The World and Thorinn

5 How Thorinn entered a treasure cave and found a magic box that could speak, albeit foolishly.

2957 a. d.:

In this yer the wyse men forwiste that er 50 yer be paced our Sonne wolde brenne so breme thath it wolde roste us all lyk mete in a forneys, and wolde be our bane.Than spake som and seyde: "Maken we a char of this our Erthe; so shal we flee our Sonnes fyrand seke another sterre. "

Yet others answerde: "So eek shal we lese our eir, for hit wol frese, but that we wirken a greetroofe over-thwart the world: and of which matere wirken we swich a roofe, that of hits owenwighte hit ne shal falle?"

Than sterted oon that seyde: "Wirken we a blader fulfild of eir! So shal our roofe kepe eir, whyleir kepe eek the roofe!"

So they bigane, and swinkede ful 20 yer in this werke.

Water stung his eyes, his nose. The roaring blackness whirled around him. He struggled against it, but his body was like a stone. Water surged over his face again. Half strangled, he struck out, and found the soft edges of the pod under his hands. His eyes were open but he could see nothing. The pod tilted, shuddered; the roaring of the water was beneath him. He floundered, trying to turn over; the pod tilted and he felt the black water sucking at his legs. He strained to pull himself against the pod. It was canted, half out of the water. The water roared black beneath it, trying to drag him down. He struck out with his feet, touched slippery stone, then lost it. It seemed to him that the pod was jammed against some crevice down which the water was pouring. He groped again, found footing once more, but the pod swung and he was kicking in the water again.

He worked his grasp higher on the pod, fighting the tug of the water. He was shaking with cold. Here the pod narrowed; he was able to get one arm under it, grasp it from the opposite side. Hanging underneath in this way, he put his foot back, touched bottom, and braced himself precariously. The current streamed against the back of his legs. He turned clumsily, one hand on the pod. The pod began to swing; letting it go, he leaped. The water swept his legs out from under him and he was down, pawing the slippery stone underwater. He fell, was swept back, struggled up, fell again. Something smote him on the cheek, making his head ring; he grabbed, found himself clinging to a massive stone half out of water. He dragged himself across it, braced himself on the far side. Only then could he pause to cough the water out of his throat. The blackness was solid and velvety; the rushing roar of the water never stopped. He began to remember now, and understood that the pod had carried him down the cataract. He was safe for the moment and not drowning, and that was all he cared about.

After a time he roused himself enough to make sure that he still had his sword and wallet, and then to fumble in the wallet for his light-box. He uncapped the box, and a pale beam sprang out. In its light, he saw the cold water silvery around him. Only two ells off, the pod slowly turned in a whirlpool; all his struggle had been to come that little way. The ragged ceiling was close overhead. Below, the water was everywhere; he could see no end to it. A few irregular blocks of stone rose above the water or could be seen dimly shining beneath it; they looked as if they had fallen from the broken ceiling.

Moving from one stone to the next, supporting himself with one hand and holding the light-box with the other, he put the whirlpool behind him. He saw another in the distance and avoided it; then he noticed that the water was growing shallower. The stone under his feet was broken and tilted, this way and that. It rose until he was wading in sluggish water, no more than ankle-deep. Ahead he saw a line of brightness where the water curled over the edge of a hole. As he approached, he felt a cool breath. He looked down over the lip. Below he saw broken stone, jeweled with the rebounding slow droplets of the water that fell on it.

Lying full length in the water, he put his head and one arm down, turning the light-box this way and that. He could see nothing but darkness beyond the ragged curtains of water. He could not tell where the falling water ran away. The slabs between were almost dry.

