She nodded, eyes huge.
“If thou hadst looked, thou wouldst have known that I did not walk the stream-banks in search of pleasure.”
“Nay, that follows not,” she said with a frown, “for I have known—Nay, never mind. Yet if thou didst not hither come for sport, why hast thou come?”
“Why, I do seek an husband, wife, and children three,” Father Al said slowly. “They would have come out from this wood some time ago, mayhap whilst sunlight shone. Wouldst thou have seen them?”
“Indeed I did,” the nymph said slowly, “they woke me from my daytime sleep—the wee ones made some noise, thou knowest.”
“I do indeed.” Father Al had delivered sermons at family churches. “Canst thou say which way they went?”
She shook her head. “I did not look so long. One quick glance sufficed to show a woman with them—and she was quite beautiful.” The nymph seemed irritated by the memory. “I saw no prospect of a satisfaction there, though the man and boys were comely—so I sought my watery bed again.”
“Out upon it!” Father Al glared up at the leaves, clenching a fist. “How can I tell which way to go?”
“If ‘tis a matter of so great an import to thee,” the nymph said slowly, “mayhap that I can aid. Do thou sit here, and wait, and I will quickly course the stream, and seek for sign of them.”
“Wouldst thou, then!” Father Al cried. “Now, there’s a wench for thee! Why, thank thee, lass! The blessings of…”
“I prithee, hold!” The nymph held up a hand. “Name not thy Deity, I beg thee! Do thou abide; I’ll search.” She ducked under the water, and was gone.
Father Al stared after her a moment; then he sighed, and lowered himself carefully to the river bank. Not so young as he had been—but still too young for comfort in some ways, eh? He wondered if his hectoring had done any good, if the nymph would even remember it. Probably not; the young never seemed to learn where sex was concerned, and she was eternally young. Nice of her to offer to help, though—or had it just been a convenient excuse for getting away from a garrulous old man?
With that thought in his head, he sat there on tenterhooks, tense in waiting, wondering if the nymph would even return.
Then, suddenly, the water clashed in front of him, and the nymph rose up, pushing her hair back from her face. “They come, good monk. Back up the stream-bank they do wander.” She pointed downstream. “Though why, I cannot say.”
“A thousand blessings on thee!” Father Al cried, surging to his feet. The nymph gasped in horror, and disappeared in a splash.
Father Al stared at the widening ripple-rings, biting his tongue in consternation at his faux pas. Well, no doubt she’d realize he’d just been carried away, and would credit him with good intentions.
Then he turned away, the nymph receding to the back of his mind, and plunged into the underbrush that lined the bank, heading back into the trees and downstream, excitement rising high within him at the thought of finally meeting the Gallowglasses.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They dodged through the silver woods, trusting to Gwen’s sense of direction, until they came out on the lake-shore. Rod sighed with relief. “Okay, into the water. If they’re tracking us with hounds, we want to break the trail.” He was about to jump in when he noticed his family all hanging back. “Hey, what’s the matter? Jump in!”
“My lord,” Gwen said delicately, “it doth occur to us to remember the Each Uisge…”
“What of it? It’s dead!”
“Aye; but it may not have been alone. We know so little of this land…”
Rod felt a sudden dislike of water, himself. “Uh… how about it, Elid… uh, Your Majesty? Are there other unfriendly beasties in the water?”
“Oh, aye!” Elidor said promptly. “There do be Fuathan of all sorts and shapes! Shelly coats, peallaidhs, fideal, urisks, melusines…”
“Uh, I think that’s enough,” Rod interrupted. “We’ll take our chances with the hounds.”
They moved along the lake-shore. It was quicker going; the trees didn’t come down right to the water’s edge; they generally had a path at least two feet wide.
“We do seem to have come into a country with a rather strange population,” Rod admitted to Gwen.
“We do indeed,” she agreed. “The Faery, and some of the spirits Elidor doth mention, I have heard of—yet some are total strangers. Can we be in Gramarye, Rod?”
Rod shrugged. “Sure. Given a population of latent telepaths, who can persuade witch-moss to adopt any shape they’re collectively thinking of, and a thousand years to work in, who can say what would show up?”
“Yet I cannot think the elves would disappear,” Gwen pointed out, “and some magics that the faery duke did speak of, no witch or warlock in all Gramarye possesseth.”
“True,” Rod admitted, “both points. The spriggans’ ropes are something new—and so is making them crumble to dust before they touched Lord Kern—if the faery duke wasn’t just making that up. Still, I could see a way telekinesis might do that. But, turning faeries to stone? No. That’s really new—if he meant it literally.”
“Yet if we be on Gramarye,” Gwen said softly, “where do we be?”
“Nice question.” Rod looked up at the starry sky above the lake. “Could be anywhere, dear. McAran’s time machine was a matter-transmitter as well as a time-shifter. I suppose we could be on any world, around any star in the universe.” He frowned, squinting up at the sky. “Though, come to think of it, there’s something familiar about those constellations…” He shook his head. “Can’t place it. But I know I’ve seen that stellar layout before!”
“Yet ‘tis not the sky of Gramarye,” Gwen said softly.
Rod was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No, dear. It’s not.”
They walked silently for a few minutes, looking away from the sky and down toward the ground, hand in hand. The children picked up Gwen’s thoughts, and crowded close for comfort. Elidor watched, not understanding, alone and to the side.
Gwen reached out and gathered him in. “Well, ‘tis not so great a blow as all that; I’ve had suspicions. There’re far too few folk here with any Power, for it to ha’ been our Isle of Gramarye.”
“Yes,” Rod said somberly. “We haven’t run into so much as a telepath. Not that I’m used to having people read my thoughts…” He looked up at Gwen, frowning. “Strange, isn’t it? When I first came to Gramarye, the Queen’s witches could read my mind—but by the time I met you, no one could.”
“Oh, really?” said a mellow baritone behind him. “That’s interesting!”
Rod whirled about.
A friar in a brown robe with a black rope belt picked his way through the trees toward them. Moonlight gleamed off his tonsure. “Can you think of anything that could cause that effect?”
“Not offhand,” Rod said slowly. “And you’ll pardon my noticing that you don’t quite speak like the rest of the local population.”
“Not surprising; I’m from out of this world.” The friar thrust out a hand. “Father Aloysius Uwell, at your service.”
“I hope so.” Rod searched the man’s face. He was definitely on the fat side, with brown hair and a library pallor, wide, frank eyes, and a firm mouth; and something immensely likeable about him. Rod warmed to him, albeit reluctantly. He took Father Uwell’s hand. “Good to meet you.” Then he noticed the tiny yellow screwdriver in the priest’s breast pocket. “You’re a Cathodean!”
“Is that so surprising?” Father Uwell smiled. “I told you I wasn’t of this world.”
“Or the next?” But Rod couldn’t help smiling. “What world are you from?”
“McCorley, originally—but I’ve been on Terra, at the Vatican, for the last twenty years. Except for jaunts to trouble-spots, of course—such as Gramarye.”