New America (19 page)

“I’d enjoy that, thank you.” Sherrinford leaned back in his seat and stoked his pipe. If this had not happened spontaneously, he would have guided the conversation toward a similar outcome.

In the past he had had no incentive to study the folklore of the outway, and not much chance to read the scanty references on it since Barbro brought him her trouble. Yet more and more he was becoming convinced that he must get an understanding—not an anthropological study, but a feel from the inside out—of the relationship between Roland’s frontiersmen and those beings which haunted them.

A bustling followed, rearrangement, settling down to listen, coffee cups refilled and brandy offered on the side. The boy explained, “The last line is the chorus. Everybody join in, right?” Clearly he too hoped thus to bleed off some of the tension. Catharsis through music? Sherrinford wondered, and added to himself: No; exorcism.

A girl strummed a guitar. The boy sang, to a melody which beat across the storm noise:

“It was the ranger Arvid

rode homeward through the hills

among the shadowy shiverleafs,

along the chiming rills.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“The night wind whispered around him

with scent of brok and rue.

Both moons rose high above him

 and hills aflash with dew.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“And dreaming of that woman

who waited in the sun,

he stopped, amazed by starlight,

and so he was undone.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“For there beneath a barrow

that bulked athwart a moon,

the Outling folk were dancing

in glass and golden shoon.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“The Outling folk were dancing

like water, wind, and fire

to frosty-ringing harpstrings,

and never did they tire.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“To Arvid came she striding

from whence she watched the dance,

 the Queen of Air and Darkness,

with starlight in her glance.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.

“With starlight, love, and terror

in her immortal eye,

the Queen of Air and Darkness—”

“No!” Barbro leaped from her chair. Her fists were clenched and tears flogged her cheekbones. “You can’t—pretend that—about the things that stole Jimmy!”

She fled from the chamber, upstairs to her guest bedroom.

But she finished the song herself. That was about seventy hours later, camped in the steeps where rangers dared not fare.

She and Sherrinford had not said much to the Irons family, after refusing repeated pleas to leave the forbidden country alone. Nor had they exchanged many remarks at first as they drove north. Slowly, however, he began to draw her out about her own life. After a while she almost forgot to mourn, in her remembering of home and old neighbors. Somehow this led to discoveries—that he, beneath his professorial manner, was a gourmet and a lover of opera and appreciated her femaleness; that she could still laugh and find beauty in the wild land around her—and she realized, half guiltily, that life held more hopes than even the recovery of the son Tim gave her.

“I’ve convinced myself he’s alive,” the detective said. He scowled. “Frankly, it makes me regret having taken you along, I expected this would be only a fact-gathering trip, but it’s turning out to be more. If we’re dealing with real creatures who stole him, they can do real harm. I ought to turn back to the nearest garth and call for a plane to fetch you.”

“Like bottommost hell you will, mister,” she said. “You need somebody who knows outway conditions, and I’m a better shot than average.”

“M-m-m … it would involve considerable delay too, wouldn’t it? Besides the added distance, I can’t put a signal through to any airport before this current burst of solar interference has calmed down.”

Next “night” he broke out his remaining equipment and set it up. She recognized some of it, such as the thermal detector. Other items were strange to her, copied to his order from the advanced apparatus of his birthworld. He would tell her little about them. “I’ve explained my suspicion that the ones we’re after have telepathic capabilities,” he said in apology.

Her eyes widened. “You mean it could be true, the Queen and her people can read minds?”

“That’s part of the dread which surrounds their legend, isn’t it? Actually there’s nothing spooky about the phenomenon. It was studied and fairly well defined centuries ago, on Earth. I dare say the facts are available in the scientific microfiles at Christmas Landing. You Rolanders have simply had no occasion to seek them out, any more than you’ve yet had occasion to look up how to build power-beamcasters or spacecraft.”

“Well, how does telepathy work, then?”

Sherrinford recognized that her query asked for comfort as much as it did for facts, and he spoke with deliberate dryness: “The organism generates extremely long-wave radiation which can, in principle, be modulated by the nervous system. In practice, the feebleness of the signals and their low rate of information transmission make them elusive, hard to detect and measure. Our prehuman ancestors went in for more reliable senses, like vision and hearing. What telepathic transceiving we do is marginal at best. But explorers have found extraterrestrial species that got an evolutionary advantage from developing the system further, in their particular environments. I imagine such species could include one which gets comparatively little direct sunlight—in fact, appears to hide from broad day. It could even become so able in this regard that, at short range, it can pick up man’s weak emissions and make man’s primitive sensitivities resonate to its own strong sendings.”

“That would account for a lot, wouldn’t it?” Barbro said faintly.

“I’ve now screened our car by a jamming field,” Sherrinford told her, “but it reaches only a few meters past the chassis. Beyond, a scout of theirs might get a warning from your thoughts, if you knew precisely what I’m trying to do. I have a well-trained subconscious which sees to it that I think about this in French when I’m outside. Communication has to be structured to be intelligible, you see, and that’s a different enough structure from English. But English is the only human language on Roland, and surely the Old Folk have learned it.”

