THE LETTERSEEKER

CHAPTER TWO

            “...milk,” Stalkworth whispered, completing the sentence he had begun before the pause. It had been a near-total break. The universe had flickered. Only his sentence provided him with a thread across the gap.

            A tenuous link. He might have just wakened from an ill-remembered dream. The first thing he saw was the alder stick, lying on the ground at his feet. And he still held the notebook and pen in his hands. He put the notebook in his shirt pocket, clipped the pen there with it, and reached down for the stick. His mind barely registered the strangeness: Not floor, ground!

            He tucked the alder in his belt, then looked about. It was noon, but a high overcast hid the sun. In the middle heavens shreds of darker cloud raced west, fragments of a storm—a dramatic backdrop for the towering megalith of old grey stone that stood not twenty feet ahead. Two massive columns supported a lintel that dipped in the center to a sharp point, giving the whole monument the shape of a gigantic letter 'M'.

            The stones were situated upon the crest of a high hill that dropped sharply just behind, so Stalkworth could not see immediately below. Farther off, grassy valleys and small woods faded in the east to mountains whose peaks were hidden in a cloudy gloom.

            Stalkworth rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. Where was he? The landscape resembled the Inverness countryside. Had he gone hiking deep in thought, and forgotten where he walked? But the stone—there was no such thing in Inverness.

            “—milk,” he said again, clinging to the continuity of the sentence in the face of his sudden transition.

            “MLG,” said the stone softly.

            Fascinated, still half-convinced he walked in a dream, Stalkworth moved forward. He reached up to the stone with his right hand. The surface was cool—a live cold, like the bite of a mountain stream. The feel of it was hardly dreamlike. Had it really made a sound? Then it came again. “MLG, MLG,” a series of distant gurgles. The stone trembled faintly beneath his fingertips.

            The sounds struck a chord deep within his well of knowledge, his long association with the forms and history of language. Suddenly compelled beyond further thought or caution, Stalkworth put his ear to the cold grey dolmen.

            A floodgate opened: Sounds, letters, images, streamed through his mind unchecked, a rush of fluid consonants against a background of fiery vowels!

            Stalkworth cried out and broke contact with the stone. The flow ceased, but its afterprint was vivid upon his inner eye. He would never forget it! Casting aside all thought of dream or reality, he ran forward through the grass to get away from the overhanging stone. The grass turned long and dark, and the crest swiftly became a steep slope. His foot went into a puddle. It was a hillside bog: Beneath the grass, water came out of the earth on all sides. By the time he penetrated another fifty yards into this morass, the bottoms of his jeans were soaked.

            Then he was forced to stop. A sheer expanse of rock stretched out below him and on either side as far as he could see, like a wide collar encircling the hill. The formation was almost fifty feet wide. It was covered with water from the springs that hissed as it raced downward over the surface of the stone; and beneath the water was a carpet of black moss.

            Stalkworth bent, stretching a hand to the moss. When he drew his fingers back they were coated with slippery mucus. Quickly he wiped them on his jeans and inspected the rock again. Covered as it was by running water and the moss, it might as well be made of glass.

            How could he cross? He edged along, looking for a rift in the barrier. The footing was insecure, and suddenly a piece of shale broke away beneath his feet, throwing him off balance. Wildly he clutched at the rock but it was too late. He tore a clump of grass from a cleft and toppled onto the slippery wet surface. Clear across he slid, scattering bits of grass behind. First his face was in the moss, then his back. He reached the brink, hit a spongy clump, rolled, and struck a patch of mud with knees and elbows. At the same instant, the sun flashed out from behind the clouds. A sudden warmth came over the land.

            Stalkworth lay against the bank breathing sharply. His face, hands, and clothing were coated with slime. With a slight convulsion he spit some from his mouth, then groped for the alder stick. It had slipped from his belt, but he found it lying on the mud beside him. Rising, he tucked it back in place.

            A buzz of insects rose about him and there was a rich odor in the air that reminded him of the farms near the university. He sniffed and looked around. Everywhere the mud was dotted by oval patches of cowdung and indented by tracks of hooves. But there were no cows in sight.

            He walked slowly to a small knoll nearby. The grass at the top of the knoll was close-cropped, unlike the long growth he had waded through on the hill's crest. Of course, the cows can't get to the top. He looked back. The slope was so sheer it hid the M-stone as if it had never existed, and the glare from the sun flashed off the wet surface like a mirror. He could not retreat that way.

