CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Magic Gone Wrong

---

The wilderness he stalked through was damp, intricate, and rugged, dipping into notches seldom touched by daylight. Leafless trees loomed out of purple-tinted vapor, giving Vincent no clue to his direction. In his haste, he followed a cleft between two brooding promontories, thinking it might possibly be a trail. The castle-sized rocks were cracked apart as if split by lightning, and every crack he followed led him in a different direction. At last he realized he was toiling uphill and that he had lost sight of the river. Reviling his own recklessness, he knew he had to find it again or else wander aimlessly through the forest until he died of starvation. He had no map, no plan other than to follow the shore.

"If I go downhill I’ll find the river."

He entered a ravine that plunged downward between sheer, close-set walls. Shadows were deep; he lost all track of the hours as he climbed over, around and under monumental boulders, slipping and scrambling. At the bottom of the ravine, the rocks were cold as ice and emitted an eerie glow. There was a dampness on his face; he looked up and realized that snowflakes were falling. He had wandered inadvertently into the lower depths of the uncanny wood.

Caves materialized on either side. One opened on a village scene with thatched cottages and peaceful fields.

"I’m not that much of a fool," he muttered, and strode on.

A second cave showed Mary, Jacob, and Catherine dancing in a ring. They beckoned him to join their frolic.

"Still not good enough." He walked on without looking back.

A third cavern appeared and became his own grotto, complete with a leaf-covered skylight. Painted shields brightened the walls; a tapestry of mermen and dolphins warmed the floor. A table was spread with savory dishes.

"Pitiful," he commented as he passed. This time he did glance back; just as he expected, all the openings had vanished.

He ignored snakes that slithered across his path. It didn’t matter if they were real or merely illusions. He was looking for any sign of a cliff-stair that would lead him upward.

Stark trees clung to fissures in the walls; on both sides of the ravine, twigs opened and closed like traps. He cared nothing for the creaking trees. The twigs that reached out for him he knocked aside with a backhanded blow.

Even if death lurked to catch him, he would have faced a hundred deaths rather than turn back.

At last he caught sight of faint zigzag markings scratched into a sheer cliff. One castle tower had such markings, and he knew the secret. He closed his eyes and began to ascend invisible steps. It felt as though he were climbing through thin air. He knew the stairs would vanish if he looked down; still, it took unbelievable concentration to keep his eyes closed. Cold sweat ran down his face. Higher and higher he climbed, keeping his balance by will power alone. A misstep would hurtle him to his death in the ravine far below.

The steps became level ground; still, until he had walked half a league he did not dare open his eyes. When he did dare, he let out a groan of relief and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The blind climb through empty air had strained his nerves to the breaking point.

He found he was striding through a field of dead weeds overshadowed by fire-blackened pines. A patch of cold air made him shudder. It was probably a spot where Anya’s magic was strong. Still, he had escaped from the lower regions, and his confidence was growing that he would be able to meet these ordeals and conquer them. On a sandstone ridge at the far edge of the field he glanced back. In the center of the weedy meadow a tube of fog stood straight up like a silver cylinder, revolving slowly, sucking up weeds and twigs as it circled.

He was familiar with many manifestations of Anya’s power, but not that one. What it would have done to him, he couldn’t guess.

He raised a hand as if to hush himself and stood in silence, listening. In the distance there was a sound that might be the rumble of water. Expectation beat hard in him as he followed the sound through a harsh and barren landscape of bony trees and black-ribbed stones. Beyond a hill of cottage-sized boulders he found the river once again, to his deep relief.

The riverbank was a bare and silent place of whitish branches and porphyrous earth against outcroppings of gray-black rock. The very air was primeval, dampened by creeping fog. Rotted leaves rustled underfoot.

The water itself changed as it rumbled through the wood. No longer was it the peaceful silver river of the castle grounds. Instead it was a seething boiling white, the waters churning in evil-looking whirlpools. Perversely it became two or three brooks, braiding out through woods and marshy depressions, appearing and disappearing as if to tempt him on. He merely set his mouth in a hard line and headed north.

