The Skrayling Tree (29 page)

This seemed to amuse him even further. I said I thought my suggestion perfectly reasonable. He was recalling another event,
he said, which had nothing to do with me directly, and he apologized.

He agreed; so we increased our pace. When the going became difficult for me, I was able to ride his mighty shoulder or otherwise
make use of his unusual size and strength. It was the strangest riding I have ever done and was something of a change for
me, though again I was troubled by vague memories of distant incarnations. Yet as far as I know I have always been Elric of
Melniboné, for all that various seers and sorcerers insist otherwise. Some people relish the numinous the way others value
the practical. I have had enough experience of the numinous to place great value on what is familiar and substantial.

When Lobkowitz raised the subject, I told him what I knew for certain. While I hung in some distant realm facing the death
of everything I loved, I also dreamed the Dream of a Thousand Years, which had brought me here. He would probably think I
was mad.

He did not. He said that he was familiar with such phenomena. Many he knew took them for granted. He had traveled widely,
and there was little that was especially novel to him.

As it happened, we did not go far before the snow began to melt, revealing enough of a trail for our trackers to follow again.
But a certain valuable camaraderie had developed between Prince Lobkowitz and myself. I had the impression he, too, had more
in common with me than with the others, even Klosterheim. I asked him about that gaunt-faced individual.

“He is an eternal,” Lobkowitz said, “but he is not reincarnated, simply reborn over and over again at the point of his death.
This is a gift he received from his master. It is a terrible gift. His master is called in these realms ‘Lucifer.’ As I understand
it, this Lord of the Lower Worlds has charged Klosterheim with finding the Holy Grail. This was the pivot, the regulator of
the Great Balance itself. But Klosterheim also seeks some sort of alliance with the Grail’s traditional guardian.”

I asked who that was. He said that I was distantly related to the family who would become its guardians. The Grail had disappeared
more than once, however, and when that happened, it must be sought wherever the path leads. The stolen artifact had a habit
of disguising itself even from its protectors. He had never been
directly involved in this Grail-quest, he said—not, at any rate, as far as he could recall—but the quest continued through
a multiplicity of pasts, presents and futures. He envied me, he said, my lack of memory. He was the second to make that remark.
I told him with some feeling that if my condition was what he called a lack of memory, I was more than glad to have nothing
else to remember. He made an apology of sorts.

Soon we reached the rendezvous with the rest of our party. They had little to report. The original owners of the canoes had
fled, leaving most of their camp intact, so we spent a good night. In the morning we began to load the canoes when the blizzard
hit us. It howled through the camp for hours, heaping up snow in huge banks. A wild east wind. By the time we were able to
go out again, we found three feet of snow and ice already forming on the river. Up ahead the snow was bound to be thicker.
We would either have to winter here or go on by foot. Ipkaptam said we could load the canoes and use them as sleds. That would
keep the tribe together, as it would be foolish to leave the women and children. And so we set off, first carrying the canoes
and then, as it became possible to drag them, pulling them behind us until we had reached the mountains proper. The sharp
crags rose darkly above us, threatening the evening sky.

“They’re evil-looking peaks,” said Gunnar the Doomed, bending to pick up a handful of snow and rub it with relish into his
neck. “But at least the weather’s improving.” I had forgotten how much Norsemen love snow. They yearn for it the way Moors
yearn for rain.

Klosterheim pointed out the pass through the mountains.
A dark gash ran between peaks glinting like black ice, probably basalt. Already the mountainsides were heavy with snow, and
more snow weighed down the pines and firs of the flanks. There was no moving water. Game was rarely seen. Occasionally I glimpsed
a winter hare running across the snow, leaving black tracks in a white flurry. Hawks hung high in the sky, seeing no prey
below. I do not think I had ever seen such a winter wasteland. In its own grandeur, its uncompromising bleakness, it was impressive.
But unless some magical paradise lay within those mountains, protected from the weather, we were none of us likely to survive.
All common sense told us to turn back while we could and spend the winter in more agreeable conditions.

