Michael Moorcock - The Skrayling Tree

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MICHAEL

MOORCOCK

THE

SKRAYLING

TREE

THE ALBINO IN AMERICA

WARNER BOOKS

An AOL Time Warner Company

This book is a work of historical fiction. In order to give a sense of the times, some names of real people or places have

been included in the book. However, the events depicted in this book are imaginary, and the names of nonhistorical

persons or events are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such

nonhistorical persons or events to actual ones is purely coincidental.

All characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof, and all related indicia are trademarks of Michael Moorcock.

Aspect® name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

Warner Books, Inc., 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Visit our Web site at

www.twbookmark.com.

An AOL Time Warner Company

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: February 2003

10 987654321

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Moorcock, Michael.

The skrayling tree / Michael Moorcock.

p. cm.—(Eternal champion series) ISBN 0-446-53104-9

1. Elric of Melnibona (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Albinos and albinism—Fiction. 3. Swordsmen—Fiction. I.

Title.

PR6063.O59 S58 2003

823'.914—dc21 2002027247

Book design by H. Roberts Design

For Jewell Hodges and them Gibsons with great respect

Thanks, too, as always to Linda Steele for her good taste and patience

Prologue

Nine by nine ana three by three, We snail seek the Skraeling Tree.

WHELDRAKE,

'A Border Tragedy"

The following statement was pinned to a later part of this manuscript. The editor thought it better

placed here, since it purports to be at least a partial explanation of the motives of our mysteri-ous

dream travelers. Only the first part of this book is written in a different, rather idiosyncratic hand.

The remaining parts of the story are mostly in the handwriting of Count Ulric von Bek. The note

in his hand demanding that the manuscript not be published until after his death is authentic.

More than one school of magistic philosophy insists that our world is the creation of human yearning.

By the power of our desires alone, we may bring into being whole universes, entire cosmologies, and

supernatural pantheons. Many believe we dream ourselves into existence and then dream our own

gods and demons, heroes and villains. Each dream, if powerful enough, can produce still another

version of reality in the constantly growing organism that is the multiverse. They believe that just as

we dream creatively, we also dream destructively. Some of us have the skills and courage to come and

go in the dreams of others, even create our own dreams within the host dream. This was the accepted

wisdom in Melnibone, where I was bom.

In Melnibone we were trained to enter dreams in which we lived whole and very long lives, gaining

the experience such realities brought. I had lived over two thousand years before I reached the age of

twenty-

five. It was a form of longevity I would wish upon only a handful of enemies. We pay a price for a

certain kind of wisdom which brings the power to manipulate the elements.

If you were lucky, as I was, you did not remember much of these dreams. You drove them from your

mind with ruthless deliberation. But the experience of them remained in your blood, was never lost. It

could be called upon in the creation of strong sorcery. Our nature dictates that we forget most of what

we dream, but some of the adventures I experienced with my distant relative Count Ulric von Bek

enabled me to record a certain history which intertwined with his. What you read now, I shall likely

forget soon.

These dreams form a kind of apocrypha to my main myth. In one life I was unaware of my destiny,

resisting it, hating it. In another I worked to fulfill that destiny, all too aware of my fate. But only in

this dream am I wholly conscious of my destiny. And when I have left the dream, it will fade, becoming

little more than a half-remembered whisper, a fleeting image. Only the power will stay with me, come

what may.

Elric Sadric's son, last Emperor of Melnibone

Should you ask me, whence these stories?

Whence these legends and traditions,

With the odors of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadows,

With the curling smoke of wigwams,

With the rushing of great rivers,

With their frequent repetitions

And their wild reverberations,

As of thunder in the mountains?

I should answer, I should tell you,

"From the forests and the prairies,

From the great lakes of the Northland,

From the land of the Ojibways

From the land of the Dacotahs,

From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands

Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

I repeat them as I heard them

From the lips of Nawadaha,

The musician, the sweet singer."

