Juxtaposition (3 page)

“Wounds are nothing to wolves,” she said, phasing back. But it showed on her dame-form too, the blood now staining her shawl. “How much less, a mere scratch.”

“But thou didst say—“

“Doubtless I exaggerated. Bleeding cleans it.” She changed back again and ran ahead, terminating the dialogue.

Clef realized that she did not want sympathy for her injury, at least not from the likes of him. Probably it was unwolflike to acknowledge discomfort. Yet she had warned him about the poisonous nature of harpy scratches.
 
He hoped nothing evil came of this.

That night they camped in a tree. Clef was now more accustomed to roughing it, and this was a hugely spreading yellow birch whose central nexus was almost like a house. Serrilryan curled up in bitch-form, and he curled up beside her, satisfied with the body warmth she radiated.
 
The papery bark of the tree was slightly soft. and he was able to form a pillow of his bent arm. Yes, he was coming to like this life.

“This frame is just a little like Heaven,” he remarked as sleep drew nigh. “My frame of Proton is more like Hell, outside the domes, where nothing grows.”

“Mayhap it is Proton-frame I am destined for,” she said, shifting just far enough to dame-form to speak, not bothering to uncurl.

“Proton? Dost thou plan to cross the curtain, despite thy loss of magic there?”

She growl-chuckled ruefully. “Figuratively, man-person.
 
When I die, it will be the real Hell I will see.”

“Hell? Thee? Surely thou wilt go to Heaven!” Clef did not believe in either region, but neither did he believe in magic.

“Surely would I wish to go to Heaven! There, belike, the Glory Hounds run free. But that is not the destiny of the likes of me. Many evils have I seen since I was a pup.” She shifted back to canine and slept.

Clef thought about that, disturbed. He did not believe this was an immediate issue, but feared that she did. He was bothered by her growing morbidity and her low estimate of self-worth. She might have seen evil, but that did not make her evil herself; sometimes evil was impossible to escape. It had been that way with the harpies. Yet what could he do to ease her depression?

Troubled, he slept.

“Strange dream,” Stile said. “Every time he sleeps, I wake. But I’m dreaming in minutes what he experienced in days.”

“How much farther does he have to go?” Sheen asked.
 
“He should reach the Elven Demesnes in two more days.”

“Then you sleep two more times. I want to learn how this ends.” Her fingers stroked his eyes closed.
 
Serrilryan’s wound was not healing. It was red and swollen, the blood refusing to coagulate properly. She limped now, when she thought he wasn’t looking, and her pace was slower. She was suffering—and he couldn’t comment for fear of embarrassing her.

The terrain became more hilly. Huge trees grew out of the slopes, some of their roots exposed by erosion. But the eager grass was covering every available patch of ground, and the turf was thick and spongy. Clef was soon breath less, ascending the steep, short slopes, drawing himself up by handholds on trees and branches and tangles of roots.
 
Serrilryan followed, her familiarity with this region making up for her weakness, shirting back and forth between forms to take advantage of the best properties of each.
 
Something tugged at his hair. It was not the wind. Clef paused, fearing he had snagged it in a low branch—but there was no branch. He put his hand up, but there was nothing. Yet the tugging continued, and now there were little touches on his skin.

“Something’s here!” he exclaimed, alarmed.
 
The bitch sniffed the air and cocked her ears. She phased into woman-form. “Whistle,” she said.
 
Perplexed, he whistled. Oddly, the touchings abated. He whistled louder and with more intricacy, a medley of classical themes. He enhanced it with trills and double notes, warming to it, serenading the landscape.
 
Slowly, shapes appeared. They were little people, perching on branches and on the slope and even floating in ail.
 
All were listening raptly.

“Aye, the sidhe,” Serrilryan said, pronouncing it shee.

“The Faerie Folk. They cause no harm, just idle mischief.” Discovered, the sidhe moved into a dance, whirling in air. Their little lasses were, in the archaic measurement of this frame, about four feet tall, the lads not much larger.
 
