Endeavors of Will Read online

  The man was gone. Oliver slid down the wall and collapsed in a heap upon the floor, panting as though he’d run all the way home from the park. Before he blacked out, he thrust the Anwish Gem deep into his pocket.

  When he opened his eyes again and sat up, the afternoon sunshine had gone and the tool shed was full of twilight. Oliver sprang to his feet, muffling several words improper to the vocabulary of eight year old boys, dove through the hole in the wall and sprinted up the path toward home.

  He’d be in real trouble if he was late for dinner again!

  First published in Owlflight #1, 1981

  The Silver Pathway

  "OLIVER! WHERE ON earth did you get that mangy thing?"

  Foot arrested on the second step of the hallway stairs, Oliver cussed softly and considered the merits of full flight.

  "Oliver?"

  Damn it, anyway. "Yes, mother?" He pivoted, both feet back to the first step, the top of his unruly red head at a level with his mother’s round, pretty chin as she stood in the hallway, pointing.

  "That--animal, Oliver. Where did it come from?"

  The boy obediently glanced down--not far, even from his vantage on the step--and discovered the mostly-black dog--lean and rough-furred, but surely not mangy--its amethyst eyes on his face in calm trust.

  Oliver glanced back at his mother, pleasantly surprised. "Oh, him? He followed me home, isn’t that neat? And Daddy always said that if a dog ever really follow me all the way home I could keep--"

  "Oliver--"

  "Mother, Daddy promised."

  His mother looked uncertain for a moment and Oliver dared to hope that just this once-- then decision firmed in her pale blue eyes and she announced her verdict. "Very well, young man. We’ll just wait and see, shall we, if your father remembers this so-called ‘promise’ when he gets home.

  "In the meantime," she said, turning back toward the solarium, "get that thing out of my clean house. Tie it in the yard."

  The afternoon was Halloween chilly, the late sunshine almost orange. Oliver and the dog sat beneath the maple tree, nested in golden leaves. The boy had the contents of his pockets piled before him, in a space swept clean of leaves, and was busy sorting them, arranging them in a complex pattern, destroying it with a hand-sweep, beginning another. He hummed to himself as he worked, growing more absorbed in the task, using fewer and fewer pieces, hesitating now over the placement of each, weighing the relationship of an object to its neighbor, to the whole of the growing pattern, and humming, weird and low. The dog watched with unreadable purple eyes.

  Cockatoo feather--there. Pale green driftglass, seashore treasure--to the left ... up ... just touching the feathertip ... yes. He frowned at the arrangement as his right hand moved to the pile of yet unused objects and unerringly selected a heavy brass coin, embossed on one side with the name of an extinct dairy; on the other with a picture of a four-leaf clover. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, still staring at the feather and the glass, already in place. Then he reached forth in decision and laid the coin, clover side up, at the opposite end of the feather, barely touching the quill.

  Absently, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, trying to smooth away the vague ache; and selected three more objects from the pile; ran them around his fingers as he studied the pattern. It was hard to look at, somehow, the glass seemed to flow into the feather and the feather into the coin and--fuse, in a way, almost as if they were one thing, instead of three widely separate things.

  Oliver blinked hard, managed to hold the separateness of the objects in his head, disregarding the melting-together trick his eyes were playing on him, and reached out to lay the acorn, the miniature pine cone and the polished chestnut in a row, opposite the feather, bridging the gap between the glass and the coin.

  Oliver rubbed his head again, hard. The arrangement was--brighter, or something--and it glowed. It was hard to hold the picture of the six pieces that created it in his mind. And, still, it wasn’t quite right. There was still something--The dog whined and nudged the boy lightly in the side with his sleek, square muzzle. Obedient, the boy’s hand moved once more to the pile, and selected an object.

  It gleamed in the fading sunlight as he held it in his palm before the pattern, redder than the word was ever large enough to show, coldburning within itself, very nearly alive. The dog made another sound, softer this time, almost a word. Oliver reached out and placed it in the middle of the pattern.

