they stopped talking, which she didn’t expect. “Now!” She folded her legs, sitting down on the grass and tucking her skirts under her. “You’re looking like a man with a weird. What has happened to make you so?”

“Only dreams,” Gar said slowly, and began to tell her about the Old Ones, then about the Keepers and, finally, about his dream.

When he finished, Alea nodded soberly, thinking.

“It does make sense,” Gar admitted. “Since the feuds started when the law broke down, re-establishing law is the only chance of ending the feuds. The problem, of course, is to invent a law that the clans would all accept, when there is no law that binds them all.”

“Oh, there is,” Alea said slowly, “but they no longer respect it.”

“They will if it’s enforced by elves and fairies,” Gar said, frowning. “What sort of law is this?”