The Skrayling Tree: The Albino in America Read online

  THE GOLDEN CITY

  Under a paling blue sky reflected in the great plain of ice, Kakatanawa gleamed. An immense ziggurat, as high as a skyscraper, made of solid gold. The base was at least a mile wide and the tiers marched up, step by enormous step, to a crown where what might be a temple blazed. The city was alive with activity. I could see ranks of people moving back and forth between the levels, the gardens which draped startling greenery over balconies and terraces. It was an entire country in a single immense building! Ayanawatta laughed, and White Crow smiled at my astonishment…

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR THE NOVELS OF MICHAEL MOORCOCK

  THE SKRAYLING TREE

  “Law, chaos, and balance all contend vigorously, aided by Moorcock’s knowledge of folklore, poetry, and storytelling.”

  —Booklist

  “[A] classic character…. The tale is fun.”

  —Philadelphia Weekly Press

  THE DREAMTHIEF’S DAUGHTER

  “Sword and sorcery that stays true to its genre while reaching beyond it.”

  —Denver Post

  “Moorcock is at his best.”

  —Locus

  “A gripping and ambitious tale.”

  —Realms of Fantasy

  “Full of magic and mystery.”

  —Booklist

  “A combination of literary excellence and good storytelling.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  Also by Michael Moorcock

  The Dreamthief’s Daughter: A Tale of the Albino

  Copyright

  This book is a work of historical fiction. In order to give a sense of the times, some names of real people or places have been included in the book. However, the events depicted in this book are imaginary, and the names of nonhistorical persons or events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such nonhistorical persons or events to actual ones is purely coincidental.

  All characters, the distinctive likeness thereof, and all related indicia are trademarks of Michael Moorcock.

  Copyright © 2003 by Michael Moorcock and Linda Moorcock

  Except firm Gloriana copyright © 2003 by Michael Moorcock and Linda Moorcock All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Aspect®name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  Originally published in hardcover by Warner Books First Paperback Printing: July 2004

  First eBook Edition: November 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-57121-0

  For Jewell Hodges and them Gibsons

  with great respect

  Thanks, too, as always to Linda Steele for her

  good taste and patience

  Prologue

  Nine by nine and three by three,

  We shall seek the Skraeling Tree.

  WHELDRAKE,

  “A Border Tragedy”

  The following statement was pinned to a later part of this manuscript. The editor thought it better placed here, since it purports to be at least a partial explanation of the motives of our mysterious dream travelers. Only the first part of this book is written in a different, rather idiosyncratic hand. The remaining parts of the story are mostly in the handwriting of Count Ulric von Bek. The note in his hand demanding that the manuscript not be published until after his death is authentic.

  More than one school of magistic philosophy insists that our world is the creation of human yearning. By the power of our desires alone, we may bring into being whole universes, entire cosmologies, and supernatural pantheons. Many believe we dream ourselves into existence and then dream our own gods and demons, heroes and villains. Each dream, if powerful enough, can produce still another version of reality in the constantly growing organism that is the multiverse. They believe that just as we dream creatively, we also dream destructively. Some of us have the skills and courage to come and go in the dreams of others, even create our own dreams within the host dream. This was the accepted wisdom in Melniboné, where I was born.

  In Melniboné we were trained to enter dreams in which we lived whole and very long lives, gaining the experience such realities brought. I had lived over two thousand years before I reached the age of twenty-five. It was a form of longevity I would wish upon only a handful of enemies. We pay a price for a certain kind of wisdom which brings the power to manipulate the elements.

  If you were lucky, as I was, you did not remember much of these dreams. You drove them from your mind with ruthless deliberation. But the experience of them remained in your blood, was never lost. It could be called upon in the creation of strong sorcery. Our nature dictates that we forget most of what we dream, but some of the adventures I experienced with my distant relative Count Ulric von Bek enabled me to record a certain history which intertwined with his. What you read now, I shall likely forget soon.

  These dreams form a kind of apocrypha to my main myth. In one life I was unaware of my destiny, resisting it, hating it. In another I worked to fulfill that destiny, all too aware of my fate. But only in this dream am I wholly conscious of my destiny. And when I have left the dream, it will fade, becoming little more than a half-remembered whisper, a fleeting image. Only the power will stay with me, come what may.

  Elric Sadric’s son, last Emperor of Melniboné

  Should you ask me, whence these stories?

  Whence these legends and traditions,

  With the odors of the forest,

  With the dew and damp of meadows,

  With the curling smoke of wigwams,

  With the rushing of great rivers,

  With their frequent repetitions

  And their wild reverberations,

  As of thunder in the mountains?

  I should answer, I should teü you,

  “From the forests and the prairies,

  From the great lakes of the Northland,

  From the land of the Ojibways

  From the land of the Dacotahs,

  From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands

  Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

  Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

  I repeat them as I heard them

  From the lips ofNawadaha,

  The musician, the sweet singer.”

