The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 19

Sergeant Brock eyed the old man narrowly. “I suspect he speaks less and less of our language the more he distrusts us.”

The gaffer may not have known the words, but he understood Brock’s tone. He glared back at him and spat another unintelligible phrase.

“So is your mother,” Brock said. He watched the oldster carefully, but the expression of suspicious hostility didn’t change, and Brock turned to Matt with a sigh. “I fear he really doesn’t understand Bretanglian, Lord Wizard. He didn’t even seem to know I’d insulted his mother.”

“Maybe you didn’t. After all, he might have been paying you a compliment.”

Sergeant Brock showed his teeth in something resembling a grin. “There is that virtue in merely turning his own words back on him.”

“Okay, he’s only a day’s sail from Bretanglia, but how often do you think he meets people who speak our language?” Matt asked.

“Not often,” Sir Orizhan admitted, “since he is only a fisherman—but there is a fair amount of trade between the lands. Surely we can find a merchant who can speak with us!”

“Good idea.” Matt scanned the village. “Come to think of it, even the local priest should at least be able to speak church Latin… There! I suppose you could call that a steeple.” He pointed to a larger-than-average one-story building with a sort of pointed bump at one end.

“A church indeed,” Sir Orizhan agreed. “Do you truly speak the language of ancient Reme?”

Matt kept forgetting that it had been Remus who had won the fight for the first Latin wall in this universe, not Romulus.

‘Let’s say it’s not too different from something I learned in school.” He turned back to give the old men a cheery wave. “‘Thanks, guys. I think we can make it from here.”

The gaffers stared, taken aback, and watched with apprehension as the companions started for the church.

The chapel was the only stone structure in town, as was so often the case, and the rectory-cottage beside it was only wattle and daub with a thatched roof. But the yard before it was neat and clean, with flowers around the border and a whitewashed fence, and the priest was sitting on a bench beside the door, reading his breviary.

Matt felt a little strange walking right up to him, so he knocked at the gate. The priest looked up with a pleasant smile that vanished when he saw strangers, and ones in foreign clothing at that.

“Good morning, Father,” Matt said agreeably.

The priest frowned, cocking his head on one side, and asked a question in Gaelic.

Matt sighed and tried again. “Ave, pater!”

“Ah!” The priest’s expression cleared. “Ave, filius meant.”

It was a strange experience, hearing Latin with an Irish accent—but Matt had only had a year in high school and fifteen years of Mass prayers in childhood.

“Quern quaeiritus?” the priest asked. It meant, Who are you looking for?

“We wish to go to the bishop’s town,” Matt explained. “Can you tell us the way?”

“Do you come from Bretanglia?” the priest asked.

“We just have,” Matt told him, “but our journey began in Merovence.” After all, that was true for Rosamund, too—it was just that, in her case, the first leg of the trip had been done a long time before.

“What do you seek in the bishop’s town?”

Matt began to feel that the priest meant to protect the bishop from these vile Bretanglians. “We seek a merchant, any merchant, who can tell us how to find a certain monastery where a—” Matt groped for a word that could describe the (hopefully) sleeping Brion. “—a certain relic lies.”

“Ah! A pilgrimage!” The priest nodded, not only satisfied but delighted. He pointed along the main street of the town.

“Go three miles to the crossroads, and the signpost will point the way to Innisfree. It is the road to the right, and five miles later, the left branch of a fork.”

“Thank you, Father.” Matt tipped his hat and started to turn away.

But the priest held up a cautioning hand. “Be careful on the road, my son. A pouka haunts that way, and not by night alone.”

“A pouka?” Mart’s blood chilled, especially since the word wasn’t Latin. “I thank you even more deeply, Father. May I donate to your church?”

The priest’s face broke into a smile. “That would be pleasant.”

But he was staring at the small gold coin in stunned disbelief as the companions walked away.

“What advice was it that made you so generous?” Sir Orizhan asked.

“He told me there’s a pouka haunting the road,” Matt explained.

