Changer (Athanor) (70 page)

A step at a time, the Head walks toward his goal, noticing the shine in Louhi’s eyes and wondering if it is pride alone, or if perhaps it just might be love.  At that moment, to his dreams of possessing her body, he adds that of possessing her heart.

Might she love him?  She has reason, for he is made largely of the two men with whom she has been the most deeply obsessed.  He is shaped, however, by her hand and craft, rather than by their own capricious whims.

Never mind.  Soon Louhi will look at him with love… whether she chooses to or not.  Her own words have reminded him of the way.

“I have him for you!” Vera crows over the phone.  “Duppy Jonah has finally relented.”

Arthur is stunned to silence.  He has grown accustomed over the past two months to the idea that he must deal with his present difficulties without his wizard to counsel him.  The situation has taken on the light of a particularly bad omen.  After all, didn’t the legends agree that part of the reason for Camelot’s fall was that the king was without his mystic guide?

“You did!  How?  When?” he sputters, unable to word his requests more clearly.

“I did.  How?”  Vera chuckles.  “I suggested that Lovern get to work on some magical means to permit electronic equipment to work underwater.  He complained at first…”

Arthur can imagine this easily.

“Then he got to work on the project.  Duppy Jonah was pretty generous with him—gave him Odd and Pod for assistants—and had the selkies fetch him whatever gear he requested.  I think Lovern’s fidelity to his captivity was what finally decided Duppy Jonah.  Lovern could have requested the means for weapons or escape, but he kept faith.”

“I’m proud of him,” Arthur says.  “I didn’t know he possessed such humility.”

“Lovern isn’t humble,” Vera qualifies, “but he isn’t a fool.  I’d like to believe that he has learned something.”

“Have you told him about the theft?” Arthur says delicately.  He had requested that she not, being uncertain how Lovern would react and not wishing to torment the wizard when he was effectively helpless.

“I have acceded to your request and not done so,” Vera says formally, “but I did tell Amphitrite, and if she told Duppy Jonah…  Well, Arthur, the Sea King is no fool either.”

“No,” Arthur agrees.  “He is not.  Are you returning, too?”

“I am.  I promised you that I would be there for this new visitation.”  Vera sighs.  “Have you learned anything further about what we may expect?”

“Sasquatches, yeti, satyrs, fauns,
kappa, tengu
, a few
pooka
.  That seems to be it.”

“Quite an ‘it,’” Vera comments.

“True.  Frank MacDonald will almost certainly be there with his jackalopes, ancient ravens, the Cats of Egypt, eagles, and such.  I’m not certain whose side he’s on.  He’s accepted hospitality here, but that may be because he isn’t certain that the animals would be comfortable at a hotel.”

“And the Changer?”

“No word.”

“And Sven and his crew?”

“Nothing.”

“How’s Eddie’s leg?”

“Doing better.  Anson is coming back, too.  Jonathan Wong has promised his help if I need him.”

“Have him come,” Vera prompts.  “Everyone respects him, and he may be vital if some sort of amendment to the Accord needs to be drawn up.”

“I’ll call, then.”  Arthur is happy enough now to chuckle.  “Eddie has been after me to do much the same.  Are you certain that you two aren’t coordinating behind my back?”

“Positive.”

“How long until you are home?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.  We’re catching an early flight.”  She pauses, but Arthur can tell by some nuance in her breathing that she is not finished speaking.  “And we won’t be alone.”

“No?”  Arthur has already guessed but he must ask.  “And who will be coming with you?”

“Amphitrite, Duppy Jonah, and at least one of their selkie courtiers.  They have decided that if changes are being discussed about such important matters, they wish to be present.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, whooshes it out.  In all his memory the Sea King has never come inland.  Sometimes he has come onto a beach as a great seal, but never has he taken human form.

“Tell Their Majesties that I am awed and honored.  Will they do us the honor of staying with us?”

“Yes,” Vera says.  “I suggest that you give them my suite.  I never moved back after Anson’s visit.”

“Thank you for the offer.”

“One of the reasons we’re coming back a few days before the meeting starts is so that Duppy Jonah will have an opportunity to adjust to the new surroundings,” Vera says, her tone balanced between pleasure at having brought Arthur the good news about Lovern and concern about how the King is reacting to the rest.

“That seems wise.”  Arthur projects approval into his tone.

“Well, then,” Vera says, sounding relieved, “I’d better go and finish coordinating everything on this end.”

“Go then, Lady Grey Eyes,” Arthur answers.  “I can see that we will have much to do as well.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Arthur Pendragon, once King of all the Britains, sets down the telephone receiver.  He cannot decide whether to laugh or cry.  The Lustrum Review which he had so worried about had been a rumble of thunder before the real storm.

He sighs and shrugs.  He’d better go find Eddie and make certain that the roof doesn’t leak.

In the higher reaches of the Sandias, the nights are now most definitely chilly.  Shahrazad is growing into her ears and limbs.  These days, no one could mistake her for either a puppy or a somewhat canine fawn.  She is definitely a coyote.

