The Complete Compleat Enchanter (62 page)

They joined hands again and Shea, constricting his brow with effort, ran through the sorites again, this time altering one or two of the terms to give greater energy. As he reached the end, time seemed to stand still for a second; then
crash!
and a flash of vivid blue lightning struck the tree nearest them, splitting it from top to bottom.

Belphebe gave a little squeal, and a chorus of excited voices rose from the camp.

Shea gazed at the fragments of the splintered tree and said soberly: “I think that shot was meant for us, and that just about tears it, darling. Pete, you get your wish. We’re going to have to stay here at least until I know more about the laws controlling magic in this continuum.”

Two or three of Cuchulainn’s men burst excitedly through the trees and came towards them, spears ready. “It is all right that you are?” one of them called.

“Just practicing a little magic,” said Shea, easily. “Come on, let’s go back and join the others.”

In the clearing voices were no longer quenched, and the confusion had become worse than ever. Cuchulainn stood watching the loading of the chariot, with a lofty and detached air. As the three travelers approached he said: “Now it is to you I am grateful, Mac Shea, with your magical spell for reminding me that things are better done at home than abroad. It is leaving at once we are.”

“Hey!” said Brodsky. “I ain’t had no breakfast.”

The hero regarded him with distaste. “You will be telling me that I should postpone the journey for the condition of a slave’s belly?” he said, and turning to Shea and Belphebe, “We can eat as we go.”

The ride was smoother than the one of the previous day only because the horses went at a walk so as not to outdistance the column of retainers on foot. Conversation over the squeaking of the wheels began by being sparse and rather boring, with Cuchulainn keeping his chin well down on his chest. But he apparently liked Belphebe’s comments on the beauty of the landscape. As it came on to noon he began to chatter, addressing her with an exclusiveness that Shea found disturbing, though he had to admit that the little man talked well, and always with the most perfect courtesy.

The country around them got lower and flatter and flatter and lower, until from the tops of the few rises Shea glimpsed a sharp line of gray-blue across the horizon; the sea. A shower came down and temporarily soaked the column, but nobody paid it much attention, and in the clear sunlit air that followed everyone was soon dry. Cultivation became more common, though there was still less of it than pasturage. Occasionally a lumpish-looking serf, clad in a length of ragged sackinglike cloth wrapped around his middle and a thick veneer of dirt, left off his labors to stare at the band and wave a languid greeting. At last, over the manes of the horses, Shea saw that they were approaching a stronghold. This consisted of a stockade of logs with a huge double gate.

Belphebe surveyed it critically and whispered behind her hand to Shea: “It could be taken with fire-arrows.”

“I don’t think they have many archers or very good ones,” he whispered back. “Maybe you can show them something.”

The gate was pushed open creakingly by more bearded warriors, who shouted: “Good day to you, Cucuc! Good luck to Ulster’s hound!”

The gate was wide enough to admit the chariot, scythe blades and all. As the vehicle rumbled through the opening, Shea glimpsed houses of various shapes and sizes, some of them evidently stables and barns. The biggest of all was the hall in the middle, whose heavily-thatched roof came down almost to the ground at the sides.

Laeg pulled up. Cuchulainn jumped down, waved his hand, and cried: “Muirthemne welcomes you, Americans!” All the others applauded as though he had said something particularly brilliant.

He turned to speak to a fat man, rather better dressed than the rest, when another man came out of the main hall and walked rapidly towards them. The newcomer was a thin man of medium height, elderly but vigorous, slightly bent and carrying a stick, on which he leaned now and again. He had a long white beard, and a purple robe covered him from neck to ankle.

“The best of the day to you, Cathbadh,” said Cuchulainn. “This is surely a happy hour that brings you here, but where is my darling Emer?”

“Emer has gone to Emain Macha,” said Cathbadh. “Conchobar summoned her . . .”

“Ara!”
shouted Cuchulainn. “Is it a serf that I am, that the King can send for my wife every time he takes it into the head of him? He is . . .”

“It is not that at all, at all,” said Cathbadh. “He summons you, too, and for that he sent me instead of Levarcham, for he knows you might not heed her word if you took it into that willful head of yours to disobey, whereas it is myself can put a geas on you to go.”

