The Warlock Rock

Chapter Twenty-Three

They ran into the first signs as soon as they crossed the bridge that arched over the stream. It was almost as though they had entered a picture-book land, with graceful willow trees bordering the stream and silver birches spaced widely apart to let in the sun. Finches sang in cherry trees, and the broad expanse of grass was cropped into a lawn.

"Why, how charming!" Cordelia exclaimed.

"Sure is." Rod looked around. "Somebody's putting an awful lot of work into it, too."

"This music is not so loud," Gregory pointed out.

It wasn't, now that Rod thought about it. He hadn't noticed it immediately, because the rock music was still there—but it was muted. He frowned. "Odd—there look to be more rocks than ever."

"One every yard, it doth seem," Gwen agreed. "Yet their music's less painful."

Magnus picked up a rock, staring at it in surprise. " 'Tis only stone, not metal!"

"Aye," said Geoffrey, "and its strains stir my blood, but do not overwhelm it."

"Stir your blood? Here, let me see!" Rod came over and took the rock. "Just as I suspected—it's a march."

"A rock march?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed.

It was a march—but with the characteristic heavy beat underneath it.

"Here is one whose strains are slowed, and pretty!" Cordelia called.

Gwen came over to her and nodded. " Tis quite melodious. "

"This one doth make sounds, but no music," Magnus called. He had picked up another rock. Rod followed him, and heard birdsong, then a wind swelling under it, the birdsong fading as the wind-song merged into a rolling gong, then faded into the sound of rushing water with high, clear tones above it. Yet, underneath it all thrummed a strong, unyielding beat.

Rod took a deep breath. "No, son. That's music— Nature's music, maybe, but it's organized into something more."

Gregory regarded a large pebble in his hand. "This lacks a beat."

Sure enough, it did—and its melody dipped and soared, but the tones were pure and reverberating. Somehow, nonetheless, it was like the music of all the other rocks they'd heard, even without a bass or drum line.

Fess said, "Rod—someone is experimenting."

Rod stilled, feeling apprehension boost his awareness. "You know something, Old Iron? That makes too much sense."

"Papa," Geoffrey called, "yon lies a cottage."

"Let me see," Cordelia commanded, dashing over to him. "Oh! 'Tis enchanting!"

"That's what I'm afraid of." Rod hurried over to look.

Gwen reached the children just ahead of him. "It is, husband—most wondrously made."

It was a small house with a thatched roof, such as any peasant might live in—but where the peasant's cottage would have been plastered with mud, this one was sided with clapboard, painted cherry-red. The windows were curtained, and flowers grew all around.

"Husband," said Gwen, "yon lives a crafter of amazing talent."

"Yes," Rod said, "and one who delights in making things. But it can't be the one we're looking for, Gwen— this one has a sense of beauty."

"If we would know, we must ask," she said with determination, and set out toward the door.

"Hey! Wait up!" Rod leaped after her, and they went up the neat, flagstoned path between borders of hedge-roses. Rod didn't realize it, but the children trailed after them.

They came to the door. "Now what do we do?" Rod demanded. "Knock?"

"An thou sayest?" Gwen rapped on the door.

"Hey! I didn't mean…" Rod subsided, mulling it over. "Why not, come to think of it?"

"We do not know he is an enemy," Geoffrey pointed out.

Rod turned. "What're you four doing here? I thought I told you…"

But Magnus was shaking his head, and Rod realized, belatedly, that he hadn't said anything.

Then the door opened, and he whirled about.

His first impression was of supreme, unvarnished happiness. Then he took a closer look, and decided it was only benign good humor. Whatever it was, it was contained in a plump peasant of medium height who was dressed in completely ordinary tunic and hose—completely ordinary, except that his tunic was turquoise and his hose were yellow with red cross-garters. His belt was red, too, and his face was circular and smiling, with a fringe of black hair around a bald top.

"Company!" he cried. "Oh, do come in, come in!" And he pattered away, calling, "A moment, whiles I set the kettle to boiling and fetch some cakes!"

"Cakes?" Gregory was all ears.

"Remember thy manners." Gwen marched in, never at a loss. Rod let the younger contingent pass, then brought up the rear.

The room was a delight, with a circular rug, an intricately carved chair near the window, and a table with three straight chairs near a brick stove. Rod eyed it warily; it looked almost Russian. He found himself braced for the house to lurch; if it rose up on three chicken legs, he was tossing the kids out the nearest window.

"Let me aid," Gwen said, all sweetness and light, and fixed the little pot with an unwavering gaze. It began to bubble; then steam poured out the top.

The plump man stared. "Why, how is this?" He turned to Gwen, smiling. "Gramercy, lady! 'Tis so much quicker thus!"

