The White Wolf's Son by Michael Moorcock Page A

his hearing, I realized, they were employing.
    The men paused so that a bucket of boiling metal wasnear him, and he listened. Then he spoke to them and pointed in the general direction of some of the molds. The workers finessed
     the bucket to their molds and again poured liquid metal. Occasionally some kind of boss came along and spoke to the men. They
     kept their distance from the boy. They carefully avoided touching him.
    I watched for over an hour as the albino paused, listened carefully, almost always rejecting the steel, very occasionally
     pointing and giving directions. As the steel cooled in the molds, the lengths were brought to him, and again he would hold
     them close to his ears, listening intently. Some of them he accepted, but most were rejected. This seemed to be the norm,
     judging by the way the workers treated the routine. He was listening for some flaw, I was sure.
    There wasn’t much doubt in my mind that the boy was related to my grandma and Monsieur Zodiac. Even the way he held himself
     was familiar. Was he a prisoner in the factory? I couldn’t be certain. There were no guards about.
    He worked constantly, listening, directing, listening, rejecting. Eventually I realized they were forging sword blades, which
     would no doubt be polished, honed and decorated by other hands. But he didn’t pass many of them. I could tell he was listening
     to the music within the steel. The blades spoke to him, and he accepted almost none of them, rejecting most.
    Suddenly a klaxon sounded throughout the factory. Work was stopped, and men moved away to open packets of sandwiches and eat.
     The blind boy was led to a spot only a yard or two below where I was hiding. As the men ate, the boy merely drank from a large
     cup handed to him by a guard. The guards were not rough to him. In theirown way they seemed to like him, but they treated him very much as an alien creature, not one of their own. Now I had my chance.
     When the space was deserted around him I risked calling to him, barely lifting my voice above a whisper.
    “Boy! Blind boy?”
    He looked up. He had heard me. He did not reply in a loud voice himself, but murmured.
    “Girl? Overhead? Yes, she lies on the walkway above, hidden by chains, and—”
    “I’ve seen how clever you are,” I told him. “But I’m not here to admire you.”
    “Why
are
you here? Did McTalbayne send you to find me?”
    “I don’t know who that is. I’m lost. This is an accident. I have relatives who look like you. Does the name Beck mean anything?”
    He shook his head and finished his drink. The klaxon sounded again. The boss approached him to guide him back to his station.
    “You must get me away from here,” whispered the boy suddenly. “If you are a friend, you must help set me free. What’s your
     name?”
    “Oonagh,” I said.
    “That’s like my mother’s name! Do you know Tufnell Hill?” A desperate expression crossed his face. “Those two brought me here,
     but…”
    “What’s yours? What’s your name?”
    “They call me Onric here,” he said. “My father—”
    The guard came too close. He stopped whispering.
    “I’ll try to free you,” I said, “but I’ll have to get help. I’m only a little girl.”
    “You have given me more hope than anyone else,” hesaid, his voice dropping so low that I could scarcely hear it. Then the foreman was beside him and leading him back to his
     post.
    I was confused. How could I be related to this boy I had never seen, who dwelled in a different age, in a different part of
     the multiverse? I stepped out from behind the chains. Somebody shouted. Had they seen me? I bolted for the next door, entered
     into the darkness behind it, remembered to turn the key and then tiptoed to the door into the corridor, which was still deserted.
     Where could I get help for this Onric, I thought ironically, when I couldn’t even get help for myself!
    I returned to the street. Maybe Lord Renyard would find someone to help me