“And why does himself want us at Emain Macha?”

“Would I be knowing all the secrets in the heart of a King?”

Shea asked: “Are you the court druid?”

Cathbadh became aware of him for the first time, and Cuchulainn made introductions. Shea explained: “It seems to me that the King might want you at the court for your own protection, so the druids can keep Maev’s sorcerers from putting a spell on you. That’s what she’s going to do.”

“How do you know of this?” asked Cathbadh.

“Through Pete here. He sometimes knows about things that are going to happen before they actually take place. In our country we call it second sight.”

Cuchulainn wrinkled his nose. “That ugly slave?”

“Yeh, me,” said Brodsky, who had approached the group. “And you better watch your step, handsome, because somebody’s going to hang you up to dry unless you do something about it.”

“If it is destined none can alter it,” said Cuchulainn. “Fergus! Have the bathwater heated.” He turned to Shea. “Once you are properly washed and garbed you will look well enough for the board in my beautiful house. I will lend you some proper garments, for I cannot bear the sight of those Fomorianlike rags.”

Three

Along the side of the main hall was an alcove made of screens of wattle, set at an angle that provided privacy for those within. In the alcove stood Cuchulainn’s bathtub, a large and elaborate affair of bronze. A procession of the women of the manor were now coming in from the well with jugs of water, which they emptied into the tub. Meanwhile the men were poking up the fire at the end of the hall and adding a number of stones of about five to ten pounds’ weight.

Brodsky sidled up to Shea, as they stood in the half-light, orienting themselves. “Listen, I don’t want to blow the whistle on a bum rap, but you better watch it. The racket they have here, this guy can make a pass at Belphebe in his own house, and it’s legit. You ain’t got no beef coming.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Shea, unhappily. “Look there.”

“There” was a row of wooden spikes projecting from one of the horizontal strings along the wall, and most of these spikes were occupied by human heads. As they watched Laeg brought in the head bag and added the latest trophies to the collection, pressing them down firmly. Some of those already in place were quite fresh, while others had been there so long that there was little left of them but a skull with a little hair adhering to the scalp.

“Jeepers!” said Brodsky, “. . . and if you start beefing, he’ll put you there, too. Give me time—I’ll try to think of some way to rumble his line.”

“Make way!” shouted a huge bewhiskered retainer. The three dodged as the man ran past them, carrying a large stone, smoking from the fire, in a pair of tongs. The man dashed into the alcove. There was a splash and a loud hiss. Another retainer followed with a second stone while the first was on his return trip. In a few minutes all the stones had been transferred to the bathtub. Shea looked around the screen and saw that the water was steaming gently.

Cuchulainn sauntered past into the bathroom and tested the water with an inquisitive finger. “That will do, dears.”

The retainers picked the stones out of the water with their tongs and piled them in the corner, then went around from behind the screen. Cuchulainn reached up to pull off his tunic, then saw Shea.

“I am going to undress for the bath,” he said. “Surely, you would not be wanting to remain here, now.”

Shea turned back into the main room just in time to see Brodsky smack one fist into the other palm. “Got it!”

“Got what?” said Shea.

“How to needle this hot tomato.” He looked around, then pulled Shea and Belphebe closer. “Listen, the big shot putting the scram on you now just reminded me. The minute he makes a serious pass at you, Belle, you gotta go into a striptease act. In public, where everybody can get a gander at it.”

Belphebe gasped. Shea asked: “Are you out of your head? That sounds to me like trying to put a fire out with gasoline.”

“I tell you he can’t take it!” Brodsky’s voice was low but urgent. “They can’t none of them. One time when this guy was going to put the slug on everyone at the court, the King sent out a bunch of babes with bare knockers, and they nearly had to pick him up in a basket.”

“I like this not,” said Belphebe; but Shea said: “A nudity taboo! That could be part of a culture pattern, all right. Do they all have it?”

“Yeah, and but good,” said Brodsky. “They even croak of it. What gave me the tip was him putting the chill on you before he started to undress—he was doing you a favor.”

Cuchulainn stepped out of the alcove, buckling a belt around a fresh tunic, emerald-green with embroidery of golden thread. He scrubbed his long hair with a towel and ran a comb through it, while Laeg took his place behind the screen.

