Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“Spring. How about yours?”

“About the same. I’m really pregnant. This isn’t just a virt thing.”

Again, Lydia quickly shifted the subject, as if by admitting that she was really pregnant she had strayed into dangerous territory.

“Are you two ladies here on your own? I spotted you first from an upstairs window and I thought I saw a couple other people.”

“We’re here with two friends,” Ayradyss answered. “They heard the bagpipes and went into the hills to see if they could find the piper.”

Lydia giggled again. “Ambry’s piping is like that. The first time I met him, I wandered all over the hills looking for him. I found him—or really, he found me. I’ll send him a message asking him to join us and to bring your friends along.” She opened a window and leaned out into the yard, making a soft cooing noise. A fat grey pigeon fluttered sleepily from the rafters.

“Find Ambry for me and ask him to come home and to bring the two people…” She glanced questioningly at Ayradyss and Heather.

“Two men,” Heather clarified. “One is dressed in a priest’s cassock and the other in rather ragged clothing.”

“Those two men with him.”

The pigeon yawned, preened, and fluttered off, blending almost immediately into the grey sky.

Lydia deliberately kept the conversation inconsequential after that and her visitors were quite content to cooperate.

Ayradyss could hardly keep up her part in the discussion; her mind kept coming up with unanswerable questions: Was this indeed Virtu? If so, had they really crossed in from the Verite? How could that have been done without the proper equipment? How could the ghosts have crossed at all? Moreover, the caoineag and the cleric had both spoken as if these “eldritch realms” had existed during their mortal existence. If this was the case, the realms predated Virtu—they predated computers. How had Lydia entered them from Verite?

Gratefully, she heard the crunch of feet on the oyster shell path and put her questions away for later—and hopefully more fruitful—meditation.

The door opened, admitting a man wearing wool leggings and an unbleached muslin shirt. He was bearded, his hair and shaggy eyebrows wild as if he had been standing in a high wind. A fine set of bagpipes was slung over his shoulder. Crossing to Lydia, he kissed her on one cheek and nodded to the ladies.

“The pigeon found me and I found the men, but they fled from me as if I were a ghost. I lost them near the standing stones. They were an odd pair—I’m certain that the smaller one was dragging a chain.”

“We were involved in a mystery game,” Ayradyss said quickly. “They may have thought you were one of the villains.”

“Quite possibly.” The man sketched a bow. “I am Wolfer Martin D’Ambry, but I hope you will call me Ambry, as Lydia does. The rest is something of a mouthful.”

“I am Ayradyss and this is Heather. We wandered here and Lydia invited us in.”

“They’re from Scotland,” Lydia said, almost as if she was saying something else.

Ambry nodded.

Ayradyss knew there was a certain etiquette to what one did and did not ask in virt; this made her somewhat hesitant to ask questions that could be taken as a cross-examination. Heather, however, had no such compunctions.

“What is this place? Lydia called it a wild land—seemed to indicate that it wasn’t easily found. What did she mean?”

Lydia hung her head slightly, looked embarrassed. Ayradyss felt for her. Clearly in her excitement at having visitors—and perhaps out of a good-hearted desire that they not become frightened at finding themselves in a strange area—she had said more than she should have. The caoineags green-grey gaze was pitiless and steady, fixed on Wolfer Martin D’Ambry.

“Virtu,” he said, as if they had been talking for hours, “is not nearly as regulated and reliable as the tourist bureaus and rental agencies would have their clients believe. Only a handful of specialists will even admit how far-reaching the effects of the worldwide crash were. There are places in Virtu that cannot be found on any map in Verite. This is one of those places.”

“But this is truly Virtu?” Ayradyss asked, thinking, If this is Virtu, then does the Lord of Deep Fields know I am here ?

“It is accessible from Virtu,” Ambry said. “Its genius loci claims that this place is older than Virtu, but that is foolishness, is it not?”

“There have always been legends of places existing side by side with the fields we know,” Ayradyss said, quickly lest the caoineag speak the indignation flaring in her eyes. “The sidhe, so legends say, lived in a shadowland side by side with Verite, crossing over from time to time to steal a bride or a babe or a musician. Rip van Winkle drank and bowled for what he believed was a single night and returned home to find that a hundred years had gone by. Then there are the heavens and hells of almost every religion that has been. All of these are far older than Virtu. Perhaps the genius loci of this setting adopted such a legend and now believes it.”

“A thoughtful response,” Ambry said, sketching a bow over his hand.

“I know something of Virtu.”

“Perhaps we should be returning to our game,” the caoineag said. Our fellows will be wondering what has become of us.”

“Give me your game’s address and I will guide you back,” Ambry said. “It is neither easy to come here, nor to leave if the genius loci resists you.”

“We found our way easily enough,” the caoineag said haughtily. “We can find our way out again.”

“But thank you,” Ayradyss said quickly.

“Well, certainly you will permit me to walk with you and to assure myself that you are safely away.”

There was no other way they could refuse such a mannerly request without eliciting unwelcome questions, so they left the cottage in the company of Ambry and Lydia. Neither said anything when Ayradyss and Heather led the way up to the monoliths, but Ambry’s raised eyebrows were eloquent. Ayradyss felt immense relief when she saw that the moon portal remained open.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” she said, stopping before picking her way across to the rock wall. “Good luck with your baby.”

“And with yours, Ayra,” Lydia said, her perfect teeth shaping a smile. “Goodbye, Heather.”

“Farewell.”

“Wait!” Ambry said, when they turned away. “Where are you going?”

“There,” Ayradyss said, pointing to where the portal stood round and dark.

“Where?”

“Through the opening in the rock. Can’t you see it?”

“No, I see nothing but rock. Lydia, do you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“It must be a restricted access port,” Ambry mused. “I don’t believe that it goes to any game site. Tell me, ladies, where does that portal go?”

“Why should we tell you?” Heather said rather rudely.

“Because it effectively opens into my backyard.”

Ayradyss, heady to have home so near, smiled. “And it opens into my basement.”

“Your basement?”

“In Castle Donnerjack.”

“Donnerjack? As in John D’Arcy Donnerjack?”

Ayradyss would have said more, but the caoineag took her hand and with unsuspected strength pulled Ayradyss through the portal where she tumbled to a heap on the cavern floor.

“Why did you do that?” Ayradyss said, looking up at the now insubstantial, faintly glowing ghost.

“I fear what we have learned today. I do not want that man to know more about you until we have learned more about him.”

Ayradyss shivered and not just from her contact with the cold stone floor. “It was peculiar, wasn’t it?”