He stood, hesitated a moment, then stepped off, pointing the light-box down as he fell. He landed on a tilted slab, lost his footing, and sat down hard, but without taking any hurt. Now the roar of the water was muted overhead, and he could hear the gurgle of lesser streams running away somewhere below. The falling curtains of water were all around him, ghostly silver, pricked with the jewels of floating droplets. Drifting water-points burst on his skin with tiny cool kisses. There were gaps in the falling curtains, torn by the irregular stone above. He put his head through the widest of these openings, saw other broken slabs, other curtains of water beyond. Following the cool air, he made his way among the gray and silver curtains that hung everywhere from the ceiling. Rivulets ran toward him underfoot among the slabs of stone, and he knew by this that the floor was slanting upward. At length the falling curtains of water grew less numerous, and the sound diminished to a mournful pattering behind him. Ahead, the cavern broke into a tortured complexity of shapes in which he found a narrow passage leading upward. He paused to tip out the water from his wallet and to dry his hair as well as he could with his hands; then he followed the passage. It coiled away ahead of him, always upward, always rounded, irregular, dry, and empty in the glow of his light-box. At length the passage widened into a greater darkness. Thorinn stepped out into it cautiously, found himself in a narrow cavern half-choked with a pile of fallen stones. Beyond, in the far wall, he saw a jagged opening.

He climbed the heap of stones and peered in. Light glimmered back from objects whose forms he could not make out. A breath of air came from the opening, but it was slow and stale. He hesitated a moment, then climbed through the gap in the wall and dropped to the level floor below. Silence pressed in upon his ears, a silence more profound even than that of the passage behind him. On every side stood massive objects piled one on another, with slender rods between them. The floor he stood on was perfectly level and as smooth as ice. It was not stone, but some gray, greasy material which seemed faintly warm to the touch. The air was dry and warm. The huge columns stood in rows; their tops disappeared in the darkness.

Thorinn moved between the columns, touching them curiously as he passed. The rods, of cold metal, supported racks on which were piled bundles and bales, and other things for which Thorinn had no names, all covered with some cool, water-smooth substance. He began to realize that he must be in some troll's storehouse, and he paused, listening; but the silence was unbroken. He slid his hands curiously around one of the bundles. It was so smooth and heavy that it was hard to find any purchase on it, but he dragged it out at last and lowered it to the floor. It was almost as broad as his arms could span, vaguely oblong but with all its corners rounded, like a huge gray cheese. He looked in vain for any seam or opening; the smooth surface was unbroken.

Next he tried to cut it with his sword. At the first touch, the covering opened like a mouth. Thorinn put his fingers under the edges, marveling at the thinness and transparency of the stuff, finer than the skin of an onion. He pulled, and the tear lengthened easily. The covering split and tore without resistance, and he peeled it off in great rustling sheets. Underneath was a gray soft substance like bread dough; he could push it in, but the hollow filled out again at once, nor could he tear it with his fingers. Again he used the sword. The gray stuff cut readily, but would not tear like the other. When he pried at the gash he had made, sticky-looking fibers at the bottom clung stubbornly together. He slashed deeper, and at last it gave way, opening in a slit as the transparent stuff had done, and he saw something else beneath it: a gleam of russet and gold.

He tore away the gray substance in lumps, threw them aside. In the glow of his light-box, a bundle of stuff lay revealed, and he caught his breath. Rich and soft beyond belief it was, russet and gold and scarlet in shimmering patterns that were not printed on the fabric but woven into it. He unfolded and unwrapped the cloth, spreading it out on the floor as it went; it covered the whole width of the aisle, and still there was more. Thorinn dropped it and stared at it in wonder. Such a piece of stuff was beyond price; he could ask what he liked for it. This one bale had made him rich. And all the others?

He attacked a second bundle, found it contained another cloth like the first, colored in deep purple, royal blue, peacock green. In a fury of excitement, he ran to the next aisle, found a rack of smaller bundles, some of which, no bigger than his head, had fallen to the floor. He chose one, slashed it open. Inside was a glittering device of brass and ebony, evidently a magical instrument. Such things, he knew, could injure any man not schooled in their use, and he laid it respectfully aside. The next was a pretty jug with a handle and a spout to pour from. He tilted it to see why it was so heavy, but only a single drop of moisture came out.

The next was a black-and-red-patterned box in which, nested in purple velvet, lay dozens of tiny bright figurines of men and ladies.

Stunned with joy, he ran to the next aisle and found other magical engines. The next: Yen-metal knives smaller than his finger, with tiny blades as sharp as his sword. The next: hammers, wedges, no bigger than the knives, and other tiny tools whose use he could not imagine.

