"The nodes!"
"Right you are! The flat cards touch at a few points. And where worlds touch, you have a node—a portal, a hole in reality."
"And the keys pull you through that hole!"
"Across. Or through, I suppose. Apparently."
"But how do they work?"
The enthusiasm faded slightly. “Good question. It's all mental, of course."
"It is?"
"Absolutely. Only people can cross over. You can't bring anything with you—no clothes, no money, nothing."
"Not even the fillings in my teeth."
Rawlinson raised his sandy eyebrows. “Do the cavities bother you?” He grinned, seemingly suddenly very juvenile.
"I picked up some mana, and they healed themselves.” Edward could also recall a scar on his forehead that had vanished and certain other scars on his chest that had persisted in trying to disappear when he had wanted them not to.
"That's what usually happens,” Prof said smugly. “But whatever makes crossing over possible is something only the human brain can achieve. The keys themselves don't do it, I'm sure. They're not magical incantations; they only work internally. You could teach a parrot the song, but it wouldn't work. Rhythm, words, dance—somehow they induce a particular vibration or something in the mind, a resonance. The music of the spheres, what? The mind soars in splendor, it roams, it drifts across the gap. Then it hauls the rest of you after it. I think that's why we feel so bloody awful afterward. The brain's in shock."
Edward squirmed. “Does it always work? I mean, from what you say, then sometimes the mind might go and the body not follow? Can that happen?"
"Yes, it can. Sometimes. You ready for a refill?"
"Not yet, thank you. Now explain mana to me."
"Wish I could. How much have you learned already?"
How much should he admit to knowing? His report was going to be completely truthful, of course, but there were certain episodes in his recent past that he ... did not intend to stress.
"I know that Colonel Creighton talked about charisma. I know it's something that only happens to strangers. He had no occult power on Earth, but as soon as he arrived back on Nextdoor he could throw thunderbolts."
"Because he hadn't been born here,” Rawlinson agreed. “Where you're born is what matters. If you ever father a son here, my lad, then he'll be a native. Take him back to Earth and he'd be a stranger there. I can't give you an explanation, but I'll give you another picture. Suppose we're all born with a sort of shield, a kind of mental armor. Suppose that it doesn't cross over with us—that fits the case, doesn't it? Without the shield, you can absorb mana. With a shield there, very little can get through."
"And what is mana?"
Rawlinson sighed like an old, old man. “I wish I knew!” he said wearily. “It comes from admiration. It comes from obedience. It comes from just plain old faith. We breathe it in and blow it out again as power. It works most easily on the mind, of course. You must have discovered the authority you have here! Give orders and the natives will jump to obey ‘em.
"At higher levels, mana can work on the body, as in faith healing or those yogi chappies who can sit around on an ice field in the altogether. In really high concentrations, it can influence the physical world. Then you're into miracles, Indian rope trick, teleportation, and all that.” He discovered his glass was empty. “Carrot!"
A servant hurried out from the house door. He was probably sixty or older, although still trim and alert. His close-cropped hair had once been a fiery red; now the embers were streaked with ash. He wore white trousers with knife-edge creases down the front, a white tunic buttoned to a high collar. Very smart. His shoes were a shiny black.
"Ah, there you are,” Prof said. “Sure you're not ready for another, old man?"
"Not just yet, thank you, sir."
The servant bowed slightly and withdrew.
The natives were always referred to as Carrots. Edward wondered if they had any idea what the word implied. He rather hoped they did not. They must have a name for themselves in their own language. Nextdoor's vegetation was completely unlike Earth's; it included some carrotlike vegetables, but they were not carrot colored.
Prof was off on his hobbyhorse again. “Strangers have the ability to absorb mana and redirect it as magic, but even natives can have it in some measure. ‘Charisma’ is as good a term as you'll find. Napoleon obviously had it. His soldiers worshipped him. He led them into the jaws of hell—they followed him and loved him for it. Caesar the same. Mohammed.” He eyed Edward with wry amusement. “You can think of others, I'm sure."
"But Napoleon could not work miracles!"
"Couldn't he? Some of his opponents thought he did. And he was only a native, not even a stranger. Where do you draw the line? If a general or a statesman inspires his followers with a rousing speech, is that magic?"
Edward conceded the point. “No."
"Even if they are moved to superhuman efforts?"
"Probably not."
"Then how about faith healing? Mental telepathy? Foretelling the future? Where do you draw the line? When does the uncanny become the impossible?"
"When scientists can't measure it?"
"They can't measure love either. Don't you believe in love?"
Edward chuckled. Obviously this speech had been made many times before.
"You came through an untried portal, I hear.” Rawlinson rubbed his chin. “That's very interesting! Creighton took a hell of a risk there. Could have landed you anywhere on Nextdoor or on some other world altogether."
"He was relying on the prophecy. It said I would appear in Sussvale."
"I wouldn't have risked it. Still, all's well that ends well. And you arrived in the Sacrarium? That's useful to know. What key did you use?"
Edward tapped out a beat on the table with his fingers. “Affalino kaspik..."
"Oh, yes, that one,” Prof said, watching the Carrot replace his empty glass with a full one. “Don't try that rascal here at Olympus, my boy! It'll flip you to Gehenna. Nasty spot! Affalino was a sound choice, though. It does seem to connect Europe to the Vales pretty often. It works the other way sometimes. There's a portal in Mapvale it opens to somewhere in the Balkans. Near Trieste, I think. And others."
The servant stepped backward a couple of paces and bowed before turning away.
Almost like being back in Africa ... not quite. The natives of the Vales were whites, and in this valley they were all redheads. It happened that way quite often. Blue eyes here, brown eyes there. In one valley the women would all be flat-chested, in the next breasts would be heavy as melons and lush as ripe peaches. The larger vales had varied populations of several “European” types; the little side glens, when they were habitable at all, each cut their sons and daughters from a single cloth. Olympians had hair as red as any Gael. They also had green eyes and skin like sand beaches, freckles on freckles on freckles.
Edward had a houseboy of his own now. Dommi was about the same age as he, but shorter and wider. And freckles! Every time he blinked, Edward expected to see freckles flake off his eyelids. He was a tough little mule. He wore nothing but a loincloth, even first thing in the morning when the valley was decidedly nippy. The soles of his feet were as thick as steaks and hard as iron; he could run along a gravel path like a gazelle. He was as much a white man as Edward—even whiter, really—but he was a native and Edward was a stranger. So he was the servant and Edward the tyika.
After roughing it for so long, formal evening wear felt very odd. Three days had not begun to blunt the strangeness of Olympus. Nor had they taught the newcomer all the intricacies of accepted social behavior. Even speaking English again was alien to him now.