A Wizard in Midgard

5

There. He could hear her thoughts, quite loudly and clearly—but only surface thoughts. Monster’s looking for me hurt me have to freeze so he won’t see me be ready to run if he does. Then a sudden undercurrent of doubt: Why’d he help me? But suspicion overwhelmed it in an instant: Wants me for himself.

She was watching from somewhere, absolutely still and watching him, trying not to breathe, ready to run at the slightest hint of pursuit—but under her tension, Magnus could feel an utter bone-weariness and a massive dejection, an impulse to just sit down and die.

He couldn’t let that happen, of course, and was absolutely determined not to give it a chance. He started walking again, went on another hundred feet, then stepped off the road. He could feel the sharpness of her burst of panic, but also the caution that went with it and held her frozen in place, terrified at the thought of making a sound or a movement that might attract his attention. Deliberately not looking in her direction, Magnus stopped in the center of a small clearing and surveyed it. Fifty feet of leaves and underbrush hid him from the road, but the open space was wide enough to light a fire safely. He nodded and started searching for rocks, picking up one in each hand and carrying them to the center of the clearing to build a fire ring.

When the ring was made and the plants and dead leaves cleared from it, he found the driest sticks he could and kindled a fire. All the while he was aware of the woman’s thoughts, wary and watchful, wondering what he was doing, testing his every movement for menace, trying to puzzle out whatever trap he was laying for her. She hadn’t yet thought of the trap called friendship, which could hold her more surely than any snare.

Magnus made a frame of green branches, notched one to make a pothook, took the little kettle out of his pack, filled it with water from his skin canteen, and hung it over the fire. Then he took out two tin mugs with wooden handles, crumbled tea leaves into each, and waited for the water to boil.

While he waited, he took out bread and cheese and slowly, carefully cut his slices and laid a thick slab of cheese on the bread. He ate slowly, too, savoring each morsel, and feeling the answering pang of hunger in the watching woman. He guessed she’d had very little to eat in the last few days.

The water boiled, and Gar poured some into each mug, then took out salt beef and dried vegetables to add to the water. He stirred it and waited, sipping first from the one mug, then the other. The fragrance of the tea rose into the morning, strange to the woman, but to judge by her thoughts, very enticing. Soon the aroma of the stew reached her, too, and the pang of hunger became a stab.

Now Gar caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. She was crouching behind a bush, peering through a gap in the leaves. Giving no sign that he’d seen her, Gar cut a thick slice of cheese and broke off some bread, then rose and went around the fire, put the wooden platter on a rock with a mug of sweetened tea beside it, and went back to his own place some ten feet away.

Alea had run as fast as she could, too frightened to consider whether the stranger was a friend or an enemy. She had nearly panicked again when she saw him coming her way, but the childhood fables of the wisdom of the rabbit had made her freeze where she hid. She had watched him, ready to bolt in an instant, and had felt great relief when he settled down to his campfire. But the sight of the bread and cheese had started hunger gnawing at her belly, reminding her that she’d eaten only handfuls of berries and a few raw roots since she’d finished the bread she’d taken when she ran away, three days before. Then the delicious scent of whatever it was in those cups had almost undone her, almost pushed her to go to him and beg a morsel—but fear held her in place. After all, it was a strange smell, and who knew what he had put in those cups? But she had watched him drink out of first the one, then the other, and had decided that whatever it was, it wouldn’t hurt her.

Also, the message was clear—Come share a cup with me, my fair!—and when she realized it meant he knew she was watching, she had almost run away. But her fear had begun to slacken, for she had never seen a slave-hunter who tried to entice rather than pursue. Curiosity roused as strongly as her hunger, and held her watching until the aroma of the stew made her weak at the knees. Now, though, the invitation was undeniable indeed—a plate of food and a mug of drink for her, far enough away to give her a head start, and with a fire between to slow him down. She didn’t trust him for a second, of course, but oh! How she needed a friend! Besides, he had chased away the hunters—and he was as tall as she, taller. Like her, he needed to fear the Midgarders, but wouldn’t be welcome among the giants.

