Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (11 page)

 
          
The
jarring moment of transcendence faded, leaving Colin shaken with its power.
"Everyone needs help sometimes, Miss London," he said, knowing these
were somehow not the words he ought to be saying.

 
          
"Not
me," Claire responded, still with that brittle gaiety. "Nobody looks
out for me but me," she added warningly. "And I can take care of
myself
—
God knows I've had to."

 
          
"How
long have you been hearing voices, dear?" Alison said gently.

 
          
The
response was as dramatic as if she had struck the younger woman. Claire's face
went white, and she sagged at the knees. Jonathan sprang up out of his seat and
just managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

 
          
"I'm
not crazy," Claire muttered desperately as Jonathan half-carried her over
to the couch. "I'm not crazy, I'm not, I'm not
—
"

 
          
"Listen
to me, child," Alison said sharply. "All evidence this evening to the
contrary, you are
not
losing your mind. I'm a licensed psychiatrist
—
you can take my word for
it."

 
          
Claire
London stared into Alison's eyes, seeming to actually see her surroundings for
the first time. "You're ... a doctor?" she said shakily. Tears welled
up in her blue eyes, magnifying the still-dilated pupils.

 
          
"Licensed
to shrink heads at reasonable hourly rates," Alison answered acerbically,
"and, among my many other skills, I also play piano. But truly, Claire,
you're among friends here. I don't think you're crazy
—
and neither does
Colin."

 
          
Claire
looked toward Colin. "Colin . . . MacLaren?" she asked. "I've
heard about you. You're the new professor in the Psych Department
—
the one who believes in
ghosts and tea leaves and all that nonsense. Some advocate," she groaned,
leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes.

 
          
"I'll
freely admit to believing in ghosts," Colin said, "and you can see
tea leaves yourself in any bag of Lipton's. As for the rest
—
would you rather be thought
gifted, or crazy?"

 
          
"
'Gifted' . . . don't you think that's a complete load of rot, Professor?"
With the febrile energy that Alison said was a side effect of the LSD, Claire sat
up and smiled at him coldly. There was a cynical edge to her voice, and her
lips curved in a mocking smile. "Unseen worlds
—
mystic visions
—
you're going to want me to
believe in little green men, next."

 
          
"Only
if warranted," Colin said gravely. "And with sufficient proof.
Claire, let us help you. I know that tonight has been a terrible shock for you,
but you must understand that you've been given a great gift, use of senses that
few people still retain access to. I know that it all seems overwhelming to you
now, but believe me, you can learn to control these perceptions
—
consciously, rationally
—
"

 
          
"So
much of everything," Claire whispered, slumping back and seeming to forget
once more that they were there. "So much noise . . . going on and on and
on.
. . ."

 
          
"Claire,"
Alison said, reaching out to clasp the younger woman's wrist. "Come back
to us. Nothing bad can harm you while you're in my house, no matter what you
see. You've been given a drug that makes these things seem more upsetting than
they are. It will wear off in a few hours. Try to be strong."

 
          
"No!"
Claire pulled away from the touch with a scream. "You're going to die
—
I see you
—
he loved you and he killed
you
—
you're
dead and there's blood everywhere; blood, blood, blood
—
" Claire babbled,
huddling blindly in the corner of the couch.

 
          
"You're
seeing the future," Alison said reasonably. "Everyone dies, my dear,
including cranky old musicians
—
just because you see it, doesn't mean you've caused it.
Listen to me, Claire; I'm not dead. I'm right here, see? You can open your eyes
and see me
—
"

 
          
Alison
droned on soothingly, until at last, Claire effortfully opened her eyes again.
Colin could see that the girl was exhausted; her face was sickly pale and there
were dark circles beneath her eyes.

 
          
"How
did you know?" she asked wonderingly.

 
          
"It
was just a good guess," Alison admitted. "But I've known a lot of
people like you. You aren't alone, Claire
—
you have to believe that.
It's a rare gift, but it isn't unknown. Many people have possessed it down
through history."

 
          
Claire
stared into Alison's eyes, hopeful and reluctant all at once. Colin could see
the moment her eyes clouded over; the moment when Claire rejected the idea of
trusting Alison. She shook her head.

 
          
"If
you won't believe her, believe me," Colin said. Now, at last, he found the
words. "You know me, Claire
—
you've known me before
—
do you believe that I will
always tell you the truth?"

