The Witch Doctor

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Frisson didn't manage to start working his legs again until we came in sight of the ocean. Even then, it was all he could do to stagger across the beach to the boat and collapse into it, sobbing. The rest of us heaved and pushed, driving it over the sand and back into the ocean, though I don't think we could have done it without that huge boost from Gruesome.

"In." I looked up at him, pointing to the inside of the boat.

"I'll finish pushing off this time."

The shark mouth grinned; he was glad to be leaving. He clambered in and sat huddled in the bows, moaning in anticipation of seasickness.

"Get in," I told Gilbert and Friar Ignatius. They clambered over the sides. Gilbert sat down facing aft, took up an oar, and fitted it between the pegs that passed for an oarlock - and to my amazement, Friar Ignatius did the same. They pulled together, I shoved, and the boat's bottom grated free of the last of the shingle. I vaulted up and over the stern, and the two men of different cloths threw their backs into it, rowing hard.

The last echo of music died away. I wondered what was going on back in the bower, then thought frantically about apples - it doesn't do any good to try not to think about something; you have to think about something else instead.

When the island was only a thin green line on the horizon, Friar Ignatius panted, "Hold." He and Gilbert leaned on their oars, drawing deep gasps. When he'd caught his breath, Friar Ignatius said, "I thank you, Wizard. I'd have never won free by myself." I knew why, too - he hadn't really wanted to. I couldn't blame him.

"Glad to do it - but I had an ulterior motive."

"Aye." Friar Ignatius nodded. "You said you had need of my aid."

"That's right. You see, we're trying to stage a bit of a revolution overthrowing the queen of Allustria."

For a minute or so, the only sounds I heard were the surf, and Frisson's last miserable sobs.

Then Friar Ignatius said, "Well." And, "Are you, indeed."

"Yes," I said. "You see, I fell in love with one of the queen's sacrifices and managed to keep her from despairing at the last second and being a virtuous maiden, her ghost was headed straight for Heaven. Suettay couldn't stand to let a victim get away, so she kept the body alive. I'm trying to get Angelique's body back, but it's in Suettay's castle, so ..."

"The only way is to overthrow the queen." Friar Ignatius nodded with grim understanding. "Well, I cannot say the goal is unworthy, Wizard Saul, though your reasons are somewhat less than noble."

"I always thought love was very noble - if it was real." I shrugged.

"Besides, I'm not from your world, so I don't have any vested interest in your politics. This is entirely personal." Friar Ignatius stared at me. "Surely any man has interest in the war between good and evil!"

"They're pretty abstract," I returned, "and for a long time, I wasn't even sure there was any such thing as real, genuine evil - I thought it was just the label I used for people who were opposed to me. Over the years, though, I've seen people, those I had nothing to do with, do some really horrible things to other people, sometimes just because they enjoyed it; so I'm willing to say there is such a thing as evil. Even so, it's not my problem, don't you see - it's none of my business."

But for the first time in my life, the words sounded hollow. There was a racheting groan, and Frisson pulled himself up off the bottom of the boat onto a seat, staring past me at the thin green line that was Thyme's island.

I took a chance. "Feeling a little better now?" He just sat there staring for a minute or so, then finally, reluctantly, nodded. "Aye. And I think I must thank you, friend Saul, for aiding me. I was ensnared."

"But you're still not sure you wanted to be freed," I said softly. He shook his head, then let his chin sink onto his breast. "Ay me! I could wish I were to die there, so long as she were to bestow her favors upon me! I could wish to have put her in a flask and taken her with me, that I might let her out whenever I wished!"

"You're not the first man to wish something like that," I said softly.

"You would let her out at once," Friar Ignatius said with the certainty of one who has been there, "and never put her back. You would waste away your life in dancing attendance upon her, Master Frisson."

Frisson shuddered, remembering. "How could that be waste!"

"Because you wouldn't accomplish anything," I said. "You wouldn't become anything in your own right - just one of her toys. Put it behind you, Frisson - as I said, you're not the first man to wish it, and you won't be the last." I turned to Friar Ignatius. "I don't want him to forget - and I don't want him distracted, not when we have so much menace facing us. You've studied magic - any ideas?"

" 'Tis not that I've studied magic alone," he said softly, " 'tis that I've studied God, and the Faith, and the soul." He reached out to touch Frisson on the temple. It was a very light touch, scarcely a fingertip, but Frisson went rigid, and the monk chanted something in Latin.

Frisson went limp, but the hangdog look hung lower. Friar Ignatius took his hand away with a sigh. "As I said, I've not the talent."