The fever to open more and yet more bundles made him forget weariness, cold, thirst, and hunger. He found clothing—wide-skirted robes, heavy with brocade; tunics and breeks of gossamer stuff; shoes, marvelously thin and supple. He found rings, bracelets, ropes of jewels that spilled in a flood across the floor. Riches piled up around him, and still he knew that he had barely begun. Once he paused long enough to gather all his trove into one place, and sorting through it, try to decide what he would take with him. Then the blank gray faces of the unopened parcels drove him to frenzy again, and against all common sense he attacked bundles larger than any he had yet opened, gray oblongs taller than himself, ripping open their fronts without removing them from the racks, merely to see what was inside. (Cabinets of polished wood inlaid with nacre. Huge engines of metal and glass. Chairs with arms curved like serpents. More bales of cloth, ten times larger than the others.) Then for weariness alone he forebore, and sat with his head on his heavy arms. Hunger and thirst returned. He tipped up his wallet and drank what little water was in it, but it was not enough. He began to think of finding some container and going back through the caverns for water. The wallet would do, but he wanted to keep that dry to hold his treasures. He could put some of the smallest things in it, the jewels perhaps, and make a bundle of the rest to carry on his back.

He remembered the jug, and looked for it: there it was, at the edge of the great pile he had made. When he took it up, it seemed to him that it was heavier than before. He shook it, and it gurgled. Without thinking, he tipped it over. Water splashed on his feet.

Thorinn righted the jug and stared at it. He shook it again, and it gurgled. He put the spout cautiously to his lips, tilted it up, tasted. It was water, cold and pure, as good as the spring water of Hovenskar. He put his head back and drank in great gulps until the jug was empty.

To make sure, he held it upside down. A single drop fell, then another, then none. He put the jug down, sat by it and watched it awhile, but nothing happened. He picked it up, turned it over: water ran out, a thin stream that stopped almost at once. But how could there be any, when the jug had been dry a few moments ago?

Resolved to wait longer this time, he turned his back on the jug and opened another bundle. This yielded a black box with rounded edges, one edge thicker than the others. It had no lid; it was open but not empty: the box was filled with a smooth bulge of glass or crystal in which he could see himself dimly reflected. If it was a mirror, it was a poor one. Down another aisle, he found many small bundles; he took one and opened it. Inside the nest of gray dough-stuff there were dozens of little boxes with bright markings on them, green, violet, yellow, red. He found the trick of opening them—you put your thumbnail under one edge of the lid, and the box sprang apart. Inside was an oblong piece of some cheesy substance. Thorinn sniffed it, then tore off a crumb and tasted it incredulously. It was cheese—bland, with an unfamiliar flavor, but cheese all the same. He ate the whole piece in two bites, then opened another box, and another, and ate until he was full. Weariness forgotten, he carried the rest of the boxes back to his treasure heap.

He picked up the little jug; it gurgled. He could not see inside it very well, but it seemed to be at least half full. He drank again, more out of curiosity than thirst, and sat down with his back against one of the bales of cloth. The black box lay nearby on the floor; Thorinn lazily reached for it with his foot and hooked it nearer. It slid, checked on some irregularity in the floor, then tipped forward on its heavy edge and stood upright. Inside, the crystal seemed to flicker with colored light for an instant.

"Here, that's odd," said Thorinn, sitting up.

The box flickered again, and a voice spoke.

Thorinn was on his feet without knowing how he had got there. His sword was in his hand. He whirled, looked this way and that, then circled the heap of treasure and peered behind the columns, looked down the aisles. He listened, heard nothing.

He went back to the box and stared at it dubiously. "Was that you?" he demanded. The voice spoke again, incomprehensibly. It was a quiet voice, calm and measured.

"Are you in there?" Thorinn asked, stooping to peer into the box. The voice replied. The dark crystal lighted up. Thorinn saw a confused pattern of light and shadow; then part of it moved, and he saw a tiny crouching figure, dressed in stained leather, with a sword in its hand. When he moved, it moved.

"Is that me?" he cried.

The voice said, "That me?"

Thorinn looked at the box with deep distrust, withdrew a little and sat down facing it. The crystal had gone dark; now it lighted up again, and he was looking as if down a tunnel at the same tiny figure, with a column of stacked bundles behind it. It was like looking at oneself in a mirror of ice. Yet when he raised his sword in his right hand, the figure raised the sword in its right hand, not its left, as in a proper mirror.

"You," said the voice.