Klosterheim and Gunnar were for going on. Ipkaptam pointed out that it would be stupid to continue. We would lose all our
men and be no closer to what we sought. Prince Lobkowitz also advised prudence. I, who had the better part of a thousand years
still to dream, said that I had no special thoughts, one way or another, but if Vikings could not survive a little cold weather,
I would be surprised.

This spurred a general growling and posturing and, of course, we were on our way, leaving the weaker members of our band to
keep camp if they could. If they could not, they were advised to rejoin the others and wait until we returned.

I do not know what happened to those Pukawatchi. It was the last I ever saw of them, the boys and the girls with their bows
and lances, the women and old people giving us the sign of good journeying. Yet even as we
left them behind, they still had something of the look of insects. I would never understand it.

I voiced my disquiet to Lobkowitz. He took me seriously. He said he believed they were in some kind of transition, and this
was what gave them their insectlike appearance. Further generations might develop different characteristics. It would be interesting
to see what they became. My guess was that most of these would soon be meat for the coyotes and bears. For all my aversion
to their appearance, I felt a twinge of sympathy for them.

Ipkaptam’s own wives and daughters were among those we left behind. He said that he had now given everything he valued most
to the spirits, to use or treat as they wished. The spirits could be generous, but they always required payment.

My own instinctive belief, of course, was that the situation had driven him mad. All he could do now was go forward until
he died or was killed. Or did Klosterheim have a special use for him?

I had a sense that the journey itself would require more sacrifice. Both Gunnar and Klosterheim swore that Kakatanawa was
on the far side of the range. Once it was reached, the city was theirs for the taking. Klosterheim asked Prince Lobkowitz
directly, “Do you want a share of the loot? You’d be useful to us because of your size. And we’d give you a full warrior’s
portion.”

Lobkowitz said he would think over the proposition. Meanwhile he would march with us in the hope of catching a glimpse of
his missing friend.

I asked him about the friend, whom I had gathered was of his size. Had they traveled here together?

Yes, he said. The situation demanded it. He added mysteriously that this was not what he had chosen. He had become disoriented.
He would not forgive himself if he had to leave without his friend. He hoped they would find some sign of him in the mountains.

At last our mixed force of well-wrapped Pukawatchi and Vikings reached the opening of the pass. The sides, high and narrow,
had the effect of keeping the worst of the weather out, and little snow had fallen here. We were even able to find easily
melted water, but there was still no game. We relied on dried meat and grains to sustain ourselves. But then, one afternoon,
as we set about making camp, a Pukawatchi scout came running down the canyon towards us. He was trembling with news, the horror
still on his face.

An avalanche had come down on them. Many Pukawatchi and two Vikings who had lagged behind were buried. It was unlikely they
would survive.

Even as the man told his story, there came a rumbling sound from above. The earth quaked and trembled, and a huge rush of
snow began to course down the flanks of the canyon. In the aurora of this second avalanche I could have sworn that I saw a
great, shadowy figure step from one mountain flank to another. The avalanche had been directed at us, and it seemed, indeed,
to have been started by a giant. Then I saw that Prince Lobkowitz had begun to run in the opposite direction to everyone else.

Without thinking, I followed him.

I was running upwards through deep snow. In order to keep up I stepped in his tracks where I could. I heard him calling a
name, but the whipping wind took it
away. Then the clouds opened, and blue sky filled the horizon and broke over me like a wave. Suddenly everything was in stark
contrast to the white of the snow, the deep blue of the sky and the red globe of the falling sun sending golden shadows everywhere.
The avalanche was behind us, and I heard nothing of my companions, though every so often the voice of Lobkowitz came back
to me as he stumbled on through the snow, sometimes falling, sometimes sliding, in pursuit of the giant.

It was almost sunset by the time I caught up with him. He had stopped on a ridge and was looking down, presumably into a valley,
when I joined him.

