Collected fiction, p.321
Collected Fiction, page 321
Dan Helsing came in as a second round was served, his face set in harsh lines.
“Listen,” he snapped, “don’t forget we’ve got a picture to shoot. Anybody who has a hangover tomorrow is off the payroll.”
“What payroll?” Vane asked sardonically. “Here, have one yourself.”
Helsing took the drink. I saw him look at me.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll propose a toast. To Greg Lash, the best fighting commander I’ve ever served under.” They drank it, all of them, the damn fools. I couldn’t even say thanks properly. Feature that—me, hard-boiled, toughskinned Greg Lash, standing there gulping and fumbling for the right words—But there weren’t any words. If there were, I didn’t know them.
Drinking my health—the men who’d held the Gap and stopped a Martian fleet! Get over that, if you can!
WET MAGIC
It wasn’t his intention to meet Merlin, nor Lady Vivienne—and least of all Morgan le Fay. But it was trying so desperately to get away from Morgan and her lake that finally led him to stalk her to her own room—
It happened in Wales, which, of course, was the logical place for Morgan le Fay to be. Not that Arthur Woodley expected to find the fabled enchantress there, of course. He was looking for something entirely different. In a word, safety.
With two Stukas hanging doggedly on the tail of his observation plane, despite the pea-soup fog that shrouded the craggy peaks of Wales, Woodley dodged and twisted frantically, his hard, handsome face set in lines of strain. It wasn’t fair, he thought. This crate wasn’t meant as a fighter, and needed another crewman anyway. Nazis weren’t supposed to butt in on routine transfer flights.
Z-zoom!
Tracer bullets fanned Woodley’s helmet. Why wouldn’t those Stukas leave him alone? He hadn’t been looking for them. If he had thought to find enemy aircraft in Wales, he’d have flown rapidly in the opposite direction. Zoom again. No use. The Stukas hung on. Woodley dived dangerously into the fog.
Damn—Hollywood arranged things better.
Woodley grinned mirthlessly. In the air battles he’d starred in in Paradox’s “Flight Wings,” he had the proper kind of a plane to work in. Say a Spitfire or a P-38. And—
Tut-tut-tut! Double-damn! This couldn’t keep up much longer. Those Stukas were becoming familiar with all of Woodley’s tricks—the spang! each slug made as it struck armor plate unpleasantly reminded him that these were not Hollywood blanks.
Tut-tut-tut-spang! He would have engaged one. Two of them made the odds unnecessarily heavy. Also, in this thick fog, it shouldn’t be too difficult to escape—
The engine coughed and died. A bullet had found the fuel line, presumably. Woodley almost felt relieved. He banked the plane into an especially dense bank of fog, glanced back, and saw the Stukas following relentlessly. How far down was the ground?
“He had to risk it, in any case. As he bailed out, some bullets screamed past, but none found a mark in Woodley’s body. The fog was denser lower down, and camouflaged the parachute so that there was no more gunfire.
The plane crashed, some distance away. The drone of the Stukas grew fainter as the Nazi planes circled away to the east, their job done. Woodley, swaying in the silk shrouds, peered down, straining his eyes to see what lay below.
A tree. He caromed off a branch, in a tremendous crackling and thumping, brought up with a terrific jolt, and hung breathless, slowly revolving. The silence of the fog closed in again. He could hear nothing but the low murmur of a rivulet somewhere in that blanketing grayness.
Woodley slipped out of his harness, climbed down, and drank brandy from a pocket flask before he looked around.
There was little to see. The fog was still thick, though he could make out the silhouettes of ghostly trees all around him. A forest, then. From where he stood, the ground sloped sharply down to where the unseen streamlets gurgled.
The brandy had made him thirsty for water, so Woodley stumbled through the murk till he almost fell into the stream. He drar.k, and then, shivering with cold, examined his surroundings more carefully.
Not far away grew an immense oak, gnarled and ancient, with a trunk as large as that of a California sequoia. Its exposed roots, where erosion had done its work, made a comfortable-looking burrow—or, rather cave; and at least it would provide shelter from the knifing wind. Woodley went forward warily and assured himself that the little den was empty. Fair enough.
