Three more than fall before him, including Blackthorn Villy, Fourcity Champion of Blis, with his mechanical pincers, and the man is taken up upon shoulders and garlanded, and they bear him to a platform and honor him with the cup of victory and the draft of money. He does not smile until his eyes fall upon Megra of Kalgan, standing there, whose blonde X marks the spot his glances go to till he is free to follow them with boots upon his feet.
She waits for this.
The Red Witch watches the lips of the multitudes.
“Wakim,” she finally says. “They call him Wakim.”
“Why is it that we watch him?”
“I had a dream which I have read to indicate this: Watch the place of the changing tide. Even here, beyond the Middle Worlds, the mind of a witch is tied to the tides of the Power. Though I cannot use them now, still do I perceive them.”
“Why this one-this Wakim-at the place of the changing tide?”
“The quality of the mirror is mute omniscience. It shows anything, explains nothing. But it took its direction from my dream, so it remains for me to interpret this thing through meditation.”
“He is strong, and very fast.”
“True, I have not seen his like since sun-eyed Set fell before the Hammer That Smashes Suns, in his battle with the Nameless. Wakim is more than he appears to that crowd, or to the little girl toward whom he moves. See, as I cause the mirror to brighten and brighten! There is a dark aura about him that I do not like. He is something of the reason my sleep was troubled. We must see that he is followed. We must learn what he is.”
“He will take the girl over the hill,” says her familiar, poking its cold nose into her ear. “Oh, let us watch!”
“Very well,” she says, and it wags its tail and clasps its forepaws atop its curly head.
The man stands in a place that is circled round about with a pink hedge and filled with flowers of all colors. It contains benches, couches, chairs, a table and high trellises of roses, all beneath a great green umbrella tree that shuts out the sky. It is filled with perfumes and the essences of flowers, and there is music that hangs awhile upon the air and passes slowly through it. Pale lights move within the branches of the tree. A tiny, intoxicating fountain sparkles beside the table at the foot of the tree.
The girl closes the gate within the hedge. A sign saying “Do Not Disturb” begins to glow on its outer side. She moves toward the man.
“Wakim…” she says.
“Megra,” he replies.
“Do you know why I asked you to come here?”
“This is a love garden,” he says, “and I think I understand the customs of the country…”
She smiles, removes her breast strap then, hangs it upon a bush and places her hands on his shoulders. He moves to draw her to him, does not succeed.
“You are strong, little girl.”
“I brought you here to wrestle,” she says.
He glances toward a blue couch, then back to the girl, a small smile occurring upon his lips.
She shakes her head, slowly.
“Not as you think. First must you defeat me in battle. I want no ordinary man, whose back might be broken by my embrace. Nor do I want a man who will tire after an hour, or three. I want a man whose strength flows like a river, endless. Are you that man, Wakim?”
“You saw me in battle.”
“What of that? My strength is greater than that of any man I have ever known. Even now you are increasing your efforts to draw me to you, and you are not succeeding.”
“I do not wish to hurt you, child.”
And she laughs and breaks his grip upon her wrist drawing his arm over her shoulder and seizing his thigh in a version of the nage-waza that is called kata-garuma, and hurling him across the love garden.
He comes to his feet and faces her. Then he removes his shirt that was white, drawing it up over his head. He reaches high and places it upon a limb of the great tree.
She comes forward and stands before him.
“Now you will fight with me?”
In answer, he snaps a rose from the trellis and offers it to her.
She draws her elbows far back, tightening her fists at her sides. Then both her arms drive forward, fists twisting in twin blows which strike him in the abdomen.
“I take it that you do not want the flower,” he gasps, dropping it.
Her eyes flash blue fire as she steps upon the rose.
“Now will you fight with me?”
“Yes,” he says. “I will teach you a hold that is called ‘The Kiss,’ ” and he takes her in a mighty embrace and crushes her to him. His mouth finds hers, though she twists her head to the side, and he straightens, raising her above the ground. She cannot breathe within his embrace, nor break it; and their kiss lasts until her strength slackens, and he carries her to the couch and lays her upon it.
There are roses, roses, roses, music, moving lights, a flower that has been broken.
Now the Red Witch is weeping softly.
Her familiar does not understand.
It will, though, soon.
The mirror is filled with man upon woman and woman by man.
They regard the movements of Blis.
INTERLUDE IN THE HOUSE OF LIFE
Osiris sits in the House of Life, drinking the blood-red wine. The green glow fills the air about, and nowhere is there anything sharp or cold. He sits in the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, and the walls are invisible behind them all. The floor is covered with a fabric that is thick and soft and golden in color.
He puts down an empty glass and stands. Moving across the Hall, he comes to the green tapestry, raises it, and steps into the cubicle which it conceals. He touches three of the coordination plates set in the wall, pushes aside the tapestry, and steps into a room located 348 miles south-southwest of the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, at a depth of 78,544 feet.
The chamber he enters is semidark, but a portion of the green glow can be felt within, it.
The one who wears a red loincloth and sits cross-legged upon the floor does not appear to notice him. His back is turned and he does not move. His body is normally formed, somewhat slim, and his muscles seem those of a swimmer. His hair is thick and as dark as hair can be without being black. His complexion is pale. He is leaning forward and does not appear to be breathing.
Suddenly, another is seated across from him, in an identical posture. He is dressed in exactly the same manner. His complexion, hair, and musculature are the same. He is the same, in all respects; and he raises his dark eyes from the small yellow crystal they contemplate. Looking up, he sees the orange, green, yellow and black bird-head of Osiris, and his eyes widen and he says, “I have done it again,” and the one whose back is to Osiris vanishes before him.
He scoops up the crystal, places it in a cloth bag with drawstrings and hangs it at his waist. Then he stands.
“Nine-second fugue,” he says.
“Is that your record?” asks Osiris, and his voice sounds like a scratched recording that is being played too rapidly.
“Yes, father.”
“Can you control it yet?”
“No.”
“How much longer will it take?”
“Who knows? Ishibaka says perhaps three centuries.”
“Then you will be a master?”
“No one can really tell in advance. There are fewer than thirty masters in all the worlds. It has taken me two centuries to advance this far, and it has been less than a year since the first movement. Of course, once it is developed, the power continues to grow…”