Geoffrey's surge of disgust rippled through everyone. He was revolted by the notion that such a thing should wear a male form. Under the mental stress produced by him and his brothers the illusion shredded, and blew away in tatters.
The witch gave up and grabbed for her broomstick.
Cordelia was faster, swooping around to cut in front of the woman. She hesitated, just long enough for the boys to catch her robe. They yanked down hard, and the woman fell; then they yanked up, and her robe tore, but she landed gently. A boiling cauldron of anger and fear bubbled out of her, directed at them—but it subsided, stilled, and was gone as Gwen's calming, slowing tide of thoughts rocked her into sleep. The others paid avid attention to her thoughts, and Rod inserted the formless question, only a mental current, that asked (but not in words) where the music-rocks came from. All they gained from her, though, as she slipped into unconsciousness, was the phrase, "… the man who is nowhere…"
Cordelia looked down in exasperation at the sleeping form. How is this? What can she mean?
How can there be a man who is nowhere? Geoffrey demanded.
A man, at least. Gwen's thought was cool water on their inflamed emotions. Seek among this throng, for only the moiety of them came when we did.
The Gallowglasses looked out on a vast, churning mob of young folk.
How many are there here, Mama? Gregory's thought was dazed.
Some thousands, at least, she answered, and Fess thought-corrected, Five thousand three hundred seventy-one, Gregory.
Somebody must know where this witch-moss-crafting man is! Rod insisted. Eavesdrop on their minds, folks—but stay together.
Bravely, they tried. For half an hour, they probed and listened. Finally, Gregory dropped cross-legged on the grass, and Gwen called off the session with a curt finishing thought.
No one knows, Magnus mused, benumbed.
I did at least catch some shady picture of a man bearing stones, Gregory thought wearily.
I too, Cordelia answered, but none had the least notion as to where he dwelled.
Only that he doth exist, Gwen agreed. How can this be, husband?
It's really your field, Rod said slowly, but to me, it smacks of post-hypnotic suggestion.
Gwen looked up at him, amazed. Why, thou hast it! Such few as these as have known of him, have had the memory stolen from their minds!
Magnus frowned. Aye… 'twould not be so hard to do—only to strengthen the resistance of a handful of synapses…
Simplicity itself. Anger tinged Gwen's thought. They seek to keep this man's existence a secret, then.
But why? Cordelia wondered.
Angry peasants. Rod's thoughts weren't exactly halcyon, either. All right, family—how do you find someone whom no one remembers?
They were silent, puzzling it out. Fess waited, and when no one spoke, he explained, Memory is holistic. The
conscious recollection would be relatively easy to erase, yes, but it would be duplicated throughout the cerebrum.
Gregory looked up sharply. Fascinating—yet how shall we apply it?
'Tis not so hard as all that. Gwen stood, resolution in every line of her body. Fetch me one who hath some hazy memory of this man who is nowhere, lads.
Half an hour later, they left the peasant youth sleeping with his head on a tussock, and walked off toward a distant hill and the stream at its foot.
We have not hurt him, have we, Mama? Cordelia thought anxiously.
Not a whit, Gwen assured her. When he doth wake, he will find that he hath slept better than ever he hath aforetime. Come, children. We hunt.
There was a desert there, on the other side of the stream. Animal skulls and low scrub decorated barren sand, and clouds of alkali blew over them.
Cordelia shuddered. How could aught live there, Mama?
How canst thou believe thine eyes, after all the illusions we have seen? Geoffrey retorted. Fear not, sister—never have I seen a wasteland bordering a stream before.
Cordelia's head snapped up at his remark, but Gwen didn't give her time to start feeling chagrined. She threw her broomstick out, staring at it. In midair, its form changed, stretched—and it landed as a six-foot-wide set of planks, held together by cross-boards.
Cross over the bridge, Gwen bade her family, and see what we may discover.
Two by two, they followed their mother and father into the forbidding waste.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They ran into the first signs as soon as they crossed the bridge that arched over the stream. It was almost as though they had entered a picture-book land, with graceful willow trees bordering the stream and silver birches spaced widely apart to let in the sun. Finches sang in cherry trees, and the broad expanse of grass was cropped into a lawn.
"Why, how charming!" Cordelia exclaimed.
"Sure is." Rod looked around. "Somebody's putting an awful lot of work into it, too."
"This music is not so loud," Gregory pointed out.
It wasn't, now that Rod thought about it. He hadn't noticed it immediately, because the rock music was still there—but it was muted. He frowned. "Odd—there look to be more rocks than ever."
"One every yard, it doth seem," Gwen agreed. "Yet their music's less painful."
Magnus picked up a rock, staring at it in surprise. " 'Tis only stone, not metal!"
"Aye," said Geoffrey, "and its strains stir my blood, but do not overwhelm it."
"Stir your blood? Here, let me see!" Rod came over and took the rock. "Just as I suspected—it's a march."
"A rock march?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed.
It was a march—but with the characteristic heavy beat underneath it.
"Here is one whose strains are slowed, and pretty!" Cordelia called.
Gwen came over to her and nodded. " Tis quite melodious. "
"This one doth make sounds, but no music," Magnus called. He had picked up another rock. Rod followed him, and heard birdsong, then a wind swelling under it, the birdsong fading as the wind-song merged into a rolling gong, then faded into the sound of rushing water with high, clear tones above it. Yet, underneath it all thrummed a strong, unyielding beat.
Rod took a deep breath. "No, son. That's music— Nature's music, maybe, but it's organized into something more."
Gregory regarded a large pebble in his hand. "This lacks a beat."
Sure enough, it did—and its melody dipped and soared, but the tones were pure and reverberating. Somehow, nonetheless, it was like the music of all the other rocks they'd heard, even without a bass or drum line.
Fess said, "Rod—someone is experimenting."
Rod stilled, feeling apprehension boost his awareness. "You know something, Old Iron? That makes too much sense."
"Papa," Geoffrey called, "yon lies a cottage."
"Let me see," Cordelia commanded, dashing over to him. "Oh! 'Tis enchanting!"
"That's what I'm afraid of." Rod hurried over to look.
Gwen reached the children just ahead of him. "It is, husband—most wondrously made."