"I delight in aiding." But Gwen seemed a little discomfited that he had taken it so easily.

He turned back, pouring the hot water into earthenware mugs. "Thou art a witch, then? Nay, of a certainty thou art; none else could do thus! I have another witch who doth visit me from time to time."

"Do you indeed?" Suddenly, he had Rod's total attention.

"Oh, aye!" The man started bringing mugs to the table. "I fear there are no chairs for the young ones; much though I delight in company, I've rarely more than two who come together."

"They're used to it," Rod assured him. "You were saying, about this other witch?"

"Two, though to be sure, one's a warlock. I am, too—did I tell thee that? Oh, 'tis so good to have other witchfolk to natter with! I am hight Ari, Ari the Crafter, as my neighbors do call me. Aye, neighbors, though they'd not have me live in their town. Still, 'tis enough for me to live near a stream, and with birds and small furry creatures for friends, oh yes, it is enough. Wilt thou have honey with thy brew?"

A delicious fragrance rose from the mug. "Uh, no thanks," Rod declined. "Gwen?"

"Nay, though I think the children might." Gwen was off-balance, too, disconcerted by the man's friendliness.

"Nay, certes," he chuckled, handing a honey-pot down to Cordelia. "Was there ever a youngling had no taste for honey?"

"I," said Magnus.

"Well, so, but thou'rt a young man now, art thou not? No longer a child, no. Ah, I do wish I could offer chairs to thee and thy sister! I must make some." He went to the window, lips pursed. "Aye, there is a patch of witch-moss large enough. I think…"

"I would not trouble thee," Magnus said quickly.

"Oh, 'tis no trouble." Ari frowned for a moment.

Rod took the opportunity to lean close to Gwen. "Can this really be the man who made those metallic rocks we've been hearing?"

"Who else could it be?" she responded. "He hath the skill. Yet how are we to set him to talking of it?"

"There! 'Twill be along shortly." Ari stepped over to open the door, then bustled back to the stove. "Now, the cakes. Ah, they're warmed!" He set a platter of biscuits in front of Rod and Gwen, then handed another down to Gregory, with a chuckle of delight.

"Did you make everything in this room?" Rod asked, trying not to stare.

"Each and every. Do taste of my cakes, goodman!"

"Uh, no thanks. Things of witch-moss don't agree with me."

Magnus spluttered into his tea.

"Oh, the cakes are not of witch-moss, no! My neighbors do bring me flour and eggs and such from time to time, yes, in thanks for my crafting small things for them, aye!"

"I don't doubt it," Rod said.

He turned at a knocking sound, just in time to see the door swing open a little farther as a brand new chair came walking into the room.

"Oh, come, come!" Ari clucked his tongue. "Knowest thou not better than to leave a door ajar?"

Rod could have sworn the chair blushed. At any rate, it turned around and knocked the door shut with a leg.

"'Tis such a trial to teach them not to slam it." Ari sighed. "Nay, little chair, find one who needs service." He nodded at Magnus, and the chair scuttled over to the eldest.

Magnus edged away. "Oh, I could never take a chair when a lady hath need of a seat!"

The chair turned toward Cordelia.

"Nay, brother, I'll yield it to thee," she said quickly. "I am quite settled now."

"Magnus," Gwen said, with a tone of dire warning.

The eldest sighed, rose from the floor, and sat in the chair. It settled contentedly under his weight.

"It will stay still now," Ari assured them.

"Desirable," Rod admitted. "And now you have one more, in case your witch-friends bring company."

"Aye, though I doubt that they will. There have never come more than two of them, though Ubu Mare hath not come this half-year and more."

Rod could feel his whole family tensing. "Ubu Mare?"

"Aye. She…"Ari bit his lip, then glanced about him as though to make sure no one was listening, and leaned closer to Rod and Gwen with a conspiratorial whisper. "She is ever polite and well-spoken, mind, but the poor woman is burdened with a hideous countenance."

"Is that so?" Rod eyed Gwen.

"The poor woman, indeed," she murmured.

"Aye," Ari sighed. "She must be the ugliest witch in the whole of the land. Yet she is civil, and did give me gold for things I made! Couldst thou credit it? Gold!"

"Somehow, I don't doubt it." Rod had a nasty suspicion of where the witch was getting the money. "You built the house, too?"

"Nay, for I've no skill as a carpenter. The goodmen from the village did that for me; they were happy to, when I gave them gold for it."

"I should think they would have been," Gwen said. "And dost thou pay one to clip thy lawn?"

"Only a lad from the village, who doth bring his sheep. 'Tis no great sum, and I can craft aught else I need, or trade for it. I scarce know what to do with all the gold they give me."

