Year of the Unicorn

17 Who is Gillan?

I came to a place which was walled, yet open to the sky. It was filled with a pale yellowish light which acted to conceal rather than reveal what might walk there. And just within the entrance I halted to peer ahead.

“Gillan?” For the first time my lips moved, my throat produced sound.

And the sound there, in that place, was shattering, breaking some age-old bond. So I needs must set my hands over my ears in protest against the echoes I awakened. For that name came back to me distorted, made into an alien thing which was not mine.

They came in answer, moving through the light, one, two—more of them until they stood in an unending line, stretching back into obscurity. A hundred mirrors, repeating a reflection a hundred times—and each entirely like its companions.

A slender body, white of skin, bearing above her ribs the faint mark of the Hound sword, on her arm the sign of beast fangs, both healing or healed. Dark hair sweeping from an upheld head—I saw myself, but not just once—again and again and again!

And they all made answer, speaking in myriad voices, but still the one and same:

“I am here.”

I had been two, now it would seem I was a troop! That which made Gillan had splintered, broken, been cast to the winds, never to be united again. So I stood, watching that company, the hunger in me raging unsatisfied. For I did not know any spell or sorcery which would draw that oft splintered Gillan back to me.

It seemed to me that they watched me at first blankly, as bodies which moved without souls or minds. And then there grew in those eyes a cold hostility to me. I had no guide, the words which come to me were unthought—a protest—

“We are one!”

“We are many,” they denied me.

“We are one!” I held to that, as if with that very statement I could make it fact.

The line stirred, their heads turned from me, they were beginning to return into the light—they were going! I moved forward, seized upon the nearest Gillan, held her fast with what strength I had in me. It was as if I had fastened my fingers about polished stone, cold, lifeless, inimical to the flesh which touched it. She looked at me then, that Gillan I held, standing without attempting to throw off my hold, but as if she were a dumb thing obedient to aught which would force its will upon her.

I do not know what I expected then—that she might flow into me, be a small answer to my hunger. Nothing happened, save that she alone of that company stood fast.

“That is not Gillan.”

Words, again shattering the air of that enclosure. I loosed my grip in my surprise, looked around to he who spoke.

A shadow? No, that figure had more substance than shadow. However, it was dark, visible only in that darkness and in the two sparks of green which were near its top—eyes? The silhouette it made against the wall flowed and changed as I watched. Sometimes a man stood there, again it was beast or monster.

“There are but two real Gillans,” it spoke in a hissing whisper, “you and she whom you seek. And that is the one you must find.”

“But—” I looked back to the company. She whom I had held was still to be seen, fading back into the light in wake of those who had gone before.

“She is hidden, one among the many.” The shadow told me.

“And how will I know her—the right one?”

“By the power in you, if you use it right.”

“How?”

“That is your own mystery, Gillan. But time grows short. If you linger here, you will be lost, just one more among the many—”

I could not depend upon that tie, that hunger which had led me here. It was as if it fastened me only to this place and not to any of the Gillans. But now—I swung once more to the shadow by the gate and the gate—for the hunters were here! Those which had trailed me from the forest had come.

And the shadow knew that. I saw the turn of his head, the sparks of his eyes vanished. The silhouette changed, was now that of a crouching cat—a cat?

Through the gate scuttled a many-legged thing—part spider, part something out of no world any human knew, larger than a mountain hound. It drew its legs in under it as if crouching to spring. But the cat shadow struck out at it with a large paw and the thing moved with surprising speed to avoid that blow.

“Find—Gillan. I will hold the gate—” came the whisper from the shadow and the echoing sibilance appeared to daunt the spider foe, surprising it.

So I went on into the light, leaving the shadow embattled at the gate, in search of one who was hidden among many, yet not knowing what would be the result of such a finding, if I were able to do so.

I closed my eyes against the dazzle of the light, tried to open instead my mind, to sharpen and hone the desire that was in me to assuage my hunger. My power, the shadow had said. Well enough, this was the only way I had yet learned to use it—as a weapon and a defence. So would I employ it now, a weapon against puzzlement, a defence against my emptiness.

Thus did I stand unmoving, spinning out my power in quest, hunting, searching for a spark of truth among the false. It meant that I must shut out all else, my fear of the hunters, the sounds of battle from behind, my own failing strength—all but the quest for Gillan.

I was no longer a body walking on two legs, swinging two arms, reaching two hands for grasping of what I would take. I was only desire, disembodied, a wraith—I did not see, nor feel, nor think—

Then—I was Gillan! The other Gillan. Curled into her, filling her emptiness! But—my triumph was a quick dying spark—I was not whole. I had found my Gillan true enough among the company wandering in that wilderness of light, now I must return her to the Gillan from which I had fled.

