Or could he? Was something there, rising skyward like the towers of the wondrous city? But it was of such transparency that it was virtually invisible—The longer Nick watched the birds the more convinced he was that this was so.
Then the flock, which had been circling, formed a line and descended earthward, disappearing one by one as if winked out of existence when it reached the point where Nick was sure something did stand.
He rubbed his hands across his eyes. It was—it was becoming more and more visible. Towers—like the city—but smaller, fewer of them. Before his eyes they took on an opaque quality, gained substance. What he now saw was a towered, walled structure resembling a medieval castle.
12
To all appearances the castle was now completely solid, but lacking in the coloring of the city. No rainbow lights played along its walls, climbed the towers, glowed into the sky. It was gray white as if erected from native stone.
Though the birds did not reappear there was movement. A portion of the wall facing his hiding place descended slowly to form a drawbridge, as if the castle were surrounded by a moat. Over that rode a brightly clad party.
There was plainly a Herald as leader. Nick could recognize the tabard at a glance. Behind him were four others, riding the sky-mounting steeds, two by two. These wore tabards of the same cut as their leader but of forest green. And only a single emblem, which Nick could not distinguish at this distance, was on the breast of each.
They rode easily at what seemed a slow amble but which covered the ground with a deceptive speed so that they swiftly drew close to Nick. He did not now try to conceal his presence, sure he was in no danger. And he wanted to learn all he could of this company and their visible-invisible castle.
But the Herald and his party had no interest in Nick. They rode with their eyes forward, nor did they speak among themselves. There was no expression on their faces. But as they approached, Nick saw two had hair that brushed their shoulders and one of them was Rita. Their riding partners were not quite like the Herald but might have once been as human as the English girl.
Now that they were closer Nick could make out the designs embroidered in gold and silver glitter on their tabards. Each was the branch of a tree. The first male had what was unmistakably oak leaves and golden acorns carefully depicted. With him was Rita with her apple branch. The next couple sported patterns Nick did not know, both depicted in flowers of silver white.
Their passage was noiseless since the paws of their steeds made no sound. And they might have been caught in a dream with their sight fixed ahead.
Nick first thought to force a meeting. But their aloofness was such as to awe him to remaining still and silent to watch them go.
Just before they reached the woods their long-legged beasts began to mount into the air. As if that provided a signal there came wheeling from aloft a pair of birds, white winged, huge. Twice these circled the riders, then forged ahead of them.
Nick watched them out of sight. Then he turned to look at the castle. He had half expected it to fade from sight. But it was more solid-seeming in the twilight than before. Only the gap of the drawbridge had disappeared.
Curiosity worked in him. Enough to draw him to that structure? Nick hunkered down, his full attention on it. Was it real, or wasn’t it? After his own experience he could not accept anything here without proof. Should he put it to the proof?
“Nicholas!”
The sharp whisper broke the spell. His hand was on the hilt of the dagger in his belt as his head jerked to the bush from which the sound had come.
“Who is it?” Nick had the blade out, ready, though never in his life had he used a weapon against another.
Cautiously a branch swung up and he saw the Vicar’s face screened in the greenery. Nick pushed the weapon back with relief. He slid around his own cover and in a minute was confronting both Hadlett and Crocker.
“How did you find me?”
“Where have you been?”
The questions mingled together, Crocker’s the sharper, with anger in it.
But the Vicar’s hand closed about Nick’s upper arm in a reassuring squeeze.
“How fortunate, my boy. You are safe!”
“Now,” Nick returned. “If anyone can be safe here.” It was growing darker with a speed he had not expected. A glance upward showed a massing of clouds. And in the distance was the lash of lightning fire, a distant rumble of thunder.
“What happened?” Crocker repeated his demand aggressively.
“I was caught—by some drifters—” Nick edited his adventures. With the Vicar he would be more explicit, but his past contacts with the pilot had not been such as to provoke confidences. He had not accepted the Herald’s bargain, but he was just as sure that he was not the same person he had been in his own world. And if the English looked upon change as a threat and a reason to outlaw one of their own, there was no need to hand Crocker a good excuse to get rid of him.
There was a second deep growl of thunder, this time closer.
“It would be better to seek shelter,” Hadlett said. “The storm is near.”
“Over there?” Crocker pointed to the castle. Though it did not reflect light from its walls, there were sparks here and there along the towers as if lamps hung behind windows.
Nick wondered if the others had seen the castle materializing from thin air. Much as his curiosity was aroused, he was not drawn to this as he had been to the city.
“We can, I believe, reach a hollow I know before the rain comes.” Hadlett ignored Crocker’s question. “Providing we start now.”
It was he, not the pilot, who led the way through the brush, edging west along the line of the forest. But the first of the rain hit with great drumming drops before they came to his hollow.
One of the giant trees had fallen long since and its upturned root mass had in turn been overgrown with vegetation. The curtain of this could be pulled aside to give on a sheltered place into which the three could crowd, though they must rub shoulders to do so.
A certain amount of seepage from the storm still reached them, but they were under cover. And they had no more than settled in before Crocker was back with his question.
