fern. He arranged everything to hang behind him. Then, angry and hot-eyed, defiant and determined, he set his toes and fingers in the cracks and ridges of the beech tree’s bark and began to climb. For the first time he allowed himself to speak his thoughts aloud.
“I will go up!” he said, through his set teeth. “I-will-go-up!” He inched up. And up. “And I
will
find out!” The bundle and basket dangled, swung out, bumped back, grew heavier. “And until I find out” — he panted, dug in once more, advanced, advanced — “I will not come down — ”
He swung one leg over the lowermost branch, hoisted himself up, pressed his head to the rough bosom of the tree and hung on for very life against the wave of vertigo which threatened to plummet him to the ground. Slowly it passed and slowly he opened his eyes. The lazy wind swung into his face, laden with scents of the rich earth, of flowers and other growing things. He looked over leagues of land and the swelling and falling away of hills, the glittering serpentine length of the river, forest forever a great green roof. And far, far off, so distant that he could not be sure, he thought he saw thread-thin smoke. It might have been his village. He thrust forward his chin so suddenly that he felt a creak in his neck and, with all his force and might, spat in its direction. And then he allowed himself to realize that the lightning-burn upon the tree, just above the branch, was actually a tree-cave, a hollow.
It was, he considered (with a shiver), too small to harbor either tiger or leopard; it even lacked the reek of a bird’s nest. Serpents would not go so high. Slowly, cautiously, he passed himself into it. Part of the bark still lay in place like a shell. And, patiently awaiting his discovery, wedged with splits of wood, protected from the worst assaults of the weather, was another hide-bound bag. Inside this was a box of carved wood. And in the box, padded with red-dyed fleece, was something that lay almost outside all his experience. Long he crouched in the dim light, half-afraid to touch it; then his fingers played over the intricate carvings. There was mammont-ivory and horn of wild ram, horn of elk; there was bear claw, there was — there were many things. Parts of it moved around, circle-wise, when he turned them. Parts moved up and down from holes, like little levers, when he touched them. Shapes of beasts and birds were carved into it. No man — nor nain — nor perry — had devised it. It was wizards’ work, and wizardry of witchery alone. It was a witch-horn, so huge and adorned and complex it could only be
the
witch-horn. Could only be All-caller, the great fey horn.
Chapter V
See then, in the late rays of the afternoon sun, while the great red circle still throws heat before descending for its slow journey through the Cavern Beneath The Earth whence it will rise again next morning, a small, a very small Something sticking out its head from the bole of the huge beech tree. After the head, an arm, at the end of the arm a hand and in the hand — what? It is needful to come closer. A shaggy boy, not quite a new young man, excitement and triumph and also fear upon its mold-smutched face. Carefully he holds the great horn in both his dirty hands. Carefully he examines it yet again, turning its turnable parts.
Ah. Ahah. So. Here is the bear claw, as like to the bear claw in his witchery-bundle to make one think they had come from the same bear-beast. As, perhaps, they had.
The boy’s full lips protrude, compressed in thought. So — here is the bear carved in ivory upon the horn band. Surely it was meant to come in apposition to the bear claw. He takes a deep breath, fills his dusty cheeks, lifts the horn to his lips. His eyes roll, his nostrils distend.
And below upon the mossy ground, while the echoes of the great cry, part growl, part roar, still send the birds whirling about and the leaves quivering, something comes into the open glade around
“I will go up!” he said, through his set teeth. “I-will-go-up!” He inched up. And up. “And I
will
find out!” The bundle and basket dangled, swung out, bumped back, grew heavier. “And until I find out” — he panted, dug in once more, advanced, advanced — “I will not come down — ”
He swung one leg over the lowermost branch, hoisted himself up, pressed his head to the rough bosom of the tree and hung on for very life against the wave of vertigo which threatened to plummet him to the ground. Slowly it passed and slowly he opened his eyes. The lazy wind swung into his face, laden with scents of the rich earth, of flowers and other growing things. He looked over leagues of land and the swelling and falling away of hills, the glittering serpentine length of the river, forest forever a great green roof. And far, far off, so distant that he could not be sure, he thought he saw thread-thin smoke. It might have been his village. He thrust forward his chin so suddenly that he felt a creak in his neck and, with all his force and might, spat in its direction. And then he allowed himself to realize that the lightning-burn upon the tree, just above the branch, was actually a tree-cave, a hollow.
It was, he considered (with a shiver), too small to harbor either tiger or leopard; it even lacked the reek of a bird’s nest. Serpents would not go so high. Slowly, cautiously, he passed himself into it. Part of the bark still lay in place like a shell. And, patiently awaiting his discovery, wedged with splits of wood, protected from the worst assaults of the weather, was another hide-bound bag. Inside this was a box of carved wood. And in the box, padded with red-dyed fleece, was something that lay almost outside all his experience. Long he crouched in the dim light, half-afraid to touch it; then his fingers played over the intricate carvings. There was mammont-ivory and horn of wild ram, horn of elk; there was bear claw, there was — there were many things. Parts of it moved around, circle-wise, when he turned them. Parts moved up and down from holes, like little levers, when he touched them. Shapes of beasts and birds were carved into it. No man — nor nain — nor perry — had devised it. It was wizards’ work, and wizardry of witchery alone. It was a witch-horn, so huge and adorned and complex it could only be
the
witch-horn. Could only be All-caller, the great fey horn.
Chapter V
See then, in the late rays of the afternoon sun, while the great red circle still throws heat before descending for its slow journey through the Cavern Beneath The Earth whence it will rise again next morning, a small, a very small Something sticking out its head from the bole of the huge beech tree. After the head, an arm, at the end of the arm a hand and in the hand — what? It is needful to come closer. A shaggy boy, not quite a new young man, excitement and triumph and also fear upon its mold-smutched face. Carefully he holds the great horn in both his dirty hands. Carefully he examines it yet again, turning its turnable parts.
Ah. Ahah. So. Here is the bear claw, as like to the bear claw in his witchery-bundle to make one think they had come from the same bear-beast. As, perhaps, they had.
The boy’s full lips protrude, compressed in thought. So — here is the bear carved in ivory upon the horn band. Surely it was meant to come in apposition to the bear claw. He takes a deep breath, fills his dusty cheeks, lifts the horn to his lips. His eyes roll, his nostrils distend.
And below upon the mossy ground, while the echoes of the great cry, part growl, part roar, still send the birds whirling about and the leaves quivering, something comes into the open glade around
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