The Warlock Enraged

Cristopher Stasheff

The Warlock Enraged

Warlock in Spite of Himself - 5

1

For some time now, I’ve been getting worried about the steadily increasing number of hopeful historians on this Isle of Gramarye. There weren’t any when I came here—none that I was aware of, anyway. Then Brother Chillde started keeping his chronicles, and, first thing I knew, there were five more just like him. Not that this is all bad, of course—Gramarye’ll be much better off if it has an accurate record of its history. What bothers me is that each one of these young Thucydideses is conveniently forgetting all the events that make his own side look bad, and definitely overdoing it more than a bit, about the happenings that make his side look good. I’m mostly thinking of the Church here, of course, but not exclusively—for example, I know of one young warlock who’s taken to keeping a diary, and a country lord’s younger son who’s piling up an impressive number of journals. So, in an effort to set the record straight, I’m going to set down my version of what happened. Not that it’ll be any more objective, of course; it’ll at least be biased in a diff-

“Tis my place, Delia!”

“Nay, Geoffrey, thou knowest ‘tis not! This end of the shelf is mine, for the keeping of my dolls!”

“Tis not! I’ve kept my castle there these several weeks!”

Rod threw down his quill in exasperation. After three weeks of trying, he’d finally managed to get started on his history of Gramarye—and the kids had to choose this moment to break into a quarrel! He glared down at the page…

And saw the huge blot the quill had made.

Exasperation boiled up into anger, and he surged out of his chair. “Delia! Geoff! Of all the idiotic things to be arguing about! Gwen, can’t you…”

“Nay, I ca

“Children!” Rod shouted, stamping into the playroom. “Why’d I ever have ‘em?”

“Di’nit, Papa.” Three-year-old Gregory peeked over the top of an armchair. “Mama did.”

“Yeah, sure, and I was just an i

He waded into a litter of half-formed clay sculptures, toys, and pieces of bark twisted together with twigs and bits of straw that served some fathomless and probably heathen purpose known only to those below the age of thirteen. “What a mess!” It was like that every day, of course. “Do you realize this room was absolutely spotless when you woke up this morning?”

The children looked up, startled, and Cordelia objected, “But that was four hours ago, Papa.”

“Yeah, and you must’ve really worked hard to make a mess like this in so short a time as that!” Rod stepped down hard—into a puddle of ocher paint. His foot skidded out from under him; he hung suspended for a split second, arms thrashing like the wings of a dodo trying to fly; then his back slammed down to the floor, paralyzing his diaphragm. For an instant of panic, he fought for breath, while Cordelia and Geoffrey huddled back against the wall in fright.

Then Rod’s breath hissed in and bounced back out in a howl of rage. “You little pigs! Can’t you even clean up after yourselves!”

The children shrank back, wide-eyed.

Rod struggled to his feet, red-faced. “Throwing garbage on the floor, fighting over a stupid piece of shelf space—and to top it off, you had the gall to talk back!”

“We didn’t… We…”

“You just did it again!” Rod levelled an accusing forefinger. “Whatever you do, don’t contradict me! If I say you did it, you did it! And don’t you dare try to say you didn’t!”

He towered over them, a mountain of wrath. “Naughty, stupid, asinine brats!”

The children hugged each other, eyes huge and frightened.

Rod’s hand swept up for a backhanded slap.

With a crack like a pistol shot, big brother Magnus appeared in front of Cordelia and Geoffrey, arms outspread to cover them. “Papa! They didn’t mean to! They…”

“Don’t try to tell me what they were doing!” Rod shouted.

The eleven-year-old flinched, but stood up resolutely against his father’s rage—and that made it worse.

“How dare you defy me! You insolent little…”

“Rod!” Gwen darted into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “What dost thou?”

Rod whirled, forefinger stabbing at her. “Don’t you even try to speak in their defense! If you’d just make your children toe the line, this wouldn’t happen! But, oh no, you’ve got to let them do whatever they want, and just scold them, and that’s only when their behavior’s really atrocious!”

Gwen’s head snapped back, stung. “Assuredly, thou’rt scarce mindful of what thou sayest! ‘Tis ever thou who dost plead leniency, when I do wish to punish…”

“Sure, when!” Rod glared, striding toward her. “But for the thousand and one things they do that deserve spanking, and you let them off with a scold? Use your head, woman—if you can!” His gaze swept her from head to toe, and his lip lifted in a sneer.

Gwen’s eyes flared anger. “Ware, husband! Even to thine anger, there doth be a boundary!”

“Boundaries! Limits! That’s all you ever talk about!” Rod shouted. “ ‘Do this! Do that! You can’t do this! You can’t do that!’ Marriage is just one big set of limits! Will you ever…”

“Peace!” Magnus darted between them, holding out a palm toward each. “I prithee!” His face was white; he was trembling. “Mother! Father! I beg thee!”

Rod snarled, swinging his hand up again.

Magnus stiffened; his jaw set.

Rod swung, with his full weight behind it…

… And shot through the air, slamming back against the wall.

He rolled to his feet and stood up slowly, face drained of color, rigid and trembling. “I told you never to use your ‘witch powers’ on me,” he grated, “and I told you why!” He straightened to his full height, feeling the rage swell within him.

Geoffrey and Cordelia scurried to hide behind Gwen’s skirts. She gathered Magnus to her, but he kept his face toward his father, terror in his eyes, trembling, but determined to protect.

Rod stared at them, all united against him, ready to pick him up with their magic and hurl him into his grave. His eyes narrowed, pi

“Mother,” came Magnus’s voice, across a huge void, “we must…”

“Nay!” Gwen said fiercely. “He is thy father, whom thou dost love—when this fit’s not on him.”

What did that mean! The powers paused in their building…

A smaller figure entered his blurred field of vision, to the side and a little in front of the family group, gazing up at him, head tilted to the side—three-year-old Gregory. “Daddy is’n’ there,” he stated.

That hit Rod like a bucketful of cold water; the complete, calm, sanity of the child’s tone—so open, so reasonable—and the totally alien quality of the words. His eyes focused in a stare at his youngest son, and fear hollowed his vitals—fear, and a different anger under it; anger at the futurians who had kidnapped him and the rest of his family away from this child while Gregory was still a baby. The desertion, Rod feared, had totally warped the boy’s personality, making him quiet, indrawn, brooding, and sometimes, even weird. His gaze welded to Gregory’s face, his fear for Gregory burying his anger at the rest of the family; it ebbed, and was gone.