Changeling (Illustrated) (10 page)

XII
.

Strange feelings came and went. Each time that they came they were a little stronger; each time they departed some residuum remained. It was difficult to pin them down, Dan thought, as he drove a peg into a fence post, but perhaps they had something to do with the land itself—this place that felt so familiar, so congruent to his tastes . . . 

A cow strayed near, as if to inspect his work.

No, go
that way,
he willed.
Over there,
and his wrist felt warm, as with power overflowing, spilling from his fingertips, and the cow obeyed his unspoken command.

 . . . Like that, he decided. It feels right, and I get better at it all the time.

A peg shattered under a hammer blow and a splinter flew toward his face.

Away!
he commanded, without thinking.

Reflex-like, something within him moved to stop it, and the fragment sped off to the right . . . And like that.

He smiled as he finished the work and began collecting his tools. Shadows were growing across the pasture as he looked back along the lengths of fencing he had repaired. It was time to wash, to get ready for the dinner, the performance.

For three days now he had stayed at Nora’s uncle’s place, sleeping in the barn, turning his hand to odd jobs the old man had been unable to get to. In that time, his familiarity with the language had grown, just as Mor had said it would, almost as if he were remembering . . . 

Mor . . . He had not thought of him for a time. It was as if his mind had locked away the entire experience of his journey to this place in some separate, off-limits compartment. It was just too bizarre, despite the fact that he walked where he now walked. But now, the effects of distancing made him cast back, examining that magical walk, wondering how his absence was being taken in his own world. He was surprised to find that his own past, now, was beginning to feel dream-like and unreal. Whereas this land . . . 

He drew a deep breath. This was real, and somehow it felt like home. It would be good to meet more of the neighbors.

As he cleaned the tools and stored them in their places, he thought about the evening’s steer roast at the field in toward town. Real country living this, and he was enjoying it. He could think of worse places to be stuck for life. And afterwards, of course, he would play for them . . . He had been itching to get his hands on his guitar all day. There seemed peculiar new effects—para-musical, as it were—that he could manage in this place, and he wanted to experiment farther. He wanted to show these things off, for the neighbors, for Nora . . . 

Nora. He smiled again as he stripped off the heavy workshirt belonging to her Uncle Dar and walked back to bathe in the creek before donning his own garments. She was a pretty little thing. It was a shame to see her so frightened by the local inventor of a few mechanical toys . . . 

And if this—Mark Marakson—were indeed Michael’s son . . . He could almost see some genetic factor operating both in the aptitudes and the total lack of appreciation for possible reactions to their operation. Too bad he wasn’t back home and in the business. He and Michael would probably have gotten along well.

But, as he washed the sweat and dust from his body, another thought came to trouble him. Why was he here? Mor had spoken with some urgency, as if his presence were a necessary thing. For what? Something involving Mark’s creations. He snorted. It did seem to have been something of the sort, mentioned only in the vaguest of terms. But what mechanical menace could a society this simple turn out in a single generation? And why call upon
him
to combat it? No. He felt under-informed and the subject of an enigmatic old man’s alarmist fantasies. But he did not feel victimized. When he got his bearings, he would learn more about this place, though he already felt it to be in many ways preferable to the society from which he had strayed. Why, he might yet become a genuine minstrel . . . 

He dried himself with a piece of rough sacking and donned the loose, long-sleeved white shirt he had worn upon his arrival. He changed back into his black denim trousers, but retained the boots he had been given. They fit him well and seemed functionally superior to the shoes he had worn on his hike between the worlds.

He combed his hair, cleaned his fingernails and grinned at his reflection in the water. Time to get his guitar and meet Nora and her uncle. Things were looking up. He whistled as he walked back toward the house.

There were bonfires and lanterns casting impressive shadows. The remains of feasting were even now being gathered up from about the field. At first, Dan felt as if he should not have had those extra glasses of wine, and then he felt that he should have. Why not? It was a festive occasion. He had met a great number of the villagers, anxious for some diversion after the unpleasant events of several days past, and he had succeeded with some grace in parrying questions concerning his homeland. Now he was ready to perform.

He dallied a little longer, until the bustle had ceased and people began seating themselves about the low hill he was to occupy. The lanterns were moved nearer, encircling it.

He made his way forward then, breaking the circle, mounting the rise, the instrument case a familiar weight in his right hand. There came a soft flutter of applause and he smiled. It was good to feel welcome after only a few days in a new place.

When he reached the top, he removed the guitar from its case and put on the strap. He tuned it quickly and started to play.

Partway through the first tune, he began feeling at ease. The good mood grew within him as he played several more and began singing in his own tongue. Then he attempted the first of a group he had tried translating into theirs. It was well-received, and he swung immediately into another.

Looking out over his audience, he could only distinguish the expressions on the nearest faces—smiling or concentrating—in the lantern light. The listeners farther back were partly hidden by shadows, but he assumed similar attention from their immobility, from their joining in the applause whenever he rested. He saw Nora off to the left, seated near her uncle, smiling.

He broke into a virtuoso number of his own composition, a rousing piece which kept increasing in tempo. He suddenly wanted to show off. He rocked back and forth as he played. A breeze tousled his hair, rippled his garments . . . 

