by Tom McGowen
“Och, ye never heard my cousin Duncan MacGregor,” said Rob Roy. “He’s the one we want.”
“Nay then, ‘tis Tam Farquahar o’ Inch,” said a barefooted and bewhiskered Highlander, whose sole garment seemed to be a kilt. “Why, he could play the pipes in a way to charm the wild boars oot o’ the woods to listen”
“What aboot Ian Beg who piped for the Chisholms at Culloden?” asked another Highlander. “He piped on the ancient Black Chanter which had magical powers.”
“Och, it should be Alan Davidson,” insisted a ghost in the kilt of Clan Davidson. Another ghost, wearing the kilt of Clan MacPherson, turned to look at him. Unfortunately, these two clans had frequently feuded bloodily with one another.
“What would a Davidson know o’ pipe music,” sneered the MacPherson. “They all have donkey’s ears.”
In a single motion, the Davidson whipped out his claymore, and with a smooth backhand slash cut off the MacPherson’s head. Since the MacPherson was a ghost, his head stayed on his shoulders, however.
“That was a foul blow!” he yelled, drawing his own claymore. “I’ll pay ye back wi’ a fair one.”
In an instant, dirks, claymores, and broadswords were flashing in the moonlight as the ghostly army swiftly took sides. A civil war seemed imminent.
Angus, watching from the forest’s edge, thought that this was the first time since he had met him, that Merlin seemed at a loss for what to do. The wizard clutched his beard and stamped his foot. “Scotsmen,” he groaned. “With the fate of the world at stake, they start a brawl over who can best play an instrument that sounds like a cat having its tail pulled!”
Help suddenly appeared from an unexpected source. “ATTENTION,” roared an exceptionally loud voice. It was Sergeant Major Small.
When a Scottish Sergeant Major gives a command, the sound is like a combination of a lion roaring at the top of its lungs and a bull elephant bellowing in rage. The effect it produced was immediate. Every ghost who had ever served in a Scottish regiment snapped to attention in an instant. The other knights and warriors were so startled that they put down their weapons and stared. The Sergeant Major strode toward them, his kilt wagging and his moustache bristling fiercely above a jutting chin.
“Now then,” he roared, “stop this nonsense! Call yourselves soldiers? Why you’re nothing but a bunch of thick-skulled, half-witted recruits who haven’t the sense to wipe your own noses! Straighten up, you!” he bellowed at a man in the uniform of the army that had fought the French in 1815. He made a grab for the man’s musket, but his hand passed through it. “I’ll bet that bore is filthy. When’s the last time you cleaned it?”
“Aboot a hundred and fifty years ago, sir,” said the man in a frightened voice.
“I thought so!” exclaimed Small. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”
“I couldna help it, sir,” said the man. “I been dead since then.”
“That’s no excuse!” roared Small. “Turn yourself in for punishment detail after the battle. Now then,” he continued in a lower voice, “I agree ye need a piper, but ye’ll no get anywhere brawlin’ aboot it. So I’ll just ask the wizard here to call up the five greatest pipers in Scotland’s history and that settles the matter. STAND AT EASE!”
A ghostly officer, who had fought in the army of the Duke of Marlborough in 1704, turned to another who wore a uniform of the 1890’s. “I guess Sergeant Majors don’t change much, do they?” he remarked. “This one sounds just like the one my regiment had two hundred and fifty years ago.”
“He even looks like the one my regiment had,” replied the other.
So once again Merlin performed his intricate maneuvers around the guttering fire, intoned his incantation and flung up his arms. “Let the five greatest pipers who ever dwelled in this land now waken and come forth!” he commanded.
There was a surging billow of smoke, and one at a time, five kilted figures, each carrying a set of pipes tucked under its arm, stepped out. There were whispers of satisfaction as members of the ghostly army recognized men they knew or had heard of.