  LONGFELLOW, “The Song of Hiawatha”

  Contents

  THE GOLDEN CITY

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR THE NOVELS OF MICHAEL MOORCOCK

  Also by Michael Moorcock

  Copyright

  Prologue

  THE FIRST BRANCH: OONA’S STORY

  CHAPTER ONE: The House on the Island

  CHAPTER TWO: On the Shores of Gitche Gumee

  CHAPTER THREE: A Prince of the Prairie

  CHAPTER FOUR: Strange Dimensions

  CHAPTER FIVE: Feathers ana Scales

  CHAPTER SIX: The Snows of Yesteryear

  CHAPTER SEVEN: The White Path

  THE SECOND BRANCH: ELRIC’S STORY

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Conversation in Satan’s Garden

  CHAPTER NINE: Pielle d’Argent

  CHAPTER TEN: The Mouth of Hel

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Klosterheim

  CHAPTER TWELVE: The Vision in the Lodge

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Trail of Honor

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Gentleman at Large

&nbs
p; THE THIRD: BRANCH ULRIC’S STORY

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Chasm of Nihrain

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Fate’s Fool

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Against the Flow of Time

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Hawk Wind

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: The Shining Path

  CHAPTER TWENTY: The Pathfinder

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Skrayling Tree

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  A Preview of GLORIANA OR, THE UNFULFILL’D QUEEN

  THE FIRST BRANCH

  OONA’S STORY

  Nine Black Giants guard the Skraelings’ Tree,

  Three to the South and to the East are Three,

  Three more the Westward side will shield,

  But the North to a White Serpent she will yield;

  For he is the dragon who deeply sleeps

  Yet wakes upon the hour to weep,

  And when he weeps fierce tears of fire,

  They form a fateful funeral pyre

  And only a singer with lute or lyre,

  Shall turn the tide of his dark desire.

  WHELDRAKE, “Tke Skraeling Tree”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The House on the Island

  Hearing I ask from the Holy Races,

  From Heimdall’s sons, both high and low;

  Thou wilt know, Valfather, how well I relate

  Old tales I remember of men long ago.

  I remember yet the giants of yore,

  Who gave me bread in the days gone by;

  Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree

  With mighty roots beneath the mold.

  THE POETIC EDDA,

  “The Wise Woman’s Prophecy”

  Iam Oona, the shape-taker, Grafin von Bek, daughter of Oon the Dreamthief and Elric, Sorcerer Emperor of Melniboné. When my husband was kidnapped by Kakatanawa warriors, in pursuit of him I descended into the maelstrom and discovered an impossible America. This is that story.

  With the Second World War over at last and peace of sorts returned to Europe, I closed our family cottage on the edge of the Grey Fees, and settled in Kensington, West London, with my husband Ulric, Count Bek. Although I am an expert archer and trained mistress of illusory arts, I had no wish to follow my mother’s calling. For a year or two in the late 1940s I lacked a focus for my skills until I found a vocation in my husband’s sphere. The unity of shared terror and grief following the Nazi defeat gave us all the strength we needed to rebuild, to rediscover our idealism and try to ensure that we would never again slide into aggressive bigotry and authoritarianism.

  Knowing that every action taken in one realm of the multiverse is echoed in the others, we devoted ourselves confidently to the UN and the implementation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which H. G. Wells had drafted, in direct reference to Paine and the U.S. Founding Fathers, just before the War. The U.S.A.’s own Eleanor Roosevelt had helped the momentum. Our hope was that we could spread the values of liberal humanism and popular government across a world yearning for peace. Needless to say, our task was not proving an easy one. As the Greeks and Iroquois, who fathered those ideas, discovered, there is always more immediate profit to be gained from crisis than from tranquillity.

  By September 1951, Ulric and I had both been working too hard, and because I traveled so much in my job, we had chosen to educate our children at boarding school in England. Michael Hall in rural Sussex was a wonderful school, run on the Steiner Waldorf system, but I still felt a certain guilt about being absent so often. In previous months Ulric had been sleeping badly, his dreams troubled by what he sometimes called “the intervention,” when Elric’s soul, permanently bonded to his, experienced some appalling stress. For this reason, among others, we were enjoying a long break at the Frank Lloyd Wright–designed summer house of Nova Scotian friends currently working in Trinidad. They were employed by the West Indies Independence Commission. When they returned to Cap Breton we would then leave their airy home to visit some of Ulric’s relatives in New England before taking the Queen Elizabeth back to Southampton.

  We had the loveliest weather. There was already a strong hint of autumn in the coastal breezes and a distinct chill to the water we shared with the seals, who had established a small colony on one of the many wooded islands of the Sound. These islands were permanently fascinating. The comings and goings of the wildlife provided just the right relaxation after a busy year. While Ulric and I enjoyed our work, it involved a great deal of diplomacy, and sometimes our faces ached from smiling! Now we could laze, read, frown if we felt like it and stop to enjoy some of nature’s most exquisite scenery.