"Yes, it's me," Thorinn replied. "How do you do that?" The crystal went dark. "How do me do that?" said the voice.

"Yes. how do you?" asked Thorinn impatiently. "What's the matter? Why do you talk that way?"

"Why do me talk that way?"

Thorinn felt baffled. "Yes, why do you talk that way?"

The crystal lighted again. "You talk."

"Well, I know I talk. I talk much better than you."

In the crystal, the tiny figure seemed to rush forward without moving until its face filled the box. Thorinn fell silent, but in the box he saw his own lips moving. "You talk?" asked the voice. The face rushed forward again, and now he saw only the mouth and chin. "You talk?" Convinced now that he had to do with some harmless and rather stupid spirit, Thorinn said, "Yes, I talk," and gesturing toward his own mouth, he spoke with exaggerated clarity, opening his mouth wide with each word. "I—talk. Talk. You understand?"

"Talk," said the voice. "I understand." The crystal darkened, lighted again, and Thorinn saw a hand. It was his own hand, but when he moved his hand, the hand in the box did not move. "That's my hand," he said.

"That's my hand."

"No, not yours—it's my hand."

"That's your hand."

"I said so, didn't I?"

"You said so. Talk." In the crystal, now he saw only one finger; the rest of the hand had turned all misty.

"That's my finger."

"That's your finger. Talk." Now he saw his thumb, and he told the voice what that was called; and then his arm, his leg, his foot, his toes, his head, his ears, his eyes, and so on until he lost patience and stood up. "You ask too many questions," he said.

"You ask."

"All right, who are you? How did you get in that box?"

"Box?"

Thorinn squatted, touched the box. "This thing. This box. How did you get in there?" The crystal lighted, and he was looking at the box: a box inside the box. The box inside was not lighted, and it stood on a yellow surface. "This box," said the voice.

"Yes, the box. How did you get inside it?"

"I are this box. Talk." The crystal glowed, and Thorinn saw a man in stiff scarlet robes, with a shimmer of green and gold behind him. "That's a man. He must be rich." The man disappeared, and he saw a woman with fair hair, dressed in similar robes. "That's a woman. Is it his wife?"

So they went on, and Thorinn told the box what a boy was called, a girl, a tree, a leaf, a branch; but sometimes the box showed him engines or other shapes he had never seen before, and he would say,

"What's that?" or "I don't know what that is." At last his head began to droop, and the pictures in the box grew so blurred that he could not make them out at all. "Talk," said the box. His head came up with a painful jerk, and he realized that he had been asleep for an instant.

"No more talk," he said thickly. "Good night." The box said nothing. Thorinn rolled over onto a pile of folded cloth, pulled an edge of it over him, and was instantly asleep.

When he awoke, he had forgotten all that had happened, and at first he did not know where he was. Then joy filled him when he saw his treasures. He pottered about among them for a while, examining this and that. If only he could get all this back to the Midworld, or even the thousandth part of it! Thinking deeply, he crawled through the opening in the wall to ease himself outside; came back and opened one of the boxes of cheese for his breakfast.

The box was silent and dark; it had said nothing since he had awakened, and that was odd, since it had been so garrulous before.

"Box, are you there?"

The crystal lighted. "I am here."

"Tell me, box, what is above this cave?"

"What is this cave?"

"This cave," Thorinn said, waving his arms. "This place here, where we are. What is above it?" He pointed upward as he spoke.

In the crystal, a brightly lighted little hollow shape appeared: it was like a long empty box with walls of glass. At one end of it there was a hollow worm: that must be the passage by which Thorinn had entered. Near the other end, a tiny thread connected the cave to a much larger tunnel above.

"Show me where that goes," said Thorinn, pointing.

In the crystal, the box-shape dwindled, receding, while more of the tunnel appeared. Presently the tunnel crossed a shaft as big as itself.

"And that? Where does it go?"

The picture shrank again; now he could see that the shaft met another tunnel, and above that the dark background ended.

"Is that the Midworld?"

"What is the Midworld?"

"The top of the earth, where there are no more caves."

"That is the Midworld."

Thorinn pointed again. "How far is it from here to the top?"

"What is how far?"

"How far," Thorinn said, waving his arms by way of explanation. "How many ells?"

"What are ells?"