Then, too, he was wearing slave clothes.

She made up her mind; food and companionship were worth the gamble. Clutching her staff, she moved slowly around the bush, rising a bit but still crouched, and prowled around his campsite toward the bread and cheese. He gave no sign of seeing her, didn’t look her way, even kept his eyes on his own plate, but somehow she knew he was aware of her every movement. Slowly, ready to bolt at the slightest threat, she came closer, then snatched the plate and retreated back among the leaves, eating while she watched him.

Even out of the corner of his eye, Gar saw her clearly, and was amazed at her tallness—well over six feet, when most of the women he had met in his life had been a foot shorter. He was also struck by the voluptuousness of her figure—she was perfectly proportioned, but on a larger scale than most women, and looking under the dirt and lines of fatigue on her face, Gar saw that her features, too, were perfectly proportioned, almost classical, like those of a Greek statue—but the haunted look, the shadows of fear and bitterness, kept her from being beautiful. Still, she made him catch his breath.

She finished the bread and cheese, and he still had not made a move in her direction, only raised his cup to drink, then poured the stew into two bowls. She came close enough to take the mug of tea and sip, holding her improvised staff at guard and ready to run. “Why did you save me back there?”

“I don’t like seeing men manhandling women,” Gar told her. “I don’t like seeing six against one, either. I’ve been on the receiving end too often. By the way, my name is Gar Pike.”

Either the double meaning of the name was lost on her, or she was in no mood to laugh. She stood frowning at him, but didn’t offer her own name. Instead, she asked, “How did you know I’m not a murderer?”

“You might have been,” Gar allowed. “But more than anything else, you might have been some sort of slave who had managed to escape.”

“Think you know everything, don’t you?” she said darkly. Gar laughed, but managed to kept it low and soft. “Know everything? Enough to survive, at least. Beyond that? I don’t even know why I’m alive.”

The woman digested that, thought it over, then said, “Who does?”

“Married people,” Gar told her, “the ones who are in love, at least. And the ones who have children.”

She flinched; he could see he’d struck a nerve, and said quickly, “But I’m none of those, and probably won’t ever be.”

“Why?” She was suddenly intent.

“I’m too big for most,” Gar explained, “and too moody for the rest. Besides, if a man hasn’t married by thirty, there isn’t much chance that he will.”

It was more than true—in a medieval society. Again, she winced. He guessed her to be in her mid-thirties, though allowing for the medieval rate of aging, she could be younger, even in her late teens or early twenties.

“Why are you living, then?” She asked it with that same intensity, almost a hunger.

Gar shrugged. “Because I was born,” he said, “and I haven’t quite given up yet.”

She thought that statement over too, then gave her little nod once more.

“Back away,” Gar warned. “I’m bringing your stew to that rock.”

Her eyes widened, and she darted back into the forest, but stopped when she was fifty feet away, almost lost in the leaves. Gar moved slowly, keeping both hands in sight, rising and crossing to the rock where he’d left the bread and cheese. He set down the bowl and went back to his own place. As soon as he sat, she came back, much more quickly than she had the last time. Good, he thought. She’s remembering how to trust, at least a little.

She knelt, a broken branch ready in her left hand as she lifted the spoon with her right, darting quick glances at the bowl when she had to, but otherwise keeping her eyes on Gar. When she was done, they simply sat looking at one another for a while, and neither seemed to feel the need to be the last to look away. She frowned a little, studying him as though he were a problem she had to puzzle out, almost seeming not to notice his gaze, being too intent on watching him. Her eyes were large and gray and long-lashed, but haunted…

Gar realized he was holding his breath for some reason, and forced his mind back to business. All this staring was getting them nowhere and yielding no information. There wasn’t any need to hurry, of course, but Gar had a whole planet to analyze. Well, if she wanted help, she could ask for it.