LONGFELLOW, "The Song of Hiawatha"

THE FIRST BRANCH

OONA'S STORY

Nine Black Giants guard the Skraelings' Tree,

Three to the South and to the East are Three,

Three more the Westward side win shield,

But the North to a White Serpent she will yield;

For he is the dragon who deeply sleeps

Yet wakes upon the hour to weep,

And when he weeps fierce tears of fire,

They form a fateful funeral pyre

And only a singer with lute or lyre,

Shall turn the tide of his dark desire.

WHELDRAKE, "The Skraeling Tree"

CHAPTER 0 N E The House on the Island

Hearing I ask from the Holy Races,

Prom Heimdall's sons, coin high ana low;

Thou wilt know, Valfather, now well I relate

Ola tales I remember of men long ago.

I remember yet the giants of yore,

Who gave me bread in me days gone by;

Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree

With mighty roots beneath the mold.

THE POETIC EDDA,

"The Wise Woman's Prophecy"

am Oona, the shape-taker, Grafin von Bek, daughter of Oon the Dreamthief and Elric, Sorcerer

Emperor of Melnibone. When my husband was kidnapped by Kakatanawa warriors, in pursuit of

him I descended into the maelstrom and discovered an impossible America. This is that story.

With the Second World War over at last and peace of sorts returned to Europe, I closed our

family cottage on the edge of the Grey Fees, and settled in Kensington, West London, with my

husband Ulric, Count Bek. Although I am an expert archer and trained mistress of illusory arts, I

had no wish to follow my mother's calling. For a year or two in the late 1940s I lacked a focus for

my skills until I found a vocation in my husband's sphere. The unity of shared terror and grief

following the Nazi defeat gave

us all the strength we needed to rebuild, to rediscover our idealism and try to ensure that we

would never again slide into aggressive bigotry and authoritarianism.

Knowing that every action taken in one realm of the multi-verse is echoed in the others, we

devoted ourselves confidently to the UN and the implementation of the Universal Declaration of

Human Rights which H. G. Wells had drafted, in direct reference to Paine and the U.S. Founding

Fathers, just before the War. The U.S.A.'s own Eleanor Roosevelt had helped the momentum.

Our hope was that we could spread the values of liberal humanism and popular government

across a world yearning for peace. Needless to say, our task was not proving an easy one. As the

Greeks and Iroquois, who fathered those ideas, discovered, there is always more immediate profit

to be gained from crisis than from tranquillity.

By September 1951, Ulric and I had both been working too hard, and because I traveled so much

in my job, we had chosen to educate our children at boarding school in England. Michael Hall in

rural Sussex was a wonderful school, run on the Steiner Waldorf system, but I still felt a certain

guilt about being absent so often. In previous months Ulric had been sleeping badly, his dreams

troubled by what he sometimes called "the intervention," when Elric's soul, permanently bonded

to his, experienced some appalling stress. For this reason, among others, we were enjoying a long

break at the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed summer house of Nova Scotian friends currently

working in Trinidad. They were employed by the West Indies Independence Commission. When

they returned to Cap Breton we would then leave their airy home to visit some of Ulric's relatives

in New England before taking the Queen Elizabeth back to Southampton.

We had the loveliest weather. There was already a strong hint of autumn in the coastal breezes

and a distinct chill to the water we shared with the seals, who had established a small colony on

one of the many wooded islands of the Sound. These islands were permanently fascinating. The

comings and goings of the wildlife provided just the right relaxation after a busy year. While

Ulric

and I enjoyed our work, it involved a great deal of diplomacy, and sometimes our faces ached

from smiling! Now we could laze, read, frown if we felt like it and stop to enjoy some of nature's

most exquisite scenery.

We were thoroughly relaxed by the second Saturday after we arrived. Brought by the local taxi

from Englishtown, we had become wonderfully isolated, with no car and no public transport. I

must admit I was so used to activity that after a few days I was a trifle bored, but I refused to

become busy. I continued to take a keen interest in the local wildlife and history.

That Saturday we were sitting on the widow's walk of our roof, looking out over Cabot Creek and

its many small, wooded islands. One of these, little more than a rock, was submerged at high tide.

There, it was said, the local Kakatanawa Indians had staked enemies to drown.

