The Corridors of Time

17

That summery land he had glimpsed was a thousand years unborn. He stood in a wilderness as thick as any the Tenil Orugaray had known. These trees were mostly beeches, though, tall and white, their branches bare against a darkening sky. Fallen leaves rustled dryly in a chill wind. A raven flapped overhead.

He winced. What kind of friends had those people been, to dump him here naked and alone?

They had to, he thought.

Still, damnation, no purpose was served by his starving. So somebody must live nearby. He peered through the dusk and found a trail. Narrow and obviously seldom used, it wound off among brush and tree trunks toward the bay. He selected the diaglossa for this milieu by experiment and struck off with a briskness that was largely to warm himself.

A glow broke through the woods, opposite the last embers of sunset. Hunter’s moon, he decided. Auri must have been awaiting him for a good three months. Poor lonely kid. Well, they had to study her anyhow, and he’d be there as soon as he could find transportation—

He stopped. The cold sank teeth into him. Far off he had heard the baying of hounds.

Well, was that anything to scare a man? Why the devil was he so jittery? He got moving again.

Dusk thickened into night. Twigs crackled and stabbed as he blundered half blind from side to side of the path. The wind grew louder. Ever more close, the dogs gave tongue. And was that a horn he heard? Must be, with such a clang; but the notes were an ugly snarl.

Probably bound along this same trail, he thought. Let’s wait. . . . No. He broke into a trot. For some reason he didn’t want to encounter that pack.

A part of him, above the growing unease, tried to understand why. If the Wardens reserved wild areas, that fitted their philosophy. If they hunted for sport, what of it? Yet this region was so blasted desolate. Auri’s home woods had teemed. Here he had seen nothing but trees and bushes and one carrion bird, heard nothing but wind and the unnaturally rapid approach of dogs.

The moon swung higher. Shafts of light pierced between trunks turned ghostly grey, to speckle the ground with shadow. Deeper in, the gloom was absolute. More and more he felt as if he were in flight down an endless tunnel. He began to breathe hard. Howling echoed, the horn blew again, he sensed hoofbeats drum through the cold earth.

Ahead of him, the forest opened. Hoarfrost glinted on heather and the Limfjord lay black and silver-streaked under flickering stars. Lockridge heard himself sob with relief.

But suddenly the hounds yelped and yammered, the horn rang shrill, and the gallop became thunder. Knowledge stabbed: They’ve got my scent! Uncontrollable, the fear rose up and took him. He ran, with horror at his back.

Closer the pack clamoured. A woman screamed like a wildcat. He broke into a dazzle of moonlight. A mile away, next the shore, he saw a black mass and a few tiny yellow glimmers. Houses—He tripped, into whins that raked him bloody.

The fall shocked out a little panic. He’d never make that shelter, if shelter it was. The dogs would be on him in minutes. Storm, he wept, darlin’, I’ve got to get home to you. The memory of her breasts against him gave him the courage to double back.

To the forest edge . . . up a tall tree . . . stand on a branch, hug the bole, become another shadow, and wait!

Down the trail and out onto the heath came the hunt.

Those were not dogs, that score of wolfish monsters, roaring forth under the moon. Those were not half a dozen horses, they were much too huge and narwhal horns sprouted from their heads. The lunar light was so icily brilliant that he could see dark, clotting wetness on one point. They were human who rode two women and four men in Warden uniform. Long fair hair blew wild with their speed. And that shape was also human slung naked with a rent belly across one saddlebow.

A man winded his trumpet almost beneath Lockridge. Such dread came upon the American that he was near losing his hold, he knew only that he must run, run, run—Subsonics! flashed through his last sane part, and he clutched the tree till the bark bruised him.

“Ho-yo, ho-yo!” The leading woman shook her spear aloft. Her face was unbearably akin to Storm’s.

Forth they galloped, until the hounds lost the scent and cast about with angry snufflings. The riders reined in. Through wind and beasts, Lockridge heard them shout to each other. One girl pointed eagerly at the woods. She knew what the quarry had done. But the rest were too drunk with motion to go beating the bush. After a while they all lined out eastward across the waste.

Could be a trick, Lockridge thought. They figure me for comin’ down, as I’ve got to, and they’ll be back to catch me then.

