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Covenant Man had made any particular series of passes over the water—weren’t mystic passes part of magic?—and couldn’t. All Tim could
remember was the man in black telling him that if he disturbed the water, he would see nothing.
Doubtful not so much of the magic wand as of his ability to use it, Tim waved the rod aimlessly back and forth above the water. For a moment
there was nothing. He was about to give up when a mist clouded the surface, blotting out his reflection. It cleared, and he saw the Covenant Man
looking up at him. It was dark wherever the Covenant Man was, but a strange green light, no bigger than a thumbnail, hovered over his head. It rose
higher, and by its light Tim saw a board nailed to the trunk of an ironwood tree. ROSS-KELLS had been painted on it.
The bit of green light spiraled up until it was just below the surface of the water in the pail, and Tim gasped. There was a person embedded in
that green light—a tiny green woman with transparent wings on her back.
It’s a sighe—one of the fairy-folk!
Seemingly satisfied that she had his attention, the sighe spun away, lighted briefly on the Covenant Man’s shoulder, then seemed to leap from it.
Now she hovered between two posts holding up a crossbar. From this there hung another sign, and, as was the case with the lettering on the sign
marking out the Ross-Kells stake, Tim recognized his father’s careful printing. IRONWOOD TRAIL ENDS HERE, the sign read. BEYOND LIES
FAGONARD. And below this, in larger, darker letters: TRAVELER, BEWARE!
The sighe darted back to the Covenant Man, made two airy circles around him that seemed to leave spectral, fading trails of greenglow behind,
then rose and hovered demurely beside his cheek. The Covenant Man looked directly at Tim; a figure that shimmered (as Tim’s own father had
when Tim beheld the corse in the water) and yet was perfectly real, perfectly there. He raised one hand in a semicircle above his head, scissoring
the first two fingers as he did so. This was sign language Tim knew well, for everyone in Tree used it from time to time: Make haste, make haste.
The Covenant Man and his fairy consort faded to nothing, leaving Tim staring at his own wide-eyed face. He passed the wand over the pail
again, barely noticing that the steel rod was now vibrating in his fist. The thin caul of mist reappeared, seeming to rise from nowhere. It swirled and
disappeared. Now Tim saw a tall house with many gables and many chimneys. It stood in a clearing surrounded by ironwoods of such great girth
and height that they made the ones along the trail look small. Surely, Tim thought, their tops must pierce the very clouds. He understood this was
deep in the Endless Forest, deeper than even the bravest ax-man of Tree had ever gone, and by far. The many windows of the house were
decorated with cabalistic designs, and from these Tim knew he was looking at the home of Maerlyn Eld, where time stood still or perhaps even ran
backward.
A small, wavering Tim appeared in the pail. He approached the door and knocked. It was opened. Out came a smiling old man whose white
waist-length beard sparkled with gems. Upon his head was a conical cap as yellow as the Full Earth sun. Water-Tim spoke earnestly to Water-
Maerlyn. Water-Maerlyn bowed and went back inside his house . . . which seemed to be constantly changing shape (although that might have been
the water). The mage returned, now holding a black cloth that looked like silk. He lifted it to his eyes, demonstrating its use: a blindfold. He handed it
toward Water-Tim, but before that other Tim could take it, the mist reappeared. When it cleared, Tim saw nothing but his own face and a bird
passing overhead, no doubt wanting to get home to its nest before sunset.
Tim passed the rod across the top of the pail a third time, now aware of the steel rod’s thrumming in spite of his fascination. When the mist
cleared, he saw Water-Tim sitting at Water-Nell’s bedside. The blindfold was over his mother’s eyes. Water-Tim removed it, and an expression of
unbelieving joy lit Water-Nell’s face. She clasped him to her, laughing. Water-Tim was laughing, too.
The mist overspread this vision as it had the other two, but the vibration in the steel rod ceased. Useless as dirt, Tim thought, and it was true.
When the mist melted away, the water in the tin pail showed him nothing more miraculous than the dying light in the sky. He passed the Covenant
Man’s wand over the water several more times, but nothing happened. That was all right. He knew what he had to do.
Tim got to his feet, looked toward the house, and saw no one. The men who had volunteered to stand watch would be here soon, though. He
would have to move fast.
In the barn, he asked Bitsy if she would like to go for another evening ride.
The Widow Smack was exhausted by her unaccustomed labors on Nell Ross’s behalf, but she was also old, and sick, and more disturbed
by the queerly unseasonable weather than her conscious mind would admit. So it was that, although Tim did not dare knock loudly on her door
(knocking at all after sunset took most of his resolve), she woke at once.
She took a lamp, and when by its light she saw who stood there, her heart sank. If the degenerative disease that afflicted her had not taken the
ability of her remaining eye to make tears, she would have wept at the sight of that young face so full of foolish resolve and lethal determination.
“You mean to go back to the forest,” said she.
“Aye.” Tim spoke low, but firmly.
“In spite of all I told thee.”
“Aye.”
“He’s fascinated you. And why? For gain? Nay, not him. He saw a bright light in the darkness of this forgotten backwater, that’s all, and nothing
will do for him but to put it out.”
“Sai Smack, he showed me—”
“Something to do with your mother, I wot. He knows what levers move folk; aye, none better. He has magic keys to unlock their hearts. I know I
can’t stop thee with words, for one eye is enough to read your face. And I know I can’t restrain thee with force, and so do you. Why else was it me
you came to for whatever it is you want?”
At this Tim showed embarrassment but no flagging of resolve, and by this she understood he was truly lost to her. Worse, he was likely lost to
himself.
“What is it you want?”
“Only to send word to my mother, will it please ya. Tell her I’ve gone to the forest, and will return with something to cure her sight.”
Sai Smack said nothing to this for several seconds, only looked at him through her veil. By the light of her raised lamp, Tim could see the ruined
geography of her face far better than he wanted to. At last she said, “Wait here. Don’t skitter away wi’out taking leave, lest you’d have me think thee
a coward. Be not impatient, either, for thee knows I’m slow.”
Although he was in a fever to be off, Tim waited as she asked. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours, but she returned at last.
“I made sure you were gone,” said she, and the old woman could not have wounded Tim more if she had whipped his face with a quirt.
She handed him the lamp she had brought to the door. “To light your way, for I see you have none.”
It was true. In his fever to be off, he had forgotten.
“Thankee-sai.”
In her other hand she held a cotton sack. “There’s a loaf of bread in here. ’Tisn’t much, and two days old, but for provender ’tis the best I can do.”
Tim’s throat was temporarily too full for speech, so he only tapped his throat three times, then held out his hand for the bag. But she held it a