“So you were caught—by whom?”
Nick obliged with a description of the band. Once or twice the Vicar interrupted him with a desire that he expand some portion of his story, namely when he spoke of the monk. But when Nick described the monsters that had held the camp in siege, he felt Crocker stir.
“Snake with a woman’s head? Thing with an owl head? Do you expect us to—”
“Lamia—and Andras,” the Vicar said.
“A what and who?” Crocker sounded belligerent.
“A lamia—a snake demon—well known in ancient church mythology. And Andras—”
It was Nick’s turn to interrupt. “That was what the monk called him—or at least it sounded like that!”
“Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell. He teaches those he favors to kill their enemies, masters and servant. In the army of the damned he commands thirty legions.” It was as if the Vicar read an official report.
“But you don’t believe in—” Again Crocker began a protest.
“I do not, nor you, Barry. But if one did believe in a lamia come to crush one’s soul with its snake body, or in Andras, Marquis of Hell, then what better place for such to appear in threat?”
Nick caught the suggestion. “You mean—the nightmares one believes in, those have existence here?”
“I have come to think so. And if that is true, the opposite ought to exist—that the powers of good one holds to will also make themselves manifest. But it is easier for a man to accept evil as real than it is for him to believe in pure good. That is the curse we carry with us to our undoing. To those poor wretches this is Hell but they have made it for themselves.”
“They were evil.” Nick used an expression that would not have come easily to him in his own world. “You didn’t see them. That woman—she was—well,
you might call her a she-devil. And the monk was a fanatic, he could burn heretics in holy satisfaction. The others—in our time they would be muggers—have their fun beating up people.”
“Padre.” Crocker might have been only half listening, more interested in his own thoughts. “If they thought they could see monsters and devils and did, do you mean we could think up such things, too?”
“It is very possible. But we come from a different age. Our devils are not born of the same superstition—they are not, as you might say, personal. Our evil is impersonal, though it is not the less for that. We no longer decry Satan and his works and emissaries. Rather we have the sins of nations, of wars, of industry, of fanatical causes. Impersonal devils, if you wish. We speak of ‘they’ who are responsible for this wrong and that. But ‘they’ seldom have a name, a body. Your monk was certain his devils had personalities, names, status, so they appeared to him in that fashion.
“We cannot summon our devils to plague us here because they lack such identity. There is and always has been great evil in our world, but its face and form changes with the centuries and it is no longer personified for us.”
“What about Hitler?” Crocker challenged.
“Yes, in him our generation does have a devil. What of yours, Nicholas?”
“No one man, no one cause. It follows the pattern you spoke of, sir.”
“This is all very interesting,” Crocker cut in. “But how did you get away from that crowd? Did one of the devils cut you loose and then disappear in a puff of smoke?”
Nick was uneasy. This was getting close to what he hesitated to tell. One had to accept many improbabilities in this world, but would these two accept what had happened?
“Well?” Crocker’s voice sharpened. “What did happen next?”
He was boxed into telling the truth, which meant bringing Avalon into it. And he had neglected to speak of his earlier confrontation with the Herald. That omission might make him a suspect.
“You are troubled, Nicholas.” The Vicar’s tone was as soothing as Crocker’s was a source of irritation. “Something has happened that you find difficult to explain.”
Hadlett said that as if he knew it. And Nick believed that the Vicar would be aware of any evasion or slighting of the truth. He braced himself.
“It began earlier—” In a rush he told of his meeting with Avalon, afraid if he hesitated longer his courage would ebb.
“Repeat those names!” Hadlett’s command brought him up short at a point which seemed to him to have little significance. But he obeyed.
“He said, ‘Avalon, Tara, Brocéliande, Carnac.’ “
“The great holy places of the Celtic world,” Hadlett commented. “Places that are rumored even today to be psychic centers of power. Though Avalon, of the four, has never been completely identified. In legend it lay to the west. Heralds bearing those names—yes, the proper pattern—”
“What pattern?” Crocker wanted to know.
“That of ancient heraldry. The heralds of Britain take their titles from the royal dukedoms—such as York, Lancaster, Richmond. The pursuivants derive theirs from the old royal badges. And the Kings-of-Arms, who command all, are from the provinces—Clarenceaux, Norroy, Ulster and the like. If Nicholas has the correct information, there must be four heralds here, each bearing the name of an ancient place of great power in our own world—perhaps once an entrance-
way to this. Tara lies in Ireland, Carnac and Brocéliande in Brittany—but all were of Celtic heritage. And it is from the Celtic beliefs that much of our legendary material about the People of the Hills and their ways have come. I wonder who is King-of-Arms here?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with us!” Crocker protested. “We all know what the Herald is and what he can do to anyone foolish enough to listen to him. You seem to have listened for quite a while, Shaw. What did he offer you—enough to make it interesting?”
Nick curbed his temper. He had expected the suspicion Crocker voiced.
“He offered me,” he said deliberately, “a golden apple and the safety of this world. He foretold the coming of great danger; this has overrun the land periodically before, and is beginning such an attack again. According to him only those who accept Avalon will have any protection then.”