"In truth?" Magnus asked, disbelieving.

"Aye." Ari threw up his hands. "I could think of naught else—so I give each month's gold piece to the folk of the village, that they may buy food for the needy, and clothing."

"Dost thou indeed!" Gregory was incredulous, too, and Geoffrey was shaking his head slowly, in wonder.

"Oh, aye! And all this from the generosity of Ubu Mare! Is it not wondrous?"

"Amazing," Rod said, feeling a chill envelop his back.

"It is, in truth! Yet she hath not come these six months, no, but doth send Yaga and Axon in her place. I've no doubt 'tis still her gold they bring, for they, too, buy of me rocks that make music."

"Oh." The tension was winding tighter. "You crafted those wonderful stones that made the enchanting sounds we heard in your front yard?"

"Aye, they are mine!" Ari beamed. "These are my latest, look you. I essay new musics each time; I delight in inventing new forms." He frowned. "Yet not of the sort Ubu Mare doth wish me to make, no. 'Tis hideous stuff with a scratching and wailing to it, and words that make no sense. And they do not even rhyme!"

"Horrible," Rod agreed. "I think we've heard a few like that. Where did they come up with the sound?"

Ari shrugged. "Belike whence I found mine—in my heart."

"What manner of heart must they have!" Cordelia exclaimed.

Ari turned to her, saddened. "Lass, lass! Is it for us to judge our neighbors? Nay, nay! If their taste and fashion differ from mine, who am I to say theirs is wrong and mine is right?"

"The one who actually makes the rocks," Rod said.

Ari looked up, astonished. "Assuredly that doth not give me the right to judge!"

"It doth," Gwen said, "and it doth give thee also the duty."

"Duty?" Ari stared at her, totally at a loss.

"Responsibility," Rod explained. "You do have to bear in mind what they want to do with the things you've made."

"Why, these music-rocks are but entertainment!"

"I'm beginning to develop a definite suspicion that nothing can be 'just entertainment,' " Rod said. "You must consider, Goodman Ari, what effects your wonderful inventions can have."

"But what effects could music have?" Ari asked, pole-axed.

Rod took a deep breath. "We've seen young people walk away from their parents, and from their chores, to do nothing but listen to the rocks' music."

"Aye," said Gregory, "and to float down the river with thy rocks, to do naught but eat lotus and lie dreaming."

"Folk of our age are ever mired in confusion, though we hide it," Cordelia said gently. "We have seen folk in whom that confusion has been steadily worsened by the words that accompany this music."

"But how can that be!"

Then, one by one, they told him of the things they had seen as they came across the country from Runnymede. He was shocked to hear of the wakened dead, but he was horrified to hear of the flagellants. Finally, when they were done, he sat, gray-faced and whispering, "No more. What horrid things have I wrought? Nay, never again must I make music-rocks!"

"Nay, thou must needs make more," Gwen said, with that tone of motherly sternness that evoked total attention from any listener. "What thou hast broke, thou must needs mend."

"But how can I mend music?"

"Why, with harmony!" Gregory offered.

"Aye!" Magnus's eyes lighted. "Take the words of greatest beauty thou dost know, and set them to the clearest melodies thou canst make!"

But Ari shook his head. "How can sweet music heal a ruptured soul?"

"How can it not?" Cordelia countered, and Gwen laid her hand on Ari's. "If dissonance hath sickened their hearts, may not harmony cure them?"

Ari's eyes lost focus. "It may be…"

"But it must not!"

They whirled. Two forms stood black against the twilight that filled the doorway, and the shorter, a woman, cried, "Who are you, who would twist our Ari against our bidding?"

Gwen stood, and only Rod could see the mantle of rage building about her. "Why, who art thou who dost seek to claim this good and gentle man as thy slave?"

"We are Yaga and Axon," the hag shrilled, "and we have bought him!"

Rod noticed Magnus sidling around behind the taller intruder, pushing Gregory behind him, and Geoffrey slipping around on the far side.

"Oh, nay!" Ari cried, shocked. "Thou hast bought my music, aye, but never myself!"

"Thyself, body and soul!" The old woman stumped forward into the light, eyes filled with malevolence. "Thou art ours, Ari, bought and paid for! Who is this that doth seek to rend thee from us!"

"I am Gwendolyn Gallowglass," Gwen said, in glacial tones, "and I have come to consign thee to the doom thou hast made for others!"

Before she even finished the sentence, Yaga's form erupted into flame.

The children glared, and Axon, the tall warlock, was immersed in a globe of inwardly stabbing light. He screamed, then slumped unconscious as one of the spears found his spinal cord.

