Queen Of Air & Darkness by Anderson, Poul. Part 2

why he grimaced and answered so roughly:

“Let’s leave them the honor they’ve earned! They fought to save the

world they’d always known from that”-he made a chopping gesture at

the city-“and just possibly we’d be better off ourselves with less of it.”

He sagged a trifle and sighed, “However, I suppose if Elfland had won,

man on Roland would at last-peacefully, even happily -have died away.

We live with our archetypes, but can we live in them?”

Barbro shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“What’?” He looked at her in a surprise that drove out melancholy.

After a laugh: “Stupid of me. I’ve explained this to so many politicians

and scientists and commissioners and Lord knows what, these past

days, I forgot I’d never explained to you. It was a rather vague idea of

mine, most of the time we were traveling, and I don’t like to discuss

ideas prematurely. Now that we’ve met the Outlings and watched how

they work, I do feel sure.”

He tamped down his tobacco. “In limited measure,” he said, “I’ve used

an archetype throughout my own working life. The

rational detective. It hasn’t been a conscious pose-much-it’s simply

been an image which fitted my personality and professional style. But

it draws an appropriate response from most people, whether or not

they’ve ever heard of the original. The phenomenon is not

uncommon. We meet persons who, in varying degrees, suggest Christ

or Buddha or the Earth Mother, or, say, on a less exalted plane,

Hamlet or d’Artagnan. Historical, fictional and mythical, such figures

crystallize basic aspects of the human psyche, and when we meet them

in our real experience, our reaction goes deeper than consciousness.”

He grew grave again. “Man also creates archetypes that are not

individuals. The Anima, the Shadow-and, it seems, the Outworld. The

world of magic, of glamour-which originally meant enchantment-of

half-human beings, some like Ariel and some like Caliban, but each

free of mortal frailties and sorrows-therefore, perhaps, a little

carelessly cruel, more than a little tricksy; dwellers, in dusk and

moonlight, not truly gods but obedient to rulers who are enigmatic and

powerful enough to be- Yes, our Queen of Air and Darkness knew well

what sights to let lonely people see, what illusions to spin around them

from time to time, what songs and legends to set going among them. I

wonder how much she and her underlings gleaned from human fairy

tales, how much they made up themselves, and how much men created

all over again, all unwittingly, as the sense of living on the edge of the

world entered them.”

Shadows stole across the room. It grew cooler and the traffic noises

dwindled. Barbro asked mutedly, “But what could this do?”

“In many ways,” Sherrinford answered, “the outwayer is back in the

Dark Ages. He has few neighbors, hears scanty news from beyond his

horizon, toils to survive in a land he only partly understands, that may

any night raise unforeseeable disasters against him and is bounded by

enormous wildernesses. The machine civilization which brought his

ancestors here is frail at best. He could lose it as the Dark Ages nations

had lost Greece and Rome, as the whole of Earth seems to have lost it.

Let him be worked on, long,

strongly, cunningly, by the archetypical Outworld, until he has

-come to believe in his bones that the magic of the Queen of Air

and Darkness is greater than the energy of engines; and first his

faith, finally his deeds will follow her. Oh, it wouldn’t happen fast.

Ideally, it would happen too slowly to be noticed, especially by

self-satisfied city people. But when in the end a hinterland gone

back to the ancient way turned from them, how could they keep

alive?”

Barbro breathed, “She said to me, when their banners flew in

the last of our cities, we would rejoice.”

“I think we would have, by then,” Sherrinford admitted. “Nev-

ertheless, I believe in choosing one’s destiny.”

He shook himself, as if casting off a burden. He knocked the

dottle from his pipe and stretched, muscle by muscle. “Well,” he

said, “it isn’t going to happen.”

She looked straight at him. “Thanks to you.”

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