He got down on all fours and backed into the hollow. Not far. Something kicked him in the pants, and Woodley described an arc that ended with his head in the brook. He bubbled a yell and sprang up, blinking icy water from his eyes. A bear—
There was no bear. Woodley remembered that he had scrutinized the cave of roots carefully, and he was certain it could have contained nothing larger than a fairly young mouse. And mice seldom, if ever, kick with noticeable effect.
It was curiosity that drew Woodley back to the scene of his humiliation. He peered in furtively. Nothing. Nothing at all. A springy root must have snapped back and struck him. It couldn’t happen twice. Moreover, the wind was growing colder.
This time Woodley crawled in headfirst, and this time he was kicked in the face.
Rising rapidly from the brook, Woodley thought wildly of invisible kangaroos. He stood motionless, staring at that notably empty cave of roots. Then he drank brandy.
Logic came to his aid. He had been through an unpleasant nervous ordeal. Little wonder that he was imagining things now. Nevertheless, he did not make a third attempt to invade the burrow. Instead, he went rather hastily downstream. The watercourse should lead somewhere.
The parachute descent into the tree had bruised him a bit, so presently Woodley sat down to rest. The swirling gray fog made him slightly dizzy. The dark column of the trees seemed to move with a wavering, half-animate life of their own. Woodley lay back, closing his eyes. He didn’t like Wales. He didn’t like this mess he was in. He—
Someone kissed him full on the lips.
Automatically Woodley responded before he realized what was happening. Then he opened his eyes to see a slim, lovely girl rising from where she had knelt beside him. He had not heard her approach—
“Well—” he said. “Hello!” The girl was singularly beautiful, dark-haired, with a fillet of gold about her brow. She wore a robe that reached her ankles, but Woodley could see that her figure was eminently satisfactory.
“You smell of Merlin,” she said.
“I . . . uh . . . I do?” murmured Woodley, feeling vaguely insulted. He got up, staring. Curious costumes they wore in this part of the country. Maybe—yipe!—maybe he wasn’t even in England!
He asked the girl about that, and she shook her head. “This is Wales.” There was a puzzled frown drawing together the dark line of her brows. “Who are you? You remind me of . . . someone—”
“Arthur Woodley. I’m flying for the A. E. F. You must have seen some of my pictures—eh?”
“Merlin could fly,” she remarked cryptically.
Baffled, Woodley suddenly recollected that a Merlin was a bird—a sort of falcon, he thought. That explained it. “I didn’t see you come up,” he said. “You live near here?”
The girl chuckled softly. “Oh, I’m usually invisible. No one can see me or touch me unless I want them to. And my name is Vivienne.”
“It’s a lovely name,” Woodley said, automatically going into his routine. “It suits you.”
Vivienne said, “Not for years have I felt passion for any man. Is it because you remind me of Merlin? I think I love you, Arthur.”
Woodley swallowed. Curious customs they had in Wales! But he’d have to be careful not to insult the girl—after all he was lost, and her services as a guide would be invaluable.
There was no need to speak. Vivienne went on swiftly.
“I live not far from here. Under the lake. My home and I are yours. Provided you pass the testing, of course. But, since you can fly, you will not be afraid of any task Morgan may set you—so?”
“Why—” Woodley hesitated, and then glanced around him at the chilly grayness of the fog. “Why, I’d love to go with you, Vivienne,” he amplified hastily. “I . . . I suppose you live with your parents?”
“They have long been dust. Do you come with me of your own free will?”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Say it—your own free will,” Vivienne insisted, her dark eyes glowing.
Woodley complied, definitely puzzled, but willing to play along, since it obviously could do no harm. The girl smiled like an angel. “Now you are mine,” she said. “Or you will be, when you have passed Morgan’s testing. Come! It is not far, but—shall we fly?”
“Why not?” Woodley countered, grinning. “Let’s go.”
Vivienne obeyed. She lifted her arms, stood on tiptoe, and rose gently from the ground, swaying slightly in the breeze. Woodley remained perfectly motionless, looking at the spot where she had been.
Then he started violently, cast a quick glance around, and finally, with the utmost reluctance, tilted back his head.
There she was, floating down the gorge, looking back over her shoulder. “This way!” her silvery voice came back.
