son of the morning [short stories]
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McDowell, Ian - [SS] Son of the Morning [v1.0].htm
SON OF THE
Son of the Morning was purchased byShawna McCarthy, and appeared in the December 1983 issue of Asimovs, withan illustration by Val Lindahn. Ian McDowell has made only a handful ofscience fiction sales to date, most of them to Asimovs, Amazing, or TheMagazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. In the fantasy and horror fields hehas been somewhat more prolific, with sales to The Pendragon Chronicles,The Camelot Chronicles, Borderlands II, Book of the Dead III, and Lovein Vein: Tales of Gothic Vampirism, among other markets. He has a MFA increative writing from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.
As can be seen fromhis list of credits, McDowell has long been fascinated with the Matter ofBritain and the Arthurian legends. In the poignant story that follows, he takesus to the early part of the story, for a look at the dire consequences thatarise from the violation of a young boys faith ...
* * * *
I sat on the cold cliff and squinted outacross the water, absentmindedly trying to drop stones on the heads of thesquawking terns that nested on the tiny beach so very far below. Id beenwaiting for a long timemynose felt full of icicles and my backside was almost frozen numb. It was all arather silly vigil: sea voyages being what they are, Arthur might not makelandfall for the better part of a week. Still, I waited there, naivelyexpecting to see the speck of his ship approaching over the dark swells. Timeis nothing but an inconvenience when youre fourteen years old.
It was all soexciting. My uncle Arthur was coming to our island to do battle with a giant heddriven out of his own realms the year before. My Da, King Lot of Orkney, hadsent a rather sharp letter to his brother-in-law when Cado (that was themonsters name) turned up on our shores and started terrorizing the peasantry.Not being one to leave such things half done, Arthur responded with a promiseto come to Orkney and settle Cados hash just as soon as he was able.
Lot hadnt givenmuch thought to Cado when his depredations were confined to the Pictish andDalriadan Scottish peasantry, but that changed when the giant swam the eighteenmiles or so of stormy water between those territories and our island andannounced his presence on our shores by wiping out three entire farmsteads downon Scapa Bay. And although royal search parties had found the remains of overtwo dozen gnawed skeletons, theyd not come across a single skull. Cadoevidently had the charming habit of collecting his victims heads:
I thought about allof this as I sat on the cliff at Broughs head. Id never been particularlyworried about the monster, for he had confined himself to the less-settled endof the islandandwhat were a few rustic peasants more or less? And I enjoyed the embarrassmentthat my father suffered for being unable to cope with the menace, for Iharbored little love for Lot. Still, I looked forward to Arthurs coming. Hisbattle withCado was sure to be more exciting than a mainland boar hunt. And I did love myuncle. I loved him very much.
Suddenly I spottedit, the tiny speck that could only be a distant ship. I rubbed my salt-stungeyes, but it stayed out there; not wishful thinking but the hoped-for reality.Beyond the toy-like sail, dark clouds tumbled low across a sky as cold and grayas old, unpolished iron. The ship seemed to be riding before a storm.Evidently, theyd decided to chance the weather and make for Orkney rather thanturn back to the mainland coast theyd surely been hugging during their longtrip up from Cornwall.
I leapt up with awhoop and started scrambling back away from the cliff. The jagged stones, wetand black and speckled with bird dung, gave me poor footing, and several timesI stumbled and fell before reaching the sand and turf. Over the rise bulked Lotspalace, squatting there in die lee that gave it some scant protection from thesea and wind. It might not have been much by mainland standards, but it was thegrandest building in all the Orkneys. A twenty-foot ditch and two earthworksencircled a horseshoe-shaped two-story stone and timber hall. I dashed acrossthe plank bridge that spanned the ditch and waved up at the soldiers manningthe outer earthwork. Those that werent busy playing dice, sleeping on the job,or relieving themselves waved back.
Mothers tower wason the opposite side of the inner courtyard from the Great Hall. Picking myway through milling clusters of chattering serfs, grunting pigs, squawkingchickens, honking geese, and other livestock, I skirted the deepest mud andthe piles of fresh excrement until I arrived at the towers slab-sidedfoundation. The brass knocker stuck out its tongue and leered at me. Who goesthere? it demanded in a tinny soprano.
