Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

Rod nodded slowly. “Ye-e-e-s. And in our universe, it would have been the 19th Century that finally undid that completely, as it laid Europe under a grid of railroad tracks, and sent telegraph wires all over the countryside, disrupting local field-forces.”

“Well, there were still tales told in the 20th Century—its early years, at least. But radio and television would have finished the job—those, and concrete. They are basically nature sprites, after all.”

The door swung open behind them. “We dine, gentlemen.”

“Well, enough of the fate of this world.” Rod slapped his knees and stood up. “Let’s get to the important stuff, Father.”

The boys cheered and beat them to the door.

They waked to the ringing of the noon bell. The old priest had returned, and the boys scampered out to find lunch. The old man was amazed at the table they set for him. “Cold hare, wild strawberries, grouse eggs, and trout simmering—thy children are most excellent hunters, Milord!”

“Why?” Rod asked around a mouthful. “Game getting scarce?”

“Aye, for some years. There were folk here who lived by trade through the mountains; and, when it ceased, they had need to scour the countryside for victuals. Many have wandered away, but there are still so many that our few farms can scarce feed them all.”

“Well, if it moves and is edible, my boys’ll find it. What stopped the trade, Father—Duke Foidin’s garrisons?”

“That, and the Redcap who lives in the Tower. Not even a peddler can make his way past it, now.”

“Oh.” Rod glanced at Father Al. “What does he do to them?”

“And what manner of sprite is he?” Father Al chipped in.

The old priest shuddered. “He doth take the form of an aged man, squat and powerful, with long snaggled teeth, fiery eyes, long grizzled hair, and talons for nails. He doth wear iron boots and beareth a pikestaff. As to what he doth to travellers, he hath no joy so great as the re-dying of his cap in human blood.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, cold roast hare didn’t taste quite so good. “Can’t anyone do anything to stop him?”

The old priest gave a short laugh. “What wouldst thou have? Armies cannot stand against him! ‘Tis said that reading him Scripture, or making him look upon a cross, will rout him—but how canst thou force him to listen or look?”

“Good question.” Rod turned to Father Al. “Any ideas?”

“One.” The priest nodded. “If religious symbols will repel him when he perceives them, a stronger symbol should banish him by its touch.”

The old priest chuckled. “Certes, Father—but where wilt thou find the man to chance the doing of it?”

“Papa will,” Geoff piped.

The old priest chuckled again, till his eyes met Rod’s, and the chuckle died. Then he paled. “Nay, thou wilt not attempt it!” He looked from Rod to Father Al, then to Gwen, and sat very still. Then he scrambled up, turning toward the door.

“Father,” Father Al said quietly, “I shall require thine altar stone.”

The old priest stopped.

Then he turned about, trembling. “Thou mayest not! The Mass must be said on the bones of the saints, embedded within the altar stone! How shall I say Mass without it?”

“We shall return it this evening.”

“Wilt thou?” The old man strode back, pointing to Father Al with a trembling forefinger. “Wilt thou come back at all? Redcap can stand against armies; how wilt two of thee best him?”

“Three,” Gwen said quietly. “I have some powers of mine own, Father.”

“In fact, it’s a family affair,” Rod corroborated. “You’d be surprised at what my kids can do, without getting in range.”

The old priest darted glances from one to another, as though they were mad. “Give over, I beg thee! And these poor wee bairns—do not subject them to such hazard!”

“We couldn’t leave them behind if we wanted to,” Rod said grimly.

“We will triumph, Father,” Gwen said gently. “We have but lately set the Crodh Mara to defeat the Each Uisge , and have, together, put a faery lord’s court to flight.”

“Yet the faery lords are not Redcap! They do not delight in murder and bloodshed! No! Do not go! But if thou must, thou shalt go without mine altar stone!”

Father Al sighed and pulled an oiled parchment out of his robe. Rod saw fold lines on it, and guessed it had been in an envelope before Father Al got to Gramarye. The Terran monk said, “I had hoped to avoid this, but… look upon this writ, Father.”

The old man stared at him, frightened. Then, reluctantly, he took the parchment and unrolled it. He read it, gasped, and grew paler the more he read. At last he rolled it back up with trembling hands and lifted his head, eyes glazed. “It…it cannot be! He… he is in Rome, halfway ‘cross the world! Rarely doth he speak to those of us in this far land, and then only to Archbishops! How doth it chance… Aiiieee!” He dropped the parchment, clasping his head in his hands. “What have I done? What sin lies on my soul, that he should write to me ?”

“No sin, Father, surely!” Father Al cried in distress, clasping the old man’s arm. “In truth, I doubt he doth know that thou dost live! He doth address this Writ to any who should read it, should I choose to show it them, having need of their aid!”

“Aye, oh! Aye.” The old man lifted a haggard face. “Yet what mischance doth befall, that I should be the one from whom thou dost require aid? Why doth this chance befall to me ? Nay, surely have I failed in my duty to my God and to my flock!”

“Thy humility doth thee credit,” Father Al said gently, but with the firmness of irony underlying it. “But thy common sense doth not. This lot doth fall to thee only because thy flock doth live near to the Tower of Gonkroma, whither I and my friends must go to challenge Redcap.”

Slowly, the old man’s eyes focused on Father Al. He nodded, and his face began to firm up. “Aye. ‘Tis even as thou dost say.” He straightened his shoulders and rose. “Well, then, if it must be so, it must—and I do not doubt it; I cannot read his hand, yet I’ve seen the picture of his Seal in books.”

“And now thou dost see the impression of the Seal itself. Wilt thou render up thine altar stone, good Father?”

“Aye, that will I. If His Holiness would wish it, then thou shalt have it. Come; I will lift it for thee.”

They came out of the chapel a few minutes later, Father Al holding the stone wrapped securely under his arm.

“That wasn’t quite honest, was it?” Rod asked.

Father Al looked up, startled. “Why not? The letter’s genuine, I assure you! That is the impression of the real Papal Seal, and the signature of the real Pope!”

“Yes, but not his pope.”

Father Al frowned. “What do you mean? John XXIV is Pope… Oh.”

“Yes.” Rod nodded. “In our universe.”

“But he is not, in this universe?”

“How could he be?”

“Why not?” Father Al turned a beaming smile on him. “This Earth is very much like the Terra of our universe; the constellations are the same; the language is the same as that of Renaissance England. Why might there not be people who are the same in both universes, too?”

“You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

Father Al shrugged. “I’m willing to consider it. But it doesn’t really matter greatly. We Catholics believe that the Pope speaks for God, when he speaks as Pope, not just as himself— ex cathedra , we call it.”

Rod stopped dead still, ramrod-straight, eyes closed. He counted to ten, then said carefully, “Father—doesn’t that strike you as a little medieval?”