He bent to empty the bucket and scrub it with grass and sand. “Coming to get your plate and mug,” he said, and she retreated again, but more slowly, and not as far. He brought back bowl, plate, and mug, stowed the gear in his pack, and scooped dirt on the campfire.

“Thank you,” she said, as though it were dragged out of her.

“A pleasure to help a fellow wanderer,” Gar said, “and it’s been another pleasure to meet you. You’re welcome to walk with me if you want. If you don’t, I wish you a safe journey.” He turned to start hiking again.

Alea watched him walk away, uncertain of her feelings, then started to follow, but fifty feet behind. After all, he seemed to be a genuinely gentle man.

If he was, though, he was the only one she’d ever met—other than her father, of course. She decided to reserve judgement, but her curiosity was aroused. She told herself that she was only interested in seeing if he really did prove to be gentle in the long run, then forced herself to admit that he was the only one she had met who wasn’t already taken, and he was taller than she was, too. If there was any safety for her in this wilderness at all, he was it—until he started expecting some sort of payment for his ‘protection’. But he had shown no interest in her as a woman, only as a person.

That didn’t mean that he wouldn’t, of course. She reminded herself that there was no real safety for her at all, anywhere. Still, something within told her that she could trust this man. She wondered why.

As she followed Gar down the road, Alea gathered berries and roots whenever she found them, so that she would have at least some food to offer in return for his. After perhaps half a mile, Gar glanced back and saw how haggard she was, how unsteady her gait. He halted, and she stumbled on for a few steps before she realized he had stopped. She yanked herself to stillness, suddenly completely awake and ready to run again.

“You’ve been traveling at night, haven’t you?” Gar asked. “I—I have, yes.”

“And you’re worn to the bone.” Gar turned off the road and used his staff to thrash a way through the underbrush. “Come, sit down while I pitch camp.”

Alea blinked, stupefied that a man would change his plans because of her. Then she managed to remember some realities and said, “The brush—they’ll see where it’s flattened…”

“They who?” Gar turned back. “That rabble who were bothering you? I’ll be very surprised if they stop running before nightfall.”

“If not them, there will be others!”

“Is it that bad, then?” Gar studied her, frowning. “Yes, I suppose it must be. If the giants have patrols in this no-one’s-land, why shouldn’t the… what did you call your people?”

“Not mine any more!” It came out much more harshly than Alea had intended, but she wasn’t about to back away from it.

Gar lifted his eyebrows in surprise, then nodded slowly—it would be very bad for him to undermine that realization. It must have been hard enough for her to admit, after all. “What shall I call them, then?”

“Midgarders,” she said though stiff lips.

“Midgarders it is. There’s that great a chance that another of their patrols will come by?”

“Every chance!”

“Then I’ll straighten the brush so that only a sharp eye will notice it’s been knocked aside. Walk carefully.”

Alea watched him for a second, wondering about the readiness of his agreement, then picked her way over the underbrush, trying not to tread any more down. Gar moved ahead as she came, until she was past the underbrush and into the relatively clear land under the shadow of the leaves. “I need a large tree, lad.”

“Really?” Gar looked about. “Larger than these?”

“No, that one will do.” Alea went over to an apple tree that must have been at least fifty years old. She was too tired to wonder what traveler had tossed aside an apple core in her grandfather’s day. She almost asked Gar for a boost up but caught herself in time, and scolded herself for being so quick to trust. She wondered why as she climbed.

She settled herself on a limb and glanced down to see Gar, thirty feet from the tree, staring up at her with anxious eyes. “Don’t worry.” She untied the rope from around her waist, cast it about the trunk and caught it, then tied it in front of her. “I won’t fall.”

“That can’t be very comfortable,” Gar said doubtfully. “It’s not,” she assured him, “but I’ll manage to sleep. I’ve done it for three days now.”

“No wonder you’re almost dead on your feet. Why not sleep on a bed of pine boughs on the ground?”