 
          
He
could see her frame the flip response and then hesitate over it. He watched as
Claire struggled with herself; the stubbornness and innate honesty of her
basic nature refusing to allow her to lightly dismiss his question.

 
          
"I
... suppose you will," she said unwillingly. "You've got too much to
lose if you don't," she added with a sneer.

 
          
Did
she know how truly she spoke? Colin wondered. To an Adept of the Light, a
deliberate falsehood was the same act as physical self-injury; it was not
something to be done lightly, if at all, and it always had damaging consequences,
some extending beyond the gateways of this single life.

 
          
"I
will never lie to you," Colin repeated firmly. "Will you believe me
when I tell you that there's nothing sick or abnormal about you? You're
sensitive to impressions that most people are not. To say that you're crazy
because you see what you do would be like calling someone with extraordinarily
acute hearing crazy because he can hear what most people cannot. But the
psychic gift can best be said to correspond to a gift for music
—
it can take many forms, and
it can be trained
—
or ignored."

 
          
"I'm
tired," Claire said petulantly. "Alison said that somebody drugged me
—
oh, my God, it must have
been something at the party, that son-of-a
—
"

 
          
"Claire!"
Colin said sharply. "Don't try to evade this subject
—
it won't go away."

 
          
"Oh,
yeah?" Claire muttered under her breath, and Colin repressed a smile.
Frightened and emotionally damaged as she was, the girl had the spirit of a
fighter.

 
          
"What
happened to you tonight isn't something you can just pretend never happened. It
has permanent consequences. I imagine you've been pretending not to see or
hear a lot of things in your life. It will be much harder after tonight.
Despite what you may believe, you have been reaching out with your Gift to the
world around you. You've been given this ability for a reason, and it isn't
something you can run from any longer."

 
          
The
girl hesitated.

 
          
"Please,
Claire," Colin said. "Trust me. Let me help you."

 
          
"Oh,
all right," Claire said, sighing ungraciously. Though her voice was harsh,
her eyes glittered with painful tears. "Do your worst, Professor. I guess
I'm fresh out of choices."

BERKELEY
,  1961

 
          
TRYING
TO REMEMBER THE CHILD ONE ONCE WAS IS LIKE TRYING TO remember another lifetime
—
how much is truth, and how
much hopeful imagination? I think there is something in all of us that chooses
to forget; I think it would be too painful if we could really remember the
hopes our younger self held for the future. I think every child expects the
world to be reasonable, for events to have a kind of fairness and balance that
is found only in fiction. As we age, we realize that life is otherwise. Some
become bitter; others philosophical.

 
          
It
is hard to remember the girl who first met Colin MacLaren almost four decades
ago. I think she was an angry child; I know she had grown up hating the world
because she thought it had lied to her. What she did not know
—
what it took her years to
truly learn and believe
—
was that the world she lived in was a far different place
from that of her mother and sisters, because she was born with the Sight.

 
          
The
Sight places a heavy burden on those who possess it. For them, Space and Time
are not absolutes; they see around corners and into the depths of the human
heart. It is a cruel burden for a child to have to bear, and I rebelled
passionately against it. By the time I was in my teens I had learned to show
the world a cynical indifference, hurting others and pretending not to care
when I was hurt. Lord knows why I chose nursing as a profession, feeling as I
did then about people
—
in my own defense, I can only say that the career choice
for women in those days was between nurse and librarian, and even then I rebelled
at the thought of being stuck behind a dusty desk all day as the world passed
me by.

 
          
I
was at war with the world, and I intended to make it pay for all it had done to
me.

 
          
But
you cannot strike back at the world, only at the people in it. When I came into
Colin's hands
—
through something greater than mere chance, I firmly
believe
—
I
was drowning in my own despair, perilously close to committing some act that
would ruin my life beyond my modest power to mend it.

 
          
And
the only person I was hurting was myself.

BERKELEY
,
NOVEMBER
3,  1961

Why didst thou leave the trodden path of men

Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart

Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?

—
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

 
          
THAT
FRIDAY, COLIN MACLAREN FINALLY MANAGED TO RUN HIS QUARRY TO earth.