“A pouka!” Rosamund and Sergeant Brock stopped dead, staring.

“I take it you have them in Bretanglia, too,” Matt said.

“We have pooks, and the most mischievous of them is an elf by that name,” Brock said.

Matt supposed the distinction between “pook” and “Puck” was pretty minor—only a matter of a vowel shift. Nonetheless, the thought made him glad he was in Ireland; he’d had experience with Puck. “Here, a pouka means a shapeshifter. It usually appears as a horse, but it can be just about anything, including a human being.”

“How do we guard against it, then?” Rosamund asked.

“Well, if you see a horse by the roadside who looks as though he’s just begging to be ridden—don’t mount.”

They had been strolling along the main street, and Matt stopped in surprise in front of a larger-than-average hut that had piles of folded nets, jars of beeswax, cylinders of cork, and coils of rope stacked outside it. A man stood in the midst of them all, pumping away at a push drill on a sort of lozenge of stone, boring a hole through its center.

“If I didn’t know better,” Matt said, “I’d think this was a chandler’s store.”

“It is more common to find the shop that sells supplies for boats down by the dock,” Sergeant Brock said. “Nonetheless, in so small a town, this building’s not so far from the sea, and more likely to stand longer by being away from the waves.”

“Good point,” Matt agreed, “but I’m surprised to see any kind of a shop in a town so small.”

“Perhaps there is more trade here than there seems,” Sir Orizhan offered.

“You mean he ships fish in to Innisfree? Not a bad idea. Wish we had time to wait and hitch a ride on the inbound wagon. But since we don’t…” Matt stepped up to the shopkeeper and said, “Do you sell rope?”

The man looked at him as though he had come from the other side of the moon, and asked an incomprehensible question in incredulous tones.

“Let me translate,” Matt sighed, and took out a silver penny. While the shopkeeper was still staring at it, Matt said to Brock, “Pick up a few coils of rope, will you? The thinnest he has… yes, that will do. Another coil… yes, that should be enough … a ball of twine … and four of those stone weights … yes, that’s good Now hold them up for him to see.”

Sergeant Brock held up the goods. “What would you want these for, Lo—Master Matthew?”

“Just in case we find a stray horse by the road,” Matt explained, and turned to the shopkeeper. “Well?”

The shopkeeper looked up and got a crafty look in his eye. He held up two fingers.

Matt sighed and took out another penny. He held it up in front of the shopkeeper’s face. The man frowned slightly; the penny was copper. He shook his head.

Matt turned away, slipping the pennies back into his purse and telling Brock, “Put the stuff back where you found it.”

Brock laid one coil of rope down, and the shopkeeper called something in Gaelic.

“Hold on,” Matt said, and turned back. The shopkeeper had a resigned look on his face and an open hand sticking out.

“Pick it up again,” Matt said, and took out the two pennies.

He insisted on carrying a coil of rope and two weights himself, so of course Sir Orizhan had to, too, though he did look disapproving.

“Are you sure you have not cheated that good man?” Rosamund demanded.

“Cheated him?” Matt turned back to see the shopkeeper caressing the pennies with a grin so wide he was fairly cackling. He looked up at the companions, shaking his head with a look that said, They’re crazy, but that’s not my problem. In fact, it’s my good luck.

“No, I don’t think we cheated him.” Matt turned to the road again. “That’s more silver than he’s seen in a year or more. He thinks he made out like a bandit, and he’s right, too.”

“He is indeed,” Brock said. “If you’d had more time to bargain, you probably could have beaten him down to six coppers—and if you could not, I surely could.” He looked very unhappy at the lost chance to haggle.

Matt waited until they were half a mile outside the town, and presumably secure from prying eyes, before he called a halt, took out his knife, and began to go to work on the rope. Half an hour later he had a lariat and three bolas.