A root hidden under a mat of leaves tripped him; he slipped down the bank and one boot filled with water. He pulled it off, balancing on one foot, and emptied it out; then adjusted the stocking and pulled it back on, tucking in the cuffs of his black and silver breeches. He hadn’t worn anything but black since Catherine sailed away. Cut velvet and metallic lace were not suitable for the journey, but it was too late to be concerned about that now. Crouching, he found a stick and scratched a crude map in the mud, figuring how far he had come, and in what direction he was heading.

"The journey to the castle took Catherine two or three days on horseback, and as far as I know, she was not following the river. I’m not sure if she traveled by night. If I do not stop to rest, I might reach the village in four days? Five?"

It was difficult to judge. He didn’t know the length of the river trip or how long Charles’ first journey had taken. "I should have asked." Disgusted, he tossed the stick away. A coil dropped down from above, whipped around his neck, and hauled him upright.

Overwhelming horror flooded his body; the fear of death thrilled through him. He flailed upwards but couldn’t free himself -- his hands grated against pebbles. He could hear his own gasping, and the pounding of blood in his ears, and then a coughing hiss. On the branch above him perched something that could only have been created by magic gone wrong -- a gargoyle with rings of eye-spikes and rows of stone teeth. The pebbles he clawed were its scales. The tail tightened around his neck and his feet left the ground. Kicking the air, he tore at the strangling loop as the weight of his own body tightened the noose. He couldn’t breathe -- his chest was on fire.

Scratching the creature’s body was futile; it simply crouched lower with its talons curled around the limb, waiting for his thrashing to cease. The coil was throttling him; he could feel himself weakening. With the last of his strength, he seized the limb with one hand and raised himself just a little. As he ripped madly at the gargoyle with his free hand, the branch snapped. He crashed to the earth and landed on his back. Half stunned, he fought for air, tearing at the scaly tail that still circled his neck.

He couldn’t loosen the coil. Flat on his back, he smashed with the broken limb, hammering awkwardly on the ugly granite head. The gargoyle was half stone, half flesh; he couldn’t kill it. Vincent was fighting for his life, though; he wouldn’t give up. His desperate flailing blows tattered its bleeding hide and explosed slabs of ribs.

Hissing, the creature loosened the loop of its tail, but almost before he could drag in a breath it was on him, raking with all four feet. The weight on his chest was crushing. Death was on top of him, close and panting, ferocious and without mercy. Madness raced suddenly in his own blood and he let out a bestial roar that seemed to give him strength. He seized the scaly front legs and hurled the creature off him, then lurched to his feet, still roaring. He crashed the broken limb across the thing’s scaly spine, over and over again. Crazed with savagery, it flew at him, climbing his leg, ravaging with its claws and teeth. He staggered backwards, thrown off-balance by the sudden weight. He tried kicking it, but there was no way to connect with enough force to do it any harm. A loop of its tail whipped around his leg. If it got him down again, it would have him.

He lurched sideways, dragging the creature with him, feeling blood pouring down his thigh. He had no weapon but the branch; he shoved the sharp end down the gargoyle’s gaping mouth, smothering its hiss. He had no breath to scream out his pain as he pulled his leg free of the sickle claws. Wildly he looked around for another weapon. Rocks -- dirt -- a sapling. He pulled it up by the roots and clubbed the gargoyle with all the strength he had left. It had coughed up the splintered branch. Snarling and spitting blood, the thing backed up; one of its legs was shattered, and it couldn’t pounce.

Step by step it backed away from the flailing club. Licking its exposed ribs with a red, pointed tongue, it retreated into a tangle of briars. With a groan, Vincent stumbled away, leaning on the sapling like a cane, fighting to recover his breath, praying that the monstrosity would not follow. When he looked back, it was gnawing off its own foot.

When he could find the strength, he waded out into the shallows, beyond the reach of the trees. The water formed whirlpools to pull him down. It was difficult keeping his balance. His doublet was tattered and long red scratches gouged his chest and his thigh. A rush of water tore the pole from his hands.

"I was confident too soon," he panted. With a groan of pain, he began to wade downstream.

Dusk settled in and seeped through the branches. Like fingers of bone they reached up for the darkness and brought it down.

The night was thick, so dark even Vincent had difficulty seeing. Wading slowed his progress. Every time he took a step, bubbles of foul gas rose from the riverbed. His boots were weighted with mud. His wounds burned like fire; every muscle in his body screamed for rest. Still he pushed on.

"If I stay in the river, I cannot lose my way."

