Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic Read Free Page A

Monastery and in a house where the alien goddesses of Juniper held equal sway with St. Francis Dionysos of old Mother Earth? Still, defensive habits once learned, die hard and without realizing it, Wilberfoss moved on down the corridor, walking softly on the sides of his feet, alert for anything untoward.
    Let us pause and gain some physical impression of this man. Some men are like lions, some men are like horses. Jon Wilberfoss is huge like a bear. He has a loose-limbed gait, somewhat amplified as he now walks down the corridor by his need to remain quiet. It is the careful walk of a large man who is all the time aware that there are others in the world smaller than him and whom he might crush. There is no pride of strength in his walk, no arrogant stepping forth, and yet there is an impression of great strength. He pauses at a door, arms raised and touching the frame and again we are reminded of the bear, standing up in the forest, head cocked, listening. The man who would challenge Jon Wilberfoss would need to be very confident of his prowess.
    He turns and looks back up the corridor toward the room where his wife is sleeping. The face is mild, with deep-set blue-gray eyes which, surprisingly, look somewhat timid. The hair of his beard and on his head is short, coarse and blond. The face is tanned and healthy but deeply lined and looks older than one might expect. A seaman who has looked into flying salt spray or stood watch above the coldness of a midnight sea might have such a face. Weather-beaten is the phrase.
    The hands too are worthy of comment. Jon Wilberfoss’s hands are large and square and freckled on the back. The fingers are stubby. They are farmer’s hands, fisherman’s hands, hands for hard labor. For those who only know Jon Wilberfoss as a burly pilot, there is both surprise and delight when they discover the sensitivity with which he plays the guitar or the delicacy of his touch as he mends a fine and fragile beaker made by the potters of old Talline.
    There was no sound from the children’s rooms and Wilberfoss moved on.
    He did not know exactly what had wakened him. A knocking of some kind ... a sound at least... but he knew that he did not want to hear that sound again. His wife would surely wake and perhaps the three children. Besides, only trouble could come with such insistence in the night and he preferred to face trouble alone. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
    “All right,” growled Wilberfoss, “I’m coming. No need to wake everyone up.” Then he heard his own name whispered, like a voice from a well, and it made him shiver.
    Quickly he entered and crossed the dining-room where the remains of the evening meal were still on the table. This house was managed in accordance with Talline ways and the food of the evening was never cleared from the table until the morning as a mark of respect to the guardians of the house. A mouse, disturbed while enjoying Talline hospitality, scampered in a panic for its hole. The fire still glowed a dull red under its patina of gray ash.
    Then Wilberfoss was out in the hall. Facing him was the massive front door made from planks of ironwood. He felt a sudden anger at being disturbed in his privacy. “If this is—” he began to say.
    KNOCK . . .
    With one sweep of his arm, Wilberfoss drew back the heavy curtains which stopped the draft. He lifted the hasp with a bang and heaved the door open.
    Note this about the man’s character, he opened the door to his secure home without knowing what was waiting on the other side. He did not know what to expect.
    Facing him was one of the small blind servants who satisfy the many practical needs of the Pacifico Monastery. It was a woman, as was revealed by the bulky dark blue gown she was wearing. In her hands she held a pair of smoothed balls of granite. One of these she had used to tap at the door. Her eyes were closed and the dim light from the hall revealed that she was nodding dreamily to herself as though listening to some