"But I have?" I asked him. "Let me try."

Frisson stiffened like an I-beam again, then slumped in total relaxation.

We waited, holding our breaths.

Slowly, the poet sat up, eyes wide. " 'Tis done! I am healed!" He looked at me with a tremulous smile. "I cannot thank you enough, friend Saul!" But he still looked sad.

"Anything for a friend," I said. "Besides, I need you functioning, on the side of the angels."

Friar Ignatius looked at me in surprised approval. "I thought you professed to be apart from good and evil, Wizard Saul."

"Not apart from them," I corrected, "just not committed to them. He smiled sadly. "You cannot have the one without the other, Wizard."

"Oh, yes I can," I said softly. "There is neutral ground, and I'm it."

I heard the after-echo of my own words with something resembling shock, but I plowed ahead anyway. "But that doesn't mean I'm apathetic. I do care when I see people suffering, and I'm willing to try to help if there's a way I can. I'm just not a fanatic, that's all."

"You cannot equivocate between God and the Devil, Wizard," he said softly.

I felt a chill on my back, but I shrugged it off. "Not here, maybe. But you can keep the whole thing in perspective and not let your zeal for the letter of the law distract you from the spirit." His eyes widened. "I thought you had no affinity for good, Wizard Saul - yet you cite our Savior's words."

"Know your Bible pretty well, do you? Well, so do I, and not entirely willingly. I had a good religious upbringing - good in my parents' eyes, maybe."

"Then how was it not good?"

"Because it showed me too many fanatics, too many people who are willing to do bad things, such as humiliate a kid publicly and convince him that he's bound for Hell."

"That is a grave error," he said, his eyes huge. I gave him a sour smile. "I wish there were more clergy like you, Friar Ignatius."

He turned away, his face darkening. "Do not, for I am little use with a congregation, Master Wizard. In truth, if I so much as step up to a pulpit, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth with craven fear, and I cannot utter a word."

I felt a surge of sympathy. "Hey, now - it's all right. We all get stage fright - and if you get too strong a dose of it, why, that's just not your talent. You know your own strengths, don't you?"

"Aye." He turned back to me. "I have a useless gift for pondering Holy Writ, Wizard, and am therefore skilled at explaining how the words of Christ, uttered a thousand years ago and more, may guide our conduct even in this latter age. Nay, mayhap not so useless, for other priests do hark unto me and find my words of aid in speaking to their flocks."

I stared. "You're a theologian."

"I would be loath to claim the honor," he said.

"And might thereby deceive people who have to deal with you," I said. "And you specialize in applying Scripture to daily life?"

"Aye, most especially in the use of the talents God has given others, for I am so lacking in them."

"So that's why you study magic," I said slowly, and a thought throbbed in my brain. "Does that extend to explaining how it works?

"Aye, though in its essence, 'tis simplicity itself."

"Most great insights are," I said softly.

"Though the first step in that simplifying is to merely say what is magic, and what is not."

"Oh,' What is not?"

"Prayer. If we pray for God to intervene in our lives, and if He sees fit to do so, we are like to think it magical, when 'tis more properly a miracle."

I frowned. "I haven't seen many of those."

"Oh,"' He smiled. "Did you not speak of love for a maiden?" I flushed. "That's ordinary, not miraculous! I mean, everybody, well, a lot of people fall in love. It's just hormones and sublimation, not . . ."

His gaze was very steady.

"Okay," I admitted, "so there's something there besides lust and compatible pheromones. It's still not exactly rare."

"Have you ever seen a baby born?" he asked.

"That's a natural process!"

"The creation of a new soul is not - 'tis an act of God."

I tensed against an eerie feeling that was stealing over me. "I thought that was the phrase for horrible storms and earthquakes."

"Do you see God only as a destroyer, then? Or do you see each lightning bolt as a miracle?"

"I thought it was supposed to be the wrath of God," I snapped.

"Nay, though it may be His instrument, as virtually anything of this world may be - and as any good Christian must hope to be."

"Now, hold on!" I held up a hand to forestall him. "Are you trying to say everything that happens is a miracle?"

"Certainly not - but by the same token, a miracle need not be rare. It will nonetheless be a miracle, my friend," Friar Ignatius said, with that gentle smile. "I have seen hopeless illness cured, and not through the laying-on of hands, but only through prayer, and because it pleased God; I have seen melancholy lifted from a maiden's heart by the beauty of a sunrise; I have seen a man, bent on death, restored to the will to live by the song of a skylark. The grace of God can reach us all at any time, if we are open to it."

