The Druid of Shannara

They worked their way west toward the wall of the mountains, daylight fading rapidly now, dusk spreading until the whole of the forestland was enveloped. Morgan and Dees continued to exchange comments, but the other three kept their thoughts to themselves. Walker and Pe Ell were gaunt shadows, Quickening a burst of sunlight. The Urdas filtered out about them, appearing and disappearing in the heavy brush, strung out ahead, behind, and to either side. Carisman’s words had suggested that they were guests, but Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were really prisoners.

After a little more than a mile, the trail ended at a clearing in which the village of the Urdas was settled. A stockade had been built to protect the village from raiders, and its gates opened now to let the hunters and those they shepherded pass through. A sea of women, children, and old people waited within, bony-faced and staring, their voices a low, inaudible buzz. The village consisted of a cluster of small huts and open-sided shelters surrounding a lodge constructed of notched logs and a shingled roof. Trees grew inside the stockade, shading the village and providing supports for treeways and lifts. There were wells scattered about and smokehouses for curing meat. The Urdas, it appeared, had at least rudimentary skills.

The five from Rampling Steep were taken to the main lodge and led to a platform on which a rough-hewn chair draped with a garland of fresh flowers was situated. Carisman seated himself ceremoniously and beckoned his guests to take their places next to him on mats. Morgan and the others did as they were asked, keeping a wary eye on the Urdas, a large number of whom entered as well and took seats on the floor below the platform. When everyone was settled, Carisman came to his feet and sang some more, this time in a tongue that Morgan found impossible to identify. When he was finished, a handful of Urda women began to bring out platters of food.

Carisman sat down. “I have to sing to get them to do anything,” he confided. “It is so tedious sometimes.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Horner Dees asked bluntly. “Where did you come from?”

“Ah,” Carisman said with a sigh.

He sang:

“There was a young tunesmith from Rampling,

Who felt it was time to take wing.

He decided to hike,

North into the Spikes,

To the Urdas, who made him their king!”



He grimaced. “Not very original, I’m afraid. Let me try again.”

He sang:

“Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

There are worlds to discover more ’n what meets the eye.

Far reaches to travel and people to see,

Wonders to gaze on and lives for to lead,

A million adventures to try.



Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

A tunesmith’s a man who must sing for to fly.

He searches the byways for songs telling truth,

Seeks out hidden meanings and offers of proof,

Of the reasons for being alive.



Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

For life’s to be found in the rivers and skies.

In the forests and mountains that lie far away,

In the creatures that frolic and gambol and play,

And beg me my songs to apply.”



“Considerably better, don’t you think?” he asked them, blue eyes darting from one face to the next, anxiously seeking their approval.

“A tunesmith, are you?” Dees grunted. “From Rampling Steep?”

“Well, by way of Rampling Steep. I was there a day or so once several years back.” Carisman looked sheepish. “The rhyme works, so I use it.” He brightened. “But a tunesmith, yes. All my life. I have the gift of song and the wit to make use of it. I have talent.”

“But why are you here, Carisman?” Quickening pressed.

Carisman seemed to melt. “Lady, chance has brought me to this place and time and even to you. I have traveled the better part of the Four Lands, searching out the songs that would give wings to my music. There is a restlessness in me that will not let me stay in any one place for very long. I have had my chances to do so, and even ladies who wished to keep me—though none was as beautiful as you. But I keep moving. I wandered first west, then east, and finally north. I passed through Rampling Steep and found myself wondering what lay beyond. Finally I set out across the mountains to see.”

“And survived?” Horner Dees asked incredulously.

“Just barely. I have a sense of things; it comes from my music, I think. I was well provisioned, for I had traveled in rough country before. I found my way by listening to my heart. I had the good fortune of encountering favorable weather. When I was finally across—exhausted and close to starving, I admit—I was found by the Urdas. Not knowing what else to do, I sang for them. They were enchanted by my music and they made me their king.”

“Enchanted by limericks and snippets of rhyme?” Dees refused to let go of his skepticism. “A bold claim, Carisman.”

Carisman grinned boyishly. “Oh, I don’t claim to be a better man than any other.”

He sang:

“No matter how high or lofty the throne,

What sits on it is the same as your own.”