Mordred mac Lot,Prince of Orkney, I snapped, trying to sound smart and military. The door madeno response. Open up, dammit, I said Im the Prince!
The knocker rolledits eyes nonsensically. I heard you the first time, it trilled, and I dontcare if youre the Prince of Darkness himself, Im not opening this door untilyouve wiped your filthy feet!
It was futile toargue with something that wasnt even really alive. I scraped the heels of myboots against the doorstep while muttering a few choice curses. When I wasfinished, the door swung wide without further comment. But I knew that it wassnickering at me behind my back.
The stairs weresteep and winding, which was one reason why King Lot never came here, thoughthey didnt bother Mother, who had the constitution of a plow horse. The roomat the top was high and narrow and all of gray stone. It had one window, largeand square, with an iron grille and heavy oaken shutters. A ladder connectedwith a trap door that opened up onto the roof. In one corner was a brick hearthwith a chimney flue, not so much a fireplace as an alcove for the black ironbrazier that squatted there like a three-legged toadstool. Flanking the alcovewere imported cedar shelves lined with animal skulls, a few precious books,rather more scrolls, netted bunches of dried herbs, and small clay jars containingrendered animal fats and various esoteric powders. In the center of the floorwas an inlaid tile mosaic depicting a circle decorated with runic andastrological symbols. Off to one side of the mosaic stood a low marble tablewhere Mother sacrificed white doves, black goats, and the occasional slave whodbecome too old, sick, or just plain lazy to be worth his keep.
Today it was agoat. Queen Morgawse was bent over the spread-eagled carcass, absorbed in thetangle of entrails that she carefully and genteelly probed with the tip of hersilver-bladed sacrificial dagger. From the expression on her sharp,high-cheekboned face, I knew shed found a particularly interesting set ofomens in the cooling guts.
She looked up,straightening to her full, considerable height. I may have gotten her blackhair and green eyes (Id seemingly inherited nothing of Lots appearance, thankthe gods), but that impressive stature had all gone to my older brother Gawain,though hed added to it a broad beefiness that contrasted with her willowslimness. She was dressed in her standard magical attire: an ankle-length blackgown that left her arms bare. On her head was a silver circlet, and her long,straight hair was tied back with a blood-red ribbon.
She smiled. Whatis it, sweets?
Arthurs here. Isaw the ship.
She frowned. Is henow? And me such an untidy mess. She wiped her bloody hands on the linen clothshed laid out under the goat. Do me a favor, love. Clean up this mess while Igo change to greet our guests. Do you mind?
After giving me aquick kiss on the cheek, she hurried down the stairs, leaving me alone in theroom. I bundled the goat into the stained dropcloth and stumbled with it to thewindow. That side of the tower was built into the earth and timber wall thatformed the fourth side of the courtyard square. With a heave I got my burdenthrough the aperture. It landed on the other side of the wall. Immediately abattle for possession of the carcass broke out between a pack of the palacedogs and several of the serfs who had hovels there.
A wet whistlingsound came from somewhere above me. Hello, Young Master. Please give mesomething to eat.
I looked up atGloam where he clung to the ceiling directly over the magic circle. No, I donthave time. Arthurs here.
Gloam resemblednothing so much as a pancake-shaped mass of dough several feet in diameter, hispale surface moist and sweaty with small patches of yeasty slime. Offset fromhis center was a bruise-like discoloration about the size of a head of lettuce.Only when its round mouth puckered open and its wrinkled lids parted to revealeyes like rotting oysters did it become recognizable as a face. Gloam wasntmuch to look at, but then, few people keep demons for their beauty.
I know all aboutArthur, he gurgled in a voice like bubbles in a swamp. Your mother and he... He broke off, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
What was that? Iasked, curious despite myself.
Oh, nothing,nothing at all. Forget I even said it.
I sighedimpatiently. Are you trying to trick me, Gloam?
He darkened to thecolor of old buttermilk and faded back to his normal pasty hue, always a signthat he was enjoying himself. No, not at all. I just know something that Imnot allowed to tell you.
Something aboutArthur, I take it.
He whistled andexpelled gas. Well, yes, and rather more than that. Have you ever wondered whoyour father is?