Revelation. "So that's what prayer is! Just turning on the receiver, opening a channel!"

"Odd terms," Friar Ignatius said with a frown, "but that is certainly an aspect of prayer. Not the whole of it, of course, but a part."

"The part that seems to pertain to the discussion at hand." I frowned. "So how do you think magic works?"

"By symbols and intent." He rested a hand on Frisson's shoulder, and sang,

Frisson looked up, startled, then turned to Friar Ignatius - with a frown. "What have you done?"

"Only given you a song to ward your heart," the monk assured him. Frisson held a level gaze a moment longer. "You have, and I thank you deeply. Alas, the wanton was fair! But in truth, she had thought only for her own pleasure, and none for my welfare. It is removed, now, though the memory of the passion is sweet." His face darkened.

"Alack-a-day, what I fool I made of myself!"

"You had a great deal of aid," the monk assured him. Frisson smiled, and I stared in shock, for it was a sardonic smile, such as I had never seen on his face before. "I had small need of help, Friar Ignatius, for I've made a fool of myself many, many times in the past. Ah, so many!"

"Why, then, we are brothers," the monk said with a smile.

"Are we so? Nay, I think not - for you did cleave unto God's rules, and thereby did save yourself from shame."

"As the psalm says, 'The salvation of my countenance, and my God,' " Friar Ignatius said softly.

"For you, mayhap - but for myself, I played the fool roundly. In truth, I would be tempted to say that I could not have made a fool of myself, for God did."

"Say not so." Friar Ignatius' voice became stern. "The only true folly is turning away from God, Master Poet, and as long as you reach out to others, you have not done that."

"Even if they should spurn me? There is some sense in what you say." Frisson nodded. "But there are ways of reaching out, and there are other ways of reaching out. I think I must modify my techniques, Friar Wisdom."

"Friar Fool, say rather." The monk smiled. "For as long as we do live and breathe, we must needs be fools in some measure." He noticed my stare and turned to me. "What amazes you, Master Saul?" I gave myself a shake and said, "Thought you claimed you couldn't work magic."

Friar Ignatius flushed and lowered his gaze. " 'Twas only a small magic, Master Wizard, such as a cotter might use." I started to object, then caught his meaning - the "spell" had been as much suggestion as anything else. Convince Frisson that he had put Thyme behind him, and he did - for certainly, he believed in both magic and monks. Instead, I said, "Had that spell ready to hand, did you?"

"I did," Friar Ignatius admitted, "though I recast a few lines as I spoke. 'Tis a sovereign for many ills, Master Saul - for all things must pass, and it behooves us to speed their passing if they are not for our good." It made sense, but it wasn't the kind of wisdom I was used to hearing from the West. "I was beginning to think you were this universe's equivalent of a theoretical physicist," I said, "but I'm beginning to suspect you're something of a psychologist, too. Friar Ignatius frowned. "These terms are strange."

"Darn right they are. So, Friar Ignatius, just how do you think magic works?"

"As it will," he answered, "and constantly, for it sustains us all, though we know it not. 'Tis like some great, thick, unseen blanket that overlies the whole world, Master Saul, like a mist upon the plain.

I started to object to "overlies" and was about to suggest "englobes," when I remembered that to him, the world was flat. "So it's a substance, though a diffuse one?"

"Not a substance," he said, "but a kind of energy, like the thrumming you feel within you on a fair morning, when you are in good health."

I stiffened: he was describing a field force. "And this energy blanket covers the whole Earth?"

"Aye, but the energy within us can thicken and direct it, if we have the talent."

"How?" I frowned. "By thinking at it? That would make sense - thought waves modulating a field force . . ." But Friar Ignatius held up a cautioning hand. "Not thought alone, Master Saul, but all of our bodies, every bit of our being. Our own energies fill us; they are not in our minds alone, or we could never walk."

I didn't like the way this was going, but Frisson did - his gaze was fairly glued to Friar Ignatius' face.

"A man born with the gift for it," the monk said, "can make the magic thicken, gather power from it, and direct that power as he wills.

"And how does he do that?"

"By the symbols that he chooses, to clarify his thinking and involve his whole being in his intention," Friar Ignatius said.

"Then what," Frisson asked, "makes the magic black or white, good or evil?"

"The purpose for which he intends it," Friar Ignatius replied, "and his motives for doing so. If a virtuous woman wishes to heal, to help, or to protect another, then she appeals to God for His aid in her deeds, and her magic will be white."