 
          
He'd
seen Claire London back to her dorm Wednesday morning, concocting a
complicated tale of an all-night psychology experiment to satisfy the
housemother's inquiries about her overnight absence. He thought he'd passed things
off fairly well
—
he only wished he could be as confident about his handling
of Claire herself. She was frightened, angry, argumentative
—
Colin wasn't sure he could
even reach her, let alone teach her what she needed to know. And though he and
Claire had been close through life after life, he had realized that this time
Claire had not come to him as a disciple. The Path was not her way
—
in this life, the knowledge
he could provide was merely a tool that Claire needed in order to make a
journey of her own.

 
          
Which
brought matters around to Toller Hasloch.

 
          
The
first thing that Colin had done was to take advantage of his position to gain a
look at the boy's file in the Registrar's office. Hasloch would be twenty-three
in a few days; next year he'd have his Bachelor's degree, and according to his
admission papers, planned on a legal career. From other papers in the file, it
had not been difficult to ascertain his culpability in the matter of the
drugged punch. A number of professors in Colin's department were experimenting
with LSD. One of them had praised its effects to Colin highly, and further
discreet questioning had elicited the information that he'd given Toller
Hasloch samples of the drug to try at home only a few weeks ago. Horrifying as
such irresponsibility was, the man had done nothing criminal
—
as Alison had said, LSD was
as unregulated as aspirin.

 
          
Hasloch
had means and opportunity
—
and, from all that Jonathan and others had said about him,
motive.

 
          
Colin
didn't want to spoil a promising future over what might only be juvenile high
spirits, but neither did he want to see a repetition of what had happened at
the Halloween party. The best thing, Colin felt, would be to speak informally
with young Hasloch, and warn him that there must be no further pranks.

 
          
He
spotted Hasloch as the boy entered Sproul Hall in the midst of a cluster of
fellow students. The pale hair, worn neatly short and brushed straight back,
stood out like a bright flag in the pale November sunlight. The boy was tidily
and conservatively dressed
—
wearing a wheat-colored sweater with a white shirt and dark
tie.

 
          
"Mr.
Hasloch?"

 
          
The
young man turned at the sound of his name, and Colin found himself staring into
pale eyes on a level with his own.

 
          
"Professor
MacLaren," Hasloch said. "I've been looking forward to meeting
you."

 
          
There
was a faint note of amusement in his voice, a disturbingly discordant note that
raised warning hackles along Colin's spine. It was as if Hasloch had been
looking for him, and not the reverse.
He's only a boy,
Colin told
himself.

 
          
"I'd
like to speak to you for a moment, if I might," Colin said steadily.

 
          
"Of
course," Hasloch said easily. "But I am forgetting my manners."
He laid his right hand over his breast and then slowly raised it to forehead
level.

 
          
Colin
stood rooted to the spot in shock. What Hasloch had just done was to
acknowledge Colin in his grade as Adept of the Right-Hand Path
—
something that was hardly
common knowledge on the
Berkeley
campus. And even if it
were, it was amazingly unlikely that a boy in his twenties would have the
information and training necessary to greet him as one Initiate to another.

 
          
By
reflex Colin returned the Sign
—
higher to lower
—
and Hasloch smiled a cold,
wolfish smile and turned away.

 
          
Colin
followed him, feeling that he'd somehow conceded victory to an opponent before
battle had been joined. Hasloch seated himself at one of the tables in the
corner of the Student Union, and Colin followed suit.

 
          
"So,
Professor, what did you wish to see me about?" Hasloch asked. "Surely
you have not come as an emissary of your Order?"

 
          
For
the moment, Colin let the remark pass; Hasloch was transparently baiting him.
"It's regarding the refreshments you served at your Halloween party,"
he said, and Hasloch pursed his lips in an exaggerated moue of understanding.
He did not appear in the least disturbed by the implication.

 
          
"You
do realize that you could be expelled from school for what you did?" Colin
pursued.

 
          
"A
schoolboy prank," Hasloch murmured. "Something I have the impression
you don't intend to censure ... at least not through public channels."

           
"I will if you force me
to," Colin said. "Don't underestimate the seriousness with which I
view your actions, Mr. Hasloch."

 
          
"Oh,
I don't," the boy said easily. "But I think that you
—
or at least your Masters
—
don't take them as seriously
as I do. Let us be frank, Professor. I know your beliefs, but you seem to be
unaware of mine. I'd be more than happy to remedy your lapse. Who knows? We may
be natural allies. Surely you don't identify your purpose with those of the
slave races that surround you."