“Now ye can do this properly,” stated Small. “I suggest ye form ranks under the command o’ Wallace and the Bruce and march at once to Stonehenge. Pipers, ye’re goin’ to battle in England. Give the laddies ‘Blue Bonnets Oe’r the Border.’“
Expertly, the pipers tucked the bags of their instruments under their arms, threw the drones over their shoulders, and inflated the bags with deep puffs of breath. In a moment the drones began to hum, and the chanters wailed a wild, stirring march. Led by William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, the ranks of the ghostly army began to march off.
“Take us to Stonehenge,” commanded Merlin, and the broom, with wizard and robot astride it, rose and soared off into the night. Simon Smith watched it go with open mouth.
“No, no!” he yelled. “They can’t do that! It’s impossible!”
“Ye’d better run after and tell them then,” observed Angus, who had come to stand beside the fire. “They don’t seem to know it,” he added drily.
Simon glared at him. Rubbing out the equation on which he’d been working, which proved that ghosts could not exist, he began to work on one proving that brooms could not fly.
Chapter
11
The strange circle of huge, rectangular stones loomed dark and ominous in the moonlight which palely lit one side of each stone, leaving the other sides nearly obscured in inky blackness. For thousands of years Stonehenge had stood on this lonely plain, each of the twenty-foot tall, forty-ton columns gradually eroding and pitting with the passage of time; many finally falling down, some lying atop others. They were ancient when Arthur ruled Britain, ancient even when the Roman Legions of Caesar came to the British Isles. Stonehenge is still shrouded in mystery and legend, and many of the legends are dark with blood and terror.
But there was no terror in the grim army assembled outside the ring of stones on the side away from the highway. None of these bearded, kilted, and armored men had known fear while they lived, and they certainly felt none now.
“The sword is buried in the center of the center of the circle,” said Merlin. “No mortal man can reach it while the evil spirits which dwell among these stones protect it with their spell of terror. But you who are ghosts yourselves cannot be affected by this spell. Strike out now, for the freedom of the world!”
Robert the Bruce raised his great ax. “For freedom and Bonnie Scotland,” he called. Again the pipes began to shrill, and the army surged forward toward the stones.
And suddenly, hundreds of other figures appeared before the ring of stones, seeming to ooze up from the ground. They were not pale and clear as were the ghosts of the Scottish warriors, but gray and shadowy. They were the shapes of squat, long-haired men clad in black-dyed, crudely sewn robes of animal skin. Their shadowy faces were twisted with hatred, and they brandished spears tipped with sharpened stones. The force of terror and evil that pulsed forth from them was so powerful that it struck Merlin like a blow.
But it affected the Scottish ghosts not at all. With wild yells that blended into a single great whispered roar, they broke into a furious headlong charge. Both sides battled as they had when they were living, breathing men of flesh and blood. But neither side could injure the other, nor could either side tire. Swords and axes sheered through shadowy bodies, spears passed into and through pale, kilted shapes. A man can die but once, and none of the ghostly warriors in this battle could be killed by even the most terrible of blows.
So the two sides remained locked in combat, straining to force each other back. Desperately, Merlin looked at the sky. “We must win soon,” he groaned, “or daylight will be upon us and our army will fade. Oh, by the blood of the Red Dragon, if only I could do something.”
Something is taking place which your senses are insufficient to observe,” intoned the robot standing silver and immobile. “I perceive that the defenders of the ring of stones have been pushed back thirteen and seven eighths inches.”
Merlin knew that the robot’s infallible vision and ability to compute were completely reliable. At the top of his lungs he shouted, “You’re beating them, Scots! You’re pushing them back!”
Merlin’s yell of encouragement was the final spark that was needed. The bagpipes screamed, and with yells of triumph the Scots ghosts pushed forward. The shadowy figures were now noticeably giving ground, gnashing their teeth in rage and frustration. And abruptly, they began to vanish.
In twos and threes, then in dozens, the snarling, skinclad figures winked out of existence. Suddenly they were all gone, and gone too, was the power that had held Merlin back.
“Come, MacHinery, quickly,” called the wizard, and he sprinted into the ring of stones, passing right through the victorious Scottish ghosts. Some were milling about giving shouts of laughter and whoops of triumph in their thin, spirit voices, and many were dancing a fling to the tune of the pipes.