Thorinn sat down on the floor and stared at the box in exasperation. "Ells are—well, anybody knows that. Ells are how long something is." He spread his hands apart. "This is an ell." The box said, "How long are you?"

"You mean how tall. Two ells. I'm two ells tall."

In the crystal, two yellow marks appeared. "How many?"

"Two."

One of the marks vanished. "How many?"

"One."

Two more appeared. "How many?"

"Three."

Another mark. "How many?"

"Four."

The box, Thorinn realized, did not even know how to count.

So they went on until they got to twenty-one, and then the box said, "Two tens are twenty?"

"Yes, that's right, and three tens are thirty."

"And four tens?"

"Four tens are forty. Five tens are fifty, six tens are sixty." At a hundred and ten, the box stopped him again.

"Twenty tens are two hundred?"

"Yes."

"It is three hundred and thirty-two ells from here to the top." Thorinn sat awhile with his chin on his fist. The geas had never prevented him from going up when there was no other way to go; therefore he could surely get into the tunnel. Then, if he could but gain the Midworld, though the geas would be on him still, he need only keep away from pits and chasms, for no magic could make a man go down through the solid earth. But he could never climb that shaft against the geas; and the geas could be removed only by its maker, or by a greater magician. Struck by a thought, he said, "Box, can you do magic?"

"What is magic?"

"Magic is—well, for instance, a spell that makes something happen."

"What is a spell?"

"Well, suppose you want to find something." Thorinn picked up two jewels from the heap, a red one and a green; he tossed the red one over his shoulder, hearing it click and roll down the aisle. Then he picked up the green one and chanted three times, "Brother, find your brother." He threw the green jewel, marking where it went. When he found it, it lay beside the red one.

"You see, that was a spell—I found the red one by making the green one go to the same place."

"Not the spell. You found the red one."

Incredulous, Thorinn tried to explain again, but the box insisted that it knew nothing of spells, and he gave up. Perhaps the magician who had made the box had taken care to teach it no magic, for fear it would become greater than himself.

At any rate, why should he not attempt some magic of his own? Many times he had watched Goryat casting spells to keep wolves away, or to make sure the mares would come fresh in the spring and the foals be born alive. Supposing his spell worked but poorly, or that it lasted only a short time, still it might be enough for his purpose. He brooded over this awhile, then set aside certain articles from the heap—a tiny figurine of an old bearded man, who reminded him somewhat of Goryat; slender bits of wood painted with designs in red; a box full of a fine gray powder. These he wrapped carefully and put away in his wallet. Then he began to consider what else he could take and what he must leave behind.

The magic jug was a problem. He thought of hanging it from his belt, but that would be awkward, and unless he could contrive some sort of cover for it, the jug would be spilling water down his leg; whereas if he put it in his wallet, it would take up too much room. He could fill the jug with jewels, but then would the water run over?

He remembered that when he had first taken the jug from its wrapping, there had been no water in it, or at any rate only a drop. Was it being wrapped up that made the difference? He cut a piece of the transparent stuff, wrapped it around the jug after pouring the water out, and tied it tightly with strips of the same material. Later, when he came back from a trip to gather food, he opened it and it was still dry. He filled it to the brim with jewels, wrapped it again and put it in his wallet. The next thing was to be sure he knew how to find the exit from the cavern.

"Box, show me this cave again."

The crystal lighted; the same bright hollow shape appeared.

"How far is it from here to the hole in the roof?"

A short yellow line appeared across the width of the cavern. "It is two hundred and ninety-one ells—" A longer line, lengthwise, almost to the end. "—and eight hundred and thirty-eight ells."

"Eight hundred ells? How big is this cave?"

"It is eight hundred and fifty ells long, and fifteen ells tall, and three hundred and nineteen ells—"

"Three hundred and nineteen ells wide?"

"Yes, three hundred and nineteen ells wide."

Thorinn was silent in amazement. "Is it all like this—all full of things?"

"It is all full of things."

Thorinn tried to imagine that, and could not. "Box, who made this cave?"

"What is made?"