“Hold one end and whirl the other one around your head,” he told his companions. “The trick is the same as in any argument—knowing when to let go.” He demonstrated, and the bola wound itself around a tree trunk. Then he set them to practicing, one at a time so they could duck when the others got it wrong, while he practiced with the lariat. It had been a long time since his childhood days pretending he was a television cowboy, but the old skills came back fairly quickly, and he was surprised to see what an improvement adult coordination made. On the other hand, his motor skills had definitely been boosted by being knighted—that was the way the ceremony worked in this universe, and he’d had nothing but the best.

When he was satisfied that all three of his companions could wrap their bolas around the base of a tree twenty feet away, seven throws out of ten, he led them on down the road.

“And what shall we do if we meet this pouka of yours, Lord Wizard?” Sir Orizhan asked.

“It’s not mine,” Matt answered, “though we might be able to change that.”

“Have you not had enough spirits haunting you for the time being?” Sergeant Brock asked.

“Yes, I have—so if you do see a stray horse, just try to make friends with it, okay?”

“Better us than you, eh?” Sir Orizhan grinned. “Nevertheless, if you say it, Lord Wizard, we will try it. My lady should not have to walk, after all.”

“You are gallant, Sir Orizhan.” Rosamund smiled with affection. “But where would I find a sidesaddle in this wilderness?”

“Why, I should ride behind you, and hold you on.”

“If they do,” Matt told Sergeant Brock, “you be ready with that bola.”

“Never fear, Lord Wizard,” the sergeant assured him. “But how shall we know if it is a pouka or a real horse?”

“If we can tame it, it’s real,” Matt told him. “If it tries to tame us, it’s a pouka.”

They found the signpost, followed the arrow that said “Innisfree” to the right-hand road, and found the horse about a mile farther. She looked very ordinary—medium height, tawny coat, and big brown eyes that watched them with mild curiosity as she chewed a mouthful of grass.

“Just keep walking,” Matt told them.

“She might be only some farmer’s mare turned out to pasture for the day,” Rosamund protested. “It is the growing season, is it not?”

“Yes,” Sergeant Brock told her. “The plowing’s done and the reaping not yet come. There’s little work for the farm horse now.”

“Especially since most peasants plow with oxen,” Matt said.

The horse came ambling over to see what was going on.

“Battle stations,” Matt muttered.

Rosamund glanced back over her shoulder at the large brown eyes, then looked again with a tender smile. “How sweet!” She turned around and began to stroke the horse’s velvety nose.

“You really should ride, my lady.” Sir Orizhan went over to stroke the horse, too, along the neck and down to the shoulders, then along the back.

Matt throttled impatience and left them to it while he fingered the coil of rope behind his back. It took a while, with Sir Orizhan leaning on the horse’s back, putting more and more of his weight on her, then swinging one leg up to half lie, then swinging it farther so that he sat up astride. The horse looked back at him as though to say, What are you doing there? But Sir Orizhan leaned down to catch Rosamund’s forearm. “My lady, will you ride?”

“Willingly, Sir Knight!” Rosamund swung up before him, both legs on the horse’s left—and the mare took off like a skyrocket.

“Now!” Matt shouted. He twirled the lariat, letting the noose spin wide. Sergeant Brock shouted as he loosed his bola.

The bola almost missed. It swung past the horse’s rear legs completely, but one weight caught on a front leg. The other whipped about, wrapping itself three times around the horse’s knees, and the mare fell, rolling onto her side with a whinny that was more like a scream. Sir Orizhan shouted in alarm, catching Rosamund to him as he shot off the horse to the left. Rosamund landed on her feet just as the lasso spun through the air and settled over the horse’s head.

The mare screamed—it was far past a whinny—and reached for the rope with her teeth. Matt raced toward her hindquarters, a long arc from twenty feet away, and managed to keep the rope out of reach of the mare’s head. She lurched to her feet—and promptly fell again, still tangled in the bola.

Sergeant Brock drew his long knife and paced toward her, his face grim.

“No, Sergeant!” Rosamund cried. “She is a sweet horse, and has done nothing to deserve death!”

“If she is only a horse,” the sergeant snapped.

“If she is not, you cannot hurt a spirit!” Sir Orizhan cried as he picked himself up.

