Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

The caoineag walked into the wall and vanished. With her departure, the moon portal vanished as well. Ayradyss shook her pounding head, decided this was a mistake, and leaned on Voit.

“Take me to my room, please, Voit. Perhaps you could call ahead and see if the kitchen could send up some cocoa.”

“Chocolate is not permitted on your diet, mistress,” the robot reminded, shaping a swinglike chair from its extensors and lowering so that she could sit.

“Then some imitation cocoa that doesn’t have any of the things I should be avoiding and has lots of the things I need.”

“I will see what I can do.”

Ayradyss traveled the rest of the way to her chambers in a daze. She hardly felt it when Voit set her on her bed, or when Dack (arriving with the hot beverage she was now far too sleepy to drink) removed her shoes and outer garments and tucked her beneath the covers.

She dreamed, though, of times long gone. In those dreams, she knew for what purpose the Lord of Deep Fields needed her son. When she awoke, however, finding John sitting at her side, her hand clasped in his, his bearded face revealing a protective concern he did not bother to conceal, the revelation vanished, a certain peace taking its place.

Spring, with a horde of tiny flowers—blue, red, yellow, and white; foam on the sea-crests; a near night sky, dropping burning rocks; the in-out rush of the ocean breathing stirring bands of mist in the mountains… and the keening, lowing, bellowing wailing of bagpipes from a distant crag or vale; sun, risen above cloudbanks, orange and golden gateway for warmth and the opening of Seeds.

Spring.

The great monotone of the air release had come with the dawn, and the melodies had risen slowly and spilled with a treaclelike deliberation sometime after that. The bagpipes had not changed significantly since the seventeenth century. The exact location of this one and of its piper was unknown. Not that it mattered. On such a fine spring day one should be out philosophizing by breathing, not viewing the end of spring’s light through glass.

And one who’d an ear for the magic of the pipes might find it there in piobaireachd , “The Kilberry Book of Ceal Mor.” The traditionally structured tune rose, swelled, subsided. Only gradually did a sense of differentness fan its wings and glide.

Beyond “Over the Sea to Skye” and “The Glen is Mine” there came up a lilting unrecognizable tune which somehow got itself recorded that day. It came to be called “Salute to the Birth of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”

Even the banshee, had she chosen to wail, would have been hard put to be heard above the piping. It continued through the afternoon, despite frequent attempts to locate its source. The unseen piper was sought in the mountain, on the seashore, in the valley, and even in town, but the more he was sought, the more elusive the music became. Its complexity increased as indications of his direction were spun away by the elements. Did the piper know that any man in the nearest town would be happy to stand him to drinks if he made his identity known? Or that his chances with the ladies stood quite good right now?

Or if he did know and didn’t care, why didn’t he come? Some of the pieces he played that day were of unknown provenance. Even the musicologists at the university, who were in near consensus that they were venerable melodies, could not pin them down as to subject or person.

Whatever the piper was, he knocked off for his midday meal just before several researchers claimed they were about to locate him. He was very good, and the town fell pretty much into a holiday mood as his music filled the air.

There was nothing formal about it, but people began disappearing from their jobs and appearing out of doors or in the pubs.

“What say you, Angus? You recognize that one?”

The larger man, who had just entered, ordered a pint and seated himself beside the one who had just spoken. He shook his head. “I dinna know that one nor the dozen or so before it,” he replied. “The last I knew was The Sound of Waves Against the Castle of Dontroon.’ “

“Ah, then I did hear that one,” said the first, who was a Duncan. “And ‘In Praise of Morage’ was back there somehow.”

“Aye,” said Angus.

“Would you be knowin’ the occasion for all the merriment?” asked the Duncan. “I’d passed people dancin’ in the streets on the way over.”

” Tain’t a weddin’. I’d guess from some of the things people have said that it’s a birthin’.”

“Whose?”

“The new laird of Eilean a’Teampull Dubh, I believe.”

“Donnerjack. I think they call him ‘Donnerjack.’”

“Boy or girl?”

“Dunno,” said the Duncan. “Shall we go out on the street and ask around?”

“Yes. A man should know who he’s drinking to.”

They finished their pints and walked outside. The last of the color had settled into a few bright isles above the western horizon and the sea breeze came more cool. People strolled up and down the cobbled streets, calling greetings, pausing to exchange words.

They headed toward a small group of acquaintances beneath a streetlight which had just come on.

“Johnny,” said Angus, “Neil, Ross.” They nodded and repeated his name and Duncan’s as they approached.

“…And the fishin’?” Duncan said.

Neil shrugged and shook his head.

“The bairn whose health we’re drinkin’…” Angus inquired. “Someone left money at all the pubs to celebrate this.”

“‘Twas my sister Jinny,” said Ross. “She’s been workin’ up at the new castle, you know. The new laird, Donnerjack, gave her the money and told her to spread it around town for drinks and snacks.”

“Snacks, too?”

“Hm. Perhaps we’d better be gettin’ back inside.”

“Was it a lad or a missy?” Angus asked.

“A lad. John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”

“Should be easy to remember. We’d best see as he’s well feted.”

Ross headed back to the pub. Duncan and Angus followed him.

“Your sister been workin’ there long?” Duncan asked.

“A few months,” Ross replied.

“She say what they’re like?”

“He’s some kinda perfesser. She seems more the artsy type.”

“Any other jobs opened up there, do you think?”

“None I’ve heard of. But with a new bairn, who knows?” said Ross.

“True. Maybe we ought to go up there and ask,” said Duncan.

“The fishin’s not been good,” said Angus, “and I’m a pretty good carpenter.”

“Let’s have a few more and go up there after breakfast tomorrow.”

“And not mention it to anyone else.”

“Aye.”

“How early?”

“Let’s meet here at eight and walk up.”

They moved on up the street and into a different pub.

The following morning, they made their way up the main street, then mounted the trail to the castle. They presented themselves at the service door. A robot opened it.

“Yes? What may I do for you gentlemen?” it asked.

“Lookin’ for work,” said Duncan. “Thought there might be a few things around here that you fellows might not be programmed to handle. Might we speak to the laird about it?”

The robot opened the door all the way.

“Come in and have a cup of tea while I see whether he’s available. Sometimes his work is so intense that he can’t be interrupted. He hangs a small sign on his door if that is the case.”

“Perfectly understandable,” said Duncan, “and if he has no time for us, give him our congratulations on the bairn.”

“I will do that, sir. Your tea will be ready in a moment. I am preparing it by means of a remote. Please have a seat.”