  He cried out as the entire structure captured the red glow from the stone and multiplied it until his eyes watered and the seven objects wavered, spun and stopped, a single unit in sight and mind, with the red stone blazing brighter than the October sun and warming his face as he bent close to see.

  The dog got up and pressed against his side. Never moving his eyes, the boy ran his arm around the square neck and hugged. He leaned closer to the pattern, blocking out the shadow that suddenly fell over it, the humming that was no longer his conscious choice hiding his father’s voice.

  He ducked forward sharply, unconsciously avoiding the hand reaching for his shoulder; was unable to control his fall, spinning, toward the center of the pattern. Unafraid, but knowing himself alone, he put his other arm around the dog’s neck and held tight.

  * * *

  COLD. AND, SOMEWHERE, a dog barking. His head hurt. And he was horribly tired.

  The dog had stopped barking and was busy pushing its nose into his face, Oliver moaned and tried to nestle into the ground on which he lay. The dog whined and pushed at his chest, hard, overturning him. Sunlight pinked the inside of his closed lids, and, reluctantly, he opened them. The dog licked his face.

  "OK. OK." He struggled to a cross-legged seat against the dog’s huge tongue, then reached out, scratched behind the pointy black ears, rubbed the cream-colored throat. The dog wagged his tall with hurricane force, shaking his entire body. Oliver laughed, and reached forward to hug--

  "It is well that you are unhurt, far as you have come this day."

  More cat-wise than boy, Oliver twisted toward the voice, feet under him, crouching. The dog turned too, without threat, though he no longer wagged his tail.

  The man was tall--as tall as his father, Oliver thought, suddenly frowning--and dressed in a hooded yellow robe. The hood was pushed just slightly off his face, so Oliver could see dark blue eyes, overhung by heavy grey brows, and a thin, unlined face that looked, somehow, old. He leaned against a staff one-half his height, hands crossed over the polished knob, regarding Oliver with unsmiling kindness.

  The boy glanced away from the face, groundward, remembering.

  There, close to the place he had been lying--a scattered handful of junk: a feather, a coin, a bit of glass, three various nuts and an orb of subdued red. Oliver reached forward, checked and glanced back at the face, wary of its no-doubt adult ways.

  The man nodded, "Well, then, gather your things and let’s be off. It’s chill here when the sun is gone and you’re hardly dressed for warmth."

  Amazed, Oliver dove, brushed his treasures together and, standing, crammed them in his pockets. It was then that he noticed his larger surroundings. Large, open country; no houses for as far as he could see; trees off in the distance, but belonging to no park, those; and grass the color of his mother’s pale eyes...

  Oliver took a deep breath and faced the man again, a small red-haired boy, standing tense-shouldered and wary, the dog at his side nearly half his height.

  "Listen, Mister, I don’t know who you are or what happened or where I am--but I’ve gotta get home. My father was going to talk to me before dinner about whether or not the dog could stay and if he comes and I’m not there and my mother gets to talk to him--that could wreck everything."

  He stared at the face for a long minute, expecting uncaring adult laughter, detected nothing but that patient kindliness and finished, lamely, "My father says that if you want somebody to consider your case, the least you can do is to be on time to present it."

  The man
nodded. "Your father is no doubt accomplished in his own sphere. However, in this place he might find the rules somewhat changed. Would he then be wise enough to change with them? I wonder."

  But the boy only stood there, dumb, eyes captured once more by his larger surroundings, wonder dawning over the stubbornness in his face. The man shrugged, pulled his hood closer to his face and turned to the left, whirling his staff out, pointing, "Come along, son. You’ll be hungry, as well as cold, I gather. Home’s just past that rise."

  He strode off, leaving with Oliver the decision to follow. And, after a very short moment, the boy ran after the man; the dog at his side.

  The man’s house was little more than a cabin set so close within a grove of trees that Oliver at first did not see it at all, and thought their guide had simply stopped to rest. Then, looking curiously at the trees, he thought he saw a shape that was not-tree, and went forward a little to investigate.

