Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

And Rod Gallowglass could spark the grandaddy of them all, if he weren’t properly guided.

The pinnace landed, barely touching the grass, and Father Al clambered out of the miniature airlock. He hauled his travelling case down behind him, watched the airlock close, then went around to the nose, moving back fifty feet or so, and waved at the nose camera. Lights blinked in answering farewell, and the St. lago lifted off again. It was only a speck against dark clouds by the time the local monks came puffing up.

“Why… did you let him… take off again?” Father Cotterson panted.

“Why, because this is my mission, not his,” Father Al answered in feigned surprise. “Brother Chard was only assigned to bring me here, Father, not to aid me in my mission.”

Father Cotterson glared upward at the receding dot, like a spider trying to glare down a fly that gained wisdom at the last second. The monk didn’t look quite so imposing in the flesh; he was scarcely taller than Father Al, and lean to the point of skinniness. Father Al’s respect for him rose a notch; no doubt Father Cotterson fasted frequently.

Either that, or he had a tapeworm.

Father Cotterson turned back to Father Al, glaring. “Have you considered, Father, how you are to leave Gramarye once your mission is completed?”

“Why…” said Father Al slowly, “I’m not certain that I will, Father Cotterson.” As he said it, the fact sank in upon him—this might indeed be his final mission, though it might last decades. If it didn’t, and if the Lord had uses for him elsewhere, no doubt He would contrive the transportation.

Father Cotterson didn’t look too happy about the idea of Father Al’s becoming a resident. “I can see we’ll have to discuss this at some length. Shall we return to the monastery, Father?”

“Yes, by all means,” Father Al murmured, and fell into step beside the lean monk as he turned back toward the walled enclosure in the distance. A dozen other brown-robes fell in behind them.

“A word as to local ways,” Father Cotterson said. “We speak modern English within our own walls; but without, we speak the vernacular. There are quite a few archaic words and phrases, but the greatest difference is the use of the second person singular, in place of the second person plural. You might wish to begin practice with us, Father.”

“And call thee ‘thee’ and ‘thou?’ Well, that should be easy enough.” After all, Father Al had read the King James Version.

“A beginning, at least. Now tell me, Father—why dost thou seek Rod Gallowglass?”

Father Al hesitated. “Is not that a matter I should discuss with the head of thine Order, Father Cotterson?”

“The Abbot is absent at this time; he is in Runnymede, in conference with Their Majesties. I am his Chancellor, Father, and the monastery is in my care while he is gone. Anything that thou wouldst say to him, thou mayst discuss with me.”

A not entirely pleasant development, Father Al decided. He didn’t quite trust Father Cotterson; the man had the look of the fanatic about him, and Father Al wasn’t quite certain which Cause he served.

On the other hand, maybe it was just the tapeworm.

“The prophecy I told thee of,” Father Al began—and paused. Decidedly, he didn’t trust Father Cotterson. If the man was the religious fanatic he appeared to be, how would he react to the idea that the High Warlock would become even more powerful?

So he changed the emphasis a little. “Our prophecy told us that Rod Gallowglass would be the most powerful wizard ever known. Thou dost see the theological implications of this, of course.”

“Aye, certes.” Father Cotterson smiled without mirth—and also without batting an eye. “Wrongly guided, such an one could inspire a Devil’s Cult.”

“Aye, so it is.” Father Al fell into the monk’s speech style, and frowned up at him. “How is it this doth not disconcert thee, Father?”

“We know it of old,” the monk replied wearily. “We have striven to hold our witchfolk from Satan for years. Rest assured, Father—if no Devil’s Cult hath yet arisen on Gramarye, ‘tis not like to rise up now.”

“ ‘Witchfolk?’ ” Suddenly, Father Al fairly quivered with attention to the monk’s words. “What witchfolk are these, Father?”

“Why, the warlocks and witches in the mountains and fens, and in the King’s Castle,” Father Cotterson answered. “Did not thy prophecy speak of them, Father?”

“Not in any detail. And thou dost not see thy High Warlock as any greater threat to thy flock?”

“Nay; he ha’ been known nigh onto ten years, Father, and, if aught, hath brought the witchfolk closer to God.” Father Cotterson smiled with a certain smugness, relaxing a little. “Thy prophet seems to have spake somewhat tardily.”

“Indeed he doth.” But Father Al wondered; the lean monk didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual about Rod Gallowglass. Perhaps there was a big change due in the High Warlock’s life-style.

“At all odds, if thou hast come to guide our High Warlock, I fear thou hast wasted time and effort,” Father Cotterson said firmly. “I assure thee, Father, we are equal to that task.” They came to a halt at the monastery gates. Father Cotterson pounded on them with a fist, shouting, “Ho, porter!”

“I am sure that thou art,” Father Al murmured as the huge leaves swung open. “Yet the prime task given me, Father, is to seek out the truth regarding our prophecy. If nought else, my mission is well-spent simply in the learning so much of a flock we had thought lost—and better spent in finding that they are not lost at all, but exceedingly well cared for.”

Father Cotterson fairly beamed at the compliment. “We do what we can, Father—though we are sorely tried by too little gold, and too few vocations.”

“I assure thee, Father, ‘tis the case on every world where humanity doth bide.” Father Al looked about him as they came into a wide, walled yard. “A fair House you hold, Father, and exceedingly well-kept.”

“Why, I thank thee, Father Uwell. Wilt thou taste our wines?”

“Aye, with a right good will. I would fane see summat of this goodly land of thine, Father, and thy folk. Canst thou provide me with means of transport, and one to guide me?”

The thaw reversed itself, and Father Cotterson frosted up again. “Why… aye, certes, Father. Thou shalt have thy pick of the mules, and a Brother for guide. But I must needs enjoin thee not to leave this our House, till the Lord Abbot hath returned, and held thee in converse.”

“Indeed, ‘tis only courtesy, Father,” Father Al said easily.

“Yet most needful,” Father Cotterson said, in a tone of apology that had iron beneath it. “Our good Lord Abbot must impress upon thee, Father, how strictly thou must guard thy tongue outside these walls. For these people have lived for centuries in a changeless Middle Ages, look you, and any hint of modern ways will seem to them to be sorcery, and might shake their faith. And, too, ‘twould cause avalanches of change in this land, and bring ruin and misery to many.”

“I assure thee, Father, I come to verify what is here, not to change it,” Father Al said softly.

But something in the way Father Cotterson had said it assured Father Al that, if he waited for the Abbot, he might spend the rest of his life waiting. After all, he had taken an oath of obedience, and the Abbot might see himself as Father Al’s lawful superior, entitled to give binding orders—and might resent it if Father Al chose to honor the Pope’s orders over those of an Abbot. His resentment might be rather forcibly expressed—and, though Father Al valued times of quiet contemplation in his cell, he preferred that the cell be above ground, and that the door not be locked from the outside.