            At the foot of the knoll ahead a track led south, with an easterly fork not far off. He walked to the fork and found himself looking down into a shallow vale. The path crossed a stream at its bottom, then went on toward a ridge that bounded the valley's eastern side. There was a rocky outcrop on the ridge and something moving near it, a large white animal that turned and disappeared behind the stones. Surely it was one of the cows, and where there were cows, there would be a farm. He started down the path into the vale.

     By the time Stalkworth reached the ridge the sun was touching the horizon. The outcrop turned out to be a ruin. Four stones, originally the base of four pillars, remained upright in a cluster. The remainder was now a scatter of stones on the ground at their feet. He could not tell what the shape had been.

            He sat down in the turf and in the fading light of the sun took the notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, writing down the sounds he had heard at the first monument.

            Just as he finished the sun set. A silver mooncrescent floated in the western glow close to the orange flash of Bootes: Arcturus burning in the twilight. Stalkworth sighed as he recognized the constellation. He did not know where he was, but at least the green earth beneath him was his earth, not that of another world—or so the stars implied. Still there was a feeling of deep change. What had happened to him? Where was the university, Mulligan's cottage, Milligan?

            Exhausted by his efforts, he found a small grassy hollow sheltered by one of the fallen stones that cut off the hollow from the cool breeze drifting up from the vale. He lay down and shut his eyes.

            As Stalkworth fell into that mysterious place of the mind that precedes slumber, the stones reached out and drew his thought along. It was a continuation of the stream at the M-stone, but one that roamed through gentler channels, and it seemed both an echo of the day and a whisper of days to come. It led him to a dream. 

            He walked alone on a meadow of bogs. Everywhere about were clusters of white mushrooms. He was hungry, but there was a feeling of warning and he avoided the mushrooms. Ahead loomed a circle of tall grey stones that outlined a shallow bowl-shaped clearing. At its center sat a woman clad in brown with a cloak of green. About her wrist was a fine golden circlet holding a stone of carnelian. She was full-breasted and fair of skin, her lips delicately curved. Her hair seemed brown beneath the lowering sky; but as he drew near a ray of sunlight pierced the gloom and touched her, and her hair turned the color of molten copper in the beam.

            “I am Gretta,” she said in a voice gentle as her smile.

            Her speech set his pulse afire. She held out her arms and he ran to her, but a white shape rose up, blocking the light. He was seized and drawn away in a crushing grip. The alder stick flew out of his hand.

            Stalkworth woke suddenly, his gasp stifled by the sharp morning air.

            Gretta!

            Stalkworth had seen her face and heard her name, only to be forced back to the world of stones and trees and cold white mist. She had seemed so real, so near. Was it for her he had wandered into these hills? The thought wrapped itself silently about his heart and did not leave him.

            He got up and looked around, beset by mixed emotions, stamping his feet against the chill, not sure whether to cling to the dream or try to throw it off. The valley below was filled with mist. It was not yet thick upon the high field, but patches hovered about the trees where the field came to an end. And as he watched, one of the patches there seemed to divide and condense into three solid shapes.

            White as the mist and indistinct in the glare of the rising sun, they moved out of sight beneath the trees. Those cows? Stalkworth walked across the field to the place they had entered the woods, adjusting the alder at his belt where it had slipped down during the night. He tightened the belt. The hunger he felt in the dream had not subsided.

            At the edge of the forest he found a trail that led him into thickets of oak, birch, and dark conifers. After a while he came to a tiny rivulet where he drank and splashed his face. After that the mist grew thicker. The trees began to drip. At last the ground sloped so sharply that he stopped, unsure. There was no sense in turning back, but he was not certain he should go on. Suddenly there came a shout that turned into a scream.

            The overwhelming urgency of the cry launched Stalkworth into action. He leaped off the path and raced downhill toward the sound. In moments he half-ran, half-fell into a small clearing. In the center of the clearing was a pool of water, and on the far side of the pool a woman lay upon the ground. As he approached, the woman rose to her knees. Stalkworth's heart began to pound violently. Was he still caught up in his dream? Even in the dim light he could see the woman's hair glinted copper!

            Then behind her, suddenly visible as they emerged from the dark shadows of the trees, came three astonishing figures. A huge bear, snow-white, reared up and let out an awesome roar. Beside it came another of the same kind. They were utterly terrifying; but even more terrifying was the second bear's burden, for it had a rider, and the sight of her sent a chill through Stalkworth's bones to the marrow.