The horn sounded anew, but already so far off that most of its mind-destroying effect was lost. Lockridge slid from the tree. They might not expect him to make for yonder hamlet immediately. He wouldn’t have that much coolness left him, if he were some ignorant slogg.

Where did he get that word? Not from his diaglossa, which held so carefully little truth about this half of the world. Wait. Yes. Storm had used it.

He filled his lungs, pressed elbows to ribs, and started running.

Moonlight flooded the earth, the heather was frost-grey and the waters gleamed, surely they would see him but he could only run. Bushes snagged and scratched, the wind blew straight against him, but he could only run. Naught else was left in all the world, unless to wait for fang and horn and lance. Did terror, or something put in his veins by John and Mary, lash him to the pace he made? This part of his flight was no dream eternity; he reached the shore in one sprint.

The settlement was a mere huddle of huts. Though their walls were concrete and their roofs some glistening synthetic, they were more cramped and poor than those of the Neolithic. Through ill-fitting shutters and doors trickled those gleams he had seen.

He beat on the first one. “Let me in!” he cried. “Help!”

No answer came, no stir, the house closed in on itself and denied that he was real. He stumbled across bare dirt to the next and hammered his fists raw. “Help! In Her name, help me!”

Someone whimpered. A man’s voice called shaken, “Go away.”

Remote on the heath, the noise of the hunt was checked. It lifted again and began to sweep closer.

“Go away, you filth!” bawled the man within.

Lockridge cast himself at the door. The panel was too strong. He rebounded in a wave of hurt.

Into the hamlet he lurched, shouting his appeal. At the middle was a sort of square. A tau cross rose twenty feet high near a primitive well. Upon it was tied a man. He was dead, and the ravens had begun to eat him.

Lockridge went past. Now again he could hear the hoofs.

At the far end of settlement lay some fields that might have borne potatoes. Plain in the relentless moonlight he saw the tracks of riders. A cabin even meaner than the rest stood hard by. Its door creaked wide. An old woman stepped forth and called, “Here, you. Quickly.”

Lockridge fell across the threshold. The woman closed and locked the door. Above his gasps, he heard her drunken grumble: “They’re not like to come into town. No sport, killing a boxed-in man. And I say a Wildrunner is a man. Let her get wrathy as she likes, if she finds out. I know my rights, I do. They took my Ola, but that makes me his mother holy for a year. None less than the Koriach can judge me, and my lady Istar won’t dare trouble Her over so fiddling a matter.”

Lockridge’s strength crept back. He stirred. The woman said hastily, “Now remember, if you make any fuss, you, I need but open the door and holler. I’ve strong men for neighbours, who’d be glad to get their hooks on a Wildrunner. I don’t know if they’ll tear you to pieces themselves or send you out for Istar to chase, but your wretched life is in my hands and don’t you ever forget that.”

“I . . . won’t . . . be any bother.” Lockridge sat up, hugged his knees, and looked at her. “If I can give you any thanks—any return—”

She was not so old at that, he realised with an unexpected shock. The stooped gait, in her drab gown, the gnarled hands, weather-beaten skin, half toothless mouth, had fooled him. Her hair, braided to her waist, was still dark, her features not much wrinkled, her eyes drink-hazed but unfaded.

The one-roomed cabin behind her was scantily furnished. A couple of bedsteads, a table and a few chairs, a chest and cabinet . . . wait, that kitchen corner held apparatus that looked electronic, and there was a communicator screen on the wall . . . opposite a little shrine with a silver Labrys—

She started. “You’re no Wildrunner!”

“I suppose not. Whatever that is.” Lockridge cupped an ear. The pack had veered off again. He drew a ragged breath and knew this was not his night to die.

“But, but you come naked from the woods, fleeing them, II you’re barbered, and talk better’n I do—”

“Let’s say I’m an outlander, though no enemy.” Lockridge with care. “I was bound this way when the hunters chanced on me. It’s important that I get in touch with, uh, the Koriach’s own headquarters. You ought to be well paid for saving my life.” He rose. “Uh, could you lend me some clothing?”

She looked him up and down, not as a woman at a man but with an immemorial wariness that slowly yielded to resolution. “Very well! Might be you lie, might even be you’re a devil sent to trap poor sloggs, but I’ve scant to lose. Ola’s tunic should fit you.” She rummaged in the chest and handed him a shabby one-piece garment. As he took it, she stroked a hand across the fabric. “His spirit must still be there, a little,” she said low. “Might be it remembers me. If so, I’m guarded.”

