But the prosperous passersby were gathered around him now, pointing and gesticulating, sneering and spitting, and laughing with malice and sarcasm, laughing, laughing, and Rod was shouting now, wailing, "No-o-o-o-o! No, no No-o-o-o…"
"NO!" a deep voice bellowed, and the word stretched out into an inarticulate roar of anger. Something small swelled hugely as it swooped toward them, roaring down on them like an express train, hollow eyes narrowed in rage, mouth a circle of thundering wrath, bulking huge over the little demons. They fled screaming, and the apparition turned on the big devil, who stuttered in fear and turned to flee, but the spirit of wrath seized it in huge ham-hands, tore it in shreds, and threw it yammering away. Its wails faded; the devil and his demons were gone, and Rod cowered in abject terror as the huge spirit turned toward him.
Then he froze, unable to believe his eyes. He reached out toward the spirit and whispered:
"Big Tom."
Chapter Fifteen
Rod stared, galvanized. He knew that face, that form, even as the anger left it for a mordant grin.
"They'll not bother ye more, that ragtag horde," the spectre assured him.
"Big Tom," Rod whispered.
"Aye, 'tis me. Wherefore dost thou look so grim?"
Rod's mouth moved, but he couldn't force the words out.
The ghost frowned, then lifted its head as understanding came. "Thou dost feel guilt for my death, dost thou not?"
"I should have prevented it," Rod whispered.
"Thou couldst not. 'Twas done in battle, and 'twas an enemy's blow, not thine."
"But you were my man."
"I was mine own man, never aught else's. An I served thee as squire, 'twas for mine own ends—as well thou didst know."
"Yes." The reminder of deception helped; Rod got his voice back. He cleared his throat and spoke aloud. "Yes.
you were trying to manipulate me for your totalitarian buddies."
"There! Tis easily said, is't not? And as I sought to maneuver thee, so thou didst seek to make use of me."
Rod twitched uncomfortably. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"
' 'Thou didst not seek to sway me to support thee? Thou didst not seek to recruit me to fight for the Queen?"
"There! I knew I was responsible for your death!"
"Thou art not, and thou dost know't!" the ghost snapped. "I did join in the fray to advance mine own cause, not thine! 'Twas my doing, never thine! What! Art thou so arrogant as to claim all achievement for thine own?''
"Of course not! You know me better than that!"
"Aye, and therefore know that 'twas mine own fault, not thine to steal! An thou wilt not steal credit, thou must needs not steal blame! So, an thou didst not wish to make me thy pawn, what didst thou seek?" i "To make you my ally."
The ghost was silent, a glow kindling in its cavernous eyes. Slowly, it nodded. "In that, thou didst succeed. Yet couldst thou have sustained that alliance, an I had lived?"
"I'd like to think so," Rod said carefully. "We'd shared quite a few dangers together, not to mention a dungeon other than this. I had hoped that I could have persuaded you to stay my friend."
The ghost smiled, and said, "Thou hast."
Rod just stared.
Then, slowly, he smiled, too. "So. That's why you chased away my persecutors."
Big Tom dismissed them with a snort of contempt and a wave of his hand. "That pusillanimous crew? They were not fit to torment a merchant, much less a doughty agent!"
Rod smiled. Gramarye born or not, Big Tom had had a modern education—very modern; he was from hundreds of years down the time-line—and was a devout totalitarian. To him, the capitalist, not the criminal, was the lowest form of human life. "They were doing a good enough job on me just the same." He shuddered. "I didn't know I was like that.''
"Thou didst, or thou wouldst not say so. Thou didst, yet thou art not—for each of thine evil impulses is controlled so tightly it ne'er can force action."
"Not now, it's not." Rod turned somber, remembering. "I'm hallucinating and attacking anything that moves, almost."
"Thou art, and hast therefore sought the wilderness, where thou hast the least chance to hurt any soul. If thou canst not control thine impulses, thou canst control thy body so as to minimize aught chance of damage."
Rod looked up. "You make me sound better than I am."
"I think I do not." The ghost sat down cross-legged and leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking into Rod's eyes with orbs of fire. "Thou art a good man, Rod Gallow-glass, and a most excellent companion. Be mindful of that. Be ever mindful."
"I am," Rod said in a small voice.
The ghost raised an eyebrow.
"Well… I'll try, Big Tom. I'll try."
"Do." The ghost straightened up. "And know that this madness is not of thine own making."
Rod frowned. "My own making? How can insanity be 'made'?"
"By slipping a drug in a glass of wine," Big Tom returned, "or, in thy case, in a chestnut."
Rod stared. ^
Then he said, "You've been talking to Fess."
"In a manner of speaking." The ghost leaned back, smiling. "What he hath said is in thy memory, is't not? And I am thy hallucination, am I not?"
"Well… I suppose, if you say so." Rod looked forlorn. "But I had kinda hoped you were real."
"Thou dost believe that I am, but in an Afterworld," Big Tom reminded. "If thou'rt right, it may be my spirit speaks to thee through this seeming—or it may be 'tis thine own unconscious mind that doth speak through me, for surely 'tis of that unconscious that thine hallucinations are made."
"I've heard that, that hallucinations are projections of your unconscious mind, as dreams are."
"To be sure thou hast heard it, or I could not say it."
"So you're the voice of my subconscious." Rod sat back, too. "Okay, tell me—what has my subconscious figured out?"
"Why, that the robot's computer brain hath the right of it, as it ever doth in problems of reason, and thy Futurian enemies did taint the old woman's chestnuts with some substance that doth induce hallucinations."
"And paranoia?" Rod nodded. "Yes, I've heard of drugs that will do that. But how about my family, Big Tom? How come they didn't start hallucinating?"
"Why, for that the drug given thee was summat which did affect them not at all, yet did wreak havoc within thy brain."
Rod shook his head. "Mighty picky of it. Do you know offhand of any substance that could discriminate that way?"
"Aye—witch-moss, the fungus that doth respond to telepathic projection."
"Witch-moss? But that's poison!"
"Would thine enemies be concerned therefore?"
"Well… no," Rod said slowly. "And come to that, I don't know that it's poisonous; I had just naturally assumed it was."
"Ask the elves—mayhap they know."
Rod looked up, his brain making connections. "But it wouldn't be poisonous to them—they're made of witch-moss!"
Big Tom sat there and nodded.
"And Gwen's father," Rod said slowly, "is Brom O'Berin, who's half elven. So Gwen is a quarter elven, and each of my kids is one-eighth…"
"No great amount," Big Tom agreed, "Yet mayhap enough."
"Yeah, enough so that the witch-moss responds to their subconsciouses, and molds itself right into their DNA! Of course it wouldn't hurt them—it would give them a little more psi power, if anything! But me…"
"It would magnify thy subconscious," Big Tom said, "out of all control of thy conscious mind—and here I am."
"Yes, here you are," Rod murmured.
He was silent for a few minutes, trying to get used to the idea. Finally, he said, "But why give me something that would make me see monsters?"