 
          
Colin
recoiled in shock at hearing idiom he'd thought buried in the ruins of
Berlin
. Suddenly the past was not
buried, the Dragon not slain. It was here before him, recalled to life in the
person of this slender, pale, boy.

 
          
"You
see?" Hasloch said, spreading his hands and smiling engagingly. "I'm
being completely open with you. Those with whom I am, from time to time, in
communication, have told me who you are
—
a great force for the
Light." He kept his voice low, his expression neutral. None of the dozens
of students who walked past their table would give the two of them a second
glance.

 
          
"But
there is more than one source of Light, Professor MacLaren. The illumination
spread by the Thousand-Year Reich is not so easily eclipsed
—
but the flame of the candle
is forgotten in the greater flame of the sun."

 
          
Colin
struggled to conceal both his shock and his horror as he stared at the youth
opposite him. Bright and deadly as a new-honed sword blade and cold as Alpine
snow, Hasloch sat before him beneath the light of a California sun and claimed
allegiance to a cult that Colin had believed safely defeated; its adherents
dead or scattered, its unholy places sanctified. The Allied nations had
mortgaged their futures and spent their strength to break the spine of the
great serpent of National Socialism and the will of its black messiah, Adolf
Hitler.

 
          
And
this child's very existence told Colin beyond all doubt that they had failed.

 
          
"If
that's your sun, I'd say it's already set," Colin said dismissively.
"If you're claiming to be a Nazi, I'll remind you that your side lost
—
and as for your Secret
Chiefs in exile, they're being run to earth one by one, or were you so busy
studying that you missed the coverage of the Eichmann trial?"

 
          
"Professor
MacLaren," Hasloch said chidingly. "What you see as destruction the
Armanenschaft
sees merely as a purification; a refinement of our doctrine of spiritual
evolution to a higher level. The body of the Reich may lie in the ground, but
the spirit survives, and
Germania
's
eagle
has become a phoenix. Where once we fought with tanks and machine guns, now we
wage a battle of the spirit, allowing our work on the Outer Planes to shape the
aspect of the Inner. Your American Eagle is dying, Professor, and its
successor will be the White Eagle of Thule, which will spread its wings over a
Fourth Reich hewn from the never-ending ice. My allies are all the more
powerful for that they work in secret
—
the nations of the world
will not see the peace your countrymen sought in your lifetime or mine,
Professor. If we must talk of current events, let me match your Eichmann with
Secretary-General Hammarskjold, and his so-mysterious death in
Africa
. So much for this reborn
League of Nations
and its limp-wristed hopes
for peace."

           
Hasloch's face glowed with a far
from innocent enthusiasm; a fervor that Colin had hoped was eradicated from the
Earth forever. In his secret heart he had always known that it was a wistful, a
forlorn hope; the war of Light with Shadow was an eternal one. But this attempt
—
in this form
—
must be ended now, for the
weapons mankind was now capable of wielding could unleash destruction on a
scale heretofore only dreamed of by madmen and saints.

 
          
"Isn't
it a bit grandiose of a college student to be claiming spiritual credit for
international political assassinations?" Colin asked blightingly.

 
          
"Do
I wander too far afield from receiving my slap on the wrist, Professor?"
Hasloch asked silkily. "Let me tell you plainly then, that if you bring
forward your accusations publicly, I shall be shocked and horrified, highly
indignant
—
and some other fool will be made a scapegoat, will be found
to take the blame
—
perhaps your precious Johnny Ashwell? I have powerful
friends, Professor MacLaren; why spend your strength in tilting at windmills? A
nation is an easy thing to destroy, if one approaches the matter properly. Nations
have souls, just as men do, and both become husks when that soul dies within
them. Your sun is on the wane, Herr Doktor Professor, while mine is rising. Why
render the rest of your life a useless thing?"

 
          
No
victory for the Light, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is wasted,
Colin
reminded himself. If he could do nothing else in all the years remaining to
him, by simply failing to surrender to despair he would strengthen his brothers
in arms.

 
          
"Surely,"
Colin said, keeping his voice even with an effort, "you are not suggesting
that I join you?"

 
          
"Why
not?" Hasloch said airily. "I am not so foolish as to deny that you
have practical experience that I lack, in both the magickal and mundane senses.
You have moved your playing pieces about the chessboard of
Europe
; there is something you can
teach me about
Realpolitik,
I expect."