I saw that the mountains surrounded a vast lake. The ice was turning a pale pink in the light. From the shore a glinting silvery
road ran to the center of the lake, to what might have been an island in summertime, and there stood one of the most magnificent
buildings I had ever seen. It rivaled the slender towers of Melniboné, the strange pinnacles of the Off-Moo. It rivaled all
the other wonders I have ever seen.

A single mighty ziggurat rose tier upon tier into the evening sky, blazing like gold against the setting sun. With walls and
walkways and steps, busy with the daily life of any great city. With men, women and children clearly visible as they continued
their habitual lives. They were apparently unaware that a black whirlwind shivered and shrieked at the beginning of the silver
road to the city. Perhaps it protected the city.

There was a sudden crack, a flap of white wings, and suddenly a large winter crow sat on Lobkowitz’s shoulder.
He smiled slightly in acknowledgment, but he did not speak.

I turned to ask Prince Lobkowitz a question. His huge hand reached to point out the warrior armed with a bow, who sat upon
the back of a black mammoth seemingly frozen in midstride. Was this the enemy Klosterheim kept in check? He was too far away
for me to see in any detail. The threatening whirlwind, however, was an old acquaintance, the demon spirit Lord Shoashooan.

Then from behind them I caught another movement and saw something emerging out of the snow. A magnificent white buffalo with
huge, curving horns and glaring, red-rimmed blue eyes, which I could see even from here, shook snow from her flanks and trotted
past the mammoth and its riders. I could see how big the buffalo was in relation to the mammoth. Her hump almost reached the
mammoth’s shoulder.

The white buffalo’s speed increased to a gallop. Head down, the creature thundered full tilt at the roaring black tornado.
From behind me Prince Lobkowitz began to laugh in spontaneous admiration. It was impossible not to applaud the sheer audacity
of an animal with the courage to challenge a tornado, the undisputed tyrant of the prairie.

“She is magnificent,” he said proudly. “She is everything I ever hoped she would become! How proud you must be, Prince Elric!”

U
LRIC’S
S
TORY

Thraw weet croon tak’ the hero path.

Thraw ta give and thraw ta reave.

Thraw ta live and thraw ta laugh.

Thraw ta dee and thraw ta grieve.

“Thraw Croon Three Crows,” T
RAD
.

(W
HELDRAKE
’
S VERSION
)

Three for the staff, the cup and the ring,

Six for the swords which the lance shall bring;

Nine for the bier, the shield, the talisman,

Twelve for the flute, the horn, the pale man,

Nine by nine and three by three,

You shall seek the Skraeling Tree.

Three by seven and seven by three,

Who will find the Skraeling Tree?

W
HELDRAKE
, “The Skraeling Tree”

Let me tell you how I tarried,

Tarried in the starry yonder,

Tarried where the skies are silver,

Tarried in the tracks of time.

W. S. H
ARTE
,

“Winnebago’s Vision”

M
y struggle with the pale giants was brief. They were armed with spears and round shields, obsidian clubs and long flint knives,
but they did not threaten me with their weapons. Indeed, they were careful not to harm me. They used their full strength only
to pin my arms and collapse my legs. I did not give up readily and grabbed at their weapons, getting my hands first on a tomahawk,
then on a war-shield. I was lucky not to be cut, for I had difficulty gripping them.

My attackers were very powerful. Though I am
almost as fit as I was twenty years ago, I was no match for them. When I resisted them, my limbs seemed to sink into theirs.
They were certainly not insubstantial, but their substance was of a different quality, protecting them and giving them added
strength. Whatever their peculiar power, they soon bundled me into my own canoe and struck off towards the Old Woman as my
beautiful wife, wide-eyed with fear, ran down to the jetty in pursuit. A wild wind was beginning to rise. It blew her fine,
silvery hair about her face. I tried to call out to her, to reassure her, but it snatched away my words. Somehow I was not
afraid of these creatures. I did not think they meant me harm. But she could not hear me. I prayed she would not risk her
own life in an effort to rescue me.