witches of Valdemar were evil—but—
:And all our lives we’ve heard that nothing comes out of Karse but brigands and bad weather,: said the first voice, full of concern, but with an edge of humor to it. He shook his head again and peered up at the person supporting him on his right. A woman, with many laugh-lines etched around her generous mouth. She seemed to fit that first voice in his head, somehow. . . .
:So, which are you, Alberich?: she asked, as he fought to stay awake, feeling the presence of the stallion (his Companion?) like a steady shoulder to lean against, deep inside his soul. :Brigand, or bad weather?:
:Neither . . . I hope . . .: he replied, absently, as he clung to consciousness as she’d asked.
:Good. I’d hate to think of a Companion Choosing a brigand to be a Herald,: she said, with her mouth twitching a little, as if she was holding back a grin, :And a thunderstorm in human guise would make uncomfortable company.:
:Choosing?: he asked. :What—what do you mean?:
:I mean that you’re a Herald, my friend,: she told him. :Somehow your Companion managed to insinuate himself across the Border to get you, too. That’s how Heralds of Valdemar are made; Companions Choose them—: She looked up and away from him, and relief and satisfaction spread over her face at whatever it was she saw. :—and the rest of it can wait. Aren’s brought the Healer. Go ahead and let go, we’ll take over from here.:
He took her at her word, and let the darkness take him. But her last words followed him down into the shadows, and instead of bringing the fear they should have given him, they brought him comfort, and a peace he never expected.
:It’s a hell of a greeting, Herald Alberich, and a hell of a way to get here—but welcome to Valdemar, brother. Welcome . . .:
This odd little story was first published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine. It’s the one I always use as an example when people ask me where I get my ideas. This one literally came as I was driving to work, saw a piece of cardboard skitter across the road in front of me as if it was alive, and thought, “Now what if it was alive?”
A gust of wind hit the side of George Randal’s van and nearly tore the steering wheel out of his hands. He cursed as the vehicle lurched sideways, and wrestled it back into his own lane.
It was a good thing there weren’t too many people on the road. It was just a damned good thing that Mingo Road was a four-lane at this point, or he’d have been in the ditch. A mile away, it wasn’t, but all the shift traffic from the airline maintenance base, the Rockwell plant and the McDonald-Douglas plant where he worked would have put an intolerable strain on a two-lane road.
The stoplight at Mingo and 163rd turned yellow, and rather than push his luck, he obeyed it, instead of doing an “Okie caution” (“Step on the gas, Fred, she’s fixin’ to turn red”). This was going to be another typical late spring Oklahoma day. Wind gusting up to 60 per, and rain off and on. Used to be, when he was a kid, it’d be dry as old bones by this late in the season, but not anymore. All the flood-control projects and water-management dams had changed the micro-climate, and it was unlikely this part of Oklahoma would ever see another Dust-Bowl.
Although with winds like this, he could certainly extrapolate what it had been like, back then during the thirties.
The habit of working a mental simulation was so ingrained it was close to a reflex; once the thought occurred, his mind took over, calculating wind-speed, type of dust, carrying capacity of the air. He was so intent on the internal calculations that he hardly noticed when the light turned green, and only the impatient honk of the car behind him jolted him out of his reverie. He pulled the van out into the intersection, and the red sports-car behind him roared around him, driver giving him the finger as he passed.
“You son of a—” he noted with satisfaction the MacDac parking permit in the corner of the rear window: the vanity plate was an easy one to remember, “HOTONE.” He’d tell a little fib to the guard at the guard shack, and have the jerk cited for reckless driving in the parking-lot. That would go on his work-record, and serve him right, too.
If it hadn’t been for the combination of the wind gust and the fool in the red IROC, he would never have noticed the strange behavior of that piece of cardboard in the median strip.
But because of the gust, he knew which direction the wind was coming from. When the IROC screamed right over the center-line, heading straight toward a piece of flattened box, and the box skittered just barely out of the way as if the wind had picked it up and moved it in time, something went off in his brain.
