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though she was. But only God can say.
When she at last returned the way she had come, it was the moon, not the sun,
which cast a shadow ahead of her. She passed through the east gate of
Citharista unnoticed, and slipped shadowlike through
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cobbled streets, passing her father's house, where warm lamplight spilled from
beneath the door but she did not stop there. Her father Gilles was within,
unchanged, she was sure, and she would let him wait a while longer before
announcing her return. Morning was soon enough to greet him, once Pierrette
had ascertained just how new this new world really was, from the books in
Anselm's library.
Were there still
Gallicenae on Sena, or were they now lost in the mists of forgotten history,
never written down? Were the accounts of Titus Livius, the tales of Homer and
Virgil as she remembered them? After all, the destruction of "Atlantis" had
spawned many legends and the lost Fortunate Isles many more.
Perhaps the former tales were still told, at least. She would have to see if
Plato's
Critias still described that mythical land.
If that research took her an hour or a week, a month, a year, or a decade, it
would make no difference.
After all, Pierrette was already very, very old though not yet eighteen and
only she and the mage
Anselm would notice that time had passed, and would wonder how long it had
really been.
Epilogue
The land is no less vast and no less ancient, and the loss of a kingdom here,
a city there, cannot change it much. I, of course, cannot know the true scope
of the changes Pierrette has wrought, for I am part of them, changed along
with all the rest. But sometimes I awaken in the night, my bedclothes damp
with icy sweat, having dreamed that hard cloven hooves were clattering on the
floor of my chamber, with the reek of the demon's sulfurous breath swirling in
my sleep-dulled mind, if not in my nostrils.
At times like those I am most grateful the world is a different place, because
those dreams are not of this world at all. Perhaps I (though no sorcerer, and
unable to part the veil and step through into the underworld at will) was not
quite "here" at the critical moment when what was real became unreal, and the
world took the shape it bears today. Perhaps in such dreams I am remembering
how things once were. In this world, the Black Time is far, far away, and may
never arrive, and Satan's name may be spoken aloud without trepidation.
But all is not again as it once was, before the Wheel of Time was broken. As
if it were yesterday I recall a very small Pierrette who considered it unfair
that the past should be an open book accessible through scrolls and dusty
tomes, inscriptions on stones, and the contemplation of ruins, while the
future remained remote and unknowable. That remains unchanged. The spell
Mondradd in Mon still allows no single glimpse of the future. Neither mage,
scholar, nor masc can penetrate that veil with spells, researches in
libraries, or contemplation among the ruins of towering fortresses yet
unbuilt. Only if some seer not yet born should look back upon this era and
deign to speak might we be given a glimpse in that direction.
Still, sometimes, when I turn a corner or step from the gloom of a darkling
wood, or open my eyes in the middle of an afternoon doze, I find myself in a
magical place, where I spend an hour or two. Sometimes I
meet a philosopher there, a saint, or even a pretty girl with no clothing but
the luxurious fur God has given her kind, and a charming scut of a tail, like
a doe's.
Pierrette tells me that was not always so. The Otherworld was not easily
visited when a harsh and heavy cynicism bore down upon everyone and
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everything. But now and don't ask me how I know even if
Pierrette's vision of a world dominated by great machines without souls comes
to pass, I am convinced that there will still be corners to be turned, and
naps to awaken from, and magical patches of sunny woodland where furry,
uninhibited girls and boys, as Pierrette insists await us.
Otho, Bishop of Nemausus
The Sorceress's Tale
Afterword
I have already discussed the changing nature of myths, the mutation of names,
and the sacred landscapes in the notes for two earlier books, The Sacred Pool
and
The Veil of Years
, so I'll confine myself here to a few specifics of
The Isle Beyond Time
. See the earlier books for a comprehensive bibliography of sources for the
three stories.
Place Names
I have used the Roman names for places, when I could, thus "Burdigala," not
"Bordeaux." I am sure that by Merovingian or Carolingian times the transition
was already well under way, but whether it was pronounced as "Bordala,"
"Burgala," or in some other intermediate manner is nowhere recorded. I have [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]