She nodded. He had told her his general plan, which was too obvious to conceal. The problem was to make contact with the aliens, if they existed. Hitherto, they had only revealed themselves, at rare intervals, to one or a few backwoodsmen at a time. An ability to generate hallucinations would help them in that. They would stay clear of any large, perhaps unmanageable expedition which might pass through their territory. But two people, braving all prohibitions, shouldn’t look too formidable to approach. And … this would be the first human team which not only worked on the assumption that the Outlings were real, but possessed the resources of modern, off-planet police technology.

Nothing happened at that camp. Sherrinford said he hadn’t expected it would. The- Old Folk seemed cautious this near to any settlement. In their own lands they must be bolder.

And by the following “night,” the vehicle had gone well into yonder country. When Sherrinford stopped the engine in a meadow and the car settled down, silence rolled in like a wave.

They stepped out. She cooked a meal on the glower while he gathered wood, that they might later cheer themselves with a campfire. Frequently he glanced at his wrist. It bore no watch— instead, a radio-controlled dial, to tell what the instruments in the bus might register.

Who needed a watch here? Slow constellations wheeled beyond glimmering aurora. The moon Aide stood above a snowpeak, turning it argent, though this place lay at a goodly height. The rest of the mountains were hidden by the forest that crowded around. Its trees were mostly shiverleaf and feathery white plumablanca, ghostly amidst their shadows. A few firethorns glowed, clustered dim lanterns, and the underbrush was heavy and smelled sweet. You could see surprisingly far through the blue dusk. Somewhere nearby, a brook sang and a bird fluted.

“Lovely here,” Sherrinford said. They had risen from their supper and not yet sat down again or kindled their fire.

“But strange,” Barbro answered as low. “I wonder if it’s really meant for us. If we can really hope to possess it.”

His pipestem gestured at the stars. “Man’s gone to stranger places than this.”

“Has he? I … oh, I suppose it’s just something left over from my outway childhood, but do you know, when I’m under them I can’t think of the stars as balls of gas, whose energies have been measured, whose planets have been walked on by prosaic feet. No, they’re small and cold and magical; our lives are bound to them; after we die, they whisper to us in our graves.” Barbro glanced downward. “I realize that’s nonsense.”

She could see in the twilight how his face grew tight. “Not at all,” he said. “Emotionally, physics may be a worse nonsense. And in the end, you know, after a sufficient number of generations, thought follows feeling. Man is not at heart rational. He could stop believing the stories of science if those no longer felt right.”

He paused. “That ballad which didn’t get finished in the house,” he said, not looking at her. “Why did it affect you so?”

“I couldn’t stand hearing
them,
well, praised. Or that’s how it seemed. Sorry for the fuss.”

“I gather the ballad is typical of a large class.”

“Well, I never thought to add them up. Cultural anthropology is something we don’t have time for on Roland, or more likely it hasn’t occurred to us, with everything else there is to do. But—now you mention it, yes, I’m surprised at how many songs and stories have the Arvid motif in them.”

“Could you bear to recite it?”

She mustered the will to laugh. “Why, I can do better than that if you want. Let me get my multi-lyre and I’ll perform.”

She omitted the hypnotic chorus line, though, when the notes rang out, except at the end. He watched her where she stood against moon and aurora.

“—the Queen of Air and Darkness

cried softly under sky:

” ‘Light down, you ranger Arvid,

and join the Outling folk.

You need no more be human,

which is a heavy yoke.’

“He dared to give her answer:

‘I may do naught but run.

A maiden waits me, dreaming

in lands beneath the sun.

” ‘And likewise wait me comrades

and tasks I would not shirk,

for what is ranger Arvid

if he lays down his work?

” ‘So wreak your spells, you Outling,

and cast your wrath on me.

Though maybe you can slay me,

you’ll not make me unfree.’

“The Queen of Air and Darkness

stood wrapped about with fear

and northlight-flares and beauty

 
he dared not look too near.

“Until she laughed like harpsong

and said to him in scorn:

‘I do not need a magic

to make you always mourn.

” ‘I send you home with nothing

except your memory

of moonlight, Outling music,

night breezes, dew, and me.

” ‘And that will run behind you,

a shadow on the sun,

and that will lie beside you

when every day is done.

” ‘In work and play and friendship

your grief will strike you dumb

for thinking what you are—and—

what you might have become.

” ‘Your dull and foolish woman

treat kindly as you can.

Go home now, ranger Arvid,

set free to be a man!”

“In flickering and laughter

the Outling folk were gone.

He stood alone by moonlight

and wept until the dawn.

The dance weaves under the firethorn.”

She laid the lyre aside. A wind rustled leaves. After a long quietness Sherrinford said, “And tales of this kind are part of everyone’s life in the out-way?”

“Well, you could put it thus,” Barbro replied. “Though they’re not all full of supernatural doings. Some are about love or heroism. Traditional themes.”

“I don’t think your particular tradition has arisen of itself.” His tone was bleak. “In fact, I think many of your songs and stories were not composed by human beings.”

He snapped his lips shut and would say no more on the subject. They went early to bed.