A Gathering of Sorcerers
By Ian
Elliott
The tale-finder had traced the story as far as a small
tavern in a remote village. Quaffing his
ale, he greeted the other guests and, after a customary exchange of
pleasantries, asked if anyone present had heard the story Hob told of a
midnight gathering of sorcerers. There
was some chuckling, and then a giant of a man sitting in the corner replied
that he knew the tale, or knew of it.
“It isn’t much of a story,” he began. “This farmhand Hob, in
some stead over the river, was about to head home for the evening when the
Mistress of the farm stopped by and asked him if he would wait on some guests
who were due to arrive later that night.
She said he could enjoy a full supper after they had eaten, and all he
had to do was pour water and ale for them, then serve them food when they
called for it. For the rest, he was to stay out of the way and not pry, but
remain within earshot. He would get
extra wages for it. She said that
usually she tended them when they came, but she had to go see to a sick sister
over the ridge.
“Hob agreed, and along about ten or eleven in the evening
they arrived heavily cloaked on horseback.
He took their steeds to the barn while they settled themselves
comfortably in the straw-strewn main room of the farmhouse. There were about a dozen present, plus one
who sat a little apart. He was taller
and thinner than the others, and evidently in charge of the meeting.
“Hob brought them well-water and ale, and then retired to an
adjoining room, shutting the door between.
Being an inquisitive sort of fellow, though, and telling himself he had
to listen for their meal-call, he left the door ajar by a little crack and sat
close by.
“The room was quiet for a time, then the leader spoke
softly. Hob could just see him through
the crack.
“ ‘Gentlemen, are you all comfortable?’ There were several grunts of assent. ‘Have
you all found your places? Have you
removed your heads?’
“When he heard that, Hob felt a chill. He wanted very much to widen the door-crack
to see if their heads were off, but did not dare.
“The leader said ‘Very well, now my head is off.’ A great fear fell on Hob as he saw the leader
sitting in his place with his head in his hands. His neck was not bloodied, and his voice
seemed to be coming from the hole in his shoulders. He couldn’t see the other
sorcerers but assumed they looked the same.
“At one point, everyone stood up and began pacing in a
circle round the room. Their heads,
apparently, were set aside somewhere safe where they would not be kicked or
tripped over accidentally. As the pacing
continued, the headless sorcerers seemed to rise slightly until they were
circling together two or three inches off the ground. Peering through the crack, Hob saw them pass
by one at a time, each without a head on his shoulders! At the same time, an enormous buzzing noise
started filling the room, and energy throbbed so strongly that it pushed Hob’s
door fully closed, without, however making a sound. Hob was deathly afraid the headless sorcerers
would discover him spying on them, and take off his head, but they took no notice and, from the sound, apparently
continued circling a while longer.
Finally they stopped, and it would seem that each resumed his seat,
since it grew quiet once again. The
throbbing had ceased.
“Hob was afraid they would call for food with their heads
off, but presently the leader said ‘Gentlemen, you may now replace your heads
and lose your places.’ They then called
for him to bring in the food. As soon as
he had done so, he withdrew and, not waiting to gather the dishes later, much
less eat the leavings of such uncanny creatures, quietly left the farmhouse and
tore off across the fields as though the night-hag were after him!”
All the guests roared with laughter, a little nervously, and
complimented the giant on his narration.
The tale-finder thanked him and bought everyone a round, but secretly he
felt disappointed, since he had had the tale in this form before. He thought perhaps he hadn’t gotten any closer
to its place of origin.
After a while, he asked the giant where he had heard the
story. The narrator answered, somewhat
shortly, that it was in general circulation.
“Is this Hob still about?” he asked the room. Someone remarked that he had died in his
grandfather’s time, but it was known that he never returned to that farm, not
even to collect his wages. He decided
the Mistress must be a hægtessa [1] to play hostess to such
beings, and he shortly left the district.
But before he left, he told his story to a bard, a loremaster in the
hills this side of the river, who passed it on to his successor, and in this
way it got around.
The tale-finder asked where he might find this bard or his
current successor, and after some grumbling, especially from the giant, someone
gave him directions. He explained then
diplomatically that his work involved hunting down the oldest form of such
tales. He doubted he would ever hear the
story told better than it was told tonight, he added. With that, the giant grinned and everyone
relaxed. They drank another round of
ale, and then the tale-finder rose and bidding them all good evening, went to
his bed in the loft above the tavern.
In the morning he rose early, paid the innkeeper, saddled
his horse and rode into the hills. He
had no trouble finding the cot of the bard, and by lunchtime was seated across
a rude table from him. This was not
indeed the man Hob had told, but his second successor. The tale-finder repeated the story as the
giant had told it and waited for the bard to make comments.
He said nothing for a while, but smiled and snorted a
bit. “Yes,” he said at last, “that is
the popular version, but it is not what Hob told old White Hawk. He said that after the leader of the group
had told everyone to take his head off, and had said that now his head was off,
Hob was surprised to see his head was still there, securely on his
shoulders. But you should have surmised
this,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “else why would he have bothered to tell
the others his head was off? Or why would he have asked them if they had
removed their own heads, since with his on he could obviously have seen if they
were headless?”
He took a bite of bread, shrugged, and added “But of course,
really headless sorcerers make a better tale.”
“And the circling?” asked the tale-finder, “the rising into
the air?”
The bard smiled wryly.
“That is a subtler matter. It is
possible they became lighter, and perhaps they even floated a bit in their
pacing. I don’t think Hob exaggerated
that very much.”
“And what of the strange buzzing that filled the room?”
“That you would have to experience for yourself,” he said.
“But I don’t think it was heard with the ears.
It was, perhaps, more like a pressure.”
He nodded and rose. Lunch and the
interview were over.
The tale-finder thanked him for his information and
hospitality. He felt more confused than
ever, though. As he turned to say
good-bye at the door, the bard thought of something else. He brought a bucket of well-water and held it
up to the tale-finder’s chest. “It is
customary in these parts,” he said, “for us to share a drink of water before
parting. But before I dip the ladle, look into the bucket. Tell me what you see.”
The tale-finder looked and saw his weather-worn face looking
up at him. “My face, my head,” he said.
The bard pulled the bucket away.
“And now,” he said, smiling, “where is your head?” The tale-finder felt his forehead and cheeks
and said, “Well, here it is, only I can’t see it.”
“Exactly,” the bard answered. But do you usually notice that you can’t see
it? If you don’t, you reside in your thoughts.
You have lost your place in the room.
Do you understand?”
The tale-finder’s mouth fell open. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.” They
shared a farewell drink of water, and the tale-finder went on his way.
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