“A golden apple,” Hadlett mused. “Yes, once more symbolic.”
“And deadly! Remember that, Padre—deadly!”
“Yes.” But there was an odd note in the Vicar’s voice.
“So you met this Avalon—then what happened? Did your men-at-arms grab him also?” Crocker brought Nick back to his story.
“They tried to, or to kill him—the monk did.” He told of the fruitless assault with the cross-pole and the Herald’s disappearance.
“So that was when they grabbed you. Now suppose you explain how you got away.”
Nick went on to the sound that had been a torment and the disappearance of the drifters, the fact that he was left behind. He did not enlarge on his own fears, but continued with the return of the Herald, the scene with the horse and mule. Then, trying to pick those words that would carry the most emphasis, he told the rest of it.
They did not interrupt again but heard him out through his account of the rest of his wanderings until he had seen the castle materialize from the air and the emergence of the Herald and his four attendants.
It was then that the Vicar did question him, not as he had expected, concerning the actions he had been engaged in, or had witnessed, but about the designs embroidered on the green tabards of those who had accompanied Avalon.
“Oak and apple, and two with white or silver flowers,” Hadlett repeated. “Oak and apple—those are very ancient symbols, ones of power. The other two—I wonder—But I would have to see them. Thorn? Elder? It is amazing—the old, old beliefs—”
“I find it amazing,” Crocker said deliberately, “that you are still here, Shaw. You took the apple, didn’t you?”
Nick had expected this accusation. But how could he prove it false?
“Do I show signs of the changes you mentioned, sir?” he asked the Vicar, not answering Crocker.
“Changes—what changes?” Hadlett asked absently.
“The changes supposed to occur in those who take the Herald’s offer. I didn’t. Do you want me to swear to that? Or have you some way of getting your proof? You have had more experience with this than I have. What happened to me back there—when I escaped—I cannot explain. The Herald told me about freedom, I just tried to use what I thought he meant. It worked, but I can’t tell you how or why. But—I—did—not—take—the—apple—” He spaced the words of that last sentence well apart, repeated them with all the emphasis he could summon. Perhaps Crocker might not accept that, but he hoped Hadlett would.
“The changes,” the Vicar repeated again. “Ah, yes, you refer to our former conversation.”
To Nick he sounded irritatingly detached, as if this was not a problem that troubled him. But Nick believed he must have Hadlett on his side before he returned to the rest. Crocker’s suspicions would, he was sure, be echoed by others there. Jean would support the pilot in any allegation he made. And Nick had no faith that Stroud would greet him warmly once Crocker had a chance to speak. But that the Vicar carried weight with all he was well aware. Get Hadlett to stand by him and he would have support to depend upon.
What he could do then, Nick had no idea. He did believe that the Herald spoke the truth when warning of danger ahead. His own experience with the drifters and their monsters, real or illusionary, as well as the threat of the saucer people, argued in favor of investigating more closely Avalon and its advantages. Safety, it seemed to Nick, was what they must seek. He had no faith at all in their plan to head downriver. They did not even have weapons to match those of the medieval group that had captured him. Slingshots against swords!
“I believe you, Nicholas.”
He almost started. That pause before Hadlett’s answer had been so prolonged Nick had com
e to expect the worst.
“Also I believe that what you have learned during your various encounters may be of future service to us all,” the Vicar continued. “I think we shall have to make the best of this shelter until morning, but the sooner we return to the cave and discuss your findings, the better.”
Crocker muttered something in too low a whisper for Nick to catch, even close wedged as they were. But he was sure that the pilot was not in the least convinced. Nick was, however, cheered. If he could depend upon the Vicar’s support he was assured of a hearing.
Outside, the storm was impressive, with an armament of lightning, deafening rolls of thunder, and a curtain of rain. They were damp, but the main pelting of the downpour did not reach them.
Nick wondered about the Herald and his followers, were they now riding the sky through this natural fury? And the saucer people, how did storms affect their flyers? The cave would be dry, and certainly the city a good shelter. The city—
His old half-plan of using the Herald to win a way into the city and learn its secrets without surrendering to the terms of Avalon—Could it be done? He was far from sure, but he longed to try.
And the terms of Avalon— The Herald had saved him in the forest, not by any direct aid, but by stimulating him to save himself. Nick thought about that feat of concentration, and his hand went once more to his belt to finger the hilt of the dagger he had drawn to his aid in such incredible fashion. If one could accomplish that by concentrating—what else might one do?
Hadlett said that his late captors had produced their own hellish monsters to harass them because they expected to see such. Therefore your thoughts had reality beyond your own mind. Those had expected Hell and its inhabitants, so that was what they had to endure and fear. In mankind was the belief in evil stronger that the belief in good, as the Vicar had also said?
If one concentrated just as strongly on believing in paradise here, would that be true? And would it hold? Nick remembered the intense weariness that had closed in on him after he had fought for his freedom. The mind could demand too much from the body. To sustain any illusion for a length of time might exhaust one utterly.