Enchanted Pilgrimage (10 page)

“Mark,” said Hal, “I think there is little danger of it. A few miles north of where mine host was hanged, the trail branches, the left fork leading to the Tower, the right into the Wasteland. Beckett, I am sure, would have taken the right fork. I should have followed the trail to see, but it seemed to me important we should be on our way as soon as we could manage.”

“The Wasteland?” Mary asked. “He is heading for the Wasteland?”

Hal nodded.

She looked around the circle at them. “And you, as well, you go into the Wasteland?”

“Why do you ask?” asked Oliver.

“Because I myself, in my infancy, may have come from the Wasteland.”

“You?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I do not remember. I was so young I have no memory or almost no memory. There are, of course, certain memories. A great sprawling house sitting on a hilltop. People who must have been my parents. Strange playmates. But whether this was the Wasteland, I do not know. My parents—well, not my parents, but the couple that took me in and cared for me, told me how they found me, toddling down a path that came out of the Wasteland. They lived near the Wasteland, two honest old people who were very poor and had never had a child they could call their own. They took me in and kept me, and I loved them as if they had been my parents.”

They sat in silence, staring at her. Finally she spoke again.

“They worked so hard and yet they had so little. There were few neighbors, and those were far away. It was too near the Wasteland. People were not comfortable living so near the Wasteland. Yet it never bothered us. Nothing ever bothered us. We grew some corn and wheat. We raised potatoes and a garden. There was wood for chopping. There was a cow, but the cow died one winter of the murrain and there was no way to get another. We had pigs. My father—I always called him father, even if he wasn't—would kill a bear or deer and trap other creatures for their furs. He would trade the furs for little pigs—such cute little pigs. We kept them in the house for fear of wolves until they had grown bigger. I can remember my father coming home with a little pig tucked underneath each arm. He had carried them for miles.”

“But you did not stay,” said Cornwall. “Happy, you said, and yet you did not stay.”

“Last winter,” she said, “was cruel. Both snow and cold were deep. And they were old. Old and feeble. They took the coughing sickness and they died. I did what I could, but it was little. She died first and he next day. I built a fire to thaw the ground and chopped out a grave for them, the two of them together. Too shallow, far too shallow, for the ground was hard. After that, I couldn't stay. You understand, don't you, that I couldn't stay?”

Cornwall nodded. “So you went to the inn.”

“That is right,” she said. “They were glad enough to have me, although you never would have known it from their treatment of me. I was young and strong and willing to work. But they beat me just the same.”

“You'll have a chance to rest when we get to the Tower,” said Cornwall. “To decide what you want to do. Is there anyone who knows what kind of place the Tower might be?”

“Not much of anything,” said Hal. “An old defense post against the Wasteland, now abandoned. Once a military post, but now there is no military there. There is the bishop only, although why he's needed there, or what he does, no one pretends to know. A few servants, perhaps. A farm or two. That would be all.”

“You have not answered me,” said Mary. “Do you go into the Wasteland?”

“Some of us,” said Cornwall. “I go. I suppose Oliver as well. There is no stopping him. If I could, I would.”

“I was in at the first of it,” said Oliver. “I'll be in at the end of it.”

“How far?” asked Gib. “How long before we reach the Tower?”

“Three days,” said Hal. “We should be there in three days.”

15

The Bishop of the Tower was an old man. Not as old, Gib thought, as the hermit, but an old man. The robes he wore, once had been resplendent, with cloth of gold and richest silk, but now they were worn and tattered after many years of use. But, looking at the man, one forgot the time-worn, moth-ravaged robes. A depth of compassion robed him, but there was a sense of power as well, a certain feeling of ruthlessness—a warrior bishop grown old with peace and church. His face was thin, almost skeletal, but fill out those cheeks and broaden out the peaked nose, and one could find the flat, hard lines of a fighting man. His head was covered with wispy white hair so sparse it seemed to rise of itself and float in the bitter breeze that came blowing through the cracks and crevices of the time-ruined tower. The fire that burned in the fireplace did little to drive back the cold. The place was niggardly furnished—a rough hewn table, behind which the bishop sat on a ramshackle chair, an indifferent bed in one corner, a trestle table for eating, with benches down either side of it. There was no carpeting on the cold stone floor. Improvised shelving held a couple of dozen books and beneath the shelving were piled a few scrolls, some of them mouse-eaten.

