The Warlock Rock (18 page)

"Away, hussy!" Cordelia caught Magnus's hand. "What, brother! Wilt thou be enslaved by thine own waking dream?"

Magnus shook himself, and turned away from the purple nymph, moving slowly and mechanically, but moving.

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"Tis I shall be thy slave," the purple youth purred. "Only stay with me!" Cordelia wavered, leaning toward his ready embrace.

Magnus's head snapped up as though he'd been slapped. Then his eyes narrowed, and he strode forward to catch Cordelia's wrist. "Why, what a poxy lie is this, that would seek to entrance a maiden with her own longings! Begone, foul seducer! My sister's not for thee!" And to Cordelia, "What—wilt thou not wait for a true love who's truly real? Is not a real man, however flawed, of greater worth to thee than barren dreams?"

"Mayhap not," she murmured, but fell into step with him. "I cannot tell…"

"I can!" Magnus proffered his arm, somehow managing to catch her hand around his biceps without releasing his hold on her wrist. "Come away, fair sister! Come, walk with me… so! Forever, we shall walk together… and thus shall we save one another!"

And so they did, each following the other's movements, step by step, up out of the haze of illusion, back into the light of day.

Before them, their brothers marched, following the robot, whose horse sense could pierce through dreams.

As they caught up, Gregory was saying plaintively, "Yet how can I prove it, Fess? How can I know that I am real?"

"Aye." Geoffrey was scowling. "This Bishop Berkeley that thou dost speak of—was he not right? Does nothing exist if it is not perceived?"

"That is a matter decided some years ago," Fess answered, "if ever it can be." He lashed out with a hoof, and a rock spun through the air, bounced off a tree, and fell to the forest floor—all without missing a beat. "Thus did Dr. Johnson refuteBerkeley ," Fess replied. "And I submit that, like Dr. Johnson, you, Geoffrey, gave as much evidence as we can have, when you batted the acid rock into the pit." Gregory perked up. "Why, how is that proof? If 'tis our eyes that are fooled as well as our ears, did we truly see the rock fly through the air, or did we but dream it?"

"'Twas true enough for me," Geoffrey assured him. "The stone did sail through the air; I saw it do so, I felt the shock as the stick hit the rock!"

"That was Doctor Johnson's point when he kicked a cobblestone, Geoffrey."

"Yet his eyes might be deceived as easily as thine ears," Gregory objected.

"And what of his foot?" Geoffrey jeered.

"Yet that too could have been illusion! The sight of the rock flying through the air was only what mine eyes did tell me! It might be as much illusion as that purple castle—for did not mine eyes also tell me of that?"

"Yes," said Fess, "but your senses were distorted when they received that impression, distorted by the
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purple haze."

"Were they?" Gregory challenged. "How are we to know that?"

"Because I did not see them directly," Fess answered. "I perceived them only at second hand, through your thoughts."

Gregory stopped, eyes losing focus. "Nay, then… Assuredly, they were not there…"

"Yet, Fess, we will not always have you with us," Magnus said.

"I fear not. Remember, then, that Bishop Berkeley's main point holds—we cannot totally prove what is real and what is not; some iota of faith is necessary, even if it is only faith that what we perceive, when our senses are clear, is real."

"Yet how are we to know if it is truly real, or is not!"

"By whether or not it is there when you come out into the light again," Fess said severely, "by whether or not what you see by night is still there in the morning: by your interaction with other objects, and their interaction with you. The cobblestone might have been illusion, but if so, it created a very convincing illusion of flying away from Dr. Johnson's foot. Dr. Johnson may have been an illusion, but I suspect he had a very convincing sense of pain when his toe hit the cobble."

"But we cannot prove…" Gregory let the sentence trail off, not sounding terribly worried anymore.

"Thou dost say that whether it is real or not, it will hurt as though it was," Geoffrey amplified. "My sword may be an illusion, but it will nonetheless spill another illusion's blood."

"You approach the solution. What if you had touched the gleaming rock, even though I bade you not to?"