            She was mounted without a saddle upon the beast's mighty shoulders. She clung to the white fur of its neck with one hand, and with the other she directed the point of a long narrow sword to the woman who crouched beneath her. In contrast to the simple brown cloth worn by her victim, the bear-rider was clad in black, a robe of velour so black it seemed a shred of night thrown into the day, shot through with beads of silver that glittered as she moved.

            Her skin was ivory; her face narrow and exotic; her expression one of contempt; her hair long and black as the robe. She wore silver about her wrists and neck, but her hair hung loose, swirling about her face as the mount reared.

            Bears and rider saw Stalkworth at once. He had no time to hide. The rider swung her sword up and pointed it at him. Her mouth was crimson-painted, but it appeared a black slit in the gloom. She let out a wordless, unearthly call and her eyes began to burn like twin stars.

            There was a flurry of movement behind. Trapped! Stalkworth spun half-around, caught a brief glimpse of white, felt hot breath against his cheek, then was struck a searing blow. Blood flew into his eyes as his knees buckled.

* * *

            He smelled sweet herbs. Something was bound against his left cheek. He opened his eyes.

            He was lying on his back. Above were bundles of grass: a thatched roof. The light was dim but he could tell it was sunlight entering the room from the left. He turned his head toward the light and let out a faint sob, his face twisting at the surge of pain in his cheek.

            Then the pain gave way to surprise. A man was seated beside him, a figure cast in shadow by a light that came from a window behind. But in the backlight reflected from the straw roof Stalkworth could see the man's features.

            A grim man he seemed, with a thick shock of golden-red hair and a bushy beard of the same color. He was lightly dressed in a leather tunic, his arms bare, deeply tanned, and very muscular. His eyes were yellow-grey, almost tawny, a difficult color to define. His nose was long and straight, and he had high cheekbones. He reminded Stalkworth of someone he knew, or had once known— someone tall and lion-like, with light hair. He fought for memory.

            “Millig...Milligan,” he muttered weakly.

            At the sound the man's features were transformed. He broke into a huge grin and began to laugh—a long, profound laugh in a baritone range, laughter that Stalkworth could soon feel shaking the boards of the cot. After a moment it seemed that the whole room was laughing, and a light the color of the laughter flashed about the air. The man's hair shook like twigs in the wind. He laughed until tears came, slapping his thigh now and then with his palm, wiping his eyes with his big knuckles. Then, as a long peal slowed, he spoke, and his voice was like the laughter, golden, merry, and full of light.

            “No, no, I'm not Milligan, whoever that is! But you— you're alive and speaking! You've pulled a trick on Maegeth she'll rue, I swear. Ho, ho! Why, you've got both eyes, a nose, a mouth, even your ears! Believe me, that's never happened before, that's not the rule! Her beasts kill, not wound; crush, not maim. She'll not believe it. It'll chill her bones just to see you again, if that ever happens. You've pulled a trick on Maegeth, a better one than I've ever managed, by the Bodla it is! Ho, ho!”

            Stalkworth tried to speak again, but the light in the room faded as the pain rose up once more. The strange laughing golden man became a dim shadow and the rest of what he said was a meaningless jumble.

            When Stalkworth woke again the smell of herbs was stronger. He turned his head carefully and saw there was a doorway beside the window. The rough cloth curtain that hung there fluttered, admitting a breath of cool air. With an effort he sat up.

            The cot faced a bare wall of hewn timber. Stalkworth's back was against a partition that rose almost to the roof, separating his alcove from the remainder of the dwelling. On a small table close by was a big wooden bowl filled with freshly crushed leaves. Near this was the stool the golden man had used for a seat. There was no decoration; but on the wall by the door hung a horn made of bronze with two curls, circled by worked silver bands.

            As Stalkworth took in these details the curtain was drawn back. The man entered. The door was just high enough for him, and his powerful frame nearly filled the opening. He held a short pole between his hands, from which hung a metal pot, its bottom still cherry-red from a cookfire.

            “Awake and sitting!” he said. “I hoped for that.”

            He tilted the pot over the bowl. Boiling water struck the crushed leaves. Vapor rose instantly, carrying a fresh, healing scent into the air. Stalkworth leaned forward and let the steam curl up about his face, breathing deeply. His head cleared and he felt the gnawing of hunger. But the man had slipped out again.

            He came back at once with a smaller bowl, a wooden spoon, and a wooden plate that had rounds of flatbread upon it, freshly baked. The bowl was filled with hot soup. Stalkworth took the food gratefully and began to eat, dipping the bread into the soup. The flavor was strong and sweet—an unfamiliar mixture of goat's milk, herbs, honey, and large slices of forest mushrooms. As he spooned up a bite Stalkworth recalled the strangely forbidding clusters of white mushrooms he had seen in his dream beneath the stones, and how the stonesong had seemed to weave them with the bogs and the dark, fertile soil.