Reaching the very center of the ring, Merlin stopped, pointed his finger straight down toward the earth beneath his feet, and spoke a half dozen words in a strange sounding tongue. Then he cried, “Sword of Galahad, arise!”
Deep within the earth there was a rumbling. The ground shuddered and the huge stones of the circle swayed slightly. The ghosts grew silent, watching in awe. The ground at Merlin’s feet split open, and a sword in a scabbard rose swiftly, hilt first, straight up out of the fissure until only a few inches of its tip remained imbedded. It was a beautiful weapon. The hilt was of ivory, carved in a winding, grooved pattern so that it would not slip in the user’s hand, and the pommel was an enormous blood red ruby carved into the shape of a lion’s head. The crosspiece was of steel, inlaid with gold and silver, and the scabbard was of shimmering green dragon skin, bound with gold.
Merlin glanced at the robot. “Champion, take up the Sword of Power,” he said in a voice of triumph. The wind was ruffling his hair and beard, and his eyes were blazing.
The robot grasped the hilt of the sword with both hands and lifted it free of the earth, swinging it in a great arc as he did so, so that the point was aimed at the sky above. From the ground under the stones there came a faint wailing; weak but filled with anger and hatred.
“Let us move outside this cursed ring lest the shadow folk rally and attack us again,” said Merlin. Swaggering and lounging indifferently, the ghosts of the victorious army also left the circle and gathered about the wizard and the robot.
Merlin appraised the grinning, kilted, and mailed figures for a moment or two. Then he placed his right hand upon his heart and bowed low in sincere respect.
“Fighting men of all ages,” he said, straightening and facing them, “believe me when I tell you that you have fought one of the greatest of all your fights. I have seen many battles and watched the greatest warriors of Arthur’s Round Table in combat against their foes, but I speak truly when I say that none but you could have bested the dark guardians of Stonehenge.”
“Now we must fight our battle against the demons and their terrible leader. You have done your part, and great one it was, in helping us gain the weapon with which we can win.”
William Wallace spoke for all. “I am glad our part was well done. Good fortune to you in yours.”
Again the wizard bowed his head. Then he raised a hand, palm outward, toward the ghostly army. “And now I release you. Warriors, return to your rest,” he said gently. “And the blessings and thanks of the world be with you.”
Slowly, the pale figures began to fade. There were whispered shouts of “Gude luck to ye,” and “Give ‘em a blow for me,” and then Merlin and MacHinery, holding the sword, were alone on the plain outside the circle of standing stones.
Merlin smiled. Half to himself he murmured, “And never again shall I say that a bagpipe sounds like a cat having its tail pulled.” The breeze ruffled his beard and he glanced skyward. “Dawn is but a few hours away,” he observed. “We must return to Maggie MacMurdoch’s cave. There is still much to do and little time in which to do it.”
Merlin and the robot had been gone but a few minutes when a single patch of gray fog began moving across the plain toward the circle. Oddly, it was moving against the faint breeze that blew. Reaching the stones, it flowed in among them, moving toward the very center of the ring. When it came upon the cleft in the ground from which the sword had arisen, it suddenly coiled backward, like a surprised snake. For a moment it writhed and twisted violently as though in great turmoil, even though the breeze had completely ceased to blow. Then, moving quickly, it seeped out of the ring and was lost in the darkness of the plain.
It was early morning, and the small group of demon fighters were once again gathered together in Maggie’s magic room. Simon Smith once again inspected his creation, thoughtfully slid his hand up the blade of the great sword, then gazed at the wizard.
“All right, Merlin, you’ve got your magic sword, and MacHinery, as you persist in calling him, seems to be in perfect operating condition,” he announced. “Now what?”
Merlin’s eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep, and he rubbed them wearily. “First, I must get some rest,” he answered apologetically. “Then we shall have a council of war and I will explain my plans and welcome any suggestions you care to make.”
“Well, I slept last night while you were out fighting ghosts,” said Simon, “so I think I’ll take a little walk while you’re sleeping. I admit that I’ve seen, or I seem to have seen, some things which I still consider impossible, and I have some thinking to do.”