He tried to think of the river as an arrow that was carrying him straight to his goal. The image brought a tired smile to his face; there was nothing straight about it. He stumbled, went to his knees, and stood again, dripping. Maybe it would be safe to allow himself a brief sleep on the bank. Just a short rest. As he waded toward the shore, he spied a humped shape limping from bush to bush. The gargoyle was following.

Vincent stumbled back into deeper water; there would be no sleep tonight.

On and on he toiled, sick with fatigue, wandering sometimes too near the bank, sometimes too near the deeper water. Though his throat burned, he didn’t trust the river water. If he had given himself time to prepare for the journey, he would have worn suitable clothing and brought a flask of water and more food. Such preparations would have been wise, but he was far beyond such thoughts. He only had one, and he rehearsed it over and over to keep himself awake. "Look at me, these hands, this body. Everything I am is dedicated to you. Catherine, will I do?"

Dimly, faintly through a pall of clouds, morning came. There was no sign of the gargoyle. A narrow island appeared, and soon the river forked into two branches.

Vincent wiped his weary face with one hand, and pondered his situation. Both streams wound on through banks of thorns; one rolling north, one northeast. He stroked his throat, which was circled by bruises, and wondered what to do. One had to be a trap, from which he would never emerge. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder whether Catherine might have chosen the wrong one. Sorcerous guardians might have caught her, along with the little boat. Perhaps she never reached home at all.

Apprehension poured through him like black sand. If the worst had happened, he had no interest in reaching the village. Finding Catherine was the only thing that mattered. He simply had to choose one of the streams and follow it, praying unceasingly to every deity he’d ever heard of or read about.

"North," he said aloud, and turned resolutely in that direction. He stayed near the water’s edge, as the current was swift. Ramparts of thorns snagged his cloak. He kept one hand raised to protect his face. The rapids boiled with white bubbles and he fought to keep his balance.

Half awake, he stumbled on for hours. Without warning, the current caught him and he dropped, to his knees. The shock of the cold water roused him; he grasped a branch of thorns to pull himself upright. His palm was badly scratched, but once again he had beaten the river. ‘How many more times?’ he wondered, numb with weariness. He counted six long breaths and then trudged on.

The trees on the riverbank were cracked vertically, with thickened bark like hideous lips. A reaching twig closed around his wrist; he broke it off impatiently; the sap was blood-colored. Nasty as they looked, the trees posed no threat that he could envision. Rounding a bend, he saw an odd thing. A very odd thing. Puzzled, he halted and stared at the strange object, unable to sort out what he was seeing. It was a tree swollen with a tumorous growth. Two hairy gray limbs hung down the trunk. Then it flashed on him -- a truth that made him feel faint with horror. The tree trunk bulged around the body of a horse. Roots grew from the horse’s legs and leaves from the tangled mane. It was Dapple. The eyes in the bony head still lived; they watched Vincent as he passed.

The ghastliness of what he had seen sickened him as he waded on. So that was the end-result of those grasping twigs. They captured an animal -- or a traveler -- and the tree gradually swallowed him whole.

He muttered, "Anya, was that necessary? I was never that anxious to keep travelers away."

Perhaps after all this was the wrong stream. It might be possible to go back and choose the other branch. As he turned, a speck of color caught his eye. A scrap of brown and white cloth fluttered from a briar bush.

Carefully he disentangled the shred of cloth and held it on his palm. Catherine’s cloak was brown and white. His expression became grim with purpose; there was no turning back. Whatever might lie ahead, he would follow, to fight for her or die beside her.

In his pocket he found a piece of oaten bread, and ate it as he walked on. It was almost impossible to swallow. His mouth was raw and dry, and his tongue was parched. To keep himself alive he was going to have to drink the river water, there was nothing else. Reluctantly he stooped and sipped a handful, just enough to moisten his mouth. It tasted thick and slippery. Feeling a little dizzy, he finished his bread.

Yellow moss hung in shaggy patches from trees on the bank. He’d read something once about a traveler who studied mossy trees to find true north. But he’d forgotten the rest of the instructions.

There were other things he began to forget, too, as he lurched through the water. Like his name. For some odd reason he couldn’t bring it to mind. "It starts with a ‘B,’ I’m sure of that," he muttered. And why was he was splashing through the river? He ought to head home, or Jacob would be cross. He hadn’t done his lessons or groomed his pony yet this afternoon.