It must not have been the first gasp, which reached him during the first lull. He would not have heard any earlier exclamation over his playing. But there were also murmurs, where before there had been only applause or silent attention. There came an indistinguishable cry from the back of the audience. He looked all about, attempting to ascertain its cause.

Then, “Devil!” he heard distinctly from nearby, and something dark flew past his head.

“The mark! The mark!” he now heard, and a stone struck him on the shoulder.

“Dragonmark!”

He realized that his right sleeve had been drawn back almost to his elbow during the last number, exposing his birthmark. But still, why should it cause such alarm?

“Detson!”

A shock went through him at that last word. He instantly recalled old Mor’s telling him that his name was actually Pol Detson. But—

The next stone struck him on the forehead. He dropped the guitar into the case and snapped it shut, to protect it. Another stone struck him. The crowd was on its feet.

He felt a terrible anger rise within him, and his wrist throbbed as it never had before. Blood was running down his brow. His chest was sharply struck by another cast stone.

He stumbled as he attempted to raise the case and turn away. Something struck him on the neck, something sounded against the case’s side . . . 

The crowd had begun to move forward, past the lanterns, up the hill, slowly, stopping to grope for missiles.

Away!
He was not aware whether he had shouted it or sounded it only in his mind, accompanied by a broad, sweeping motion of his right arm.

People stumbled, fell, tripped over lanterns. All of the other lanterns seemed to topple spontaneously. There were dark shapes in the air, but none of them struck him. The grasses at the foot of the knoll began to take fire. The cries that now came up to him seemed less angry than frustrated, or frightened.

Away!

He gestured again, his entire arm tingling a sensation of warmth flowing through his hand, out his fingertips. More people fell. The flames spread about them.

Clutching his guitar case, he turned and fled down the rear of the hill, leaping over sprawled forms and low fires, his breath almost a sob as he tore across the field, heading toward the dark wood to the north.

The anger subsided and the fear grew as he ran. His last glance back before he entered the trees seemed to show him the beginnings of pursuit. Supposing they fetched horses? They knew their own country and he had no idea where he was headed. There might be all sorts of places where they could cut him off, and then—

Why
?
he wondered again, dodging about trees, crashing through underbrush, wiping spiderwebs from his face, blood from his eyes. Why had they suddenly turned on him when they had seen the mark? What could it mean to them?

After stumbling for the third or fourth time, he halted and stood panting, resting his back against the bole of a large tree. He could not be certain how near his pursuers might be, unable to distinguish other sounds over his breathing and the heavy beating of his heart. But this wild rushing was doing him no good. He was hastening exhaustion in addition to leaving a well-defined trail. To move cautiously, to expend his energies more economically . . . Yes. He would have to proceed differently.

Mor had addressed him as the possessor of some power, and he was not blind to the feet that he had just exercised it in a wild fashion in escaping. Back home, save for mainly playful interludes in smoky, late-night clubs, he had always striven to suppress it, to keep it under control. Here, though, he already had the name of witch or wizard, and if there were some way that that power could serve him further, he was ready to learn it, to use it to the confusion of his enemies.

His thoughts turned to the obvious connection, the mark upon his wrist, as his breathing became more even. Immediately, he felt the warmth and the heightened sense of his pulsebeat.

He continued to dwell upon it in his mind.
What is it, specifically, that I need?
he wondered.

A safe way out of here, to a place of safety,
he decided.
The ability to see where I am going and not run into things . . . 

As he attempted to order this, he felt the forces within him stir, then saw the dragonmark clearly, despite the darkness. It seemed to move, brightening, then drift away from his arm to hover in the air before him, glowing faintly.

It passed slowly to the left and he followed it, its pale light dimly but surely illuminating his way. He lost all track of time as he pursued its passage through the forest. Twice, it halted, when he realized how tired he had become. On these occasions, he rested—once, beside a stream, where he drank deeply. 

He remembered very few details of that long first night of his flight, save that at some point he realized that his way had taken a turn uphill and that this remained his course until light began to seep through the leaves overhead. With this, a sense of fatigue and time passed came over him, and he began casting about for a place to sleep. Immediately, his firefly dragon veered to the right, heading downhill for what must have been the first time in hours.

It led him among a maze of boulders to a small, rock-shielded dell, and there it hovered. Accepting the omen, he sprawled in the grass. From somewhere nearby, there came the sound and smell of running water.

He fell asleep almost immediately.

When he awakened, it was late in the day. His ghostly guide was gone, he ached in a number of places and he was hungry.

The first thing that he did was to remove his guitar from its case and inspect it for damage. He found that it had come through the night’s ordeal intact. Then he sought the water—a small stream, a hundred or so meters to the right of the rocks—where he stripped and bathed and cleaned his wounds. The water was too chill for comfort, so he did not dally there. The sun was already falling fast, and he felt he could continue in relative safety.

Continue? At what point had his flight become a journey? He was not certain. Possibly while he slept. For it did feel now that his glowing guide had been doing more than helping him escape the villagers. Now he felt, intuitively—certainly not logically—that there was a definite destination ahead for him, that his will-o’-the-wisp had been guiding him toward it. He decided to let it continue on, if it would, though first it would be nice to find some food . . . 

He repeated the process which had summoned the guide, and it came again, paler in this greater light, but sufficiently distinct to direct his course. As he followed it, he wondered whether it would be visible to another person.