Once more I moved through the confusing radiance. Muted sounds—the fighting by the gate. The Gillan who had been me had stood near there—I must use sound to guide me. But this body obeyed me clumsily. It needed vast effort to set one foot before the other, as if now I inhabited a semblance of Gillan which could be moved only by concentration on each and every muscle in turn. Thus I stumped back towards the sound.

My awkwardly moved foot touched against something on the ground. I tottered and fell—to lie beside Gillan. She was not cold stone under my fumbling fingers, but flesh, chill flesh. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight in them, no breath filled her lungs. She was—dead!

I think I cried out then as I clumsily gathered the other into my stiffly moving arms so we lay together as might lovers, the dead and that which should never have been wrought at all.

So they had won in the end, had the Were Riders. My mind stirred with memories. There was only one of me, the one who was biddable to their plans. But—that was not true! This was me—the real me! They had not won—yet—

I stared down into that dead face. Now I was in exile. I would never be complete until I returned to my proper dwelling which was this body I held in my arms. But how? Witch they had named me—a witch who knew not her craft.

Gillan! For the first time the two Gillans were together, locked body to body. How had this begun—with one Gillan left behind, struck by an arrow, lying under a tree in this world, and the other taken away by the beasts. Beasts! That promise Herrel had wrung from Hyron—that the Riders must aid me—

If they would fulfil it now!

In my mind I summoned a picture of Hyron—as a man, not as a raging stallion which was his shape change. And upon that man I concentrated my pleading.

Was it Hyron’s thoughts reaching mind—or some scrap of witch lore answering my need? Death and life—they were the opposite in this world, Gillan had died here afore time, to give birth to Gillan—this Gillan in whom I now dwelt. Therefore, this Gillan must die so that that other could live again. But how? I had no weapon to hand—did not know whether I would have the courage to use it if I did—for what I guessed might not be the truth.

Hyron—give me death—

There came no answer. But there was death in this place. And it did not only lie in my arms. It was like a creeping, seeping tide spreading from the gateway. No longer did I hear the muted sounds of attack and defence from there. That shadow which had stood to bar the gate and win me time—the shadow with green eyes, and a cat shape for battle—

Herrel?—

My thought reached out. As it had to find the other Gillan, so now did I try to touch the defender.

Herrel?—

A reply, faint. But—Herrel could grant me that death which was life. I began to crawl to the gate, dragging with me that other Gillan. It was a journey of exhausting trial, for my new body was so stiff and clumsy, reacted so poorly to my will that the burden was doubly hard to carry.

Herrel?—

This time even more faint the answer. I crawled out of the thick of the light into the space before the gate. The spider things lay there, one still kicking convulsively. And the shadow who had fought to buy me time was huddled against the wall, drawn in upon itself as if to nurse a gaping wound, while ringing it were other shadows and these I knew—the masters of the spider hounds—those twittering things which haunted the ashen forest.

I kneeled by the (body which I had brought forth from the light. Herrel had slain the hounds, he still held their masters at bay, but he was hurt. I gazed upon that scene, and remembered, and in me grew an anger such as I had never known before, I who had schooled my emotion through inborn need for control. Had I had the power with which all credited me I would have loosed it in that instant to cleanse the ground of this foul crew.

Anger could strengthen, could rid the mind of shadows and doubts—or so I found it at that instant. I opened myself to anger, held no barriers against it. Then I was out among that pack tormenting what they dared not face in open battle. I do not know whether I struck them with my fists, beat upon them—or whether that great and glorious rage made of me a torch of force, which withered them as they stood. But they reeled from my path, and I drove them before me out of the gate as one might drive timid woodland things by the mere force of one’s steps upon a forest path.

Surprise was my ally, but they might return. And Herrel—the other Gillan—time indeed had threaded sand too far through the glass for us. United—did I have a chance to serve us both better?

But when I came back against the wall, green eyes upon me.

“You—are—not—she—” his whisper was very faint.

“I am the other one—” I began.

He winced.

“You are hurt—” I would have gone to him but he waved me off with a sharp gesture.

“Where is she?”

“There—” I pointed to the body I had brought out of the light.

He wavered away from the wall, his form unstable, now a man falling to his knees beside that silent form, now an animal on all fours.

“She is dead!” His whisper was harsher, louder.

“For a space. Listen, Herrel, to make this Gillan I now wear they slew me—in this world. Therefore, should I be now slain, it must follow that I live again—in that body—”

I do not think that he understood or even heard me. So I came to stand above that body and then he raised his head, his eyes blazing—and in them a rage like unto that which had made of me a force only moments earlier.

He was not a cat now, but man, still there was a beast’s unminding ferocity in his eyes. He struck up and out at me, shadow sword in shadow hand.

Pain through me—such pain as was an agony to tear me apart—

Golden light, and in that light I must find Gillan—that other Gillan—but I had found her! was in her—or was I? I sat up from lying on cold ground. A body—white—but it was fading away like mist! Their Gillan—the false one! Then I was whole again—myself!