Thorinn tried to explain, and grew hot-faced with exasperation. "Well, look here," he said finally, and picked up his light-box. "I made this box. I cut these pieces of wood and glued them together, and I fitted the pieces of mica in here at the ends—well, one of them is gone now, I lost it in the river. Then I made the lid and put it on here, and then the box was made, you see. I made it." In the crystal, an image of Thorinn appeared, fitting little pieces of wood together. It was over in a moment, and the figure held a light-box in its hand.

"You made this box?"

"That's right. Now who made all this? Who made you?"

"A box made me."

"You mean you made yourself?"

"I mean I made me?"

"Well, did you?"

"A box made this box." In the crystal appeared a huge black engine, out of the end of which, one after another, were dropping little black boxes, each with a glint of crystal inside it. They floated away out of sight; it made Thorinn dizzy to watch them.

"You mean an engine. An engine made you—and all these other things?"

"Engines made me and all these other things."

"Well, but who made the engines?"

"Engines made the engines."

Thorinn gave it up. He made the box show him the picture of the cave again, then what was around it. In the new picture, the cave was a tiny bright shape at the top, while all around it other transparent passages ran off in every direction, some twisting, some straight, leading to other caverns. His idea had been to make sure there was no better way up to the Midworld than the one the box had showed him before, but as he asked the box to show him more and still more, he grew fascinated by the maze of passages, caverns, and shafts crisscrossing each other; there seemed to be no end to it. New lines kept floating into the picture while the old ones grew smaller and closer together. "How did it ever come to be like that?" he asked. "The whole Underworld?"

In the crystal, the network of lines vanished and a man's face appeared, brown and smiling; at least Thorinn supposed he was a man, though he was beardless. His black hair was cut short and combed back, exposing his ears and forehead. His lips moved. After a moment the box said, "This is the world." Behind the brown-faced man a big green and blue mottled ball was floating against a background of darkness. The man's lips went on moving, but no sound came. The ball receded, grew very small.

"What is he saying?" Thorinn asked. "Let me hear what he says." Now the man himself began speaking, but it was gibberish; Thorinn could not understand a word. The ball was tiny now, and to one side of it, over the man's head, a dot of yellow light appeared. It grew slowly; suddenly it was very big and bright, and Thorinn could see flames leaping from its surface. Then it all vanished, and instead he was looking at a green landscape dotted with men and women who were all standing looking up at something huge and flat and silvery that was receding slowly overhead, as if somehow they had brought the sky down, then raised it again. The man's voice was still speaking, but Thorinn could not see him. Now the sky was high overhead, where it belonged, and little dark engines were moving across it.

Then they were underground, watching a huge engine that ate its way into the solid rock, leaving a bright round tunnel behind. Then there were scenes of great caverns full of engines and people, and floating egg-shaped things that crossed the caverns and darted along tunnels, up and down shafts, all brightly lit, shining... Then the brown man again, and behind him a picture like the drawing of the Underworld the box had showed him before, only that it was circular, with many rings one inside the other, and four straight lines radiating from the smallest circle of all, in the center. Then the circle changed into a ball again; this time it was white. Watching these pictures made Thorinn uneasy in a way he could not understand; it was like being afraid, and because there was nothing to be afraid of, that made him angry. The brown man was still speaking, the yellow point of light had appeared, and the silvery ball, shrunken to a dot, was crawling away toward a cloud of other bright dots. Now the other dots swung, came closer, darting forward like frostflakes in a storm until only one hung in the center of the crystal, growing larger and brighter.

"That's enough," Thorinn said. The crystal went dark. He had been watching so long that he had grown thirsty again, and had to unwrap the jug, let it fill, drink, and then wrap it up again. The smallest piece of cloth he had was far too bulky to carry, but he cut off a strip an ell wide and as long as he was tall. He spread this on the floor and rolled up his cheeseboxes and other things in it—clothing, shoes, the little figurines, tools and knives, the talking box, some leftover jewels—turning the ends in as he went. He did this twice over before he had the roll packed to his liking, with the heavier things in the middle, the food outside where it could be easily reached. He tied it with strips of cloth, and cut other strips to make loops which would fit over his shoulders. He changed the moss in his light-box, shouldered his burdens, and set off past the ends of the aisles, counting his paces. The tall columns marched past him with their heads buried in the darkness. Here and there small parcels had been knocked to the floor, and he conjectured that the earth-shock must have done that, when Snorri began to rumble; probably that was the cause, too, of the gap in the wall through which he had entered. Before that, the cavern must have been sealed up... how long?