Our binoculars were Russian and of excellent quality, bought on our final visit to Ulric's ancestral

estate in the days before the Berlin Wall went up. That afternoon I was able to spot clear details

of the individual seals. They were always either there or about to appear, and I had fallen in love

with their joyous souls. But, as I watched the tide wash over Drowning Rock, the water suddenly

became agitated and erratic. I felt some vague alarm.

The swirl of the sea had a new quality I couldn't identify. There was even a different note to a

light wind from the west. I mentioned it to Ulric. Half asleep, enjoying his brandy and soda, he

smiled. It was the action of Auld Strom, the avenging hag, he said. Hadn't I read the guide? The

Old Woman was the local English name for the unpredictable bore, a twisting, vicious current

which ran between the dozens of little islands in the Sound and could sometimes turn into a

dangerous whirlpool. The French called her Le Chaudron Noir, the black cauldron. Small whaling

ships had been dragged down in the nineteenth century, and only a year or two before three

vacationing schoolgirls in a canoe had disappeared into the maelstrom. Neither they nor their

canoe had ever been recovered.

A harder gust of wind brushed against my left cheek. The

surrounding trees whispered and bustled like excited nuns. Then they were still again.

"It's probably unwise to take a dip tomorrow." Ulric cast thoughtful eyes over the water. He

sometimes seemed, like so many survivors of those times, profoundly sad. His high-boned,

tapering face was as thrillingly handsome as when I had first seen it, all those years ago in the

grounds of his house during the early Nazi years. Knowing I had planned some activity for the

next day he smiled at me. "Though sailing won't be a problem, if we go the other way. We'd have

to be right out there, almost at the horizon, to be in real danger. See?" He pointed, and I focused

on the distant water which was dark, veined like living marble and swirling rapidly. "The Old

Woman is definitely back in full fury!" He put his arm around my shoulders. As always I was

amused and comforted by this gesture.

I had already studied the Kakatanawa legend. Le Chaudron was for them the spirit of all the old

women who had ever been murdered by their enemies. Most Kakatanawa had been driven from

their original New York homeland by the Haudenosaunee, a people famous for their arrogance,

puritanism and efficient orga-nization, whose women not only determined which wars would be

fought and who would lead them, but which prisoners would live and who would be tortured and

eaten. So Auld Strom was a righteously angry creature, especially hard on females. The

Kakatanawa called the conquering Haudenosaunee 'Erekoseh', their word for rattlesnake, and

avoided the warriors as conscientiously as they did their namesakes, for the Erekoseh, or Iroquois

as the French rendered their name, had been the Normans of North America, masters of a superb

new idea, an effective social engine, as pious and self-demanding in spirit as they were savage in

war. Like the vital Romans and Normans, they respected the law above their own immediate

interests. Normans employed sophisticated feudalism as their engine; the Iroquois, a shade more

egalitarian, employed the notion of mutuality and common law but were just as ruthless in

establishing it. I felt very close to the past that day as I romantically scanned the shore, fancying I

glimpsed one of those legendary warriors, with his shaven head, scalp lock, war paint and

breechclout, but of course there was no one.

I was about to put the glasses away when I caught a movement and a spot of color on one of

the near islands among the thick clusters of birch, oak and pine which found unlikely

purchase in what soil there was. A little mist clung to the afternoon water, and for a moment

my vision was obscured. Expecting to glimpse a deer or perhaps a fisherman, I brought the

island into focus and was very surprised. In my lens was an oak-timbered wattle-and-daub

manor house similar to those I had seen in Iceland, the design dating back to the eleventh

century. Surely this house had to be the nostalgic folly of some very early settler? There were

legends of Viking exploration here, but the many-windowed house was not quite that ancient!

Wisteria and ivy showed how many years the two-storied house had stood with its black

beams rooted among old trees and thick moss, yet the place had a well-kept but abandoned

look, as if its owner rarely lived there. I asked Ulric his opinion. He frowned as he raised the

binoculars. "I don't think it's in the guide." He adjusted the lens. "My God! You're right. An

old manor! Great heavens!"