"How about if she's using it to kill an attacker?" I said.

"A good woman would not wish to kill." Friar Ignatius turned back to me. "She would wish to protect herself and would therefore only wish to stop or withhold the attacker. Her spell might kill him, if that were the only way to stop him, but her intent would be good, and her magic from goodness."

It sounded specious, but I didn't argue - I'd heard enough about sex crimes to believe that a woman might very well kill an attacker by accident. All she'd really be thinking about, of course, would be stopping him - but if she hit a vital organ, tough luck. I'd be the first to say it, and the last to deny it. "So how can you tell if you're dealing with a wizard or a sorcerer?"

"You may know him by the symbols he uses," Friar Ignatius answered. "If he inflicts pain to gain magical powers, if he speaks of death and uses skulls and twisted blades and blood, then his magic is surely ill, and aided by evil."

"Symbols?" I frowned. "I've only seen sorcerers use words!"

"You may also see them brandish a staff or a wand," Friar Ignatius said. "It magnifies the force of a spell, even as it magnifies the force of a blow."

I had a notion it had something to do with directing the force, like an antenna, but it was not fair bringing electromagnetism into the discussion.

"But brewing spells with physical objects for symbols is lengthy and cumbersome, though the magic is extremely potent," Friar Ignatius said. "In the field, a magician will rely on words and gestures."

"But how could that do any good? How could physical symbols do any good, for that matter?"

"Because, Master Wizard, the symbol is the thing."

I stared and clamped my jaws shut. In my universe, one of the cardinal principles of semantics was that the symbol was not the thing.

Well, other universes, other natural laws.

"The whole of one's being must be gathered together and directed," Friar Ignatius explained, "that all the energies within and around our bodies may form and fashion the magical energy to our purpose. Symbols are the tools we use to so solidify our beings - and the more powerful the symbol, the more fully are the various parts of ourselves gathered together."

"So whether we're drawing on God to help us focus our own energies is a matter of whether or not we want to," I interpreted.

"'Focus' - an excellent term!" Friar Ignatius clapped his hands. "I should have thought of turning to mathematics for my concepts! I thank you, Wizard Saul."

I shivered, wondering what I had done. This "magic field" he was talking about seemed to be this universe's equivalent of electromagnetism - and I knew darn well what our own physicists and engineers had been able to do with electricity and magnetism, once they had started shaping their thinking according to mathematical principles. What would happen here, if Friar Ignatius started applying math to magic?

Amazing things, I didn't doubt - because I had a very strong suspicion that it really was possible to manipulate that magic field without drawing on either good or evil. It was an impersonal force, after all - the personal element came when you tried to draw on the power of supernatural beings to help you control it. Besides, I was still trying to think of those beings as imaginary - in which case, they served as very, very powerful symbols.

Powerful, indeed - they tapped directly into the subconscious. I thought of my hallucinatory guardian angel and shuddered. "I wouldn't be so extreme," I said easily. "After all, we're talking about an art, not a trade. So words are symbols, and poetry concentrates meaning - so the better the poetry, the more powerful the spell?" Frisson's eyes were so wide they almost bulged.

"Aye," Friar Ignatius said, "and poetry that is sung, is more powerful still."

"Sung?" I frowned. "How does that work?"

"Because there is order in melody," Friar Ignatius explained, "that adds its strength to the order of rhyme and meter; and because song is felt throughout the body, and thereby incorporates all of our energies."

My spirits sank; I had a tin ear. But Frisson's face lit with delight.

"I have a passable voice."

"Then bend your thoughts toward God and goodness." Friar Ignatius said, turning to him. "Meditate on Him, that your magic may be for the benefit of others, and the strenthening of goodness." Frisson gazed at him, eyes glowing, and nodded. "Aye, for we go up against great evil, Friar Ignatius."

"The power of goodness must needs be greater than the power of evil," Friar Ignatius rejoined, "for it doth draw on God, the Ultimate Source. " I sat bolt upright. "You aren't trying to tell me that good will always triumph over evil!"

"It will, if all other elements are equal," Friar Ignatius said.

"No demon can stand against an angel, and white magic is much more powerful than black. But it is more difficult to be good than to be wicked, and more difficult to master white magic than black. Fasting, prayer, self-discipline, returning good for evil - these are difficult. To give in to anger and the lust for revenge is easy." I thought about the Taoists and Zen Buddhists, and kept thinking. But Frisson spoke. "We must needs confront a vile sorceress and her minions, Friar Ignatius. We will need all the strength that God can lend."