Instantly, her whole body waked to fight or flee. Was he trying to lure her down? “There are packs of wild dogs in this wilderness, lad, or so rumor says. Haven’t you seen them?”

“Not yet,” Gar said slowly—but what she said made sense. The continent, having been terraformed and Terran colonized, had no native predators, only breeds of Terran domestic animals. People who had tired of their pets, or found they couldn’t afford to feed them, had probably taken them out into the country and abandoned them. Eventually they would have found one another and formed packs. Farmers would have killed most of them as menaces to the livestock and even people, but some would have escaped to this buffer zone between kingdoms.

“There are wild pigs, too,” she told him, “herds of a dozen or more each, and the boars have grown tusks.”

Reverting to the wild indeed! Gar wondered how the pigs had escaped, but he knew they were smart animals when they cared to stir themselves. “I can see the advantage of your tree.”

“Not comfortable, but safe,” Alea told him.

Gar reflected that she would be safe from predators indeed, would even have some measure of safety from the two-legged kind—bandits were less likely to notice her when she was up in a tree, and the height of her perch would give her an advantage if they started climbing after her.

“Hadn’t you better climb up, yourself?” Alea asked.

“No, I think the fire will keep them away,” Gar said. “If I see them lurking, there will be time to climb.” He didn’t mention that he could make sure pigs and dogs both stayed away by inserting fearful thoughts into their brains. “Are there wild cattle, too?”

“Yes, but they’ll usually leave you alone if you leave them alone. What if your fire goes out?”

“It won’t, if I tend it.” Gar turned away. “First, though, I’ll cover our trail.”

Alea let her eyes close, head nodding heavily. Then a sudden thought brought her wide awake again. “What will you do while I sleep?” she called.

Gar turned back and smiled up at her. “Why, I’ll keep watch, of course. When I can’t keep my eyes open, I’ll wake you for your turn as sentry.”

Alea braced herself. “How shall you wake me?”

Gar looked about, then guessed, “Little green apples?” Alea thought that over, then said, “That will do. Not my face, all right?”

“I’ll aim for your leg,” Gar assured her.

That bothered her, oddly, but she could find no reason to complain. “Well enough, then. Good night. Good morning, I mean.”

“Good night this morning.” Gar grinned and started to turn away.

“Lad?”

He turned back. “Aye?”

Again reluctantly: “Thank you. For standing watch, I mean.”

“I’m glad to do it,” Gar said. “Journeying is lonely work otherwise.” He turned and went before she could answer. What would she have said anyway, especially since his words waked alarm in her again? She told herself that was foolish and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the trunk. There wasn’t room enough, so she loosened the rope, slid forward, then tied it again. Now she leaned back. Exhausted as she was, her mind buzzed with questions, and sleep seemed slow in coming. Alea found herself wondering what horrors could have made a man lose interest in sex—or had he simply been raised to respect women? Or even more simply, was he just a good man by nature?

She told herself sternly not to think that for a second. There was no such thing as a good man, and that way lay the nightmare.

As a last thought, she tucked her skirts under her legs, then leaned her head back again and let weariness claim her. It came in a flood, and she was asleep.

Gar covered their trail with expert touches and settled down to meditate, reflecting that one of the predators she feared was certainly him. He wondered what traumas had made her so wary of other people—especially men. Since she’d been a slave, the answer seemed clear, but he had a notion it went deeper than the last week or two. For a moment, he was tempted to probe her sleeping mind, to sift through her memories, but he banished the idea as quickly as it had come. His parents had taught him the ethics of mindreading, and as he had grown, he had weighed their teachings and decided they were true. He wouldn’t allow himself to read a friend’s mind without a very good reason. He wouldn’t even read an enemy’s mind, unless it was necessary to save his own life, or someone else’s. If the enemy were ruthless, the situation usually became severe enough to warrant the intrusion sooner or later, but even so, Gar felt he had to wait until the danger was clear and present. No, he wouldn’t read Alea’s mind—but he would listen carefully to what she said, put clues together, and see if he could piece out what had happened to her, so that he would know how to behave in order to help her.