We were both intrigued. "I wonder if it was ever an inn or hotel?" Ulric, like me, was now

more alert. His lean, muscular body sprang from its chair. I loved him in this mood, when he

consciously jolted himself out of his natural reserve. "It's not too late yet for a quick

preliminary exploration!" he said. "And it's close enough to be safe. Want to look at it? It'll

only take an hour to go there and back in the canoe."

Exploring an old house was just enough adventure for my mood. I wanted to go now, while

Ulric was in the same state of mind. Thus, we were soon paddling out from the little jetty,

finding it surprisingly easy going against the fast-running tide. We both knew canoes and

worked well in unison, driving rapidly towards the mysterious island. Of course, for the

children's sake, we would take no risks if the pull of Le Chaudron became stronger.

Though it was very difficult to see from the shore through the

thick trees, I was surprised we had not noticed the house earlier. Our friends had said nothing

about an old building. In those days the heritage industry was in its infancy, so it was possible the

local guides had failed to mention it, especially if the house was still privately owned. However, I

did wonder if we might be trespassing. To be safe we had to avoid the pull of the maelstrom at all

costs, so we paddled to the west before we headed directly for the island, where the gentle tug

actually aided our progress. Typically rocky, the island offered no obvious place to land. We were

both still capable of getting under the earthy tree roots and hauling ourselves and canoe up bodily,

but it seemed an unnecessary exercise, especially when we rounded the island and found a perfect

sloping slab of rock rising out of the sea like a slipway. Beside it was a few feet of shingle.

We beached easily enough on the weedy strip of pebbles, then tramped up the slab. At last we

saw the white sides and stained black oak beams of the house through the autumn greenery. The

manor was equally well kept at the back, but we still saw no evidence of occupation. Something

about the place reminded me of Bek when I had first seen it, neatly maintained but organic.

This place had no whiff of preservation about it. This was a warm, living building whose moss

and ivy threatened the walls themselves. The windows were not glass but woven willow lattice. It

could have been there for centuries. The only strange thing was that the wild wood went almost

up to its walls. There was no sign of surrounding cultivation—no hedges, fences, lawns, herb

gardens, no topiary or flower beds. The tangled old bracken stopped less than an inch from the

walls and windows and made it hard going as our tweeds caught on brambles and dense

shrubbery. For all its substance, the house gave the impression of not quite belonging here. That,

coupled with the age of the architecture, began to alert me that we might be dealing with some

supernatural agency. I put this to my husband, whose aquiline features were unusually troubled.

As if realizing the impression he gave, Ulric's handsome mouth curved in a broad, dismissive

smile. Just as I took the mag-

ical as my norm, he took the natural as his. He could not imagine what I meant. In spite of all his

experience he retained his skepticism of the supernatural. Admittedly, I was inclined to come up

with explanations considered bizarre by most of our friends, so I dropped the subject.

As we advanced through the sweet, rooty mold and leafy undergrowth I had no sense that the

place was sinister. Nonetheless, I tended to go a little more cautiously than Ulric. He pushed on

until he had brought us to the green-painted back door under a slate porch. As he raised his fist to

knock I noticed a movement in the open upper window. I was sure I glimpsed a human figure.

When I pointed to the window, we saw nothing.

"Probably a bird flying over," said Ulric. Getting no response from the house, we made our way

around the walls until we reached the big double doors at the front. They were oak and heavy

with iron. Ulric grinned at me. "Since we are, after all, neighbors"—he took a piece of ivory

pasteboard from his waistcoat—"the least we can do is leave our card." He pulled the old-

fashioned bell-cord. A perfectly normal bell sounded within. We waited, but there was no answer.

Ulric scribbled a note, stuck the card into the bell-pull, and we stepped back. Then, behind the

looser weaving of the downstairs window, a face appeared, staring into mine. The shock

staggered me. For a moment I thought I looked into my own reflection! Was there glass behind

the lattice?

But it was not me. It was a youth. A youth who mouthed urgently through the gaps in the

weaving and gestured as if for help, flapping his arms against the window. I could only think of a

trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.

