The Warlock Rock

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next afternoon, they finally found out where the blimp was leading them—they, and the half-mile or so of dancers who were following behind them. They found out, because they came into a zone where heavy metal rocks glistened all about them, drowning out the sounds of the blimp. They looked about with astonishment, and Rod put his mouth near Gwen's ear. "Is this its home country or something?"

The dancers thought it was great. They leaped and whirled out into the meadow on both sides of the roadway, .gamboling and dancing to their hearts' delight. Considering how thickly the ground was strewn with music-rocks, it was amazing they didn't break their legs.

"Look!" Geoffrey's voice was just barely audible above the racket. Rod turned, and saw him pointing skyward. He looked up, to see that the blimp had become translucent; the sunlight was shining through it. As he watched, it became even more faint, until it shimmered, and was gone.

The family were dumbfounded.

Then Gregory's voice said, in wonder, Was it illusion, then?

They seized on his idea, using telepathy because the music was too loud.

I had thought it was made of witch-moss, at least, Magnus answered.

Seems it was just a mental construct, purely illusory. Rod frowned. Bait to lead youth here—but what for?

Whither journey we now? Cordelia wondered.

Aye, Gwen asserted. The music is so widespread that we can no longer use the rocks' direction as a guide.

No vector, Rod added.

But Fess's voice interposed smoothly: If the blimp was a projection, surely it had a projector.

Certes! Geoffrey agreed with enthusiasm. Let us find the blimp's maker! He should know whence came these rocks!

But how shall we find him? Magnus demanded.

Gregory pointed. See! The young folk do tend toward the west!

Sure enough, though they weren't single-file anymore, the groups of dancers were more or less all moving toward the west.

Then whoever wanted to bring them here, may still be leading them. Rod nodded. But the blimp was no longer of use, because once its music was drowned out by the rocks, nobody paid any attention to it anymore.

Then let us pay heed to its maker, Gwen suggested. Follow, family!

They trailed off after the dancers.

The witch wasn't hard to find, once they caught up with the head of the mob. She wasn't hard to find, because she was the only person in sight who was clearly middle-aged. She was also one of the very few who was fat.

She must have caught some mental trace of the Gallow-glasses, because she looked up at their approach, and her mouth opened in an unheard scream. She pointed at them, and a searing flower of heat bloomed in their minds. But it withered just as quickly under Gwen's projection of a wintry blast. Instead, a huge barbarian suddenly confronted them, clad in leather and metal armbands, long hair tied in knots, earrings flashing, spear stabbing.

Illusion! Gwen's label was quick, and she and Cordelia fixed their eyes on the image, which thinned and faded even as it strode toward them. But another leaped up in its place, a woman with long, straight black hair, clad in short, tight-fitting leathers, unfurling a bullwhip. The boys stared, fascinated by the combination of pulchritude and punishment, but Rod knew the compound from experience. The flame of his anger lashed out and blasted the image to instant ashes—but rain drizzled onto them, and a manic vampire sprouted up like a plant, blood-red lips gaping wide to show his fangs, mop of hair flapping like a set of banners. His garments fit so tightly they seemed to be painted on.

Geoffrey's surge of disgust rippled through everyone. He was revolted by the notion that such a thing should wear a male form. Under the mental stress produced by him and his brothers the illusion shredded, and blew away in tatters.

The witch gave up and grabbed for her broomstick.

Cordelia was faster, swooping around to cut in front of the woman. She hesitated, just long enough for the boys to catch her robe. They yanked down hard, and the woman fell; then they yanked up, and her robe tore, but she landed gently. A boiling cauldron of anger and fear bubbled out of her, directed at them—but it subsided, stilled, and was gone as Gwen's calming, slowing tide of thoughts rocked her into sleep. The others paid avid attention to her thoughts, and Rod inserted the formless question, only a mental current, that asked (but not in words) where the music-rocks came from. All they gained from her, though, as she slipped into unconsciousness, was the phrase, "… the man who is nowhere…"

Cordelia looked down in exasperation at the sleeping form. How is this? What can she mean?

How can there be a man who is nowhere? Geoffrey demanded.

A man, at least. Gwen's thought was cool water on their inflamed emotions. Seek among this throng, for only the moiety of them came when we did.

The Gallowglasses looked out on a vast, churning mob of young folk.

How many are there here, Mama? Gregory's thought was dazed.

Some thousands, at least, she answered, and Fess thought-corrected, Five thousand three hundred seventy-one, Gregory.

Somebody must know where this witch-moss-crafting man is! Rod insisted. Eavesdrop on their minds, folks—but stay together.

Bravely, they tried. For half an hour, they probed and listened. Finally, Gregory dropped cross-legged on the grass, and Gwen called off the session with a curt finishing thought.

No one knows, Magnus mused, benumbed.

I did at least catch some shady picture of a man bearing stones, Gregory thought wearily.

I too, Cordelia answered, but none had the least notion as to where he dwelled.

Only that he doth exist, Gwen agreed. How can this be, husband?

It's really your field, Rod said slowly, but to me, it smacks of post-hypnotic suggestion.

Gwen looked up at him, amazed. Why, thou hast it! Such few as these as have known of him, have had the memory stolen from their minds!

Magnus frowned. Aye… 'twould not be so hard to do—only to strengthen the resistance of a handful of synapses…

Simplicity itself. Anger tinged Gwen's thought. They seek to keep this man's existence a secret, then.

But why? Cordelia wondered.

Angry peasants. Rod's thoughts weren't exactly halcyon, either. All right, family—how do you find someone whom no one remembers?

They were silent, puzzling it out. Fess waited, and when no one spoke, he explained, Memory is holistic. The

conscious recollection would be relatively easy to erase, yes, but it would be duplicated throughout the cerebrum.

Gregory looked up sharply. Fascinating—yet how shall we apply it?

'Tis not so hard as all that. Gwen stood, resolution in every line of her body. Fetch me one who hath some hazy memory of this man who is nowhere, lads.

Half an hour later, they left the peasant youth sleeping with his head on a tussock, and walked off toward a distant hill and the stream at its foot.

We have not hurt him, have we, Mama? Cordelia thought anxiously.

Not a whit, Gwen assured her. When he doth wake, he will find that he hath slept better than ever he hath aforetime. Come, children. We hunt.

There was a desert there, on the other side of the stream. Animal skulls and low scrub decorated barren sand, and clouds of alkali blew over them.

Cordelia shuddered. How could aught live there, Mama?

How canst thou believe thine eyes, after all the illusions we have seen? Geoffrey retorted. Fear not, sister—never have I seen a wasteland bordering a stream before.

Cordelia's head snapped up at his remark, but Gwen didn't give her time to start feeling chagrined. She threw her broomstick out, staring at it. In midair, its form changed, stretched—and it landed as a six-foot-wide set of planks, held together by cross-boards.

Cross over the bridge, Gwen bade her family, and see what we may discover.

Two by two, they followed their mother and father into the forbidding waste.