Little by little, as he forced his legs to keep moving, voices sifted into his mind, whispering in a language he did not understand. He wanted them to be quiet. Hardly knowing what he did, he answered the murmurs.

"Leave me alone." The words echoed oddly. Llllleeeevvvv mmmmmeeeee alllooooonnnn

"Get away from me." Ggggeeettt aaaaawwwwwwaaaayyyyyy fffffrrrrrooooommmmmm

mmmmmeeeeee

"Stay back!" Ssssssstttaa bbbbaaaaaaaakkkkk

His last coherent thought before his mind blurred completely was, ‘The pony was long ago. I knew I shouldn’t have tasted the water.’ The voices went on whispering; he tried to dislodge them by muttering loudly. They rose to screams, and he covered his ears, but the shrieks pounded into his head like iron spikes, making him afraid.

They kept howling, ‘Ffffire! Fffffire!’ and he began to understand. The stream was on fire. He could see it now. Yellow flames licked the surface. The flames became faces, writhing in torment; and they were screaming, too. It was unendurable, and he was going to have to force himself to wade right through it.

Gritting his teeth, Vincent pushed through the firestorm, shielding his face with one arm, bracing himself against pain. The tortured faces were all around him, twisting in agony. The flames failed to scorch him but the screaming did. The howling scorched his legs. He wondered at that, but couldn’t sort it out in his reeling mind. As he pushed on down the river, the yellow flames dissolved in smoke. The howling lingered for a time, reverberating in his ears. Then he realized he was the one doing the howling. When he stopped, the burning ceased to pain him, and that was a relief. Walking was hard, though, and becoming more difficult with each step. Then he realized he could feel nothing at all from the knees down. His legs had turned to pillars of stone. He couldn’t possibly keep going, but he did, one ponderous step at a time, swinging his arms to keep himself moving.

Sweat broke out on his body. His legs were so heavy. To his horror, he found that the fossilization was creeping upward. He slammed his fist against his thigh, and scraped his knuckles on rock. One more heavy step, then one more, then his feet fused to the riverbed, and he could go no farther. Inexorably the petrification crept up his body, reaching his waist. Fear shook through him. Struggle as he might, he couldn’t move from the spot. He was trapped there, doomed to become a statue of stone. With both fists he clutched his shirt, feeling the slamming of his heart, wondering in numbed horror how long it would beat. His heart was the center of his body, the source of his life, he had to keep it beating.

"Catherine," he said. "Catherine."

As if in answer, she appeared. Ahead of him, in a stone boat, sat his own dear love.

"Catherine, I found you." Tears ran down his face; tears of joy. His heart was strong again. Warmth spread throughout his body, melting the stone, giving him back his life. He could move again, and he reached out his hands to her. "Everything I am is dedicated to you; Catherine, will I do?"

"Do you’ think I could want you, beast?" she mocked him. Her voice was thick and blurred. "I have Gunther, a true man. He is my playfellow." She slid closer to a rakish gentleman who had just appeared beside her.

"You don’t want me, Catherine?" No longer were they tears of joy. "I could have been a man if you had believed in me."

Gunther spat, "Monster! Look at those spider-hands. You’re utterly disgusting." He caressed the bodice of Catherine’s gown possessively; she arched her back with pleasure.

A sob broke from Vincent. Gunther was right; his hands were turning to spiders; furry, eight-fingered, and draped with cobwebs. In despair, he asked, "Is that what you think, Catherine? That I’m disgusting?" Shall I turn around and go back to the castle?"

"Die and be damned to you. I hate you." She swooned voluptuously in Gunther’s arms.

Staggering with shock, Vincent took a few steps backwards. "Oh, Catherine. You sought me out in the keep, you danced with me. Don’t hate me. There’s nothing in me that can bear that."

Gunther’s handsome face became a snout of stone with a flicking red tongue. "Catherine adores me. You’ll never touch her with those horrible hands." They laughed uncontrollably; their hoots and shrieks echoed in his head.

The mockery hurt him cruelly, and he wiped his eyes with his muddy sleeve. And yet somewhere deep inside himself there was a core of belief that the hallucinations couldn’t touch. The Catherine he knew would not behave in such a way. Even if she loved another man, she would always be herself -- unselfish and open-hearted.