When he had gone two hundred and ninety ells, he turned down the nearest aisle and began counting his paces again. The endless ranks of columns moved past him in the glow of the light-box. When he paused to listen, there was no sound. When he had gone eight hundred and forty ells, a gray wall loomed up ahead: he had reached the end of the cavern. He swung himself up onto the nearest rack and began to climb it.

The bottoms of the stacks disappeared; he was climbing in the fitful glow of his light-box with darkness all around. In the silence, the rack with its gray bundles seemed to glide downward past his body, as if he were not climbing at all but hanging in midair and pulling down more and more of an endless metal serpent. In a few moments he saw a dim gray reflection overhead. It was the ceiling, and when he stood on top of the stack a moment later he could reach up and touch it with his hands. He could see the tops of other stacks to left and right, gray hummocks rising out of the darkness, but there was no sign of any opening in the roof of the cave.

He turned away from the cavern wall, leaped to the next stack, then to the next, examining the ceiling from each. When he had traversed ten stacks in this way, he leaped the aisle to the next row and began working back along it, meaning to trace a path around and around the original ten stacks, like a man winding string on a twig, until he found the opening; but he had hardly begun his second cast when it appeared, off to his left: a round black hole in the ceiling.

The shaft was circular and three spans wide, like the one that had led him into the cavern he had mistaken for the Midworld. Standing under it and stretching up his arm with the light-box, he thought he could even make out a brownish something that might be a shield closing it at the top. When he stood on his toes, he could just get his hands onto the smooth walls of the shaft; but that was no matter. He planted himself directly under the opening, bent his knees, leaped. As he shot up into the opening, he put out his arms and knees, braced himself, came to rest. A thrust and a wriggle, and he was half an ell farther up; now he could support himself with hands and one foot against one side, back against the other. Hampered a little by the bundle across his shoulders, he was still able to climb rapidly enough. In a few moments his head was touching the brown hollow disk that closed the shaft. He touched it, and it swung aside; a black cusp widened to a circle. He was up, through it into darkness that turned suddenly to a flicker of pale light.

As those vast arching shapes exploded around him in a kind of silent sizzling, Thorinn flattened himself to the floor. The cold shield was under his hand; he slapped it, felt it swing, felt the cool upward breath, then the shaft walls were burning his hands and knees as he braked his fall; the shield swung over his head and the light was gone.

With pounding heart, Thorinn hung in the shaft and stared upward. There was no sound. He tried to remember what he had seen: vast arcs of light that swooped up flickering into the darkness... What could it have been? He held himself ready to let go and drop instantly, if the shield should begin to turn; but nothing happened. At last he climbed the shaft again.

He put his hand on the shield, turned it carefully. A lozenge of darkness appeared; there was no sound, no scent of danger. Thorinn widened the opening until it was black and round above him. With painstaking caution he thrust his head up; then, bracing himself to hold the shield open, he raised his arm with the light-box. Darkness. He raised himself a little, head and shoulders through the opening; and a sudden flicker burst almost under his chin, ran away swooping and shimmering upward in multiple arcs...

When he ducked his head, the flickering died; darkness returned. He raised himself again. The lights sprang up, flickering, swooping far overhead. They steadied, burned clear and cold. Thorinn raised himself a little more, cautiously, then still more, and climbed out.

He was standing at the bottom of a vast tunnel whose walls curved up to become the ceiling an incredible distance overhead. The lines of light ringed it; the nearest of these, only an ell away, was a white ribbon that curved up, up, growing thinner until it was no more than a bright thread above. On either side of it were others, set three ells apart. In one direction they were dazzling bright, in the other much dimmer and more diffuse; he counted twenty of each. The reason for the difference, he saw, was that the rings were lighted only on one side, so that in one direction he saw not the lights themselves but their reflections in the tunnel wall. As he looked down the tunnel, the farthest rings were perfect upright circles, but those nearer to him grew fatter at the bottom until they were vast egg-shapes that leaned together overhead. He was trembling with awe; why had the box not made him understand how huge these tunnels were? He felt himself tiny and exposed; the distant rings were like giants' eyes staring. He glanced at the closed shield in the floor, then leaned to examine the nearest ring more closely. The floor was made of some smooth, hard substance; embedded in it, the ring stood up two spans high, hollow on the bright side, flat on the other, with a flat dark edge the breadth of his hand. He touched the dark surface cautiously, then the bright: one was as cool as the other.