They moved prettily and smiled often—happy folk.
 
But when Clef stopped whistling, they faded out of sight again. “The sidhe associate not overmuch with other folk, but they do like music,” the werebitch said. “I am destined to see them three times before I die.”

“How many times hast thou seen them so far?”

‘This is the third time.”

“Then I should not have whistled them into sight!”

She made a gesture of unconcern. “I am old; my pace is slowing. My teeth are no longer sharp. The Pack will not let me live much longer anyway. Glad am I to have seen the lovely Faerie Folk once more.”

“But this is barbaric! The other wolves have no right—“

“Question not the way of the Pack. I have killed others in my day; always I knew my turn would come. Perhaps it would have come ere now, had I not been fated to guide thee. I am content. Clef-man.”

Clef shook his head, not commenting further. Obviously there was violence along with the beauty and literal magic of this frame.

They marched on. Later another phenomenon occurred—a kind of sweeping of an unbreeze through the forest, dissipation of nonexistent clouds in the sky, and revivification of things that had not been dead. A hidden tension had been released, an obligation expiated. “What is it?” Clef asked.

“The lifting of a geis,” Serrilryan said.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“The abatement of an oath. It hung over the forest; now it is done.”

“What oath is this?”

“The Blue Adept swore vengeance against the Red Adept.”

“Um, yes. But I thought he was getting married. He is also moving through the Proton Tourney. Isn’t this an awful lot of activity for such an occasion?”

“There is no comprehending the ways of Adepts.” That seemed to be the case. The Blue Adept evidently had a lot more power, and was involved in more great events, than Clef had realized. It was mildly odd that so small a man had so large an impact on this frame.
 
By nightfall they reached the marker for the Platinum Demesnes, indicated by a sign saying FT 78.
 
“The path within is treacherous,” the werebitch said.
 
“Morning is better for it.”

*Yes, certainly.” Clef wasn’t sure, now that he was this close, that he really wanted to reach these mysterious elves. If he were not the Foreordained, they would take the Flute from him, for it belonged to them.
 
Serrilryan knew of an existing shelter nearby, and they spent the night there. “I want thee to know,” he told her, “how I appreciate the trouble thou hast taken on my be half. This all may come to naught, yet it has been worth while for me.”

“I thank thee, man,” she said. “It has been nice talking with thee and hearing thy music. Few among the Pack have time or courtesy for the old.”

She did not look well at all. It was evident that pain was preventing her from relaxing. Clef whistled, filling the air with melody, and after a time the werewolf fell into a troubled slumber. Then Clef himself relaxed.
 

“I didn’t know there were harpies in that vicinity,” Stile said, waking. “I should have given him better protection.
 
Though the way he used that rapier—“ He shrugged and returned to sleep himself, secure in the robot’s embrace.
 
In the morning Clef woke before the werebitch. She was breathing in pants and whining slightly in her sleep. The bad shoulder bulged with swelling, and the fur was falling out. This was obviously a severe infection. A good antibiotic could abate it—but this was Phaze, the frame of magic, where antibiotics were not available and perhaps would not work anyway.

Magic was what was needed—but he could not perform it. Unless the Flute—but no, he had resolved to play it only for the Mound Folk, because of the potential significance of the rendition. Still, maybe its magic could help.
 
He laid the instrument against her body, as close to the wound as he could.

Her whining stopped; she was drawing comfort from the propinquity of this powerful talisman. Still, she was shivering, though the morning was warm. He had nothing with which to cover her.

Clef began to whistle again; it was all he could do. This time he selected a merry folk-song melody. He whistled it well; the joyous notes rippled through the forest, abolishing sadness. The bitch’s shivering eased, and she slept peacefully at last.

For an hour he whistled. At last she turned and woke.
 
She made a growl of displeasure at the lateness of the hour, but Clef wasn’t fooled. She had needed that extra rest.

Breakfast was no problem. Squirrels and birds had dropped nuts and berries as offerings of appreciation, and these were excellent. This was a world that liked music.
 