            “Mushrooms,” he muttered to himself in a hoarse whisper.

            “What? Mushrooms? —Aye, I gathered them myself this morning.”

            Stalkworth looked up at the man. “Not these—I meant my dream. I remembered a dream I had at the edge of the woods.”

            “A dream of mushrooms? Where were you then? Near the stones, eh?”

            “Yes, I was. A ruin at the edge of a valley.”

            “I guessed it. More of a song than a dream, eh? A mushroom- song. And with the beasts near—it's a wonder they did not smell you out. Ah, the danger was great. Yet you live!”

            “But how did I get here? And who are you?”

            “I am Garufel, Garufel the Golden, Master of Letters, Lore, and Light. I carried you here to my cottage after you were slain by one of Maegeth's beasts—or so she thought, so she thought! And so she had commanded. But you fooled her. No one until yourself has suffered a blow from one of those creatures and lived to recall his dreams.”

            “Maegeth was the woman I saw riding on the bear? She was dressed in black and silver, and she had terrible eyes.”

            “That was she,” Garufel answered:

                                    Maegeth, Dark Maegeth

                                    In silver will bind you

                                    'Til gold cannot find you

                                    And cold is your death!

            Stalkworth shuddered and lowered his eyes. His torn cheek burned, and again he felt the hot breath of the beast—the force of its blow! But Garufel put a hand on his shoulder and sang:

                                    Garufel, Garufel!

                                    Drink thrice from his well,

                                    And the Night's Eye shall fail!

            Then he added, “Fear not Maegeth. She is not here, but leagues distant. I was alerted to your journey by The O'Kuern—”

            “What? O'Kuern? You know O'Kuern?”

            “The O'Kuern, yes. He said someone would be coming through the M-gate, so I hastened to the Narrow Woods, to this cottage—a place I sometimes stay to keep an eye on things. Two days ago, I was roaming near the wood-edge when I heard a cry and the growls of Maegeth's beasts. I investigated and came up as you fell. Maegeth fled, with a captive, I'm sure—there were signs of a struggle there but no body, and she seldom takes those she kills. I had to care for you, so I could not follow.”

            A captive...

            “Gretta! Her name was Gretta. I'm sure it was she.” Stalkworth's cheek began to burn again.

            Garufel leaned forward. “Gretta? What do you mean?”

            “Maegeth's captive had red hair and she was dressed in brown, like the woman I saw in my dream. In the dream she called herself Gretta.”

            “So,” Garufel scowled, “there is more to this than I suspected. That changes things. Finish your meal while I make ready.”

            Without further explanation Garufel hurried to the other room, where Stalkworth soon heard him grinding herbs and pouring water. A pungent smell drifted over the partition.

            As he finished his meal Stalkworth considered his situation. According to Garufel, he had been in and out of sleep for two days. He had passed through a gate—the M-gate, Garufel called it. He did not understand how the passage had occurred, but the reality of his surroundings made him place his attention upon his immediate demands: The food was good. Strength and vitality were returning fast and with them came a new sense of purpose. Gretta had no sooner entered his life than she had been snatched away. He must find her again, and it seemed that the golden man knew something about her fate.

            He put down the empty bowl, pulled back the covers, and swung himself to the edge of the cot. His cheek throbbed at the movement but he sat still until he had mastered the pain. Then he got up. His clothes were not evident, so he took the rough wool blanket from the bedclothes and wrapped it around himself. Just then Garufel returned.

            “Ah! Ahead of schedule. How do you feel?”

            “A little weak. My cheek hurts, but I'll be all right.”

            “Good. The soup will help. And you've eaten all the cakes: They will give you strength for many hours. Follow me, then.” He turned and led the way outside, drawing back the curtain at the doorway for Stalkworth to pass through.

            Stalkworth blinked as he came out upon a small pine-bordered meadow glowing beneath a noonday sun. At a pool in the stream that crossed the meadow Garufel removed the bindings from Stalkworth's wound and washed his damaged cheek carefully with a square of soft white cloth.

            “It is healing very fast, but there will be scars,” he said. “Look for yourself.” He gestured at the water.

            Stalkworth peered into a patch of still water and studied his reflection. Three scarlet stripes ran across his left cheek from eye to chin, making a barbaric tattoo.

            Garufel chuckled. “Better scars than death,” he said. “The blessing of The O'Kuern was with you—or it would have been otherwise.”