The Skrayling Tree (3 page)

“No!” Ulric cried almost in agony as we at last broke the current’s grip on us and found deeper water. There was a high sound
now, keening around us, and I didn’t know if it was the wind, the sea or human pursuers.

I wished I knew what the youth wanted, but Ulric’s only thought was to get us to safety. In spite of the wind, the mist was
thicker than it had been! The young albino was soon lost in it. We heard a few garbled words, watched white shadows gathering
on the shore as the setting sun vanished, and then all was grey. There was a heavy smell of ozone. The keening fell away until
the water lapping against the canoe was the loudest sound. I heard Ulric’s breath rasp as he drove the paddle into the water
like an automaton, and I did what I could to help him. Events on the island had occurred too rapidly. I couldn’t absorb them.
What had we seen? Who was that albino boy who looked so much like me? He could not be my missing twin. He was younger than
I. Why was my husband so frightened? For me or for himself?

The cold, ruthless wind continued to pursue us. I felt like taking my paddle and battering it back. Then the fog rose like
a wall against the wind which roared and beat impotently upon this new impediment.

Though I felt safer, I lost my bearings in that sudden fog, but Ulric had a much better sense of the compass. With the wind
down, we were soon back at our old mooring. The tide was almost full, so it was easy to step from the canoe to the house’s
little jetty. With some difficulty we climbed the wooden staircase to the first
deck. I felt appallingly tired. I could not believe I was so exhausted from such relatively brief activity, but my husband’s
fear had impressed me.

“They can’t follow us,” I said. “They had no boats.”

In the bright modern kitchen I began to feel a little better. I whipped up some hot chocolate, mixing the ingredients with
obsessive care as I tried to take in what had just happened. Outside, in the darkness, there was nothing to be seen. Ulric
still seemed dazed. He went around checking locks and windows, peering through closed curtains into the night, listening to
the sound of the lapping tide. I asked him what he knew, and he said, “Nothing. I’m just nervous.”

I forced him to sit down and drink his chocolate. “Of what?” I asked.

His sensitive, handsome face was troubled, uncertain. He hesitated, almost as if he were going to cry. I found myself taking
him by the hand, sitting next to him, urging him to drink. There were tears in his eyes.

“What are you afraid of, Ulric?”

He attempted to shrug. “Of losing you. Of it all starting again, I suppose. I’ve had dreams recently. They seemed silly at
the time. But that scene on the island felt as if it had happened before. And there’s something about this wind that’s come
up. I don’t like it, Oona. I keep remembering Elric, those nightmarish adventures. I fear for you, fear that something will
separate us.”

“It would have to be something pretty monumental!” I laughed.

“I sometimes think that life with you has been an exquisite dream, my broken mind compensating for the
pain of Nazi tortures. I fear I’ll wake up and find myself back in Sachsenhausen. Since I met you I know how hard it is to
tell the difference between the dream and the reality. Do you understand that, Oona?”

“Of course. But I know you’re not dreaming. After all, I have the dreamthief’s skills. If anyone could reassure you, it must
surely be me.”

He nodded, calming himself, giving my hand a grateful squeeze. He was flooded with adrenaline, I realized. What on earth had
we witnessed?

Ulric couldn’t tell me. He had not been alarmed until he saw what appeared to be his younger self at the window. Then he had
sensed time writhing and slipping and dissipating and escaping from the few slender controls we had over it. “And to lose
control of time—to let Chaos back into the world—means that I lose you, perhaps the children, everything I have here with
you that I value.”

I reminded him that I was still very much with him, and in the morning we could stroll the few miles down to Englishtown,
call Michael Hall and speak to our beloved children, who were happily going about their schooling. “We can make sure they’re
well. If you still feel uneasy, we can leave for Rochester and stay with your cousin.” Dick von Bek worked for the Eastman
Company. We had his permanent invitation.

Again he made an effort to control his fear and was soon almost his old self.

I remarked on the distorted shadows we had seen, like elongated mist giants. Yet the youth’s outline had remained perfectly
clear at all times, as if only he were
in full focus! “The effects of fog, like those of the desert, are often surprising.”