He hopped over it and took a stride toward the next ring. Far down at the black end of the tunnel there was a flicker: a new ring inside the others. Thorinn stared at it. Something was wrong. He turned, counting the bright rings, and there were still twenty.

He began to hop in long floating strides down the middle of the tunnel. Each time he soared over one of the rings, a new one appeared ahead; the eye of blackness at the end of the tunnel remained always the same. He thought of the pictures in the box, and of the egg-shaped things that darted along the tunnels, up and down the giant shafts. And did the lights follow them wherever they went, so that where they were, there was light, and when they had passed, the tunnel waited in darkness?

He began to move faster, in order to see the bright rings run on ahead. A kind of exhilaration took him, and he ran faster and faster, as if he could catch the fleeing rings of light. The tunnel slipped by him in deathly silence, and again he began to feel that he was not moving at all, but posturing motionless in the air while the illusory tunnel flowed past him, out of one nothingness into another. Without warning, the black eye at the end of the tunnel flared bright. Thorinn stumbled to a halt. What had been a black disk an instant ago was now a globe of light, striped with faint dark lines as if it were a spinning top, and for a moment the illusion was so strong that he almost turned to flee, certain that the monstrous globe, which filled the tunnel, was whirling down upon him. Then he saw that it was not bulging, but hollow: he was looking through the end of the tunnel into some vast lighted space beyond. As he approached, the last ring of the tunnel grew enormous around him, and he saw that the space beyond was a great shaft, striped with horizontal rings of light. Here, if anywhere, the geas would make itself felt again. He set down his bundle, opened his wallet, and drew out the wrapped parcel of figurine, sticks, gray powder. He set the figurine upright on the floor, in the glow of the ring. Around it he made a circle of crossed sticks, and inside the circle poured the gray powder. He took tinder and shavings from his wallet, dropped them along the circle of sticks. He drew out his fire stick, loaded it with more tinder, drove the plunger home. A feeling of tension gathered inside him. He dropped the burning tinder on the pile, breathed it into flame, chanted, "Die, Goryat! Die, Goryat, die!" The sticks kindled, the flame ran around the circle, the gray powder flared up with a whoosh. The figurine was obscured for a moment; when the smoke cleared, its face was blackened. The tension was gone; there was an emptiness in its place. Thorinn hopped forward. Where the tunnel met the shaft, it flared out smoothly above and below; the floor dropped away with a deceptive gentleness, like water pouring over the lip of a chasm, and the light-rings became ovals instead of circles. To either side, the upright rings gave way to the horizontal rings of the shaft. He had only to descend to the lowest ring in the flared mouth of the tunnel, then step onto the nearest horizontal ring and begin to climb.

Thorinn hoisted his bundle to his shoulders again, climbed down the slope onto the first horizontal ring. The dark upper surface of the ring was flat and level, and two spans wide; he was able to hop upon it with ease, knowing that if he stumbled he could reach up to catch himself against the lighted surface of the ring. He was aware of the gulf beside him, but did not think of it. Above, the shaft was lighted for sixty ells, then vanished into darkness.

He began to climb: one hand on the curving under-surface of the ledge above, a hop, the other hand on the top of the ledge; then both hands on top, pulling himself up; one knee over, a twist, and he was sitting on the ledge. Up to his feet, reaching for the ledge above, a hop, a twist, over and over. As he climbed, he thought of Goryat: had he really killed the old man? He was sure not. But what a shock it must have given him!

Pausing to rest, he glanced down into the great pit and thought he saw a movement, a flicker of wings. Now he was sure. The dark shape drifted nearer, growing as it came. Now he could see the cruel head tilted up, the yellow eyes staring. It was a great gray bird with pinions of polished metal. The beak opened, the great wings beat the air. Thorinn turned, drawing his sword, but all his movements were sluggish, benumbed. The bird was on him, blotting out the light; the wings buffeted his face. The ledge tilted away, gone; he was twisting in the air.

Go down, said the voice triumphantly.