Lockridge slipped the tunic over his head. “Was Ola your son?” he asked as softly.

“Yes. The last. Sickness got the rest in their cribs. And this year, when he was no more than seventeen, the lot chose him.”

With a gruesome intuition, Lockridge blurted, “Is he the one on the cross?”

Anger flared back. “Hold your jaw! That was a traitor! He cursed my lady Istar’s lover Pribo, who did no more than rip a fishnet of his!”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I told you I was a stranger.”

Her mood changed with intoxicated swiftness. “Ola, now,” she said, “he got to be the Year Man.” She knuckled her eyes. “Goddess forgive me. I know his life is in the land. If only I could forget how he screamed when they burned him.”

Lockridge found a chair, slumped, and looked into nothingness.

“You’re so pale,” the woman said. “Would you care for drink?”

“Christ, yes!” He meant no blasphemy: not of that god.

She poured from a jug into a glass. The wine was rougher than what he had drunk at the palace, but he felt the same peace stealing along his nerves and thought, Sure, they need somethin’ to make them endure.

“Tell me,” he said, “is this Istar your priestess?”

“Why, indeed. She’s the one you should call. Not before tomorrow afternoon, I think. She’ll be out late, hunting, and’ll sleep late, and no matter how important you are, she’s no good person to get out of bed.” The slogg drank from her own glass and tittered. “Into bed, now, well, I hear that’s another matter. The lads aren’t supposed to talk about the springtime rites, but they will, they will.”

“Uh, these Wildrunners. Who are they?”

“What? You must be from afar! They’re the naked ones, the woods dwellers, the wretches that skulk in to steal a chicken or waylay any man unwise enough to go out yonder by himself. I really don’t know why I let you in, when I believed you was a Wildrunner. Unless maybe I’d been sitting here alone remembering Ola and . . . and of course they must be hunted, not just to keep them down but because their life goes into the land . . . yet even so, I sometimes wonder if the Goddess won’t ever make us a better way.”

Oh, yes, Lockridge thought sickly, a better way can be made.

Though not in this age. I see it quite plain. I see that bewildered old workman I knew, two thousand years ago, laid off because he couldn’t handle a cybernetic machine. What do you do with your extra people?

If you’re a Ranger, you dragoon them into a permanent army. If you’re a Warden, you keep them ignorant serfs, with some out-and-out savages as a check, and a religion that—No, there’s the worst of the matter. The Wardens themselves believe.

Do you, Storm?

I’ve got to find out.

Vaguely, he heard the woman say, “Well, sinful though I am, Ola makes me holy till the next Year Man be chosen. He must have guided me to let you in. What else could have?” With quick eagerness: “Stranger, I helped you. In return, might I see the Koriach? My grandmother did once. She came flying across this very land, Her hair black as that storm She times calls Herself, oh, in sixty years they’ve not forgotten! If I might see Her, I would die so happy.”

“What?” Exhaustion and the drug were upon him, but he jolted to wakefulness. “The same? That long ago?”

“Who else? The Goddess doesn’t die.”

A trick of some kind, maybe using the time gates. But Brann had spoken of combating her throughout all history—and so few were fitted to go through the corridors. Their leaders, at least, must have to spend a total of years or decades in every milieu—How many?

The glass fell from Lockridge’s hand. He got up. “I can’t stay here,” he exploded. “I’m going to call for someone to come get me.”

“No, wait, that set only goes to Istar’s keep, you don’t think the likes of me has a direct line to the Goddess, do you? Sit down, you fool.”

Lockridge brushed the woman aside. She sank onto a bed and poured herself another tumblerful. He covered the single call light. The screen came to life with a young man bored, sleepy, and resentful.

“Who are you?” the Warden demanded. “My lady is a-hunting.”

“Your lady can hunt herself into Chaos if she wants,” Lockridge snapped. “You connect me with the Westmark Koriach’s palace.”

The beardless chin dropped. “Are you possessed?”

“Listen, pretty boy, if you don’t jump I’ll nail your hide to the nearest barn, with half of you still inside it. Get me the Warden Hu, the Lady Yuria, any of the court that’s available. Tell them Malcolm Lockridge is back. In the Koriach’s name!”

