"Why did they hide from man? I suspect they, or rather their
ancestors-for they aren't glittering elves, you know; they're mor-
tal and fallible too-I suspect the natives were only being cautious
at first, more cautious than human primitives, though certain of
those on Earth were also slow to reveal themselves to strangers
Spying, mentally eavesdropping, Roland's Dwellers must have
picked up enough language to get some idea of how different man
was from them, and how powerful; and they gathered that more
ships would be arriving, bringing settlers. It didn't occur to them
that they might be conceded the right to keep their lands. Perhaps
they're still more fiercely territorial than we. They determined to
fight, in their own way. I daresay, once we begin to get insight into
that mentality, our psychological science will go through its
Copernican revolution."
Enthusiasm kindled in him. "That's not the sole thing we'll
learn, either," he went on. "They must have science of their own,
a nonhuman science born on a -planet that isn't Earth. Because
they did observe us as profoundly as we've ever observed our-
selves; they did mount a plan against us, one that would have
taken another century or more to complete. Well, what else do
they know? How do they support their civilization without visible
agriculture or aboveground buildings or mines or anything? How can
they breed whole new intelligent species to order? A million questions,
ten million answers!"
"Can we learn from them?" Barbro asked softly. "Or can we only
overrun them as you say they fear?"
Sherrinford halted, leaned elbow on mantel, hugged his pipe and
replied, "I hope we'll show more charity than that to a defeated
enemy. It's what they are. They tried to conquer us, and failed, and
now in a sense we are bound to conquer them since they'll have to
make their peace with the civilization of the machine rather than see
it rust away as they strove for. Still, they never did us any harm as
atrocious as what we've inflicted on our fellow men in the past. And, I
repeat, they could teach us marvelous things; and we could teach them,
life."
"I suppose we can give them a reservation," she said, and didn't know
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
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."
A flush went up his thin cheeks. "In time, I'm sure somebody
else would have- What matters is what we do next, and that's too
big a decision for one individual or one generation to make."
She rose. "Unless the decision is personal, Eric," she suggested,
feeling heat in her own face.
It was curious to see him shy. "I was hoping we might meet
again."
"We will."
Ayoch sat on Wolund's Barrow. Aurora shuddered so brilliant,
G in such vast sheafs of light, as almost to hide the waning moon
s.
Firethorn blooms had fallen; a few still glowed around the tree
roots, amidst dry brok which crackled underfoot and smelled like
woodsmoke. The air remained warm but no gleam was left on the
"- sunset horizon.
"Farewell, fare lucky," the pook called. Mistherd and Shadow-
of-a-Dream never looked back. It was as if they didn't dare. They
trudged on out of sight, toward the human camp whose lights
made a harsh new star in the south.
Ayoch lingered. He felt he should also offer good-bye to her who
had lately joined him that slept in the dolmen. Likely none would -
s.-- meet here again for loving or magic. But he could only think of `
one old verse that might do. He stood and trilled:
• "Out of her breast
a blossom ascended.
The summer burned it.
The song is ended."
-•,----..rhea he spread his wings for the long flight away.