The bishop lifted the leather-bound book off the table and, opening it, riffled slowly through the pages. He closed it and placed it to one side. He said to Gib, “My brother in Christ, you say he passed in peace?”

“He knew that he was dying,” Gib said. “He had no fear. He was feeble, for he was very old.…”

“Yes, old,” said the bishop. “I remember him from the time I was a boy. He was grown then. Thirty, perhaps, although I don't remember, if I ever knew. Perhaps I never knew. Even then he walked in the footsteps of the Lord. I, myself, at his age was a man of war, the captain of the garrison that stood on this very spot and watched against the Wasteland hordes. It was not until I was much older and the garrison had been withdrawn, there having been many years of peace, that I became a man of God. You say my old friend lived in the love of the people?”

“There was no one who knew him who did not love him,” said Gib. “He was a friend to all. To the People of the Marsh, the People of the Hills, the gnomes …”

“And none of you,” said the bishop, “of his faith. Perhaps of no faith at all.”

“That, your worship, is right. Mostly of no faith at all. If I understand rightly what you mean by faith.”

The bishop shook his head. “That would be so like him. So entirely like him. He never asked a man what his faith might be. I distrust that he ever really cared. He may have erred in this way, but, if so, it was erring beautifully. And I am impressed. Such a crowd of you to bring me what he sent. Not that you aren't welcome. Visitors to this lonely place are always welcome. Here we have no commerce with the world.”

“Your grace,” said Cornwall, “Gib of the Marshes is the only one of us who is here concerned with bringing you the items from the hermit. Hal of the Hollow Tree agreed to guide us here.”

“And milady?” asked the bishop.

Cornwall said stiffly, “She is under our protection.”

“You, most carefully, it seems to me, say nothing of yourself.”

“Myself and the goblin,” Cornwall told him, “are on a mission to the Wasteland. And if you wonder about Coon, he is a friend of Hal's.”

“I had not wondered about the coon,” said the bishop, rather testily, “although I have no objection to him. He seems a cunning creature. A most seemly pet.”

“He is no pet, your grace,” said Hal. “He is a friend.”

The bishop chose to disregard the correction, but spoke to Cornwall, “The Wasteland, did you say? Not many men go these days into the Wasteland. Take my word for it, it is not entirely safe. Your motivation must be strong.”

“He is a scholar,” said Oliver. “He seeks truth. He goes to make a study.”

“That is good,” the bishop said. “No chasing after worldly treasure. To seek knowledge is better for the soul, although I fear it holds no charm against the dangers you will meet.”

“Your grace,” said Cornwall, “you have looked at the book …”

“Yes,” the bishop said. “A goodly book. And most valuable. A lifetime's work. Hundreds of recipes for medicines that can cure the ills of mankind. Many of them, I have no doubt, known to no one but the hermit. But now that you have brought me the book, in time known to everyone.”

“There is another item,” Cornwall reminded him, “that the hermit sent you.”

The bishop looked flustered. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I quite forgot. These days I find it easy to forget. Age does nothing for one's memory.”

He reached out and took up the ax, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he unwrapped it, stared at it transfixed once he had revealed it. He said nothing but turned it over and over, examining it, then laid it gently in front of him.

He raised his head and stared at them, one by one, then fixed his gaze on Gib. “Do you know what you have here?” he asked. “Did the hermit tell you?”

“He told me it was a fist ax.”

“Do you know what a fist ax is?”

“No, your grace, I don't.”

“And you?” the bishop asked of Cornwall.

