The Warlock Rock

Chapter Fifteen

Many miles away, Rod and Gwen finally began to hear the roar of surf. Coming out of the forest, they found themselves on a rocky beach with a thin strip of sand near the foaming breakers.

"How beautiful!" Gwen exclaimed.

"It is," Rod agreed, gazing at the dark green mass of water, smelling the salt air. "I keep forgetting."

They strolled toward the tide line, watching the gulls wheel about the sky. But they couldn't hear them— whenever there was a lull in the sound of the surf, all they could hear was the snarling and beating of the music of the metallic rocks.

"Here?" Gwen cried. "Even here?"

"I suppose," Rod said with resignation. "They fanned out from wherever they originated—and there's no reason why this edge of the fan should end, just because it's come to the ocean."

Something exploded, just barely heard above the roar of the surf, and they saw a rock go flying off into the waves. The other rock went…

"Duck!" Rod dove for the sand, pulling Gwen with him. The rock sailed by right where her head had been.

"Look!" Gwen pointed.

"Do I have to?" Rod was noticing how wonderfully the fragrance of her hair went with the scent of the surf.

"Oh, canst thou never pay heed to aught else when I am by?" she said, with exasperation (but not much). "See! The' waves do hurl the rock back at us!"

Rod followed the pointing of her finger and saw the new rock come sailing back, shooting by over their heads. They heard its whining thumping as it hurtled past.

"The sea will not have it!" Gwen exclaimed.

"Sure won't." Rod pointed to a yard-wide swath of thumping, twanging stones at the edge of the water, shifting like sand with each surge and ebb of the waves. "Thank Heaven." He had a sudden vision of the sea filling up with layer upon layer of stones, each vibrating with its own rasping beat. Then he realized that the same phenomenon was happening on land. "Gwen—is there any end to how many music-rocks can be produced?"

She shrugged. "As much as there is a limit to the witch-moss of which they are made, my lord."

"And there's no shortage of that—new patches crop up after every rain. It spreads like a fungus—which it is." Rod struggled to his feet. "Come on. We've got to find out where those rocks come from and put a stop to their making, or they'll bury the whole land."

"Husband, beware!" Gwen cried. "The waves…"

Rod leaped back as a new wave towered above him. "My Lord! Where did that one come from?"

The new wave hammered down on the heavy metal rocks and, for a moment, their music was drowned in its roar. Then, as the wave receded, the music made itself heard again.

Gwen came up behind Rod, touching his arm. "Husband mine… the music…"

"Yes," Rod said. "It has changed again."

"But can we call that a change?" Gwen murmured.

It was a good question. The music had the repetitive melodic line and metrical beat they had first heard, near Runny mede.

"Well, it's a change," Rod said, "but it seems as though that wave has washed everything new out of them. It's the same music as it was at first."

"No, wait." Gwen frowned. "I think…"

Rod waited, watching her closely.

Finally, Gwen shook her head. "What e'er it was, 'twas so slight that I could not distinguish it. For all that I can tell, 'tis as it first was."

"And so we end where we began." Rod caught her hand and turned away. "Come on—if the music can go back to its beginning, so can we."

"To the place where the music began?"

"Yes. Every time a rock split, we followed the northern pebble—and this is where it ends. Time to swing south. If this is the end, the beginning must be down there."

"There is sense to that." Gwen fell in beside him, but found a huge swell of peace and joy in her heart. To be walking with him, by the sea, was enough; she found she didn't really care whether or not they found what they were looking for.

"This rock music has a strange effect on me," Rod muttered.

"I am glad," Gwen murmured.

"How's that again?"

"Naught."

"Oh. Right." Rod's stride became more purposeful. "Yes. We do have to find the source of this rock music, you know."

"Oh, aye."

"That's right. The stones already around are all well enough, but we've got to choke off the source, before Gramarye is totally buried under rock."

"Yes," Gwen agreed, "we must."

And they went off south, hand in hand, with the sea and the sunset on their right, and a land of music on their left.

Far to the south, Magnus came wide awake. He frowned, looking about the clearing where they had camped for the night. The embers of the fire showed him the blanket-wrapped forms of his brothers and sister, and the bare outline of Fess, black against night, brooding over the scene.

What had wakened him?

"I heard him, too, Magnus," the great black horse assured him. "It is no dream."

But Magnus didn't even remember a dream of someone talking. Before he could ask, "What?" it came again, inside his head. Magnus. His father's voice.

Aye, Papa, he answered, watching his siblings.

We're on the way back now, Rod said. Where are you?

Some ways south and west of Runnymede, Papa, Magnus replied, and looked up at Fess with a question.

Ninety-eight miles southwest of Runnymede, Rod, Fess advised.

Right. We're about fifty miles northwest of you, Rod said. Should meet you in two days, but it could be tomorrow about noon. Should we rush?

Magnus looked at Fess again, then said, There is no need.

Good. See you tomorrow, then.

Papa, wait!

Yes, my son?

What hast thou found?

Some things that are very interesting, but nothing that seems to provide much information, Rod reported. Tell you all about it over dinner two nights from now.

Aye, Papa. Safe journey to you.

Godspeed. And he was gone.

Magnus lay down again, feeling rather disconcerted. But after all, at seventeen, he couldn't very well admit that he had felt reassured by even the mental presence of his father—now, could he? No, of course not. Not even to himself. Instead, he rolled up in his blankets and recited a koan. He fell asleep listening for the sound of one hand clapping.