“Cold Iron can,” the sergeant returned.

The horse went crazy. She screamed, she thrashed—and turned into a bear, a she-bear with Matt’s lasso still around her neck, roaring as she threw herself to her hind feet and began to walk toward him, bola-bound paws rising to club him.

Matt ran to the side, straining to keep the rope taut. He didn’t doubt for a second that the pouka would maul him to death if she could. He ran around a little tree to the bear’s rear and pulled hard The bear tumbled off her feet but changed even as she fell. By the time she hit the ground she was a doe who struggled to rise but fell with her feet still tangled, then a wild ox who set her forefeet and lowered, then tossed her head, catching the rope with a horn. Matt obliged and flipped his wrist, sending a loop to wrap around the horn, then pulling hard. The ox bellowed in anger as her head tilted to the side, straight out. She tried to toss her head again, to pull the rope out of Mart’s grasp, but Sergeant Brock threw himself onto the strand, too, and the ox turned into an otter who sprang through the loop of the bola. Matt shouted and pulled hard, just in time to tighten the lasso around the otter’s body—and she turned into an eagle who leaped into the sky, beating her wings. But the lasso tightened even more around her body, pulling her back to earth.

“Parley!” Matt shouted. “Give us a chance, and maybe we can talk this thing out!”

The eagle glared at him—eagles have the right kind of eyes for that sort of thing. Then its form blurred—though the eyes stayed clear—growing to human size, and the whole body stretched and narrowed here, broadened there, until a young woman stood before them, gloriously naked, tossing her head to flip back the long tawny hair that might have cloaked her charms. Her face was beautiful, with a high forehead, high cheekbones, small straight nose, full ruby lips, and the huge brown eyes of the mare, though narrowed and angry now. Her only garment was the rope, settled around a slender waist above swelling hips.

Sergeant Brock stared, face lengthening as his tongue grew thick with desire. Matt knew how he felt, and fought desperately to remember Alisande in a similar state when she had just saved him from Sayeesa’s clutches, proud and as full of dignity naked as she had been clothed, a sword whirling in her hand, her eyes bright with scorn. The image didn’t change his responses to the pouka’s nudity, but it did channel it in a more healthy direction.

Sir Orizhan, however, cried out in dismay and stepped over to the pouka, swirling his cloak around to cover her.

She batted it away with a vindictive smile, her glare still on Matt and Brock. “I thank you for your gallantry, Sir Knight,” she said in a brogue so thick Matt could scarcely understand it, “but I’m not about to release these two from the torture that is the punishment they deserve for having treated me so roughly—and if they’re fools enough to seek to touch me, they’ll deserve what they get.” Then she glowered at Brock alone and said, “Yes, you ache to reach out and touch, do you not? But you don’t dare, for you know I’d likely turn into something with claws that would rip you from breastbone to groin.”

Brock groaned, eyes bulging, and tried to turn away, but couldn’t.

“If you hold me with a rope, I shall hold you by your own lust,” the pouka declared, then turned her gaze to Matt, frowning. “You, though! I know the lust is there, but you are free of my hold! How is this?”

“I’m married,” Matt explained, “and more in love with my wife than ever.”

For a moment she only held his gaze, then sighed and seemed to wilt. “Would such love were known to my kind! But I’ve watched you mortals long enough to know how rare it is even among you. Say, then, why you have sought to capture a pouka! Not that I will admit you have, mind you.”

Somehow, Matt was sure she was right—and, suddenly, he felt very much on trial, as though the pouka could slip out of his noose in an instant and turn into a tiger that could rip his vitals out before he could even move. “It was just self-defense. We’re trying to go to Innisfree, and didn’t want to get bewitched just for trying. Why are you keeping people from getting there?”

The woman spat a Gaelic phrase at him.