  Unheard, the man drew a sharp breath; did not speak. He rested both hands on the knob of his staff and waited. The boy, dog trailing a little now, continued forward surely. His feet found the hidden pathway, he mounted the single step without a stumble and laid his hand unerringly upon the invisible door.

  The man let go his breath in a gentle sigh and went forward, also, to lift the latch and let them all inside.

  Dinner was quickly served. It was the work of moments to stir up the fire and warm the stew; while that was being done, the boy was directed to the pantry, to fetch bread and cheese. The man pushed his hood fully back from his face, exposing dull blue hair, filled one bowl with water and another with meat and cheese scraps, placed these on the floor and made some sounds deep in his throat, inviting the dog to eat. Then he began to ladle stew for himself and the boy.

  He toyed with his own meal and watched the child eat, hair flaming in the firelight. When, halfway through his second bowlful, the boy’s spoon-work seemed to falter for an instant, the man asked him, gently, "What is your name, son?"

  The boy glanced up-brown eyes wary--a life-habit, the man decided, saddened-- "Oliver Brown." Then, boldly, "What’s yours?"

  The man allowed himself a small smile. "Ash I am called, world-tongue." He waved at the dog resting by the fire, his purple eyes upon the boy. "And your companion’s name?"

  Oliver considered a moment, studying the dog. Ash felt his concentration as a presence in the room. He clenched himself and waited, ignoring hope. The boy glanced back at him. "Daniel."

  Ash lifted his brows, "So? A good name, surely. How are you certain that it is his?"

  Oliver picked up a piece of bread, worried it, confused. "It--just is. You can tell the names of things, mostly. You just gotta--look. People--adults--" he slanted a quick look at Ash, defensive, "and most kids, too--they just don’t take time. It’s easier to learn the other names, the--place-holder words..." The bread destroyed, he looked about for something else, picked up his spoon again and mumbled into his bowl, "It’s harder with animals--the real-naming--and with people it’s almost impossible..."

  Ash said nothing. Let him find his own way, so far has he come already....

  Oliver slammed his spoon on the table. The dog came to him, sat at his side, great head resting upon his knee. The boy dropped a hand to rest there, glared at Ash, defiant and--frightened?

  Ash waited, though the years of his training seemed to have evaporated, leaving him as impatient as a new-prenticed boy.

  "OK, look." The child’s voice was sharp, striving for cool authority, the quaver almost hidden, "I don’t know where I am, except that it’s not home. And I don’t know who you are, except that you don’t seem to mean any harm. But I’ve got to warn you. I--I beat one of you people once, when he tried to take it from me. "Who holds the Anwish Gem," he said and threw green lightning at me, but I--it--we beat him. And I think I could do it again, if you tried right now. So, why not just send me home and no funny stuff and I’ll keep the Stone and you can--stay alive..." The last faded off into a whisper as the boy dropped his head, staring into his bowl.

  Ash leaned forward, forbore to touch him. "And have you killed for your talisman, Oliver? In truth? I think not, myself, for that is not its nature, though it is dangerous. Knowing what I know, I would not try to force it from you, its chosen champion."

  Oliver looked at him hard, somehow less wary, losing perhaps the need for caution as the reality of that other world left him. He tugged on the dog’s ears. "You know about it? What it is? He... The other man--orange and green--he said it was necessary for him to be King..."

  "So he came to you himself?" Ash leaned back, respect in his face. "He knows where value lies, then... The Pretender, he is called," he explained, in answer to the puzzlement in the child’s face. "Taylen Who Would Be King. He holds the jewels that rule each of the Alternate Kingdoms--all save two. One is The Lost, that rules Adeth--your world, my son. And the other is the King Stone, the Anwish Gem, without which all the others are mere baubles, cold and powerless. As for what it is... It is more than a gem. Less than a reasoning creature. It holds within itself the ultimate Pattern for the Kingdoms; it controls, to an extent, the Laws of Chance; it has self-knowledge, in that the Pattern is itself. It is not to be tampered with, save by its own permission. This is what I know, my son. It is at once a great deal and nothing at all."

  Oliver frowned. "And here? This Taylen person has the stone that makes him King here?"