Automatically Woodley turned around and began to walk away. His eyes were slightly glazed. He was brooding over hallucinations—
“My love!” a voice cried from above.
There was a swoosh in the air behind him, reminding Woodley of a Stuka. He whirled, trying to dodge, and fell headlong into the stream. His temple thumped solidly against a rounded stone—and unconsciousness was definitely a relief.
He was back in his Bel-Air home, Woodley thought, waking up between silk sheets, with an ice pack on his head. The ice pack was refreshing, almost eliminating a dull, throbbing ache. A hangover—
He remembered. It wasn’t a hangover. He had fallen, and struck his head. But what had happened before that? Vivienne . . . oh! With a sickish feeling in his middle, Woodley recalled her words, and they had assumed a new and shocking significance.
But it couldn’t be true—
His eyelids snapped open. He was in bed, yes; but it wasn’t his bed, and he was looking up into the face of a . . . thing.
Superficially she was a girl, unadorned, and with a singularly excellent figure. But she was made of green jello. Her unbound hair looked like very fine seaweed, and floated in a cloud about her head. She drew back at Woodley’s movement, withdrawing her hand—which the man had mistaken for an ice pack.
“My lord,” she said, bowing low.
“Drearil,” Woodley muttered incoherently. “Must be. Wake up pretty soon. Green jello . . . technicolor—” He tapered off vaguely, looking around. He was between sheets of finest silk; the room itself had no windows, but a cool, colorless radiance filled it. The air was quite clear, yet it seemed to have—thickened. Woodley could trace the tiny currents in it, and the swirls as he sat up. The sheets fell away from his bare torso.
“D-dream,” said Woodley, not believing it for a moment.
“My lord,” said the green maiden, bowing again. Her voice was sweet and rather bubbly. “I am Nurmala, a naiad, here to serve you.”
Woodley experimentally pinched himself. It hurt. He reached out to seize Nurmala’s arm, and a horrifying thing happened. The naiad girl not only looked like jelly—she was jelly. It felt like squeezing a sack filled with cold mush. Cold and loathsome.
“The Lady Vivienne ordered me to watch over you,” Nurmala said, apparently unhurt. Her arm had resumed its normal contour. Woodley noticed that she seemed to waver around the edges as she went on, “Before sundown you must pass the testing Morgan le Fay has set you, and you will need all your mettle to do that.”
“What?” Woodley didn’t quite comprehend.
“You must slay that which lairs behind Shaking Rock,” Nurmala said. “Morgan—made it—this morning, and placed it there, for your testing. I swam out and saw—” She caught herself, with a quick glance around, and said swiftly, “But how can I serve you, lord?”
Woodley rubbed his eyes. “I . . . am I dreaming? Well, I want some clothes. And where am I?”
Nurmala went away, seeming to glide rather than walk, and returned with a bundle of garments, which Woodley took and examined. There was a knee-length blue samite tunic, with gold bands of embroidery upon it, linen drawers, long fawn-colored hose with leather soles, and a belt with a dagger in its sheath attached. On the bosom of the tunic was a design of a coiled snake with a golden star above its upraised, threatening head.
“Will you don them, lord? You are not dreaming—no.”
Woodley had already realized that. He was certainly awake, and his surroundings were quite as certainly—unearthly. The conclusions were obvious.
Meanwhile, he’d feel better with pants on. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll don them.” Then he waited. Nurmala also waited, cocking her head to one side in an interested way. Finally Woodley gave up, dragged the drawers under the sheets, and struggled into them in that position with some difficulty. Nurmala seemed disappointed, but said nothing.
So Vivienne’s words had been literally true! Good Lord, what a spot! Still—Woodley’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he adjusted his tunic. Once you took the initial improbable premise for granted, you were far safer. Magic—hm-m-m. In folklore and legends, humans had generally come off second best in encounters with fairy folk. The reason seemed fairly obvious. A producer could usually outbluff a Hollywood actor. The actor felt—was made to feel—his limitations. And supernatural beings, Woodley thought, had a habit of depending to a great extent on their unearthly background. It was sound psychology. Get the other fellow worried, and the battle is more than half won.
