Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

“Have you looked around you lately?”

“Cheap rejoinder, Father.” Rod fixed him with a gimlet eye. “ Our universe isn’t medieval—but your belief is.”

“Not really,” Father Al said earnestly. “Spiritual beliefs really can’t be proven or disproven by physics or chemistry, any more than theology can deduce the formula for a polymer. It comes down to faith, after all—and we believe that Christ gave Peter the power to speak for Him, when He told that first Bishop of Rome, ‘I give to you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. What you bind on Earth, it shall be bound in Heaven; what you loose on Earth, it shall be loosed in Heaven.’ We also believe that Peter’s ‘keys’ descended to his successors, down to the present Pope.”

“Very interesting, but I don’t see…” Rod broke off, staring. “Oh, no! You don’t mean…”

“Why not?” Father Al smiled. “Did you think there would be a different God for each universe? I can’t prove it with physical evidence, but I believe in a God who existed before anything else did, and who created everything—one God who began all the universes. I’ve noticed that the people here are Christians—Roman Catholics, in fact. So, if it’s the same God for both universes, and the Pope speaks for Him, says what God wants said, surely the Pope in this universe will give the same answer to any given question as the Pope in our universe would.”

“So your Writ from your Pope says what the Pope in this universe wants that old priest in there to do.” Rod gave Father Al a sidelong look. “Doesn’t that sound just a teeny bit lame to you, Father?”

“Of course,” said Father Al, with a disarming smile. “Because, when my Pope wrote this letter, he wasn’t speaking ex cathedra; so he was speaking as John the XXIV, not as Pope. Nonetheless, I’ve no doubt the Christians here hold basically the same beliefs as Christians in our home universe; so I don’t doubt the Pope here would want me to have this altar stone.” He frowned, gazing at the sky.

“Pretty problem, though, isn’t it?” Then his face cleared. “Well, I’ll tell the Jesuits about it, when we get back. Shall we get down to business?”

Gwen brought her broomstick hovering over the ledge, a hundred yards from the Tower, and brought it slowly to ground. Rod and Father Al dismounted, just as Magnus and Geoff popped into sight beside them.

“What’re you two doing here?” Rod demanded. “I want you up on top of that crag!”

“Aw, Papa! Do we have to?”

“Yes, you do! I want you watching from a safe distance, ready to teleport me out of there if it looks like he’s really apt to kill me! And where’s Elidor?”

Magnus’s eyes widened; then guilt rose in them. “Uh—we left him atop the crag.”

“Uh-huh!” Rod nodded grimly. “So what’s to stop a spriggan from hopping in and snatching him again, huh? Now, you two get back there—fast!”

“Yes, Pap…” They disappeared before they finished the syllable.

“And that goes for you, too.” Rod glowered at the witchling who hovered before him on a makeshift hearth-broom. “Stay out of the fight, Cordelia! But help your Mama, and be ready to drop a few rocks on the meany!”

“Oh, all right , Papa!” Cordelia huffed, and wheeled her broomstick up and away toward the top of the mountain.

“You, too, dear.” Rod caught Gwen’s hand. “Out.”

“I will. ”Tears stood in her eyes. “Take care of thyself.”

“I will,” Rod promised. “You take care of me, too, huh?” And he gathered her in.

Father Al turned away to study the local geology for a few minutes.

Rod turned back to him with a happy sigh. Air whooshed behind him as Gwen swooped back up to the top of the mountain.

“Some very interesting stratification, here.” Father Al pointed to the rockface. “At a guess, I’d say this was a seabed a few million years ago.”

“I’m sure it was—and thank you for your delicacy, Father. Come on, let’s go meet the monster.”

They strode down the rock ledge, Rod saying, “Now, I want this clear. I go in first, to draw his attention; then, while I’ve got him occupied, you sneak up behind and brain him with the stone.”

“I think a touch will suffice,” Father Al murmured. “What happens if he knocks you over the ledge, and still turns around in time to brain me?”

“Wear a crucifix, don’t you?”

“Not ordinarily; but it’s a good thought.” Father Al pulled out a rosary and slipped it over his head. “Now! The crucifix will protect me—because he’ll have to look away from me to avoid seeing it.”

Rod nodded. “Right.”

“And since I’m protected, I should go in first.”

Rod stopped dead.

“You must admit, it’s more logical.”

Rod sighed. “Well, I never did have too much luck against logic. All right, Father, you win. You first, into the lion’s den—but I’ll be right behind you.”

“Your reference was to Daniel,” Father Al mused as they started up again. “I wonder—is your soul in as good a shape as his was?”

Rod was quiet for a few paces. Then he admitted, “I was raised Roman Catholic…”

“And how long has it been since you took the Sacraments?”

Rod sighed. “My wedding, Father—nine years ago. And you’ve got a point—if a lion’s in there, I’d better be in top shape. Give me a few minutes to examine my conscience.”

And they moved slowly toward Redcap, murmuring softly together.

“ Ego te absolvo ,” Father Al said finally, making the sign of the Cross. “And I think you’re about to meet your penance.”

They rounded a curve, and the Tower loomed over them.

The ledge around the tower was strewn with human bones and a few skulls. That almost did Rod in, right there. The fear hit, suddenly and totally. He paused, letting it wash over and through him. The tidal wave passed, leaving that old, familiar, clutch-bellied, knee-jellied feeling; but he could cope with that. He glanced at Father Al; the priest looked to be feeling it, too. His face was drawn and pale, but his lips firmed with resolve. He unwrapped the altar stone and held it out with both hands. “Are we ready, then?… Good. ‘Then into the Valley of Death.’ ” And he strode forward before Rod could say anything, chanting:

“ ‘He who digs a pit may fall into it, And he who breaks through a wall May be bitten by a serpent! He who moves stones may be hurt by them, And he who chops wood is in danger from it! If the iron becomes dull, Though at first he made easy progress, He must increase his efforts; But the craftsman Has the advantage of his skill!’ ”

With a roar, the Redcap was on him.

It bolted out of the tower, crusted with filth and crazed with hatred and loneliness—about five feet high; shoulders as wide as a barrel; greasy, grizzled hair flying about its shoulders, huge eyes afire with bloodlust. Its tunic and leggings were stiff with grease and covered with dirt; its iron boots rang on the stone and crunched through bone. It whirled a pikestaff high with one hand, like a hatchet; then its rusty edge sliced down at the priest.

Then Redcap saw the altar stone, and clanked to a halt.

They stood frozen for a moment, the priest holding out the stone like a shield, the monster glaring at it balefully. Rod drew his sword and came running. Father Al began to chant again:

“ ‘… a live dog is better Than a dead lion. For the…’ ”

Redcap roared and slashed out with his pikestaff.

The flat of the blade slammed into Father Al’s side; he went flying, landed ten feet away, the altar stone jarring out of his hand. Redcap grabbed a small boulder, still roaring, and heaved it at the stone. It swerved aside at the last second, narrowly missing Father Al’s head.