“Yes, your grace. It is an ancient tool. There are those who say …”

“Yes, yes, I know. There are always those who say. There are always those who question. I wonder why the hermit had it, why he kept it so carefully and passed it on at death. It is not the sort of thing that a holy man would prize. It belongs to the Old Ones.”

“The Old Ones?” Cornwall asked.

“Yes, the Old Ones. You have never heard of them?”

“But I have,” said Cornwall. “They are the ones I seek. They are why I am going to the Wasteland. Can you tell if they do exist, or are they only myth?”

“They exist,” the bishop said, “and this ax should be returned to them. At sometime someone must have stolen it.…”

“I can take it,” Cornwall said. “I'll undertake to see that it is returned to them.”

“No,” said Gib. “The hermit entrusted it to me. If it should be returned, I am the one—”

“But it's not necessary for you to go,” said Cornwall.

“Yes, it is,” said Gib. “You will let me travel with you?”

“If Gib is going, so am I,” said Hal. “We have been friends too long to let him go into danger without my being at his side.”

“You are all set, it seems,” the bishop said, “to go marching stoutly to your deaths. With the exception of milady …”

“I am going, too,” she said.

“And so am I,” said a voice from the doorway.

At the sound of it Gib swung around. “Sniveley,” he yelled, “what are you doing here?”

16

The bishop, when he was alone, ate frugally—a bowl of cornmeal mush, or perhaps a bit of bacon. By feeding his body poorly, he felt that he fed his soul and at the same time set an example for his tiny flock. But, a trencherman by nature, he was glad of guests, who at once gave him an opportunity to gorge himself and uphold the good name of the Church for its hospitality.

There had been a suckling pig, resting on a platter with an apple in its mouth, a haunch of venison, a ham, a saddle of mutton, a brace of geese, and a peacock pie. There had been sweet cakes and pies, hot breads, a huge dish of fruit and nuts, a plum pudding laced with brandy, and four wines.

Now the bishop pushed back from the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin of fine linen.

“Are you sure,” he asked his guests, “that there is nothing else you might require? I am certain that the cooks …”

“Your grace,” said Sniveley, “you have all but foundered us. There is none of us accustomed to such rich food, nor in such quantities. In all my life I have never sat at so great a feast.”

“Ah, well,” the bishop said, “we have few visitors. It behooves us, when they do appear, to treat them as royally as our poor resources can afford.”

He settled back in his chair and patted his belly. “Someday,” he said, “this great and unseemly appetite of mine will be the end of me. I have never been able to settle quite comfortably into the role of churchman, although I do my best. I mortify the flesh and discipline the spirit, but the hungers rage within me. Age does not seem to quench them. Much as I may frown upon the folly of what you intend to do, I find within myself the ache to go along with you. I suppose it may be this place, a place of warriors and brave deeds. Peaceful as it may seem now, for centuries it was the outpost of the empire against the peoples of the Wasteland. The tower now is half tumbled down, but once it was a great watch tower and before it ran a wall, close to the river, that has almost disappeared, its stones being carted off by the country people to construct ignoble fences, henhouses and stables. Once men manned the tower and wall, standing as a human wall of flesh against the encroachments and the depredations of that unholy horde which dwells within the Wasteland.”

“Your grace,” said Sniveley, far too gently, “your history, despite the centuries, is too recent. There was a day when the humans and the Brotherhood lived as neighbors and in fellowship. It was not until the humans began chopping down the forest, failing to spare the sacred trees and the enchanted glens, not until they began building roads and cities, that there was animosity. You cannot, with clear conscience, talk of encroachments and depredations, for it was the humans—”

“Man had the right to do what he wished with the land,” the bishop said. “He had the holy right to put it to best use Ungodly creatures such as—”

“Not ungodly,” said Sniveley. “We had our sacred groves until you cut them down, the fairies had their dancing greens until you turned them into fields. Even such simple little things as fairies …”

“Your grace,” said Cornwall, “I fear we are outnumbered. There are but two of us who can make a pretense of being Christian, although I count the rest as true and noble friends. I am glad they have elected to go into the Wasteland, with me, although I am somewhat concerned …”