I hugged my arms across my breasts, holding in what was me. Then I ran my hands down the length of my body, knowing it to be real. No longer was I empty but filled! Filled with all they had stolen from me.

Herrel! I looked around. The shadow whose sword thrust had set me free—No shadow here, no sign it had ever been, save those dead monsters at the gate. “Herrel!”

The echoing of my own cry rang deafeningly in my ears. Had he made answer then I would not have heard it. I walked between the dead spider hounds to the gate. If their masters lurked without I did not see them.

Herrel?—As I had done when I sought the other Gillan, I used the inner calling. But to it came no reply.

Yet I was aware, just as I had been on my first awaking in the ashen forest, that I was, in a manner, still tied to this ghost world. And that which tied me so was Herrel. Must I go seeking him as I had my other self?

I had not closed my eyes, nor sought for any inner vision at that moment. But before me was a shadow horse. He struck out with a fore foot, not at me, but as if to part some curtain for a clearer meeting.

Come—

The word was an imperative command. But I did not obey it.

Herrel?—I made that both question and refusal. The maned head tossed high in impatience. But he gave me no answer and I demanded in turn:

Where is he?—

Fled.—

Fled? That I did not believe. He who had held the gate against the monster, who had bought me time to his own hurt, and who had swordbought my deliverance. Why should he flee?

Hyron must have read my thought for he answered it.

He flees from that deed he did here—

But he freed me! He could have served me no better—

Who is Gillan?—The question seemed meaningless.

I am Gillan!—Of that I had no doubts.

To him Gillan lies dead, by his hand.—

No!—So plain was it all to me that I could not readily believe Herrel had not also seen the truth.

Yes. Come, we can not long hold open the way between the worlds.—

And Herrel?—

Again the stallion tossed his head.—He chose to tread this road, knowing well the danger. Upon him be his own fate—

“No!” This time I spoke aloud, sending echoes buzzing. “No, and no, and no! Herrel comes forth.”

You also choose your path, witch—

You are oath-bound to aid us.—

There comes an end to all oaths. You have now your other self, as Herrel won it for you. Even our united strength can not hold this opening long. Come back to life, or go into nothingness in time and space.—

He had given me the choice. I was not oath-bound to any course. Save that I knew this, in this moment I could not take the steps which would win me safety, that there was that in me which refused what I could not share. I eyed the shadowy Hyron as I answered:

Hold as you can. Mayhap I will also find that which is another part of Gillan, or her life, as I did not know it until now.—

Now the shadow horse stood still, and those golden eyes which were the most alive part of him studied me.

Your choice, witch. Do not ask for a second one.—

Knowing you, I do not.—I retorted, and in me again stirred that anger which had sent me at the sulking things.

Hyron’s shadow form flickered, was gone. I stood where I was. With that other Gillan I had had a bond, so deep a bond, to guide me. With Herrel—what did link me to Herrel? A sense of gratitude, of shared danger, of dependence (as much as I had ever depended upon another)? None of those were deep enough to form a leading tie.

Hyron had asked me—who is Gillan? And I had answered him out of triumph, pride and knowledge—I am Gillan. But only because Herrel’s sword had made it so could I say that.

Now I must ask myself—who is Herrel—what is he—to me.

I thought of our first meeting in the bridal dell when he had come to me in the mist because I had chosen his cloak out of those lying on the velvet sward. Taller than I, very slender, a boy’s smooth face, holding eyes as old as the hills of High Hallack—that was the first Herrel. Then the feline, lying in relaxed slumber on a moonlit bed, awaking to the peril of sorcery as a net spread about us both—the second Herrel. Again the cat, crouched, eager for battle, sliding down and away to hunt those of Alizon—and he who had returned in man-form from that fight to stand with me against the anger of the Were Riders.

Another Herrel who had wooed me, to whom I did not yield, and a Herrel who had sprung at me in blood-lust. The Herrel I had seen appealing to forces and powers for my healing while the Werefires blazed about me and I lay covered with a blanket of flowers. A Herrel who had ridden with me through the day, who had waited for moonrise, telling me of his land and his loneliness—

A Herrel who was shadow fighting embodied evil to win me time—and who thought he had slain a shadow because reality lay dead—

Who is Herrel—all these and more. That was the truth stripped of all illusion, that of his people, that of my own pride. Who is Herrel? He is another part of me, as Gillan was a part. And without him, do I go bereft and lacking all my days!

Thus—as I sought Gillan—yes! This was the right way, the only way! As I sought the Gillan sorcery had made, so must I seek the Herrel which had made himself a thing which could walk this land. Again I put forth my quest call—

I came out from the gate of that place of yellow light. Must I return to the ghost-wood? Or plunge farther into this world without sun or moon, change in time?