Matt sighed. “Okay, so you don’t want to tell.” He flipped the rope, making it loosen enough to drop over the pouka’s hips and fall to the ground. “Go on, leave! But you’re warned now. Even at night there’s always one of us awake, and we sleep with our swords drawn. Try to attack us, and you’ll get a dose of Cold Iron in your vitals. All we want is to get to Innisfree so we can ask somebody how to find the place we really need to go. We don’t mean any harm to you or your land. Tell all the other spirits that, would you?”

“Nay, I shall do more than that,” the pouka said, frowning. “I shall tell you that I do not seek to bar all from going inland—only those whom I fear may harm Erin, and since you are outlanders, I thought you might be such.” She turned to Sir Orizhan. “By your leave, knight, I’ll take that cloak now.”

Sir Orizhan swirled the fabric over her shoulders, and as it settled into place, Sergeant Brock relaxed with a sigh, then a groan. The pouka eyed him with knowing amusement, chin tilted high. “I give you mercy, soldier, though I fear you would rather have your torture again.”

“If you thought we might be a danger to the land,” Matt said, “how were you planning to make sure?”

“Why, by carrying the knight and the maiden to spirits more powerful than I, who could read them and judge them. You would have followed—do not deny it.”

“I don’t,” Matt said, “but if you knew that, you must have known we couldn’t be wholly bad.”

“To one another, no,” the pouka said with a smile. “To Erin and its people? Ah, that might be another matter!”

“How could you be sure I am a maiden?” Rosamund asked, more curious than insulted by the invasion of her privacy.

The pouka gave her a look devoid of the slightest trace of humor or sarcasm. “I would have known, maiden. Be sure. Some things you may not hide from the spirit world—no, neither with fine fabrics and layers of clothing, nor with fair manners and layers of deception.”

Matt wondered what the other unhideable things were.

“We do not seek to harm Erin,” Rosamund assured the pouka, “only to find the body of a friend, to learn whether he is truly dead, or only very deeply asleep.”

The pouka stiffened. “How good a friend is he?”

“Better than I knew, alas,” Rosamund said, suddenly sorrowful. “When all about me sought to hurt me with their petty cruelties, he was always gentle and courteous, though so maddeningly formal that I found ways to anger him, to find the chinks in his armor.”

The pouka frowned. “But if all others were cruel, how did you dare anger him?”

Rosamund smiled. “Oh, even at his most angry, he would never hurt a lady even by words.”

“Any lady,” the pouka demanded, “or yourself alone?”

Rosamund dropped her gaze. “I never knew.” Her voice was so low that Matt could scarcely hear it.

“How long did you know him, maiden?”

“Since I was ten years old, and came to live with his parents and his brothers,” Rosamund replied.

“And what will you do with him if you find him dead?”

“Bury him—or weep at his grave.” Rosamund turned ashen at the thought, as though she hadn’t really confronted it till then.

Before she could sink too deeply into anxiety, though, the pouka demanded, “And what will you do with him if you find him living?”

“Why, restore him to good health,” Rosamund said, “and never let him out of my sight again!”

Matt turned to her in surprise, but Sir Orizhan only smiled fondly, nodding, as though finally hearing his own suspicions confirmed.

The pouka turned to Matt, one fist on a hip under the cloak while the other hand held it closed. “And what will you do with this man if you find him alive, sir?”

“Restore him to good health, as she says,” Matt said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to tear him away from her and take him back to Bretanglia, so that he can cleanse that land of the corruption of the false druids who have begun to infest it.”

Rosamund cried out in protest, but Sir Orizhan pointed out, “They are a corruption which, if it goes unchecked, may spill over into Erin.”

“I am well aware of that,” the pouka snapped. “We spirits are not completely unaware of what happens in the rest of the world.” She turned to the maiden. “The man you speak of is Prince Brion, and you are the Princess Rosamund. Is this not so?”

“Y-Yes,” Rosamund stammered in amazement.

“And who are you, man of knowledge who goes about in peasant’s clothing?” the pouka demanded of Matt.

“Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence,” Matt said. He spread a hand toward his companions. “These are Sir Orizhan, protector of the princess since she left her homeland, and Sergeant Brock, who serves him as squire on this quest.”