  Ash raised a hand. "Gently. Taylen has possession of this world--Silver--through its ruling gem, yes. But he may do nothing here. All his energy must be turned toward regaining the Anwish Gem. And Silver is not a world that would aid him in any wise, not man nor beast nor plant." He leaned forward again, "It was a wise choice that brought you here, Oliver."

  Ash allowed himself another small smile and shook his head slightly, "But did you need so strong a pathway? Would not the creation of a simple doorway have been sufficient?" But the boy looked at him blankly, and Ash began to perceive his task and certain of the whys behind the actions.

  He rose, gathered dishes, "You are satisfied? Good. We have much to do, I think; and perhaps too little time..." The boy still sat, staring at him in bewilderment. Ash leaned down, touched his hair, looked hard into his face, "Oliver, hear me. You have been chosen by the Stone to champion its cause. It feels the pattern of the Kingdoms’ dependence askew. Of itself it cannot mend the wrongness. To act in this matter, it must be linked to a like nature, one with will and clear seeing. You are very young, and it is sad that it has come upon you so, but you have a great talent. And that talent, with the guidance of the Stone, has brought you to me, who can teach you."

  Oliver looked slowly around the room, dwelled, almost dreamily, on the fire; "You know how to real-name things. And you know how to hide them... The house--when we came up, it was hidden, but I found it..." He looked dazed; then his eyes sharpened and he stood under Ash’s hand, demanding. "Teach me how to Name things." And then added, "Please."

  Ash nodded, half-smiling, and went to fetch the Books.

  First published in Owlflight, July 1981

  Stormshelter

  The War reached the much-talked-about Turning Point, hesitated, decided in the Enemy's favor.

  I, long-distance scout, mind encased in chromium; light years away from home, family, body; less than an analogue; less -- more -- than a man, rationality borrowed from the same machine body; beyond emotion -- I ran.

  Ran. Broke contact with the others, dropped out of the Grid under cover of a too-close eruption. Cut my losses. Deserted my duty. Fled.

  Full of a sickness that belonged to that body -- safe -- buried beneath the mountains of my home, I fled. Whirled my craft -- myself -- away and outward; sensors sensing, scanners scanning; seeking life. Life that made no wars.

  The chromium body has no sight; the computer processes its data, feeds it to a brain used to outward seeing. Compensations, protection from insanity -- the brain forms pictures for itself to scan. Thus, space whipped by in swir
ls of ice blue, flares of orange, pinpricks -- too distant -- of white. And cold. Filled with a wailing, lonely wind, torturing ears long years behind me. No life, no life --

  Warmth.

  The briefest flicker, almost lost in the howling of the Wind. I formed the command, slowed my body's running. Paused, almost. And looked about.

  The flashing blue and orange trembled as I slowed. My computer swallowed data wholesale -- I recoiled; pictures faded as my brain stuttered -- blind! Before I could panic -- sight. A house loomed in the distance; coolly white; Greek-columned; smoke curling from each of the three chimneys, warmly.

  The door stood open, so I went in.

  The foyer was an expanse of white marble reaching to the horizon; the ceiling vaulted out of sight; the scent of jasmine came from the tiles in the floor; the light was sourceless yellow. I stood, unbreathing in my shell; unbreathing beneath the mountain.

  The door at my back slid shut, soundless, and latched itself with a solemn click.

  My mind wondered at the pictures it painted itself. My computer hummed through its data, disregarded. We waited for the owner of the house to come. To make us welcome.

  Waited, we -- I -- and wondered at the warmth, at the stillness, at the peace. And I was content to wait, though the waiting were a hundred years of being still in the midst of such quietude.

  My non-ears detected a step. I pivoted to the right as a heretofore unperceived door swung open and my hostess came into sight. I don't know how I must have appeared to her -- ugly, pitted lump of dull metal; fused in some places, cracked in others -- a meteorite crouching in the center of her miraculously unshattered hall.

  But she. She -- long red hair entangling the blossoms that scented the hallway; slender arms circled with silver; long full dress a deep, cool green. And she moved like a ripple across a storm-stilled pond.