“I’m not sure it was the fog…” He took another deep breath.

That distortion of perspective was one of the things that had disturbed him, he told me. It brought back all the worlds of
dreams, of magic. He remembered the threat, which we must still fear, from his cousin Gaynor.

“But Gaynor’s essence was dissipated,” I said. “He was broken into a million different fragments, a million distant incarnations.”

“No,” said Ulric, “I do not think that is true any longer. The Gaynor we fought was somehow not the only Gaynor. My sense
is that Gaynor is restored. He has altered his strategy. He no longer works directly. It is almost as if he is lurking in
our distant past. It isn’t a pleasant feeling. I dream constantly that he’s sneaking up on us from behind.” His weak laughter
was uncharacteristically nervous.

“I have no such sense,” I said, “and I am supposed to be the psychic. I promise you I would know if he were anywhere nearby.”

“That’s part of what I understand in the dream,” said Ulric. “He no longer works directly, but through a medium. From some
other place.”

There was nothing more I could say to reassure him. I, too, knew that the Eternal Predator could hardly be conquered but must
forever be held in check by those of us who recognized his disguises and methods. Still I had no smell of Gaynor here. The
wind had
grown stronger and louder as we talked and now banged around the house tugging at shutters and shrieking down chimneys.

At last I was able to get Ulric to bed and eventually to sleep. Exhausted, I, too, slept in spite of the wailing wind. In
the night I was vaguely aware of the wind coming up again and Ulric rising, but I thought he was closing a window.

I awoke close to dawn. The wind was still soughing outside, but I had heard something else. Ulric was not in bed. I assumed
that he was still obsessed and would be upstairs, waiting for the light, ready to train his glasses on that old house. But
the next sound I heard was louder, more violent, and I was up before I knew it, running downstairs in my pajamas.

The big room was only recently empty.

There had been a struggle. The French doors to the deck were wide open, the stained glass cracked, and Ulric was nowhere to
be seen. I dashed out onto the deck. I could see dim shapes down at the water’s edge. The ghostly marble bodies were obviously
Indians. Perhaps they had covered their bodies with chalk. I knew of such practices among the Lakota ancestor cults but had
never witnessed anything of the kind in this region. Their origin, however, was not the most pressing question in my mind
as I saw them bundling Ulric into a large birchbark canoe. I could not believe that in the second half of the twentieth century
my husband was being kidnapped by Indians!

Calling for them to stop, I ran down to the grey water, but they were already pushing off, the spray causing odd
distortions in the air. One of them had taken our canoe. His back rippled as he moved powerful arms. His body gleamed with
oil, and the single lock of hair decorated with feathers flowed like a gash down his back. He wore unusual war paint. Could
this be one of those old “mourning wars” on which the Indians embarked when too many of their warriors had been killed? But
why steal a sedentary white man?

The mist was still thick, distorting their shapes as they disappeared. Once I glimpsed Ulric’s eyes, wide with fear for me.
They were paddling rapidly directly towards Auld Strom. The wind came up again, whipping the water and swirling the mist into
bizarre images. Then they were gone. And the wind went with them, as if in pursuit.

My instincts took over my mind. In the sudden silence I began to quest automatically out and into the water, seeking the sisterly
intelligence I could already sense in the depths far from the shore. She became alert as I found her and readily accepted
my request to approach. She was interested in me, if not sympathetic. Water flowed into my entire consciousness, became my
world as I continued to bargain, borrow, petition, offer all at the same time, and in the space of seconds. Grudgingly, I
was allowed to take the shape of the stately old monarch who lay still and wise in the deep water below the tug of the current,
receiving obeisance from every one of her tribe within a thousand miles.

The children of the legendary piscine first elemental
Spammer Gain,
the Lost Fishlings of folklore are a
community of generous souls to whom altruism is natural, and this lady was one such. Her huge gills moved lazily as she considered
my appeal.

It is not my duty to die,
I heard her say,
but to remain alive.

And one lives through action,
I said.
Is one alive who does nothing but exist?

You are impertinent. Come, your youth shall combine with my wisdom and my body. We shall seek this creature you love.