"Then my illusory hand would have felt illusory agony, and my illusory skin would have rotted as the illusory acid seemed to eat it away," Geoffrey answered, "and my illusory self would liefer not, thank you!

Thou mayest burn thine own illusion, an thou dost wish!"

"But then… our whole frame of reference may be illusion…" Gregory ventured, his expression troubled.

"That is the point." Fess nodded. "It is real within our frame. Whether it is ultimately real or not is beside the point; it is pragmatically real. It is the reality you must live with, like it or not."

"I see." Gregory's face cleared. "It may not be ultimate, but it is the only reality we have."

"Even so."

Magnus frowned. "Then the purple lad and lavender lass, they were not real at all?"

"Certes, they were not real!" Cordelia said with a shudder, "and I thank thee for saving me from them, brother."

"As I thank thee, for saving me," Magnus returned. "Yet how can we have needed saving from them, if they were not real?"

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"Because they were real illusions," Fess explained. "Be sure, children—illusions can do as much harm as anything else in this world. By clouding your perception of reality, illusions can kill."

Many miles away, Rod and Gwen finally began to hear the roar of surf. Coming out of the forest, they found themselves on a rocky beach with a thin strip of sand near the foaming breakers.

"How beautiful!" Gwen exclaimed.

"It is," Rod agreed, gazing at the dark green mass of water, smelling the salt air. "I keep forgetting." They strolled toward the tide line, watching the gulls wheel about the sky. But they couldn't hear them—

whenever there was a lull in the sound of the surf, all they could hear was the snarling and beating of the music of the metallic rocks.

"Here?" Gwen cried. "Even here ?"

"I suppose," Rod said with resignation. "They fanned out from wherever they originated—and there's no reason why this edge of the fan should end, just because it's come to the ocean." Something exploded, just barely heard above the roar of the surf, and they saw a rock go flying off into the waves. The other rock went…

"Duck!" Rod dove for the sand, pulling Gwen with him. The rock sailed by right where her head had been.

"Look!" Gwen pointed.

"Do I have to?" Rod was noticing how wonderfully the fragrance of her hair went with the scent of the surf.

"Oh, canst thou never pay heed to aught else when I am by?" she said, with exasperation (but not much).

"See! The' waves do hurl the rock back at us!"

Rod followed the pointing of her finger and saw the new rock come sailing back, shooting by over their heads. They heard its whining thumping as it hurtled past.

"The sea will not have it!" Gwen exclaimed.

"Sure won't." Rod pointed to a yard-wide swath of thumping, twanging stones at the edge of the water, shifting like sand with each surge and ebb of the waves. "Thank Heaven." He had a sudden vision of the sea filling up with layer upon layer of stones, each vibrating with its own rasping beat. Then he realized that the same phenomenon was happening on land. "Gwen—is there any end to how many music-rocks can be produced?"

She shrugged. "As much as there is a limit to the witch-moss of which they are made, my lord."
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"And there's no shortage of that—new patches crop up after every rain. It spreads like a fungus—which it is." Rod struggled to his feet. "Come on. We've got to find out where those rocks come from and put a stop to their making, or they'll bury the whole land."

"Husband, beware!" Gwen cried. "The waves…"

Rod leaped back as a new wave towered above him. "My Lord! Where did that one come from?" The new wave hammered down on the heavy metal rocks and, for a moment, their music was drowned in its roar. Then, as the wave receded, the music made itself heard again. Gwen came up behind Rod, touching his arm. "Husband mine… the music…"

"Yes," Rod said. "It has changed again."

"But can we call that a change?" Gwen murmured.

It was a good question. The music had the repetitive melodic line and metrical beat they had first heard, near Runny mede.

"Well, it's a change," Rod said, "but it seems as though that wave has washed everything new out of them. It's the same music as it was at first."

"No, wait." Gwen frowned. "I think…"

Rod waited, watching her closely.

Finally, Gwen shook her head. "What e'er it was, 'twas so slight that I could not distinguish it. For all that I can tell, 'tis as it first was."

"And so we end where we began." Rod caught her hand and turned away. "Come on—if the music can go back to its beginning, so can we."