Herrel?—

No answer, but a sense of drawing, of that I was sure. Not back to the wood, forward, bending on it all my powers of concentration.

Something scuttled in the rocks before me. A master with more spider hounds baying on Herrel’s trail? That trail, so faint for me, might be plain for their sniffing. Still it must be mine also, if I would win to my desire.

If this world did not have a night and day according to the pattern I had always known, it would seem it had changes in weather of a sort. There was a wind rising about me, but, I noted, it blew neither hot nor cold, merely as a wind which brushed my body, tugged at my hair. And I stopped to pull that to the back of my head, fastened it there with a length of grass plucked from a tussock. That mist which had dogged my path across the bog-valley and the plain withdrew, or else the wind tattered it into nothingness.

I was on a hillside, and ahead climbed other hills, up to massive mountains which were threatening purple against a sky never plain to see. Around the heads of the mountains crackled swords and spears of lightning fire and there was a rumbling—to be felt rather than heard.

The storm, if storm this was, had not yet hit the hills about me. I climbed among the rocks, which were broken and twisted, taking on all manner of evil shapes, suggesting they hid greater horrors, lurking to spring, rend and tear. I reached the top of the rise. Still that thread, thin as any spider’s weaving, led me on. I looked down into a dusky dip. There was a trickle of liquid running there and from it arose hazy smoke, while it was as dull red as dying coals.

Along its bank a figure moved. It did not walk straight, but wove a staggering path from side to side, sometimes falling, but ever pulling up again to struggle on.

“Herrel!” Hunters to be roused or no, I cried that aloud, throwing myself at the down slope.

The stumbling one halted, but he did not turn. Then he went on at a hobbling run, reaching out to grab at holds to pull himself along. I lost my footing and fell, rolling down to come up against an earth embedded rock. I put my hand to my spinning head, blinked at stones and earth which were no longer steady. “Ssssss—”

The thing had scrambled to the top of a boulder facing me, hunkered there, slavering so that the spittle dripped thickly from its almost lipless mouth. Lipless that mouth might be, but it was well equipped with pointed fangs. Above was a slit which must serve it for nose, and then very large eyes, lacking pupils, flat and dull. But that they could well see me I did not doubt.

Its skull was round and hairless, the ears slits like unto its nose. But the worst was its monstrous resemblance to man—though no man could be as this horror. With skeleton fingers to its mouth it produced a kind of whistling, very high and shrill, hurting my ears. And it was answered. I was hemmed in by the hunters I had driven from Herrel. But that they would flee a second time from anger—that was too much to hope. Nor could I summon that super-human rage to serve me.

“Herrel!” The moment that cry left my lips I repented it. What magic could he summon to our salvation? I would merely draw him back into the worst of traps. The thing on the rock turned its head from side to side. It sat on all fours like an animal, raising one hand now and then to its mouth. Slowly I got to my feet, waiting for it to spring. Another round head came into view, a third, a fourth—How soon would they pull me down? I stopped and caught up a stone. They carried no weapons I could see, and perhaps I could give some account of myself. At the same time all that was sane in me, all the heritage of my own world, shuddered at the thought of any close contact with these nightmare things. The first of the creatures lifted its head high, opened wide its jaws and squalled.

Pride is a great deceiver. We who choose to walk apart from our fellows wear it, not as a cloak, but as an enshelling armour. I who had asked nothing from my fellows—or thought I asked nothing—in that moment I was stripped of a pride which broke and fell from me, leaving me naked and alone. I faced not death as I knew it, as I had felt it in this world, but something infinitely beyond human death, which we have been told is in reality a beginning. From this there would be no issue save a blackness it is not given my kind to face with a mind untouched by madness.

Perhaps madness did possess me now. I think I shrieked, that I called upon gods whose names had no power here, that I cried aloud for any help which might be given me. I do not know this for truth, but I think it is so.

And help came then, stumbling, weaving, but still on his feet, sword ready. Even as I struck with that stone which was my only weapon, so did Herrel come, shadow still, but alive, able to answer my plea.

Of that fighting in the rocky, stream cut valley I remember but little. I do not want to remember parts of it. But the end—that I shall always hold in memory—he who stood between two rocks, pushing me into safety behind him. His sword was a live thing, and from that blade those things flinched and cringed. Though they strove, they could not pull him down. Until at last the survivors fled and left us.

“Who are you?” Herrel held to the rock as if he dared not trust his own strength to stand erect. “Who are you?”

He held up his hand, from his wrist dangled his sword by a cord. His fingers moved, slowly, painfully as if this was some effort almost past his making, and in the air he drew a symbol.

Fire, blue, so bright that my eyes were dazzled. But I called out trying to put the truth that was into my voice:

“I am Gillan. Truly, Herrel, I am Gillan!”