Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“Och, pride…” The crusader’s words were softer this time, but the cleric heard and glared at him.

“I hear bagpipes; I wasn’t certain before, but they’re louder now,” Ayradyss said, more to stop the incipient quarrel than because she felt comment was needed. “But I can’t place where the sound is coming from. Every time I think I know, the location of the music shifts.”

“Shall we go down to the shore?” the cleric asked. “We know that piper is not out on the water. Pinpointing where he is on the land should be simpler from there.”

All agreed and they walked down to the shore, the crusader in front with a loop of his chain in his hand, the ladies between, and the cleric striding behind.

Now that he had removed his blindfold, Ayradyss realized that he was a handsome man—hawk-nosed and arrogant despite his collar. His gaze restlessly scanned the horizon and his right hand rested as if it expected to find a sword at his waist. No doubt he had resented being shuffled off into the clergy when his blood and early training was that of a warlike clansman. Reaching the shore, they had no better luck locating the piper.

“The skirl makes my heart sing,” the crusader cried, his blue eyes snapping and his bearing no longer stooped. ” ‘Tis a fine and martial noise.”

“But where is the piper?” Ayradyss said. “For his sound to carry so, he should be standing on some promontory, but all I see are empty rocks.”

“Let us go and take a wee gander,” the crusader suggested, “this lad and I. The banshee can keep you company and ‘tis far safer than your clambering on the rocks.”

“Can you climb with that ankle chain?” the cleric asked. “I don’t fancy the loftier reaches among the monoliths. No one ever called me a coward, but those rocks may have memories.”

“Dinna think it will be a problem,” the crusader said. “I’ll take the high road and you take the low…”

He looped his chain about his hand and trotted off into the rocks, his laughter mingling with the shrilling of the pipes. A few steps after, the cleric followed. Left behind, Ayradyss and the wailing woman continued their survey of the heights from the shore. The waves rolling up the beach teasingly licked at the soles of their shoes and tossed bits of foam before them.

“Is that a cottage down the way?” Ayradyss asked after a while. “I believe it is, only that clump of boulders blocked it from sight before.”

“Odd,” the caoineag responded. “It is indeed a cottage, but I do not recall one the last time I visited here.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Perhaps a hundred and fifty years.”

“Time enough for change.”

“True.”

“Shall we pay a call? Perhaps the piper lives there.”

“If you wish to do so. The portal to your world should remain open for the next several days.”

“I do hope to be home for dinner.”

“We will try to make certain you are. It is difficult to judge time for us.”

“My watch is still running—at least, as far as I can tell. If it’s right, dinner won’t be for hours yet.”

“Then let us pay a call, by all means. Let me advise you not to eat or drink while you are here. The old legends say that this can bind a mortal to the fairy realms.”

“I seem to recall something of that. I will heed your advice.”

Even before they were within hailing distance of the cottage, Ayradyss could see that it was a pleasant place. Rambling and somehow fat, it was thatched with bright yellow reeds. Its paint—white for the main, green for the shutters and trim—must have been freshly renewed, for it was unchipped despite the proximity of the ocean. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes and daisies lined the oyster shell paths. A few chickens scratched in the sunlight. A lazy calico cat asleep on the roof opened one eye as they drew closer.

“Hello, the cottage!” Ayradyss called when they were on the fringes of where the beach gave way to unfenced yard. “Visitors!”

Almost immediately, the front door swung open and a startlingly beautiful young woman stepped out. She was no more than seventeen, with jungle-green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. Her smooth pink complexion might never have felt a sea wind and her teeth when she smiled were perfect and dazzlingly white. Although overall she was well made, she was also clearly pregnant, perhaps a bit further along than Ayradyss.

“Hi!” she said, her accent American. “I’m Lydia. What brings you to this isolated place?”

Ayradyss was at a loss for words. She had entertained many possibilities of what they might find, but this creature drawn from an American fantasy (despite the incongruous pregnancy) had not even come close. Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The caoineag recovered more quickly.

“I am Heather and this is my friend, Ayra. We were walking, listening to the piping, and we saw your house. It seemed rude to pass without saying hello.”

“The piping is my husband, Ambry,” Lydia explained, “and I’m very glad that you decided to stop. It does get a little lonely here.”

“Here?” Ayradyss managed.

“Yeah, we’re in one of the wild lands of Virtu—one of the places the programmers lost. It’s not too often that someone stumbles in. Don’t worry. Ambry knows how to get back. He’ll show you the way, but don’t go too soon. I’d really love a chance to visit.”

Ayradyss could only nod befuddled acceptance and follow Lydia into the cottage.

“Did you know?” she hissed to the caoineag . “And is your name really Heather?”

“No. And, yes, or close enough. Let’s talk with this girl. I want to know more about how an ancient place can be mistaken for a site in Virtu.”

The inside of the cottage was as pleasant as the outside. The table and chairs in the parlor Lydia led them into rested on oval rag-rugs that protected the bright pine floor. Overall the decor was late eighteenth-century rural New England, but Lydia switched off an electronic scribble board as she walked by it. Ayradyss caught a glimpse of long mathematical formulas that reminded her vaguely of some of John’s work.

Lydia caught her questioning glance. “It’s something to keep me busy—interface theory. Some of my experiences really make me question the conventional wisdom. At first, Ambry argued with me, but I think I’m bringing him around to my point of view.”

“You and your husband are mathematicians?” Heather asked.

“Well, yeah. I guess you could say that. Mostly we’re just taking it easy, but it’s nice to have something to talk about in the evening. Like I said, it gets quiet here.”

“Where are you from originally—if that’s not impolite to ask?” Ayradyss said.

“New Jersey.” Lydia giggled. “How about you?”

“Scotland.”

“Oh, how cool. This locus owes a lot to that part of the world—and not just the terrain features. Ambry likes to say that all the legends have found their way into Virtu.”

“Really?” said the caoineag dryly. “Which, I wonder, came first?”

“Well, in one sense the legends,” Lydia answered, not hearing the other’s sarcasm. “One of the first things people loaded into the data-nets—even way back when they were using terminal interface and telephone connections—was raw information: dictionaries, academic papers, fiction, indexes. When the system did the big crash, all that got scrambled and the AIs had lots of data to cannibalize.”

“So this ‘wild territory’ is just some AFC unauthorized scrambling of data?” Ayradyss said.

“That’s what the theory says.” Lydia’s tone was suddenly guarded. She switched the subject with an awkwardness that made Ayradyss suspect that she was at least as young as her physical appearance. “When’s your baby due?”