But if the other fellow didn’t bluff—if he kept his feet solidly on the ground, and used his head—the results should be different. Woodley hoped so. What had Vivienne—and Nurmala, the naiad—said about a testing? It sounded dangerous.
He held out his hand. Quite steady. And, now that he was dressed, Woodley felt more confident.
“Where’s a mirror?” he asked. Concentration on such down-to-earth details would help his mental attitude—
“Our queen mislikes them,” the naiad murmured. “There are none beneath the lake. But you cut a gallant figure, lord.”
“Lake? Queen? You mean Vivienne?”
“Oh, no,” said Nurmala, rather shocked. “Our queen is Morgan le Fay.” She touched the embroidered snake design on Woodley’s breast with a translucent forefinger. “The Queen of Air and Darkness. She rules, of course, and we all serve her—even the Lady Vivienne, who is high in favor.”
Morgan le Fay. Remembrance came to Woodley. He had a kaleidoscopic picture of knights in armor, distressed maidens shut up in towers, the Round Table, Launcelot and Arthur—Vivienne! Didn’t the legend say that Vivienne was the girl with whom the wizard Merlin had fallen in love?
And Morgan le Fay was the evil genius of the Arthurian cycle, the enchantress who hated the king, her half-brother, so bitterly—
“Look,” Woodley said. “Just how—”
“I hight Bohart!”
The words didn’t make sense. But they came from someone who, at least, looked human, despite his costume, almost a duplicate of Woodley’s, The man stood before a curtain that billowed with his passing, and his ruddy, long mustache bristled with fury. Over his tunic he wore a gleaming metal cuirass, and in his hand was a bare sword.
Nurmala bubbled faintly and retreated with a swish, “My lord Bohart—”
“Silence, naiad!” the other thundered, glaring at Woodley. “I name you knave, lackey, lickspittle, and traitor! Yes, you!”
Woodley looked helplessly at Nurmala. “It is Sir Bohart,” she said unhappily. “The Lady Vivienne will be furious.”
But it was the obvious fury of Sir Bohart himself that worried Woodley—that, and the sharp-edged sword. If—
“Draw!” the knight roared.
Nurmala interposed a tremulous objection. “He has no sword. It is not meet—”
Sir Bohart gobbled into his mustache and cast his blade away. From his belt he whipped a dagger that was the counterpart of Woodley’s. “We are even now,” he said, with horrid satisfaction. “Well?”
“Say you yield,” Normals whispered. “Quick!”
“I yield,” Woodley repeated obediently. The knight was not pleased.
“Knave! To yield without a struggle—Ha! Are you a knight?”
“No,” Woodley said before he thought, and Nurmala gasped in horror.
“My lord! No knight? But Sir Bohart can slay you now without dishonor!”
Bohart was moving forward, his dagger glittering, a pleased smile on his scarred face. “She speaks sooth. Now shall I slit your weasand.”
It sounded unpleasant. Woodley hastily put the bed between himself and the advancing knight. “Now wait a minute,” he said firmly. “I don’t even know who you are. Why should we fight?” Sir Bohart had not paused. “Craven dog! You take the Lady Vivienne from me, and then seek to placate me. No!”
They circled the bed, while the naiad bubbled a faint scream and fled. Robbed of even that slight moral support, Woodley felt his knees weaken. “I didn’t take Vivienne,” he urged. “I only just met her.”
Sir Bohart said, between his teeth, “For centuries I have dwelt here beneath the lake, since Arthur fell at Salisbury Plain. The Lady Vivienne loved me then—and in a hundred years I bored her. She turned to the study of goety. But I have been faithful, knowing always that some time I would win her back. Without a rival, I was sure of it. Now you have come to lure her from me—lackey cur! Ah-h!” The dagger’s sweep ripped cloth from Woodley’s sleeve as he nimbly dodged and caught up a metal vase from a tabouret. He hurled it at Bohart’s head. The vase bounced back without touching the knight. More magic, apparently.
“Maybe I am dreaming, after all,” Woodley groaned, jumping back.
“I thought that myself, for a while,” Bohart said conversationally, leaping across the bed and slashing out with his weapon. “Later, I knew I was not. Will you draw?”