"To the place where the music began?"

"Yes. Every time a rock split, we followed the northern pebble—and this is where it ends. Time to swing south. If this is the end, the beginning must be down there."

"There is sense to that." Gwen fell in beside him, but found a huge swell of peace and joy in her heart. To be walking with him, by the sea, was enough; she found she didn't really care whether or not they found what they were looking for.

"This rock music has a strange effect on me," Rod muttered.

"I am glad," Gwen murmured.

"How's that again?"

"Naught."

"Oh. Right." Rod's stride became more purposeful. "Yes. We do have to find the source of this rock
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music, you know."

"Oh, aye."

"That's right. The stones already around are all well enough, but we've got to choke off the source, before Gramarye is totally buried under rock."

"Yes," Gwen agreed, "we must."

And they went off south, hand in hand, with the sea and the sunset on their right, and a land of music on their left.

* * *

Far to the south, Magnus came wide awake. He frowned, looking about the clearing where they had camped for the night. The embers of the fire showed him the blanket-wrapped forms of his brothers and sister, and the bare outline of Fess, black against night, brooding over the scene. What had wakened him?

"I heard him, too, Magnus," the great black horse assured him. "It is no dream." But Magnus didn't even remember a dream of someone talking. Before he could ask, "What?" it came again, inside his head. Magnus . His father's voice.

Aye, Papa, he answered, watching his siblings.

We're on the way back now, Rod said. Where are you ?

Some ways south and west of Runnymede, Papa, Magnus replied, and looked up at Fess with a question.

Ninety-eight miles southwest of Runnymede, Rod, Fess advised.

Right. We're about fifty miles northwest of you, Rod said. Should meet you in two days, but it could be tomorrow about noon. Should we rush ?

Magnus looked at Fess again, then said, There is no need .

Good. See you tomorrow, then.

Papa, wait!

Yes, my son?

What hast thou found?

Some things that are very interesting, but nothing that seems to provide much information, Rod reported. Tell you all about it over dinner two nights from now .

Aye, Papa. Safe journey to you.

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Godspeed. And he was gone.

Magnus lay down again, feeling rather disconcerted. But after all, at seventeen, he couldn't very well admit that he had felt reassured by even the mental presence of his father—now, could he? No, of course not. Not even to himself. Instead, he rolled up in his blankets and recited a koan. He fell asleep listening for the sound of one hand clapping.

The next evening, Gregory piped up, "I am hungry."

"Let it not trouble thee," Geoffrey advised. "It is but illusion."

"Illusion or not, you had best answer it with real food." Fess came to a halt, turning back to face them.

"Or would you rather have an illusory dinner?"

"True substance, by choice." Geoffrey pressed a hand over his stomach. "Now that I bethink me of it, my little brother speaketh aright."

" 'Tis only past sunset, Geoffrey."

The boy shrugged. "I care not. I can be a-hungered at any hour."

"Yet thou didst dine but four hours agone."

"Aye, 'tis gone indeed." Geoffrey frowned around him. "There is sign of game hereabouts. Mayhap we should hunt down our dinner now."

"What," Magnus scoffed, "lose time for naught but an empty belly? Nay, where is thy soldier's fortitude?"

"It hath fled with the last of my dried beef," Geoffrey answered. "Naetheless, thou hast the right of it, brother—I must endure."

But Gregory' pointed to a column of smoke that stood against the sky. "Yon are folk. Mayhap they will have some victuals to sell."

They followed the path through the trees, till it opened out into a meadow. "Go warily, children," Fess cautioned. "Let us be sure they are friendly."

"As thou wilt." Cordelia sighed, and stepped through the last screen of leaves.

"It is certainly no village," Geoffrey said.

All over the meadow, young men and women were sitting up and shaking their heads, as though waking. They yawned, stretched, and put something in their mouths. A few were straggling down to a stream to drink and splash water on their faces; others were returning, far more sprightly than when they had left. Two others added sticks to a small tongue of flame, their movements quick, but so energetic that they sometimes nearly buried it.