“Quest?” The pouka frowned. “Do you seek more than Prince Brion?”

“We do,” Matt admitted. “We’re trying to find the murderer of Prince Gaheris.”

“When you do, thank him,” the pouka advised, “for he has saved Bretanglia from a scourge, though not one so bad as the false druids are apt to prove.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like them either, huh?”

“I do not, and the true druids are livid with rage. They are at least as disgusted with the impostors as you are, and angry past speaking at their blackening of the names of the old gods.”

“So there really are some real druids left,” Matt said softly.

“Aye, and you knew that already,” the pouka snapped. “Do not seek to bandy words with the spirit folk. What we do not know, we can guess, and we recognize truth or falsehood instantly when we hear it. Why do you wish to discover the murderer of a corrupt prince?”

“So we can show him to King Drustan and Queen Petronille,” Matt said, “to remove their reason for declaring war on Bretanglia.”

“You no longer need concern yourselves with that,” the pouka advised, “for Drustan is dead, and John is king of Bretanglia.”

Matt stared in shock, and the other three cried out in dismay.

“Then we had better find Prince Brion very quickly,” Matt said, “and pray he is alive and can be restored, for John has the perfect combination of malice and incompetence to plunge Bretanglia into chaos. Can you lead us to him?”

“Of course,” said the pouka. “What one spirit of the land knows, all know. You only had to ask.”

Matt woke in the night, heart hammering, looking about him wildly. He almost thought he could still hear the voice shouting…

Sergeant Brock heard him rise, and turned from his sentry place at the edge of the camp, concerned. He came close, whispering so as not to disturb the others. “Are you well, Lord Wizard?”

“Guess so,” Matt said. “Just a bad dream…”

“Ah.” The soldier nodded wisely. “Surely you have had enough strains upon you to cause them—and there are unfriendly spirits about us, I doubt not.”

“Yeah, I know.” Matt nodded. “I expect our pouka guide is out there somewhere telling them to back off, but there’s a good chance they won’t listen to her.”

“I cannot guard your dreams,” the sergeant said. “Would that I could.”

“So do I,” Matt sighed. “Well, maybe I can get back to sleep. How long has it been, Sergeant?”

“Since you lay down? It may be an hour, by the position of the moon.”

“Got to sleep longer, if I can,” Matt muttered. “Thanks, Sergeant. Good night.”

“Good night, Lord Wizard.” The sergeant tugged his forelock and turned away.

Matt lay back and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. He tried to think happy thoughts, Celtic thoughts—Osian seeking the Land of Youth—and began to grow drowsy as the wonderful old story drew him in. He drifted toward slumber…

“What are you doing to find my murderer, I said!” the voice ranted.

Matt managed to keep from jumping up, but every muscle went stiff.

“Aside!” Prince Gaheris’ voice snarled. “He has my murderer to find first! I died before you!”

“I am your father, boy!” the first voice shouted. “I am the king! Yield precedence to me!”

“There is no precedence in the world of the dead,” Gaheris said, full of venom, “and you are king no longer. If it comes to sheer force of will, I fancy my rage and bitterness are greater than yours, especially toward you, for it is you who have bred them!”

“I?” Drustan bleated. “What did I do to earn your hatred?”

“Ignored me,” Gaheris snapped. “If you did notice me, it was only to berate me for my failings, or to bellow at me for not following your orders instantly. You showed your jealousy and spite in a thousand ways.”

“Jealousy! What cause had I to be jealous?”

“Because I would have your crown when you were dead,” Gaheris snapped, “and you begrudged it even then!”

“Uh, guys,” Matt put in, “do you suppose you could go argue someplace else besides the inside of my head? I’m trying to get some sleep here.”

“Aye!” Gaheris snapped. “Let him sleep, so that he can seek the man who murdered me!”

“Let him devise my revenge instead,” Drustan commanded, “for I know who my murderer was!”

“Oh, really?” Matt sprang to full mental alertness, then settled his mind to listen. “Go on. This could be very interesting.”