Belphebe said, “Is there to be but one water for all?”

Cuchulainn said, “There is plenty of soapwort. Cleanliness is good for beauty.” He glanced at Brodsky. “The slave can bathe in the trough outside.”

“Listen . . .” began Brodsky, but Shea put a hand on his arm, and to cover up, asked: “Do your druids use spells of transportation—from one place to another?”

“There is little a good druid cannot do—but I would advise you not to use the spells of Cathbadh unless you are a hero as well as a maker of magic, for they are very mighty.”

He turned to watch the preparations for dinner with a somber satisfaction. Laeg presently appeared, his toilet made, and from another direction one of the women brought garments which she took into the bathroom for Shea and Belphebe. Shea started to follow his wife, but remembered what Brodsky had said about the taboo, and decided not to take a chance on shocking his hosts. She came out soon enough in a floor-length gown that clung to her all over, and he noted with displeasure that it was the same green and embroidered pattern as Cuchulainn’s tunic.

After Shea had dealt with water almost cold and a towel already damp, his own costume turned out to be a saffron tunic and tight-knitted scarlet trews which he imagined as looking quite effective.

Belphebe was watching the women around the fire. Over in the shadows under the eaves sat Pete Brodsky, cleaning his fingernails with a bronze knife, a chunky, middle-aged man—a good hand in a fight, with his knowledge of jujitsu and his quick reflexes, and not a bad companion. Things would be a lot easier, though, if he hadn’t fouled up the spell by wanting to stay where he was. Or had that been responsible?

Old Cathbadh came stumping up with his stick. “Mac Shea,” he said, “the Little Hound is after telling me that you also are a druid, who came here by magical arts from a distant place, and can summon lightning from the skies.”

“It’s true enough,” said Shea. “Doubtless you know those spells.”

“Doubtless I do,” said Cathbadh, looking sly. “We must hold converse on matters of our craft. We will be teaching each other some new spells, I am thinking.”

Shea frowned. The only spell he was really interested in was one that would take Belphebe and himself—and Pete—back to Garaden, Ohio, and Cathbadh probably didn’t know that one. It would be a question of getting at the basic assumptions, and more or less working out his own method of putting them to use.

Aloud he said, “I think we can be quite useful to each other. In America, where I come from, we have worked out some of the general principles of magic, so that it is only necessary to learn the procedures in various places.”

Cathbadh shook his head. “You do be telling me—and it is the word of a druid, so I must believe you—but ’tis hard to credit that a druid could travel among the Scythians of Greece or the Scots of Egypt, with all the strange gods they do be having, and still be protected by his spells as well as at home.”

Shea got a picture of violently confused geography. But then, he reflected, the correspondence between this world and his own would only be rough, anyway. There might be Scots in Egypt here.

Just then Cuchulainn came out of his private room and sat down without ceremony at the head of the table. The others gathered round. Laeg took the place at one side of the hero and Cathbadh at the other. Shea and Belphebe were nodded to the next places, opposite each other. A good-looking serf woman with hair bound back from her forehead filled a large golden goblet at Cuchulainn’s place with wine from a golden ewer, then smaller silver cups at the places of Laeg and Cathbadh, and copper mugs for Shea and Belphebe. Down the table the rest of the company had leather jacks and barley beer.

Cuchulainn said to Cathbadh: “Will you make the sacrifice, dear?”

The druid stood up, spilled a few drops on the floor and chanted to the gods Bile, Danu, and Ler. Shea decided that it was only imagination that he was hearing the sound of beating wings, and only the approach of the meal that gave him a powerful sense of internal comfort, but there was no doubt that Cathbadh knew his stuff.

He knew it, too. “Was that not fine, now?” he said, as he sat down next to Shea. “Can you show me anything in your outland magic ever so good?”

Shea thought. It wouldn’t do any harm to give the old codger a small piece of sympathetic magic, and might help his own reputation. He said: “Move your wine-cup over next to mine, and then watch it carefully.”

There would have to be a spell to link the two if he were going to make Cathbadh’s wine disappear as he drank his own, and the only one he could think of at the moment was the “Double, Double” from “Macbeth.” He murmured that under his breath, making the hand passes he had learned in Faerie.