"It’s isn’t real," he told himself. "She would never be so heartless."

He kept a grip on the scrap of cloth in his pocket and waded straight through the boat. The fading taunts followed him, but he refused to look behind.

"Kkkkiss me, Gunther."

"A pppleasure, my love. Ttttell me of your day."

Concentrating on the truth of her character helped him keep going. "I know her. She’ is not like that."

Night fell like a smothering blanket. A glance told him his hands were no longer spider-like. That gave him hope he had outlasted the hallucinations, though the occasional flash of a burning river warned him that his perceptions could not be trusted. On and on he tramped, far beyond the point of collapse. He was so broken he didn’t know how he was still alive. In the back of his mind was a growing conviction that the rolling current would lead him astray, into a trap from which he would never escape. He kept going with nothing to carry him on but the epic drive of a great heart that would not turn back.

The darkness parted as if torn in half. Above the river, angels appeared, wide-winged and glorious. They extended down to him a golden ladder, tempting him to climb.

"Your sorrows are in the past," they sang in chorus.

"Your reward has come at last."

"Grip the ladder and hold fast:"

"Can this be meant for me?" Awestruck, he stopped short, reached up one hand, and gripped a golden rung.

Heavenly music rolled from a rift in the gold-tinged clouds. He had seen these angels before, in a book somewhere, along with a picture of a miserable wretch trapped in an underworld of smoke and fire.

He whispered a prayer of gratitude ... one of the deities he prayed to had heard his supplication, and this time he was the lucky one being pulled up to paradise …

Wondrous chords swelled from heaven to affirm his decision as he reached up his other hand. Never had he heard music so beautiful. The waving wings of the angels gleamed with iridescent colors that altered with every shimmering chord. Singing, they beckoned him to climb.

"Let your fears take flight."

"Happiness is yours tonight."

"Grip the ladder and hold tight."

"Carry me straight to her," he begged, and saw the glimmering faces smile in answer. He gripped the rung more securely and felt himself being gently lifted into the air.

One of the angels had Catherine’s face. That should have reassured him, but it did not. He steadied his mind with the same words that had gotten him past the stone boat. "It isn’t real. I know her. That’s not Catherine."

He forced his hands to release their grip, and with a tremendous splash dropped down again into the river. Struggling to his feet, he turned his back and plodded on, while the chorus turned to screeches of rage. He glanced back; every angel had a cat’s eye above a single human eye. The ladders dissolved into burning drops that hissed when they hit the water.

The fall had allowed him to escape from unthinkable horrors, but every labored step dragged a groan from his tortured body. "I thought it was real, that it would carry me to you. Catherine, where are you? I want to be where you are."

He couldn’t handle any more ordeals. He had endured so much he was reeling with exhaustion, dead on his feet. There wasn’t enough strength left in him to go any farther -- not that night.

With one prayer, that the gargoyle would keep its distance and no other unknown horror would seek his life that night, Vincent collapsed face up on the bank. All around him in the darkness twigs snapped like crickets; he didn’t care. If a devouring tree were to seize him he would fight, but first he had to sleep. He had to; and with that thought consciousness left him. Like a dead man he lay with his arms thrown out, his head flung back, and one boot in the water. The current lifted it up and down, but he didn’t even notice.

Time passed. The night was very still. A branch snapped occasionally, but that was all. No insects scratched; no birds hooted. If there were stars or a moon -- if they even existed -- they were veiled in mist. From the other side of the river, gray haze crept along the ground, making bush after bush invisible. In perfect silence it rolled down the bank and shrouded the river, hushing its watery gurgle. Up the other bank it moved like countless wispy fingers. Along the ground it slid, filling every hollow, blanketing boulders and trees to the horizon until even their outlines were lost. The sharp sounds of clicking twigs faded, muffled to silence. Nothing existed except vapor and the insensible man on the shore. Earth, water, and sky were all humid and gray.

The fog circled Vincent where he lay motionless on the riverbank. Boulders and bushes were swallowed, but he was not touched. Around and around him the vapor revolved, enclosing him in a ring. Rolling slowly, it coiled up into a cylinder.

The tube of vapor built itself up coil by coil, higher and higher. Vincent made a sound of protest, for even in his sleep he suddenly felt very cold. But he did not awaken, and the cylinder kept turning.