"His grace is there for all," the monk murmured, "if we will but be open to it."

"I think," Frisson said, "that I must learn to pray." For some reason, that sent shivers down my spine. I tried changing the subject. "Was this why the queen had Thyme tie you up?" Friar Ignatius turned to me, a strange light in his eyes. "So you have guessed that, too, Master Wizard! Yes, I had wondered - though I cannot prove that. Still, 'tis quite possible that it was the queen of Allustria who drove our ship to the nymph's isle - for she could not damage me herself, as long as I remained devoted to God."

"And if anybody could break that devotion," I said, "it would have been Thyme. But why did the queen want you out of the way? Was she afraid you might convince some of her sorcerers to repent and start working toward sainthood?"

"As do we all," Friar Ignatius reminded me, "if we do not despair. That is possible, Master Saul, but I think it more likely that she wished me imprisoned so that my ideas of human life would not spread."

"Ideas about the riddle of human existence?" I frowned. "How could that hurt her?"

Friar Ignatius bowed his head, hiding a smile of bitter amusement. When he looked up again, his face was bland and his smile gentle once more. "I have gathered wisdom from the East and from the West, Master Saul, and let go of those parts that I did not feel consistent wit'n the whole. What is left is somewhat irreverent; indeed, those in positions of power might think I mock them, or the very notion of their right to authority."

"You mean you've come up with ideas that are a threat to the queen?" I frowned. "How?"

"Because, taken together, they add up to the notion that folk need not depend on the crown for their sustenance or safety, but only on God, on themselves, and on their neighbors."

"Decentralization!" I stared, thunderstruck. "My lord! No wonder Suettay's out to get you! You're threatening her bureaucracy!"

He frowned. "What is a 'bureaucracy'?"

"Government by desks," I said. "Behind each desk sits a clerk, but they come and go, and the desks stay. Each desk has a bigger desk it answers to - the more powerful clerks answer to other more powerful clerks, and on up to the queen herself."

"Then you see clearly, Master Saul." Again, he gave me that strange, close look. "You know that her clerks do make her the center of authority of the land and give her control over the least of her subjects, no matter how far from her castle they may be."

"I'm familiar with the basic idea, yes."

"And with the notion that each subject must do as he is told, without question?"

"With the notion, yes. Not with the fact - my countrymen tend to do a lot of questioning, and complaining, too, and sometimes they even manage to go around the lower desks and go right to the top and get satisfaction."

His eyes glowed. "A marvelous people! Small wonder you are the one who can aid this land!"

"I didn't say I was one of the ones who succeeded." I stirred restlessly. "On the other hand, in my own world, I've heard of countries where the people don't dare complain, or even ask any questions."

"Allustria's like that, huh?"

"Aye-and if you know the manner of it, then you must be able to imagine what would hap if each of those subjects were convinced that he was the master of his destiny, and that he himself had the duty of choosing what he would and would not do."

I could feel my eyes snap wide. "That's your theology?" He shrugged uncomfortably. "A part of it, yes. But 'tis truly quite old - Christians have always believed in free will, believed that 'tis for each of us to choose whether to sin or not to sin, whether to work toward Heaven or lapse toward Hell."

"But a tyrant like the queen can gain a lot of mileage if she can convince her people that they're all bound for Hell already, so they might as well do what she says and keep from having pain in this world - and gain anything she's willing to give them for rewards."

"Even so. And, too, I have come to believe that folk should be governed by their own consent and consensus, by discussing matters till they can agree, following the example of the holy hermits who abide nearest them. Thus they would live according to the common law they create together, and by the Commandments of God."

"Revolutionary!"

" 'Tis a brave notion, and devoutly to be wished." Frisson was pensive.

"But how could it come to be, Friar Ignatius? Such a transformation in people's thoughts could not be worked in a single night, nor even a decade."

"Even so," the monk agreed. "If it can come about at all, it will be by the patient example of men and women dedicated to God - and I do not, of course, believe it can come to be completely or perfectly as I see it. Only in Heaven may we be perfect, one by one or all together. Still, I do think we can hope to improve greatly as the years roll. 'Twill be a long process, and slow."

"But even in its early phases, people would want a better government," I said. "You're giving them the idea that they can expect to be treated as worthwhile human beings in their own right."

"But of course," Friar Ignatius murmured, "for that is what they are. Every soul is infinitely precious, Master Saul - precious to God, and therefore should be precious to anyone who calls himself Christian."

