Gene Wolfe: The Wizard

“Ah,” said Beel, “you ought to have been with Sir Able and me in Jotunland, where our sharp-eyed bowmen were my daughter’s maids, and my cook rode among my men-at-arms with a slaughtering knife.”

Marder laughed. “Well said. Just don’t forget that I was there before it ended, and at the Forest Fight.”

So swiftly that it came and went like the shadow of a bat, Arnthor frowned as if he might kill him. I did not understand that look and was disturbed by it. Arnthor seldom showed his dragon side, but I had seen it plainly then. What more I might have seen had I been wearing the old helm I can only imagine; and I am glad I was not.

I sought out Woddet among the wounded that evening, telling him what had transpired and asking whether he had been at the second battle Marder mentioned.

“I was,” he said, “and we had a bad time of it. We had gone into the wood—run there, when it seemed certain the Osterlings would crush us all. There were so many trees you couldn’t swing a sword. I had never used a mace since—never mind. I used it again, and dropped it wrestling two fellows Heimir brained for me. We had no time to look for it, and I used a saxe after that. I’d not thought it more than a camp knife until that day, but I learned what it could do. I’d hold it low and rush them with my shield up. Some had mail shirts, but their legs were bare. I’d put it through the thigh and cut my way out, and go to the next.”

I asked whether we had gained the victory, and he said we had to retreat, but we had captured their camp and burned it. “The Black Caan thought to crush us, and win the war,” he said, “but he slept on the ground that night.”

Etela came—Lynnet was talking strangely. Etela felt I could help, so I went with her. Wistan, who had told her where she might find me, came with us.

Bold Berthold was seated at Lynnet’s feet, with Gerda not far away. Toug stood behind her, watching. As we came up, Lynnet said, “Your father was a fine, strong man. Not tall, though he seemed tall. There must have been a hundred times when I saw him standing with another man and noticed, the way you notice suddenly what you ought to have seen long before, that he was no taller than the other. But if you listened to them, you understood that he was much bigger. It was something you couldn’t see, but it was there. The other man looked up to him, and when he did, he was looking high. All the men looked up to him, and all the women envied me. Do you remember Daddy’s name, Berthold? I won’t blame you if you’ve forgotten after all these years. Not one bit.”

“Black Berthold,” Berthold said.

“That’s right, his name was Berthold, and he was a fine, strong man. The strongest in our village. Once I saw him wrestle a bull. The bull threw him twice, but he jumped up each time before it could gore him. He threw it and held it down. It struggled like a puppy, but he wouldn’t let it get its legs under it again. It frightened me so much I made him promise never to do it again, and he never did. I never knew him to break a promise to anybody.”

Etela said, “I’ve brought Sir Able, Mama.”

Lynnet looked up at me and smiled. “Good evening, Sir Able. I had a son of that name once. You aren’t my son, I know, but I’d like to think of you as a son. May I?”

I had not noticed Vil until then, because he was farther from the fire than any of the others; but he stepped forward when she said that. Blindness had let him forget to control his expression, and it was a look of mingled hope and fear such as I have seldom seen. I sensed what he wanted me to say, I believe, and said it gladly. “I’d be proud to be called your son, Lady Lynnet, and proud to call you mother.”

“My name’s Mag.” She smiled. “But you may call me Mother, or anything you like, Able. You’ve always been my boy, because I love the boy you were before I met you.”

I sat at her feet beside Bold Berthold. “Something’s troubling me, Mother. Perhaps you can explain it. Do you recall the Room of Lost Love?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a place.”

“What about the Isle of Glas?”

“Ah,” she said.

“You recall it.” I looked up at her. “Do you remember how I came there? How we met, and what you told me?”

Her smile saddened. “My son Able came to me in that beautiful, terrible place, Sir Able, not you. I was chained there, and though I would willingly—oh, very, willingly—have come away with him, I could not.”

Although I often have strange dreams, I have tried not to pester you overmuch with them, Ben. Here I am going to make an exception, not because the dream in question seems specially significant, but merely because I remember it so vividly. Go to the next section if you are impatient.

I was in the Forest Fight with Woddet and the others. Either I had no sword, or I could not use it. Perhaps I had a dagger or Sword Breaker. I cannot be sure. There were green bushes and spindly trees all around me. I struggled to push through, afraid that the king would leave me behind. Frantically, I threw myself forward, striking the saplings that obstructed every step, and making leaves fly. As I went farther, I realized that I was not on the ground, nor was I obstructed by brush. I was in the treetops, fifty feet up. If the twigs and small limbs that held me back had not been so thick—if they had not been almost impenetrable—I would have fallen. No sooner had I understood this than I reached the edge, standing high in a great tree and looking out across the open countryside.

A pavilion of black silk had been pitched in a meadow. I knew that Eterne was in there. I also knew Eterne was my true sword; I bore no sword until I had her, and should have borne none until I got her back. I had taken another sword, and could never be shriven of that guilt.

Beyond the black pavilion was a highway. Cars, trucks, SUVs, and minivans—all sorts of vehicles—were traveling on it, going so fast that it seemed certain they would crash. There was a school bus, a red hook-and-ladder, a black-and-white police car, and a white ambulance. Those stand out even now. The ambulance rocked from side to side as it tore along with its light bar blazing and its siren screaming. I climbed down and went to the highway. The drivers would not stop for me, and I shouted at their cars, thinking how far the ambulance was getting ahead of me. Able—the real Able—was in that ambulance. I knew that, and I wanted to help him.

I woke up. “Baki?” Someone was stroking me.

“Guess again.”

I thought it a better dream than my dream of the treetop and the crowded highway, my dream of the Forest Fight.

From time to time Wistan and I met others on the road, often people fleeing the Osterlings. We spoke kindly to them, and though the news of the enemy they had was far from dependable we heard them gladly. That morning it was a fine young man, lean and dark, who fell to his knees. “Sir! Sir! Can you spare a scrap of food? It’s been two days and three nights.”

Cloud crouched, and I dismounted. “Tell me something of value, and you’ll get a good meal. Are you from Celidon?”

Reluctantly he said, “This is my country. Here.”

“Then your countrymen should feed you. Can’t you work?”

He stood, abashed. “I’m a herdsman. Only—only...”

The dry brush stirred, and I knew we were watched.

“Only I never saw a animal like that, sir.”

“Nor will you ever see another.”

Wistan pointed. “How’d you get that scar?”

“A arrow. Sometimes people steal our cattle, or try.”

I said, “You yourself never cross the river into Celidon to steal cattle, I’m sure.”