Clef, in return, was becoming quite fond of this world. Yet it had its dark side, as Serrilryan’s ailment showed.
 
They mounted the steep trail leading to the Mound Demesnes. Clef was now better able to manage than the werewolf. He wished he could help her, but all he could do was slow his pace to make it easier for her, leaving her pride intact.

Deep in the mountains there was a thin, suspended bridge crossing a chasm. Clef eyed it dubiously, but Serrilryan proceeded on across without hesitation. She was so unsteady he hastened to follow, so he could catch her if she started to fall.

Halfway across he looked down. The chasm yawned so deep and dark it made him dizzy. He did not enjoy the sensation. Fortunately the chasm was narrow, and in moments they were across.

At last they came in sight of the Mound. Senflryan sank in a heap before it, her waning energy exhausted. She had done her job; she had delivered him safely.
 
But there was no one about. The sun shone down brightly and the hills were alive with small animals and birds—but no people. Clef, worried about the werebitch, did not care to wait overlong for an introduction. “Ho there!” he called. “I must meet with the Platinum Mound Folk.”

There was no answer. Could he have come to the wrong place? “Serrilryan—“ he began.

She changed with difficulty to dame-form. She was haggard. “This is the place, music man. The Mound Folk go not abroad by day. At night thou wilt see them.”

“I don’t think thou canst last till night,” he said. “We must have healing magic for thee now.”

She smiled weakly. “It is too late for me, friend. My day is done. One favor only I beg of thee—“

“Anything!”

“I would hear the Flute ere I die. Canst thou play an epitaph for me?”

He knew this was final. She would expire within the hour. He was at the realm of the Little Folk; he was no longer obliged to wait. “Yes, it is time,” he agreed. “There can be no better use for this instrument.” He brought out the Flute.

He played an ancient folk song that he felt was appropriate to this occasion: Tumbleweeds. It was the sort of theme a wolf could appreciate, for it related to the freedom of the great outdoors, the rolling bushes called tumbleweeds drifting in the wind across the plain, cares of the world left behind. Perhaps it was not that way, here in Phaze, but he felt confident the mood would be conveyed.
 
From the first note, the Platinum Flute was potent, the finest instrument he had ever played, enhanced by its magic so that the sound transcended mere physics. The music rippled, it flowed, it resonated; it was as if he were flying, expanding, encompassing the landscape, the world, the universe, the split infinities that were the frames of science and magic. The sound loomed loud enough to embrace all of Phaze, yet delicate enough to touch the soul.

And the mountain trembled. The ground shook, but not in the manner of an earthquake. It started shuddering where he stood, and vibrated outward rhythmically, responding harmonically to the music of the Flute. The effect intensified as he continued playing. Leaves fluttered on trees, pine needles shook free of their moorings, and the green grass of the slopes stood up tall and quivered like the tines of tuning forks. The dear sky thickened; clouds formed from nothing, flinging outward in rainbow-hued bands. The sunlight dimmed; dusk coalesced.
 
Clef played on, caught in the wonder of the animation the Flute was working. Serrilryan’s fur stood out from her body, charged. There was a canine smile on her face.
 
Washes of color traversed her, causing her human and canine aspects to mingle aesthetically.
 
The ground shook harder. Branches fell from trees. The roof of the Mound collapsed. The mountains in the Purple range peeled off segments of themselves and settled substantially. Dust rose up. Animals fled. The sky swirled nearer and nearer.

The Little Folk appeared, for now there was no direct sunlight to shrivel them. They stood in the twisting dust and fog, staring while their Demesnes collapsed about them. Yet such was the power of the Flute that no one protested.

An avalanche formed and crashed downward. No one moved. The rocks and debris coursed past them all, avoiding living creatures, and advanced like a channeled flow of water until they piled up in a cairn over the body of Serrilryan, the werebitch. She had died smiling. She had heard the Platinum Flute; she had expired. Now she had been buried.