"Should be," I noted. "And, of course, there's the minor problem of whether or not your ideas will work unless everybody tries them all at once - but even a small dose would be enough to bother the bureaucrats. They see people as numbers, not souls."

"A fascinating notion." Friar Ignatius frowned. "So you can understand, Master Saul, why the queen would wish me gone."

"Oh, sure! She wants people to believe they're stuck being whatever they were born as - and if they were born serfs and peasants, as the vast majority of them were, it's not going to do them any good to try to be anything different, or to even protest against what the authorities tell them to do."

"Which is to say, that they have no free will, not even such lesser forms," Friar Ignatius agreed.

Interesting that he thought social mobility and social action were minor. "Of course, it is awfully difficult to become anything you're not born to - and society does everything it can to keep you in place. "

"Difficult," the monk agreed, "but not impossible. Our birth and our talents, and the moral teachings given us by our parents and clergy-these are among those things given us, over which we have no control. Still, a soul who strives, and who uses wisely what she or he is given, may yet do great things."

I frowned. "How about if he's born with a really vicious temper, a lust for power, and a sex drive that just won't quit?"

Friar Ignatius shuddered. "I have heard of such men-nay, I have

-ict them. But even one so accursed may win to Heaven through devotion to God, and adherence to His Commandments." That, of course, was what really mattered, to him - free will was there so we could choose to sin or not to sin, to fly or to burn. I was seized with the vision of the pinball machine of life, with the balls and the laws of force and motion being determinism, and when and how I hit the flappers being free will. "I think we should tilt." All three of them looked at me as if I'd lost my marbles. "What did you say, Wizard?

"Uh, nothing," I said quickly. "Strategy for the revolution. How long before we get to the mainland, do you think?" Only a day and a night, as it turned out. There were some storms with some very odd timing, boiling up out of a clear blue sky - but Frisson was clearheaded again, and we had some idea what we were fighting. I fished through my sheaf of parchments and handed him a couple of odes in praise of sunshine, and he improved on them as he recited, and for some reason, the foul weather blew over almost as quickly as it had come.

Still, it did seem kind of odd to me that the queen should let us make it back to the mainland with no worse trouble than that. I mentioned this to Friar Ignatius right after we had hauled the boat past the high-tide mark and started hiking inland. "It may be that she has little time to spare for us," he told me, "even though we may be the greatest challenge yet to her throne."

"Aye," Gilbert agreed. "If the Spider King and the Gremlin have done as they promised, she will be far too busy to spare us much attention.

"Good point." I turned to the nearest large spider - we were hiking through a marshy meadow, and the arachnids seemed to be everywhere; the stiff grass was ideal for mooring webs. "Tell the Spider King we're back, will you?" I said. "And we'd like to know what's going on." My buddies glanced sidelong at me as if they were wondering about my sanity again, but they'd met the Spider King, too, all except for Gruesome and Friar Ignatius, so they kept their peace. Which was very wise - the spider was busy mending the rim of her web, but she turned and scampered straightaway back to the center - and disappeared. Friar Ignatius stared at it for a few seconds. Then he whipped his gaze up to me, stared for a few seconds longer, then glanced back at the web.

Gilbert squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "There is small time to debate," he said. " 'Tis long and far to Allustria, and we have only our legs."

He took the lead, and we filed off after him.

About half an hour later, we were coming up to a stand of trees, just to the right of our path, a really splendid web was strung between two saplings, four feet in diameter, with a spider whose body was the size of an old-fashioned dollar. We glanced at it in admiration, then looked again.

Woven into the web were runes. They spelled out, "Gaze."

"Gaze?" I frowned, staring. "Gaze at what?"

"Thus." Friar Ignatius beckoned, and we turned aside from the path, heading for the sound of a brook that had been paralleling our path for the last few minutes. The monk scouted along its edge until he found a small pool that had formed between some rocks. "Here, poet," he said. "Craft a verse that would tune a pool to the king's mind."

"Uh," I think I pulled out the sheaf and riffled through, then yanked a slip. "Here, Frisson!"

The poet pursed his lips, absorbing his own verse again, then spouted it out, with improvements:

I did a double take, but he was right - "television" was Latin for "seeing at a distance," though not quite in the way my culture meant it. I looked down at the pool, almost daring it to show me something. It clouded and darkened, then cleared, but stayed dark, a deep indigo - and in its depths, images formed. My gaze locked onto them; I couldn't have forced myself to look away if I'd wanted to. And, of course, I didn't want to; to say the least they were compelling.