“ ‘Tis not a gude day fer walkin’,” remarked Angus. “ ‘Tis gray and foggy wi’ no sign o’ the sun.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” answered Simon. “But I think better when I’m alone, and if you’re all going to be snoring in here, you’ll interrupt my concentration.”
Merlin smiled, and tilting his chair back, closed his eyes. “Do not stray too far into the forest, friend Smith,” he urged, drowsily. “In a fog, it would be easy to get lost.”
“I won’t,” grunted the physicist, ambling toward the passageway. “Can I get back through the barrier when I want to, Mrs. MacMurdoch?”
The witch’s head was nodding, for she had stayed anxiously awake all night awaiting Merlin’s return. “Aye.” she mumbled. “It will raise and lower for any o’ us, but for no other.”
Simon departed. The door swung open at his approach, which made him frown, and closed after he had passed through it. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the cliff wall again appeared blank. There was no sign of a door inside the shallow cave. He shook his head uncertainly.
The sky was completely overcast, and the trees at the far edge of the clearing were pale, fuzzy shapes, shrouded in gray, hanging mist. As he crossed the clearing and neared them, their outlines sharpened, and he found the path easily. He walked a short distance into the woods until he came to a fallen tree beside the path. Seating himself on this, he put his chin in his cupped hand and began to think aloud:
“I live in the twentieth century. I am educated in twentieth century technological concepts. I understand how and why things work as they do. An internal combustion engine might have seemed like magic to an ancient Greek, but he could have built an internal combustion engine, if he’d had the proper tools, because it operates on ordinary, physical laws. But a flying broom does not! Ghosts do not! There can be no such thing as a nonmaterial being because everything is composed of material—even light! Now these ghosts could have been gaseous, but then what enabled them to hold their shapes? What enabled them to talk?”
Picking up a dry, pointed twig, he bent over and began to scratch a series of equations on the bare dirt of the path. As he worked he lost all track of time. A half hour might have passed or even two hours, but suddenly a voice broke into his thoughts.
“Ye’ll pardon me fer askin’,” it said. “But what in the name of Auld Clootie be ye doin’ there?”
With a start, Simon glanced up. Standing on the path a few feet from him was
a tall, elderly man with a pleasant, wrinkled face covered with a stubble of beard and crowned with a mane of tousled gray hair. He wore a kilt, plaid stockings, and heavy walking shoes around which the white mist was curling. A bulky sweater covered his upper body, and a knapsack was strapped to his back. He leaned on a sturdy, knobbed walking stick.
“I wanted to do some thinking,” said Simon, shortly. He felt like adding “by myself,” but his natural good nature kept him from being rude.
“Ye’ll pardon me fer askin’,” said the man, eyeing him curiously, “but those be strange marks ye’re makin’. Is it a furrin language?”
Simon sighed. He saw that he had a conversation on his hands with this nosey and talkative old Highlander, whether he wanted one or not. “I’m what you’d call a scientist—a physicist, to be exact. And those are called equations. They’re a sort of arithmetic.”
“Now that’s interestin’. I never met one before. What does a fizzysist do?”
Simon did the best he could to explain. Picking up a small stone, he threw it in an arc until it vanished into the mist. They heard it land with a thump somewhere nearby “A physicist,” said Simon carefully, “wants to know why that stone took the path it did. Why it didn’t wiggle instead of sailing straight. Why it didn’t just drop out of my hand. How long it will stay in the air depending on how hard you throw it.”
The other scratched his chin. “What good is it to wonder about such things?”
“Because,” said Simon gently, “they are problems to be solved that can help us solve other problems. Like measuring the path that the moon takes around the earth,” replied Simon, knowing that this would be meaningless to the old Scotsman.
“But what good is it to know that?” asked the man.
“You can’t understand,” sighed Simon. “You see, I just like to know about these things. And when I bump into a problem that doesn’t make sense, I can’t rest until I work it out.”
“Ah,” said the old man. With his stick he pointed at the equations. “And what sort of problem is it that ye’re tryin’ to solve wi’ those—eekwayshuns, did ye call ‘em?”