“Let me gaze upon him, then.” Father Al fixed Puck with a hard stare. “I have some knowledge gleaned, sweet Puck; I may see things that thou dost not.”
“I doubt that shrewdly,” Puck said sourly, “yet on the chance of it, I’ll bring thee to him. But step warily, thou friar—one sign of menace to the child, and thou’lt croak, and hop away to find a lily pad to sit on, and wilt pass the rest of thy days fly-catching with a sticky tongue of wondrous length!”
He turned away toward the cottage. Father Al followed, with the witch-girl.
“Dost thou think that he could truly change me into a frog?” Father Al asked softly.
“I do not doubt it,” the girl answered, with a tremulous smile. “The wisest heads may turn to asses’, when the Puck besets them!”
They passed through the door, and Father Al paused, amazed at the brightness and coziness of the house, the sense of comfort and security that seemed to emanate from its beams and rough-cast walls, its sturdy, homely table, benches, chests, two great chairs by the fire, and polished floor. If he looked at it without emotion, he was sure it would seem Spartan—there were so few furnishings. But it was totally clean, and somehow wrapped him in such a feeling of love and caring that he was instantly loath to leave. Somehow, he knew he would like the High Warlock’s wife, if he should be lucky enough to meet her.
Then his gaze lit on the cradle by the fire, with the two diminutive, wizened old peasant-ladies by it—elf-wives! They stared up at him fearfully, but Puck stepped up with a mutter and a gesture, and they drew back, reassured. Puck turned, and beckoned to the priest.
Father Al stepped up to the cradle, and gazed down at a miniature philosopher.
There was no other way to describe him. He still had that very serious look that the newborn have—but this child was nearly a year old! His face was thinner than a baby’s ought to be; the little mouth turned down at the corners. His hair was black, and sparse. He slept, but Father Al somehow had the impression that the child was troubled.
So did the witch-girl. She was weeping silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Poor mite!” she whispered. “His mind doth roam, searching for his mother!”
“Even in his sleep?”
She nodded. “And I cannot say where he doth seek; his thoughts veer off beyond my ken.”
Father Al frowned. “How can that be?” Then he remembered that the child was too young to have gained the mental framework that gives the human mind stability, but also limits. He found himself wondering where that little mind could reach to—and if, in a grown man, such searching would produce insanity.
He looked back at the child, and found its eyes open. They seemed huge in the tiny face, and luminous, and stared up at him with the intensity of a fanatic. Father Al felt an eldritch prickling creep over his scalp and down his back, and knew to the depths of his soul that this was an extremely unusual baby. “Child,” he breathed, “would that I could stay and watch thine every movement!”
“Thou mayest not,” Puck said crisply.
Father Al turned to the elf. “Nay, more’s the pity; for my business is with the father, not the child. Tell me the manner of his disappearance.”
Puck frowned, like a general debating whether or not to release classified information; then he shrugged. “ ‘Tis little enough to tell. Geoffrey—the third bairn—disappeared whilst at play. They called the High Warlock back from council with the King and Abbot, and he drew from his eldest son the place exact where the child had vanished, then stepped there himself—and promptly ceased to be. His wife and other bairns ran after him, dismayed, and, like him, disappeared.”
Father Al stared at the elf, while his mind raced through a dozen possible explanations. It could’ve been enchantment, of course, but Father Al wasn’t quite willing to surrender rationality that completely just yet. A space-warp or time-warp? Unlikely, on a planet’s surface—but who could say it was impossible?
Then he remembered Yorick, and his claim to be a time-traveller. It could be, it could be…
He cleared his throat. “I think that I must see this place.”
“And follow them?” Puck shook his head with a sour smile. “I think that five lost are enough, good friar.”
Father Al hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but now that Puck mentioned it, he felt a creeping certainty. “Nay, I think that thou has said it,” he said slowly, “for where’er thy High Warlock has gone, it could be just such a journey that could wake in him the Power that he knows not of. And I must be there, to guide him in its use!”
“Art thou so schooled in witchcraft, priest?” Puck fairly oozed sarcasm.
“Not in witchcraft, but in the ways of various magics.” Father Al frowned. “For, look you, elf, ‘tis been my life’s study, to learn to know when a mortal is possessed of a demon and when he’s not; and to prove how things that seem to be the work of witchcraft, are done by other means. Yet in this study, I’ve of necessity learned much of every form of magic known to mortals. Never have I ever thought real magic could exist; yet that letter that I told thee of warned us that Rod Gallowglass would gain real magic power. Still do I think his strength will prove to be of origins natural, but rare; yet even so, he’ll need one to show him its true nature, and to lead him past the temptations toward evil that great power always brings.”
“I scarcely think Rod Gallowglass needs one to teach him goodness—an should he, I doubt me not his wife is equal to the task.” But doubt shadowed Puck’s eyes. “Yet I’ll bring thee to the place. Thence, ‘tis thy concern.”
The witch-girl stayed behind, to help with the baby if she could. Puck led Father Al down a woodland path—and the priest kept an eye on the direction of the sun, whenever it poked through the leaves, to make sure he was being led in a definite direction. Finally, they came out into a meadow. A hundred meters away, a pond riffled under a light breeze, bordered by a few trees. A huge black horse lifted its head, staring at them; then it came trotting from the pool.
“ ‘Tis the High Warlock’s charger, Fess,” Puck explained. “An thou dost wish to follow after his master, thou first must deal with him.” And, as the horse came up to them: “Hail, good Fess! I present to thee a goodly monk, whose interest in thy master doth to me seem honest. Tell him who thou art, good friar.”
Well! Father Al had heard that elves had an affinity for dumb animals—but this was going a bit far! Nonetheless, Puck seemed sincere, and Father Al hated to hurt his feelings… “I am Father Aloysius Uwell, of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode…” Was it his imagination, or did the horse prick up its ears at the mention of the good Saint’s name? Well, St. Vidicon had influence in a lot of odd places. “I am hither come to aid thy master, for I’ve been vouchsafed word that he might find himself in peril, whether he did know of it or not.”
The horse had a very intent look about him. Father Al must’ve been imagining it. He turned to Puck. “Canst thou show me where the High Warlock did vanish?”
“Yon,” Puck said, pointing and stepping around Fess toward the pond. “Indeed, we’ve marked the place.”
Father Al followed him.
The great black horse sidestepped, blocking their path.
“ ‘Tis as I feared,” Puck sighed. “He’ll let no one near the spot.”
Suddenly, Father Al was absolutely certain that he had to follow Rod Gallowglass. “Come now! Certes no horse, no matter how worthy, can prevent…” He dodged to the side, breaking into a run.
The horse reared up, pivoted about, and came down, its forefeet thudding to earth just in front of the priest.
Puck chuckled.
Father Al frowned. “Nay, good beast. Dost not know what’s in thy master’s interest?” He backed up, remembering his college gymnastics.