  We were thoroughly relaxed by the second Saturday after we arrived. Brought by the local taxi from English-town, we had become wonderfully isolated, with no car and no public transport. I must admit I was so used to activity that after a few days I was a trifle bored, but I refused to become busy. I continued to take a keen interest in the local wildlife and history.

  That Saturday we were sitting on the widow’s walk of our roof, looking out over Cabot Creek and its many small, wooded islands. One of these, little more than a rock, was submerged at high tide. There, it was said, the local Kakatanawa Indians had staked enemies to drown.

  Our binoculars were Russian and of excellent quality, bought on our final visit to Ulric’s ancestral estate in the days before the Berlin Wall went up. That afternoon I was able to spot clear details of the individual seals. They were always either there or about to appear, and I had fallen in love with their joyous souls. But, as I watched the tide wash over Drowning Rock, the water suddenly became agitated and erratic. I felt some vague alarm.

  The swirl of the sea had a new quality I couldn’t identify. There was even a different note to a light wind from the west. I mentioned it to Ulric. Half asleep, enjoying his brandy and soda, he smiled. It was the action of Auld Strom, the avenging hag, he said. Hadn’t I read the guide? The Old Woman was the local English name for the unpredictable bore, a twisting, vicious current which ran between the dozens of little islands in the Sound and could sometimes turn into a dangerous whirlpool. The French called her Le Chaudron Noir, the black cauldron. Small whaling ships had been dragged down in the nineteenth century, and only a year or two before three vacationing schoolgirls in a canoe had disappeared into the maelstrom. Neither they nor their canoe had ever been recovered.

  A harder gust of wind brushed against my left cheek. The surrounding trees whispered and bustled like excited nuns. Then they were still again.

  “It’s probably unwise to take a dip tomorrow.” Ulric cast thoughtful eyes over the water. He sometimes seemed, like so many survivors of those times, profoundly sad. His high-boned, tapering face was as thrillingly handsome as when I had first seen it, all those years ago in the grounds of his house during the early Nazi years. Knowing I had planned some activity for the next day he smiled at me. “Though sailing won’t be a problem, if we go the other way. We’d have to be right out there, almost at the horizon, to be in real danger. See?” He pointed, and I focused on the distant water which was dark, veined like living marble and swirling rapidly. “The Old Woman is definitely back in full fury!” He put his arm around my shoulders. As always I was amused and comforted by this gesture.

  I had already studied the Kakatanawa legend. Le Chaudron was for them the spirit of all the old women who had ever been murdered by their enemies. Most Kakatanawa had been driven from their original New York homeland by the Haudenosaunee, a people famous for their arrogance, puritanism and efficient organization, whose women not only determined which wars would be fought and who would lead them, but which prisoners would live and who would be tortured and eaten. So Auld Strom was a righteously angry creature, especially hard on females. The Kakatanawa called the conquering Haudenosaunee ‘Erekoseh’, their word for rattlesnake, and avoided the warriors as conscientiously as they did their namesakes, for the Erekoseh, or Iroquois as the French rendered their name, had been the Normans of North America, masters of a
superb new idea, an effective social engine, as pious and self-demanding in spirit as they were savage in war. Like the vital Romans and Normans, they respected the law above their own immediate interests. Normans employed sophisticated feudalism as their engine; the Iroquois, a shade more egalitarian, employed the notion of mutuality and common law but were just as ruthless in establishing it. I felt very close to the past that day as I romantically scanned the shore, fancying I glimpsed one of those legendary warriors, with his shaven head, scalp lock, war paint and breechclout, but of course there was no one.

  I was about to put the glasses away when I caught a movement and a spot of color on one of the near islands among the thick clusters of birch, oak and pine which found unlikely purchase in what soil there was. A little mist clung to the afternoon water, and for a moment my vision was obscured. Expecting to glimpse a deer or perhaps a fisherman, I brought the island into focus and was very surprised. In my lens was an oak-timbered wattle-and-daub manor house similar to those I had seen in Iceland, the design dating back to the eleventh century. Surely this house had to be the nostalgic folly of some very early settler? There were legends of Viking exploration here, but the many-windowed house was not quite that ancient! Wisteria and ivy showed how many years the two-storied house had stood with its black beams rooted among old trees and thick moss, yet the place had a well-kept but abandoned look, as if its owner rarely lived there. I asked Ulric his opinion. He frowned as he raised the binoculars. “I don’t think it’s in the guide.” He adjusted the lens. “My God! You’re right. An old manor! Great heavens!”

  We were both intrigued. “I wonder if it was ever an inn or hotel?” Ulric, like me, was now more alert. His lean, muscular body sprang from its chair. I loved him in this mood, when he consciously jolted himself out of his natural reserve. “It’s not too late yet for a quick preliminary exploration!” he said. “And it’s close enough to be safe. Want to look at it? It’ll only take an hour to go there and back in the canoe.”