I had been accepted by Fwulette the Salmon Wife. And she knew the danger I meant to face.

Such ancient souls have survived the birth and death of planets. Courage is natural to them. She let me swim with extraordinary
speed in pursuit of the canoes. As I had guessed, they were not heading back to the island but directly towards the whirlpool.
While I could feel the current tugging me inwards, I was too experienced to fear it. I had gills. This was my element. I had
followed thousands of currents for millions of years and knew that only if you fought them could they harm you.

I was soon ahead of the canoes, swimming strongly towards the surface with the intention of capsizing the larger one and rescuing
Ulric. I was as long as their vessel and did not anticipate any hindrance as I prepared to leap upwards under them. To my
dismay, my straining back met massive and unexpected resistance. The thing was far heavier than it had seemed. I was winded.
Already, as I tried to recover from the self-inflicted blow, the canoe’s prow began to dip as she
was taken down by the pull of the maelstrom. The whole scale appeared to have altered, but I had no choice. I followed the
canoe as it was sucked deep into the center of the vortex. My supple body withstood all the stresses and pressures I expected,
but the canoe, which should have been breaking up, remained in one piece. The occupants, though gripping hard to the sides,
were not flung out. I got one clear view of them. They had the fine, regular features of local forest Indians but were dead
white, not albino. Their hair was black against oiled, shaven skulls, hanging in a single thick strand. Their black eyes glared
into the heart of the maelstrom, and I realized they were deliberately following it to the core. I had to go with them.

Deeper and deeper we went into the wild rush of white and green while all around me great boulders and pillars of rock rose
up, their scale shifting back and forth in the unstable water. This was no ordinary natural phenomenon. I knew at once that
I had effectively left one world and entered another. It was becoming impossible to orient myself as the rocks changed size
and shape before my eyes, but I did everything in my power to continue my pursuit. Then suddenly the thing was before me,
the size of the
Titanic,
and I had been struck a blow directly to the head. I felt myself grow limp. I thrashed my tail to keep my bearings. Then
another current was pushing me up towards the surface, even as I fought to dive deeper.

Unable to sustain the descent, I let the current take me back towards shore, exhausted. Fwulette knew we had failed. She seemed
sad for me.

“Go with good luck, little sister,” she said.

The Salmon Wife returned to her realm, her head slightly sore and, for reasons best known to herself, her humor thoroughly
restored.

Fwulette thanked, I called for my own body and returned to the house as fast as I could. We had no telephone, of course. The
nearest was miles away. I had no other means of pursuing my husband’s abductors, not a single hope of ever seeing him again.
I was not the only one whose life had changed totally in the last few hours, but this understanding made my loss no easier.
I felt horribly ill as I began looking for my clothes.

Then I saw something I had not noticed in my haste to rescue my husband. Ulric’s kidnappers had lost something in the struggle.
Presumably I had not seen it earlier because it had fallen down the slats in the stairs and now stood upright against a wall:
a large round thing, with the dimensions of a small trampoline, made from decorated deerhide stretched on wicker and attached
to its frame with thongs. It was too big for a shield, though the handles at the back suggested that purpose. I had seen the
Indians carrying similar shields but in closer proportions to their bodies. I wondered if it was what was called a dreamcatcher,
but it lacked any familiar images. It might even be a holy object or a kind of flag.

Made of white buckskin with eight turquoise stripes radiating from a central hub, at the boss was what appeared to be a thunderbird
framed by a tree. The entire thing was painted in vivid blues and reds. Ornamented with scarlet beads around the rim, with
more colored
beads and porcupine quills throughout the design, it was of superb craftsmanship and had the feel of a treasured possession.
Yet its purpose was mysterious.

I left it leaning against the wall while I went upstairs to bathe and get some clothes. When I returned to the main part of
the house, the sun was everywhere. I could hardly believe I had not been dreaming. But there was the huge deerskin disk, the
cracked glass, and other signs of the fight. Ulric must have heard them come in and delivered himself straight into their
hands. There was no note. I had not expected one. This was not an attempt to get ransom.