“Thank you, my lady,” said Holger awkwardly.
He turned to go. Hugi pulled him back with surprising strength. “What’s the thocht here?” he growled. “Would ye gang oot in mere cloth? There’s a mickle long galoots in yon woods were glad to stick iron in a rich-clad wayfarer.”
“Oh… oh, yes.” Holger unwrapped his baggage. Mother Gerd sniggered and hobbled out the door.
Hugi assisted him to put on the medieval garments properly, and bound leather straps about his calves while he slipped the padded undercoat over his head. The ringmail clashed as he pulled it on next, and hung with unexpected weight from his shoulders. Now, let’s see—obviously that broad belt went around his waist and carried his dagger, while the baldric supported his sword. Hugi handed him a quilted cap which he donned, followed by the Norman helmet. When gilt spurs were on his feet and a scarlet cloak on his back, he wondered if he looked swashbuckling or plain silly.
“Good journey to ye, Sir Holger,” said Mother Gerd as he walked outside.
“I… I’ll remember you in my prayers,” he said, thinking that would be an appropriate thanks in this land.
“Aye, do so, Sir Holger!” She turned from him with a disquieting shrill laughter and vanished into the house.
Hugi gave his belt a hitch. “Come on, come on, ma knichtly loon, let’s na stay the day,” he muttered. “Who fares to Faerie maun ride a swift steed.”
Holger mounted Papillon and gave Hugi a hand up. The tiny man hunkered down on the saddlebow and pointed east. “That way,” he said, “’Tis a twa-three days’ ganging to Alfric’s cot, so off we glump.”
The horse fell into motion and the house was soon lost behind them. The game trail they followed today was comparatively broad. They rode under tall trees, in a still green light that was full of rustlings and birdcalls, muted hoofbeats, creak of leather and jingle of iron. The day was cool and fair.
For the first time since waking, Holger remembered his wound. There was no ache. The fantastic medication had really worked.
But this whole affair was so fantastic that— He thrust all questions firmly back. One thing at a time. Somehow, unless he was dreaming (and he doubted that more and more; what dream was ever so coherent?) he had fallen into a realm beyond his own time, perhaps beyond his whole world: a realm where they believed in witchcraft and fairies, where they certainly had one genuine dwarf and one deucedly queer creature named Samiel. So take one thing at a time, go slow and easy.
The advice was hard to follow. Not only his own situation, but the remembrance of home, the wondering what had happened there, the hideous fear that he might be caught here forever, grabbed at him. Sharply he remembered the graceful spires of Copenhagen, the moors and beaches and wide horizons of Jutland, ancient towns nestled in green dales on the islands, the skyward arrogance of New York and the mist in San Francisco Bay turned gold with sunset, friends and loves and the million small things which were home. He wanted to run away, run crying for help till he found home again—no, none of that! He was here, and could only keep going. If this character in Faerie (wherever that might be) could help him, there was still hope. Meanwhile, he could be grateful that he wasn’t very imaginative or excitable.
He glanced at the hairy little fellow riding before him. “You’re kind to do this,” he ventured. “I wish I could repay you somehow.”
“Na, I do ’t in the witch’s service,” said Hugi. “No that I’m boond to her, see ye. ’Tis but that noo and oftimes some o’ us forest folk help her, chop wood or fetch water or run errands like this. Then she does for us in return. I canna say I like the old bat much, but she’ll gi’ me mickle a stoup o’ her bra bricht ale for this.”
“Why, she seemed… nice.”
“Oh, ah, she’s wi’ a smooth tongue when she wills, aye, aye.” Hugi chuckled morbidly. “’Twas e’en so she flattered young Sir Magnus when he came riding, many and many a year ago. But she deals in black arts. She’s a tricksy un, though no sa powerful, can but summon a few petty demons and is apt to make mistakes in her spells.“ He grinned. “I recall one time a peasant in the Westerdales did gi’ her offense, and she swore she’d blight his crops for him. Whether ’twas the priest’s blessing he got, or her own clumsiness, I know na, but after long puffing and striving, she’d done naught but kill the thistles in his fields. Ever she tries to curry favor wi’ the Middle World lords, so they’ll grant her more power, but thus far she’s had scant gain o’ ’t.”