Liane followed. The old man stood by another corpse with eye-sockets bereft and bloody. "This one came four days ago, and he met Chun the Unavoidable . And over there behind the arch is still another, a great warrior in cloison armor. And there and there" he pointed, pointed. "And there and there like crushed flies."
He turned his watery blue gaze back to Liane. "Return, young man, return lest your body lie here in its green cloak to rot on the flagstones."
Liane drew his rapier and flourished it. "I am Liane the Wayfarer; let them who offend me have fear. And where is the Place of Whispers?"
"If you must know," said the old man, "it is beyond that broken obelisk. But you go to your peril."
"I am Liane the Wayfarer. Peril goes with me."
The old man stood like a piece of weathered statuary as Liane strode off.
And Liane asked himself, suppose this old man were an agent of Chun, and at this minute were on his way to warn him? Best to take all precautions. He leapt up on a high entablature and ran crouching back to where he had left the ancient.
Here he came, muttering to himself, leaning on his staff. Liane dropped a block of granite as large as his head. A thud, a croak, a gasp and Liane went his way.
He strode past the broken obelisk, into a wide court the Place of Whispers. Directly opposite was a long wide hall, marked by a leaning column with a big black medallion, the sign of a phoenix and a two-headed lizard.
Liane merged himself with the shadow of a wall, and stood watching like a wolf, alert for any flicker of motion.
All was quiet. The sunlight invested the ruins with dreary splendor. To all sides, as far as the eye could reach, was broken stone, a wasteland leached by a thousand rains, until now the sense of man had departed and the stone was one with the natural earth.
The sun moved across the dark-blue sky. Liane presently stole from his vantage-point and circled the hall. No sight nor sign did he see.
He approached the building from the rear and pressed his ear to the stone. It was dead, without vibration. Around the side watching up, down, to all sides; a breach in the wall. Liane peered inside. At the back hung half a golden tapestry. Otherwise the hall was empty.
Liane looked up, down, this side, that. There was nothing in sight. He continued around the hall.
He came to another broken place. He looked within. To the rear hung the golden tapestry. Nothing else, to right or left, no sight or sound.
Liane continued to the front of the hall and sought into the eaves; dead as dust.
He had a clear view of the room. Bare, barren, except for the bit of golden tapestry.
Liane entered, striding with long soft steps. He halted in the middle of the floor. Light came to him from all sides except the rear wall. There were a dozen openings from which to flee and no sound except the dull thudding of his heart.
He took two steps forward. The tapestry was almost at his fingertips.
He stepped forward and swiftly jerked the tapestry down from the wall.
And behind was Chun the Unavoidable.
Liane screamed. He turned on paralyzed legs and they were leaden, like legs in a dream which refused to run.
Chun dropped out of the wall and advanced. Over his shiny black back he wore a robe of eyeballs threaded on silk.
Liane was running, fleetly now. He sprang, he soared. The tips of his toes scarcely touched the ground. Out the hall, across the square, into the wilderness of broken statues and fallen columns. And behind came Chun, running like a dog.
Liane sped along the crest of a wall and sprang a great gap to a shattered fountain. Behind came Chun.
Liane darted up a narrow alley, climbed over a pile of refuse, over a roof, down into a court. Behind came Chun.
Liane sped down a wide avenue lined with a few stunted old cypress trees, and he heard Chun close at his heels. He turned into an archway, pulled his bronze ring over his head, down to his feet. He stepped through, brought the ring up inside the darkness. Sanctuary. He was alone in a dark magic space, vanished from earthly gaze and knowledge. Brooding silence, dead space
He felt a stir behind him, a breath of air. At his elbow a voice said, "I am Chun the Unavoidable."
Lith sat on her couch near the candles, weaving a cap from frogskins. The door to her hut was barred, the windows shuttered. Outside, Thamber Meadow dwelled in darkness.
A scrape at her door, a creak as the lock was tested. Lith became rigid and stared at the door.
A voice said, "Tonight, O Lith, tonight it is two long bright threads for you. Two because the eyes were so great, so large, so golden "
Lith sat quiet. She waited an hour; then, creeping to the door, she listened. The sense of presence was absent. A frog croaked nearby.
She eased the door ajar, found the threads and closed the door. She ran to her golden tapestry and fitted the threads into the ravelled warp.
And she stared at the golden valley, sick with longing for Ariventa, and tears blurred out the peaceful river, the quiet golden forest. "The cloth slowly grows wider One day it will be done, and I will come home ."
THE SPRING
by Manly Wade Wellman
Chosen by Andre Norton
Some writers are given a great gift: the ability to weave words of jewel-color into perfect shapes. Manly Wade Wellman was a master of such craft. John the Balladeer is one of his most beloved creations: a good man armed with faith, who brings hope to, and support for, those who deserve his aid. John stands for the Light against the Dark and, by the power of his singing silver strings, draws sweet and healing waters from mud and choking weeds. His magic music shouts to the "mountains so high" and soothes in the "valley so low." Long may he wander among us to keep The Spring ever flowing for years to come.
Andre Norton
Time had passed, two years of it, when I got back to those mountains again and took a notion to visit the spring.
When I was first there, there'd been just a muddy, weedy hole amongst rocks. A young fellow named Zeb Gossett lay there, a-burning with fever, a-trying to drink at it. I pulled him onto some ferns and put my blanket over him. Then I knelt down and dragged out the mud with my hands, picked weeds away and bailed with a canteen cup. Third time I emptied the hole to the bottom, water came clear and sweet. I let Zeb Gossett have some, and then I built us a fire and stirred up a hoecake. By the time it was brown on both sides, he was able to sit up and eat half of it.
Again and again that night, I fetched him water, and it did him good. When I picked my silver-strung guitar, he even joined in to sing. Next day he allowed he was well, and said he'd stay right where such a good thing happened to him. I went on, for I had something else to do. But I left Zeb a little sack of meal and a chunk of bacon and some salt in a tin can. Now, returned amongst mountains named Hark and Wolter and Dogged, not far from Yandro, I went up the trail I recollected to see how the spring came on.
The high slope caved in there, to make a hollow grown with walnut and pine and hickory, and the spring showed four feet across, with stones set in all the way round. Beside the shining water hung a gourd ladle. Across the trail was a cabin, and from the cabin door came Zeb Gossett. "John." he called my name, "how you come on?"
We shook hands. He was fine-looking, young, about as tall as I am. His face was tanned and he'd grown a short brown beard. He wore jeans and a home-sewn blue shirt. "Who'd expect I'd find Zeb Gossett here?" I said.
"I live here, John. Built that cabin myself, and I've got title to two acres of land. A corn patch, potatoes and cabbages and beans and tomatoes. It's home. When you knelt down to make that spring give the water that healed me, I knew this was where I'd live. But come on in. I see you still tote that guitar."