Assuming, of course, that she chose to keep traveling with him.

Alea woke, feeling stiff and groggy, then saw the gloom about her. Her eyes flew wide open with panic. She throttled it, looked down—and saw him, sitting by a small, smokeless fire with his little kettle steaming.

She relaxed—he was there, but still keeping his distance. Then anger began, and she nursed it, treasuring the feeling, believing it gave her some strength. She untied herself, wrapped the rope about her waist and tucked it, then climbed down.

Gar looked up at the sound as she jumped to the earth. “Did you sleep well, then?”

“Too well!” She strode toward him, staff swinging. “You said you’d wake me for my turn as sentry!”

“I didn’t grow sleepy. Probably will around midnight, but I’ll manage to keep going until dawn.” He took the kettle from the fire and poured boiling water into the two mugs. “That will have to brew a few minutes.”

Alea halted, glowering at him, wondering how you scolded someone for being generous. It was a new problem for her; no one had gone out of the way for her since she’d turned fifteen—no one except her parents, at least, and she certainly couldn’t have scolded them. She let the issue go with bad grace, sitting on a boulder, legs tucked so that she could rise quickly, and took the mug when he offered it.

Gar saw that she was almost within arm’s reach, and didn’t seem to have noticed. Of course—if she had, she’d have moved farther away, and rather quickly, too. His heart sang with the elation of accomplishment.

“Where are you going?” Alea asked abruptly. “Other than away from Midgard, I mean.”

“I’ve met the giants,” Gar said slowly, “at least, a giant patrol, and that’s as much as I’m going to see of them without visiting one of their villages. I’m not sure that would be wise just yet.”

“Visit the giants!” Alea put down her mug, staring at him. “Are you mad?”

Gar cocked his head to the side. “Why would that be mad?”

“Because they’d kill you as soon as look at you!”

“They didn’t,” Gar told her. “The few I met on the road yesterday seemed quite peaceable. Ready to fight if I offered it, but ready to talk, too. They told me, rather sadly, that they couldn’t take me in, though—I’m too short!” He chuckled. “I haven’t been told that since I was ten.”

With wonder, Alea said, “Why—they were gentle with me, too, the patrol. And you’re right, they almost seemed sorry they couldn’t take me—that I was too short too, and not likely to grow because I was too old.” Her face tightened. “I’ve been told the last often enough, but never the first.” Then she turned thoughtful again. “Why should I still think them monsters?”

Gar was amazed. For a medieval woman to question why she thought as she did, was almost unheard of. Alea must have been a very rare woman indeed. He suggested, “Did other people tell you the giants were harsh and cruel?”

“Oh, from my cradle!” she answered. “Everyone in the village, every traveler who came by, always spoke of the villainy of the dwarves and the cruelty of the giants. The bards’ news was always of the latest battle, and how treacherous and deceitful the giants and dwarves were in their fighting!”

Gar thought of suggesting that the giants and dwarves might tell their children the same things about Midgard’s soldiers, but thought better of it. Besides, the giants he had met had been wary of him, but hadn’t seemed to think him a lower form of life. Instead, he said, “The lessons we learn earliest stay with us our whole lives. No wonder you think the giants are monsters even after you’ve met them, and they proved to be gentle. The real question should be: will you ever be able to believe the truth?”

“I’ve never met a man who gave a thought to what small children learned,” Alea said, frowning. “That’s women’s work.”

“Not where I come from.” Gar gave her a bleak smile. Inside, though, he was shaken. What kind of culture made men ignore their own toddlers? “Some man must have been concerned about it some time, or who would have started the lies about the giants?”

“I suppose they are lies, aren’t they?” Alea looked away, shaken. “Though maybe not; we’ve only seen a few giants.”