I am no dreamthief. I can't equate the craft with my own conscience, though I judge none who

fairly practice it. Consequently I have never had the doubtful pleasure of encountering myself in

another's dream. This had some of that reported frisson. The youth glared not at me but at my

husband, who gasped as one bright ruby eye met another. At that moment, I could tell, blood

spoke to blood.

Then it was as if a hand had gripped my hair and pulled it.

Another hand slapped against my face. From nowhere the wind had begun to blow, cold and hard.

Beginning as a deep soughing, its note now rose to an aggressive howl.

I thought the young albino said something in German. He was gesticulating to emphasize his

words. But the wind kept taking them away. I could make out only one repeated sound. "Werner"

was it? A name? The youth looked as if he had stepped from the European Dark Ages. His

unstirring white hair fell in long braids. He wore a simple deerskin jacket, and his face was

smeared with what might have been white clay. His eyes were desperate.

The wind yelped and danced around us, bending the trees, turning the ferns into angry goblins.

Ulric instinctively put his arm around me, and we began to back towards the shore. His hand felt

cold. He was genuinely frightened.

The wind appeared to be pursuing us. Everywhere the foliage bent and twisted, this way and that.

It was as if we were somehow in the middle of a tornado. Branches opened and closed; leaves

were torn into ragged clouds. But our attention remained on the face at the window.

"What is it?" I asked. "Do you recognize the boy?"

"I don't know." He spoke oddly, distantly. "I don't know. I thought my brother—but he's too

young, and besides ..."

All his brothers had died in the First War. Like me, he had noticed a strong family resemblance. I

felt him shake. Then he took charge of his emotions. Although he had extraordinary self-control,

he was terrified of something, perhaps even of himself. A cloud passed across the sinking sun.

"What is he saying, Ulric?"

" Foorna'? I don't know the word." He gasped out a few more sentences, a nonsensical rationale

about the fading light playing tricks, and pulled me rather roughly into the bracken and back

through the woods until we arrived at the shore where we had drawn up our canoe. The wild wind

was bringing in clouds from all directions, funneling towards us in a black mass. I felt a spot of

rain on my face. The wind whipped the turning tide already beginning to cover the tiny beach.

We were lucky to have returned

early. Ulric almost hurled me into the canoe as we pushed off and took up our paddles, forcing

the canoe into the darkness. But Auld Strom had grown stronger and kept forcing us back towards

the shore. The wind seemed sentient, deliberately making our work harder, seeming to blow first

from one side then another. It was unnatural. Instinctively, I hated it.

What irresponsible idiots we had been! I could think of nothing but my children. The salt water

splashed cold on my skin. My paddle struck weed, and there was a sudden stink. I looked over

my shoulder. The woods seemed unaffected by the wind but were full of ghostly movement,

shadows elongated by the setting sun and hazy air pursuing us like giants advancing through the

trees. Were they hunting the young man who was even now running down the long slab of rock

and into the water, his braided milky hair bouncing on his shoulders as he tried to reach us?

With a grunt and a heavy splash Ulric gouged his paddle into the water and broke the defenses of

that erratic tide. The canoe moved forward at last. The wind lashed our faces and bodies like a

cowman's whip, goading us back, but we persevered. Soaked by the spray we gained some

distance. Yet still the youth waded towards us, his eyes fixed on Ulric, his hands grasping, as if he

feared the pursuing shadows and sought our help. The waves grew wilder by the moment.

"Father!" The birdlike cry blended with the shrieking wind until both resonated to the same note.

"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 Gam, 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 thun-derbird framed by a tree. The entire thing was painted in vivid blues

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MICHAELMOORCOCKTHESKRAYLINGTREETHEALBINOINAMERICAWARNERBOOKSAnAOLTimeWarnerCompanyThisbookisaworkofhistoricalfiction.Inordertogiveasenseofthetimes,somenamesofrealpeopleorplaceshavebeenincludedinthebook.However,theeventsdepictedinthisbookareimaginary,andthenamesofnonhistoricalpersonsoreventsarethepro...

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Michael Moorcock - The Skrayling Tree

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