But Yaga only cackled with glee as the flames drew in, swallowed up by her person. "Fools! Dost thou not know 'tis this, even this, I have sought all my life? To be as wrapped in throes of anguish as I am filled with them? Nay, have at thee!"

Gwen screamed and twisted as something flamed inside of her. Yaga crowed with delight and turned on Rod. A current seethed through him, jolting him with pain, immobilizing him with spasms.

But Yaga howled, hands clutching at her head, and spun to face Magnus's unrelenting glare. She stumbled toward him, screaming, "Stop! Make it stop!"

Magnus twisted, and his lip trembled; but he clung more tightly to Gregory's hand, and his gaze held steady.

Cordelia's eyes narrowed and, quite calmly, she walked over to the witch and touched her temple. Yaga froze, and the pain inside Rod and Gwen was gone, as though their daughter had turned a switch. They staggered, clutching at one another, striving to rally their senses to attack…

But Ari came up to Yaga, his hands twisting and molding something, then held it up to her forehead.

It was a rock.

The witch's eyes lost focus; her face unclenched, looking startled.

Then she slumped.

Geoffrey reached up and caught her, lowering her to lie beside the warlock he had been guarding.

"Are they dead?" Ari asked anxiously.

"Nay," Geoffrey assured him, "though they ought to be."

"Oh, nay! For if thou hast the right of it, I have cured them!"

Geoffrey could only stare at him as though he were mad.

"Thank Heaven you kids were on the ball!" Rod staggered up to them.

"We would not have been," Magnus returned, "hadst though not drawn her anger first, to show us the manner of her attack."

"Believe me, I wasn't trying." Rod shook his head. "Where did she ever get that kind of power?"

"From a hundred and more of her kind." Gwen was kneeling by the unconscious witch, fingers against the base of her skull. "I read it in her memories…" She shuddered. "Faugh! What a twisted mass of vileness is there! Yet in it I see that she and many others have been gathered into a coven by this Ubu Mare."

"For what purpose?" Ari asked, white-faced.

Gwen shook her head. "To yield up their power to her in some fashion, and to bear hers, vastly magnified by all of theirs united—but it doth make of Yaga only a tool, an extension of that vile witch."

"And in that," Rod guessed, "she was content—as long as she could be part of something bigger than herself?"

Gwen nodded. "Yet now, by a wonder, the twisting and turnings within her that made her easy prey to this Ubu Mare, all that bitter confusion and hatred, is straightened to the beginnings of harmony!" She looked up at Ari. "How didst thou achieve it?"

The crafter relaxed, and his smile returned. "Why, even as thou didst say, good folk—I crafted a rock that would make music with all the lightheartedness, harmony, and order that is in me."

And he was, of course, an unusually tranquil, optimistic person. Rod looked up at Magnus. "But what did you do, that stopped her in her tracks?"

"Much the same," Magnus answered. "I had seen her swallow the flames of Mother's anger, so I sought to fill her with peace and goodwill. I enwrapped it in those strains of Bach that Fess hath taught us, and projected it into her mind."

"Yet surely she struck back at thee!"

"Aye, most horribly," Gregory said, and shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"And thou wast my shield." Magnus turned to hug his little brother against his hip. "I am sorry, Gregory—but I could not unravel her hideousness and think Bach at her, both at once."

"I was glad to aid," Gregory said, pale-faced, "and I sought to loosen the knot of anger and bitterness as quickly as she sought to tie it within thee—but oh, brother! May I never have to again!"

"Amen to that," said Cordelia, "but that must needs be why she could not repel my hand."

"And what didst thou?" Gwen looked up, worried.

"I thought of May mornings, and my delight in the dawn and the songs of the birds. Naught more—but blended toward music, as Papa did say of the rocks without this house."

"So." Ari was filled with wonder. "She succumbed to my music, only because thine had prepared her for it!" He turned to Gwen, uncertain. "Cannot my music, then, heal ripped souls?"

Gwen pulled herself together and managed a smile, rising to her feet. "It can, oh! Assuredly, it can! Yet as thou hast seen, good crafter, it will take not one melody, but many—and not one hearing, but an hundred."

Ari stared at her.

Then he turned away, with decision. "I must set to crafting them! An hundred, a thousand! I will make them and spread them throughout the length and breadth of this land, though I have to walk it myself!"

"In that, at least, I think thou wilt have aid." Gwen turned to her children. As one, they nodded.

A few minutes later, as they walked away from Ari's house into the gathering dusk, they could hear, rising from the cottage behind them, strains of melody that told of sheer delight in the beauty of the world—but all underscored by a beat, a repetitive rhythm that, no matter how light, could only be termed characteristic of rock music.