“You know them? Forgive me! One, one, one minute, I beg you.” The screen blanked.

Lockridge reached for the jug but pulled his hand back. No, he wanted his wits tonight. He stood for a time and raged. Outside, wind gusted under the eaves. The woman watched him, and drank unceasingly.

Hu’s face appeared. “You! We took you for lost!” He showed more astonishment than gladness.

“It’s a long story,” Lockridge cut him off. “Can you trace this all to where I am? All right, come fetch me.” He broke the connection.

The crone was too drunk now to show much of the fear that had come over her. She did shrink from him and mumble, “Lor’, par’n me, I di’n’ know—”

“I still owe you my life,” Lockridge said. “But the Koriach is gone away for a while. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t remain in this hut where a boy’s bed stood so neatly made. He lifted the mother’s hand to his lips and went outside.

The wind streaked around him, with a rattle of dead leaves. The moon was high and seemed shrunken. Immensely far off, he heard the hunters. None of it mattered.

I’ve got to be careful, he thought once. If nothin’ else, I’ve got to get Auri home again.

He didn’t know how long he waited. Half an hour, maybe. Two green-clad men swooped from the dark and saluted him. “Let’s go,” he said.

And over the land they went. Mostly he saw it as one immense night. Here and there lay villages, ringed around the brilliant upwardness of a palace-temple but separated from it and each other by miles of nothing. Often he spied the ankh that was a factory. Sure, he thought, the Wardens live by machines just as much as the Rangers. They only dress the fact up a little more.

I wasn’t meant to see any o’ this. The idea was, I’d go straight to a corridor, if I lived, and get wafted straight to her sanctuary.

It rose before him, even now so splendid that he knew pain to think this must perish. His guides set him down on a terrace where jasmine perfumed an air kept warm and a fountain sang. Hu stood waiting, in a robe that cascaded like a firefall.

“Malcolm!” He seized Lockridge’s shoulders. His enthusiasm did not go deep. “What ever happened? How did you escape, and go that far north, and, and, why, this calls for the biggest festival since She chose Her last avatar in the Westmark.”

“Look,” the American said, “I’m nearly too tired to stand. My mission succeeded and you can have the details later. Right now, how’s Auri?”

“Who? . . . Ah, the Neolithic girl. Asleep, I imagine.”

“Take me to her.”

“Well.” Hu frowned and rubbed his chin. “Why are you so anxious about her?”

“Has she been hurt?” Lockridge shouted.

Hu stepped back. “No. Certainly not. However, you must realise she was distraught on your account. And she’s evidently misunderstood some things she observed. That’s to be expected. Only to be expected. The very reason we had to study someone from her culture so closely. Believe me, we treated her as kindly as possible.”

“I believe you. Take me to her.”

“Can’t she wait? I thought we would give you a stimulant now, and after your basic account is recorded, a celebration—” Hu gave in. “As you wish.”

He lifted an arm. A serving youth appeared. Hu gave instructions. “I shall see you tomorrow, Malcolm,” he said, and walked off. His robe flamed about him.

Lockridge hardly noticed by what ways he was taken. In the end, a door opened. He trod through, to find a small room with another door opposite and a bed on which Auri lay. The shift she wore was quite pretty, and she had not grown thin (the local biomeds knew how to keep a specimen in good shape), but she moaned in her sleep.

With a hand that wavered, he inserted his diaglossa for her time and stroked a soft cheek. Her eyes blinked. “Lynx,” she mumbled; and then, coming bolt awake: “Lynx!”

He sat down and held her close while she laughed and wept and shuddered in his arms. The words torrented from her, “Oh, Lynx, Lynx, I thought you must be dead, take me away, take me home, anything, this is where the wicked dead must go, no, I was not beaten, but they keep people like animals, they breed them, and everybody hates everybody else, always they whisper, why do they want to own the others, every one of them does, she can’t be the Goddess, she mustn’t be—”

“She isn’t,” he said. “I came here through her land, I saw her people, and I know. Yes, Auri, we will go home.” The inner door opened. He turned his head and saw the Lady Yuria. Blonde tresses did not quite hide the thing in her ear nor did her nightcloak mask how stiffly she stood. “I almost wish you had never admitted that, Malcolm,” she said.