You look so much like your mother my heart weeps tears as bitter as pine tar,
the Changer thinks, looking at her.  
I wonder what she would think of you.  Nothing, probably, except that vague, warm joy that another young one has lived to see the moon’s face turn.  And I, too, feel that joy, even as I look at my lover’s image growing out of puppyhood.

The Changer has had much time for introspection during this last long unwrapping of days.  Unlike many of his animal incarnations, he has not permitted himself to lapse into the animal life.  No matter how much he longs for that simple, animal oblivion, he does not dare.  One-eyed, with potential enemies unpunished, he cannot simply be coyote.

One-eyed.  

That angers as much as it inconveniences.  Despite his most skillful reworking of his body—reworking that has descended into the level of the cells and even deeper—he has not been able to rid himself of the magical taint.  His entire identity is wrapped up in being the Changer.  To be saddled with an infirmity he cannot change not only pains him—it makes him doubt his essential identity.

Moreover, it makes him ravenous.

Time and again, he has considered going to Arthur and requesting help.  Time and again he has rejected the idea.  Nor does he have any illusions why he has refused to ask for help.  He knows that he is proud.  He likes giving aid or requesting what is his due.  But creeping down, crippled, begging for the same aid he had refused weeks before.

No!

The Changer rises from where he had denned beneath a spreading evergreen and shakes the needles from his fur.  Shahrazad comes romping over, eager to join him in whatever venture he plans.  Evening is coming on, a good time for hunting, and she is always hungry.  Vaguely she remembers a place that was always warm and where her belly was never empty.  She views its loss with philosophical regret.  

Most things change: day into night, wet into dry, hunger into fullness, warmth into cold.  Perhaps this will change as well.  For now the Big Male is up and walking about.  There will be mice to eat, perhaps even a rabbit.

The Changer knows the immediacy of her viewpoint.  With quiet sincerity he envies her as he never envied all the rulers of the earth.

Whistling happily, Rebecca Trapper unfolds lengths of dark green cloth from the wide, flat, shipping box that had arrived that morning.  When she holds it up and shakes it, the cloth resolves into a forest green robe, long enough to conceal her feet.  There is a matching sash trimmed with gold and a turban.

Donning the ensemble, she discovers that the sleeves can be buttoned away from her hands or draped forward to conceal them.  The fabric is lightweight, but the color is dark enough that even a strong lamp doesn’t turn it embarrassingly translucent.

“Bronson!  Bronson!” she calls.  “Come see what came in today’s mail!”

Bronson Trapper stomps in from where he has been cleaning the mink pens.  Seeing his wife clad all in flowing green, a turban on her head, her large eyes shining happily, he hoots softly.

“You look like a man,” he says.

“Thank you!”  She hugs him.  “Do you really think I’ll pass?  Try on yours!”

Bronson wonders if any of them will pass, but he must admit that Rebecca looks like a tall, rather hirsute man.  She resembles a Neanderthal (Poor sods.  His grandfather had said they just couldn’t compete) rather than an Arab.  Still, a veil would attract more attention than it would dissuade.

“Try combing your facial hair into a shape closer to the way human males wear it,” he suggests, trying on his own robe.  “It’s a pity we don’t grow mustaches.”

“We could get some false ones,” Rebecca suggests, combing her side whiskers so that they more closely resemble a silky black beard.

“No,” Bronson grunts.  “That’s asking for trouble.”

As if all of this isn’t
, he thinks morosely.

The green robes fit with tailored perfection—not surprisingly, since Rebecca had measured both of them with persnickety care.  Looking at himself in the mirror, he has to admit the color goes well with his reddish brown fur—far better than the Sikh’s pure white would have.  The discussion group in the computer chatroom had decided to avoid white lest they insult any real Sikhs.  The stylistic similarity had been viewed as far safer.

“Bronson,” Rebecca says admiringly, “you look wonderful!”

She comes over to him and rubs her nose against his.  He feels a groin-warming thrill and hugs her tightly.  “Maybe I should wear a robe all the time if this is how you feel about it,” he teases.

“Oh, no!” she protests.  “I always like how you look.  It’s just that you look so… formal and mysterious.  Like a high priest of ancient Persia.”

Bronson’s rambles had stayed within North and South America, but he has seen pictures of the men to whom Rebecca is alluding and is complimented.

“Are all the theriomorphs dressing like this?” he asks, thinking that a mob of them would make quite an impression.

“No, just the sasquatch and yeti.  The fauns and satyrs can get by with baggy pants and tailored boots.  
Tengu
shapeshift, as do
pooka
.  I really don’t know what the
kappa
are planning.”

Bronson, recalling some of the disgusting practices rumor attributes to the yellowish green, monkeylike
kappa
, swallows a rather rude comment.

“I’m certain that the Moderator has something in mind for them,” Rebecca finishes happily.  “I only wish we could include more of the dispossessed.  Monk told me that some unicorns were actually considering attending, but Frank MacDonald convinced them that their safety couldn’t be even as assured as ours is.”