Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

For days at a time, she put the mystery from her. Very cautiously, she had spoken to John—hinting at her loneliness. He took more time from his work and they made occasional trips. Not wishing to undergo more ID checks than absolutely necessary, they picked isolated places: Loch Ness, Dove Cottage, the British Museum. Had they wished, they probably could have ventured safely into once-popular tourist areas, for the development of Virtu had dealt a heavy blow to the conventional tourist industry. But, as on their honeymoon, they chose places where questions would not be asked and gloried in each other as much as in the sights.

Outside the parlor window, once again the moon was nearly full.

“How many days?” Ayradyss asked the caoineag .

“Until the moon portal is open again? Two perhaps. Do you wish to venture that way again?”

“I do.”

“Very well. I have spoken with some of the others. There is a charm against the guardian I learned from the Lady of the Gallery. It comes from after my time, but it may be efficacious. The crusader and the blindfolded prisoner insist on coming with us.”

“I don’t mind. I’m rather touched.”

“They like you, Ayradyss. We all do.”

“And John?”

“He is a different matter. We do not dislike him—far from—but he is mortal. You are other.”

“Because of Deep Fields?”

“Yes, but more. Your heritage in Verite—Mermaid Beneath the Seven Dancing Moons, Angel of the Forsaken Hope—you belong to legend, just as each of us do. It makes us kin.”

“John belongs to legend—in Virtu, that is.”

“This may be so, but he is unaware of his legend, knows himself to be John D’Arcy Donnerjack, a man of great achievement, yes, but just a man. You know the fluidity of being myth.”

“Strange. I never really thought of it. There are many such as myself in Virtu.”

“But not in Verite.”

“No. That is true. These eldritch realms that the tunnels open into— what are they?”

“Myth, I suppose, but very real, very solid myth, just as the guardian you glimpsed is impossible yet all the more possible for being impossible. It is the way of that place.”

“When the moon is full, we will endeavor to go there again. You will teach me the charm?”

“Let us go to the Lady of the Gallery. She said she would teach you personally.”

“Very well. ‘Let us go then, you and I…’”

“‘While the evening is spread out against the sky ’” Like a patient, etherised upon a table Laughing, together, they went.

Armed with the Lady of the Gallery’s charm, artificial light, and the encouragement of the ghosts, Ayradyss descended into the caverns on the first day of the full moon. Although the moon would technically not be full until the following night, the caoineag told her that it was worth the attempt, for “appearances matter as much as anything in these matters.”

Voit trailed her, its light revealing the dripping stone, but the ghosts had expressed their doubts as to whether the robot would be able to enter the eldritch realms.

After wending their way through the now familiar maze of tunnels, the group came to the appropriate corridor. At first glance, it was blocked as always by solid stone, but when the caoineag moved to inspect the wall she turned to Ayradyss with a pleased smile.

“Turn off your light, Ayradyss, and have Voit do the same, then tell me what you see.”

Ayradyss obeyed, and as her fingers turned her headlamp’s switch, Volt’s light turned off. The blue-white glimmer of the three ghosts illuminated a round space, darker than the surrounding stone, with a sense of depth.

“There is a portal, just like last time, but it’s different. It seems more open this time.”

“Our luck is better,” the caoineag answered. “The guardian creature is not there. Quickly, step through.”

“I’ll go before the lass,” the crusader said, gathering his chain in his hand, “and give a wee bit of light.”

Ayradyss glanced back at Voit. “Do you see anything, Voit?”

“Nothing, mistress.”

“Then you must stay and guard against our return.”

“As you wish.”

She ducked her head then and stepped through the round space, moving quickly lest she should lose her nerve. The two remaining ghosts came through after her.

The place where they found themselves might have been a section of their own island, for in the distance they could see rock-pebbled beaches and a crashing body of water that could easily have been the North Minch. Here, though, there was no village, no castle. A stand of granite monoliths dominated the prospect, and while they had left a misty late morning behind, here the sun was sinking in the west. Faintly, in the distance, they heard the sound of a river running and behind that the plaintive wail of bagpipes.

Turning to her companions, Ayradyss began to ask where they should go from here, but their appearance chased the query from her mind. Although she had seen all of Castle Donnerjack’s spectral inhabitants manifest in more or less solid forms, there was always something of the insubstantial about them. Even about the caoineag , who would seat herself in a parlor chair and visit with Ayradyss for all the world like a more usual caller, something of the ethereal always clung. Now, however, they could not be distinguished from ordinary folk.

The crusader ghost still wore his rags and ankle chain, but now Ayradyss could see that his skin was oily, his beard more patchy than she had realized. A thin white line crossed the bridge of his nose, but she did not believe it was his death wound. Seen more clearly, the blindfolded ghost’s long robe resolved into a priest’s cassock and the indistinct emblem at his waist a carved wooden cross.

The caoineag’s beauty became more human here—her lips gaining in fullness, her eyes in brightness, her hair darkening to wheaten gold. The loss of her silvery glimmer could have robbed her of some of her loveliness, but instead she flowered out—a white rose rather than a perfect, enfolded bud.

“You… you are all changed.”

“We exist in Verite as legends; this is a place where legends are alive.”

“‘Ware the stones,” said the blindfolded ghost, reaching up and untying the strip of cloth from around his eyes. “They move and crush those who walk among them. So I met my end.”

“But,” Ayradyss said, finding it strange to see dark brown eyes where she had grown accustomed to white fabric, “you are dressed as a Christian cleric. I realize that my understanding of these things may be imperfect, but these eldritch lands seem to be far older than Christianity. How did you find yourself here?”

“My father followed the custom of the times, and having more sons than he knew how to employ, he sent me—for I had shown some talent for reading and ciphering—into the clergy. I did well in my education and after being ordained arranged to be sent home again. There I could have done well but for my pride…”

“Och, pride again,” muttered the crusader.

“I lorded my collar and my education over my less formally educated brethren. In time, they grew tired of me and one full moon near the spring equinox they brought me to this place. There they wrapped my eyes and challenged me to use my great knowledge to find my way home again. Needless to say, I failed, and when the great stones lumbered down to the water to drink—as they do twice a year—I was crushed beneath them.”

Ayradyss looked at the monoliths with doubting respect. “What a horrid fate. And then you found yourself haunting the castle?”

“That is correct. Something still binds me here—though I believe I have been well-enough punished for my arrogance.”