It was the quiet time of early afternoon, and his sighs were much too loud against the profound stillness of the bog.
The infrequent bideep of a restless peeper, or the brereep of a toad, or the surly grugump of a bullfrog only heightened the quietude. He soon fell silent, and then there was only the soft brush of the wind and now and then a distant splash as life and sudden death went on in the far reaches.
He became aware of the faint, small sound of a woman crying. She was weeping bitterly, with deep heart-rending sobs that brought the moisture to Kedrigern’s own eyes. The sound was faraway, as if diminished by distance, yet it seemed to come from nearby—as if a tiny woman were weeping her heart out almost within reach of his hand. And there was not a living creature near but himself, the donkey, and a scattering of toads seated on lily pads, a few so close he could reach out and touch them.
“Oh, woe! Woe and alas, to be a toad,” said the small, sad voice.
This was enchantment, no doubt of it. Some unfortunate woman had gotten herself turned into a toad, and now she was wailing away, hoping to arouse passers-by to pity. Pity, indeed, thought Kedrigern indignantly, hardening his heart. She needn’t look to me to solve her problem. Did she think he was going to go sloshing about in these chilly waters, kissing every toad in sight? “Weep away, madam,” he muttered under his breath. You probably deserve your fate. If I turn you back into a woman you’ll only insult witches, or lure travelers off to some isolated spot to have their heads bashed in. Twice fooled is enough, thank you.
The sound of weeping came again, very near. Kedrigern noticed, for the first time, a tiny green toad on a lily pad, so close he could make out every detail. For a toad, it was rather an attractive little creature. It had a certain dignity one does not expect of a toad. On its head, between the two big bulging eyes, was a tiny circlet of gold. Clearly, this was no ordinary toad. He began to relent a bit.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Forgive my intrusion, toad, but are you weeping?”
“Yes, I am,” came a tiny voice in reply. “And who would not weep at such a fate as mine? Oh, misery!”
“Come, now… is it really so bad being a toad?”
“It is when one was once the most beautiful princess in all the land,” came the indignant reply.
“Oh, dear. Yes, in that case, I imagine it is. I’m terribly sorry, toad.”
“Princess,” the little voice corrected him.
“Yes, of course, Princess. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize, good sir. Your sympathy does you credit. Alas, I need more than sympathy to escape my plight. I am the victim of wicked enchantment.”
“Well, now, I may be able to help you, Princess. I don’t suppose a kiss from me would do much good, but I know a reasonably handsome prince, and he owes me a favor. If you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure he’d be willing—”
“It wouldn’t help. I appreciate your kind offer, but a prince is useless in my case. I require a wizard. A very special wizard.”
“Indeed?”
“In all the world, only one wizard can help me—the great master of counterspells, Kedrigern of Silent Thunder Mountain. But alas, he remains aloof in his retreat, and never sets foot in the world below.”
“Never? Are you positive?”
“So I am told. Oh, sir, I’ve thought so long and deeply on Kedrigern that I feel as if I know him… and knowing him, I love him.”
“Do you know anything about this Kedrigern?”
“Only what is in my heart,” the wee voice said sweetly. “I know he must be handsome, and wise, and kind, and good.”
“He is,” Kedrigern assured her.
“And if he heard my tragic tale, he would assist me.”
“He will. You can count on it. Tell me, Princess: who placed this enchantment on you?”
“It was Bertha the Bog-fairy, kind sir.”
Kedrigern gave an involuntary groan, and was silent for a moment. Bog-fairies were a mean, tricky lot, and Bertha was one of the meanest and trickiest. Any spell of hers would carry a full freight of hidden traps for the unwary. Unless, of course, it had been cast impromptu.
“One thing more, Princess: was this enchantment the result of an outburst of pique on Bertha’s part, or was it premeditated?” he asked hopefully.
“It was very premeditated. The invitations to my christening were garbled somehow, and Bertha was overlooked. She took offense, and placed the spell. On my eighteenth birthday…just as I blew out the candles…” The little voice broke in a sob.
This complicated matters. Bertha, with time to plot and plan, had probably interlarded her basic enchantment with all sorts of traps and pitfalls to be triggered by any attempted counterspell. This unfortunate little toad might find herself transformed into a beautiful princess with an insatiable appetite for flies, or an uncontrollable desire to hunker down on a lily pad for the night.
Kedrigern had confidence in his powers. But he had been in his profession long enough to know the danger of overconfidence. Magic was a slippery business; even a few centuries’ experience was no guarantee against unpleasant surprises. In the midst of his ruminations came the tiny voice of Princess.
“Please, kind sir, help me if you can. Bring Kedrigern to me, or me to Kedrigern. I can go on no longer. Set me free,” she said piteously.
That resolved the issue for the wizard. Rising, he said solemnly, “It will be dangerous, Princess. Are you willing to take the risk?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Then hop up here, onto dry ground,” said Kedrigern, pointing to a litle knoll that rose between the ground and the bog’s edge. The toad did as instructed, and he said, “Good. Now stay very still. This won’t hurt a bit.”
“What are you going to do, sir?” she asked, and in her tiny voice was a note of apprehension.
“A counterspell. You’re about to become a princess, Princess. Now, not another word.”
Kedrigern drew a pouch from inside his shirt. He shook out five small black stones, each a perfect hemisphere about the size of his little fingernail, and set them in a pentacle around the motionless toad. From another pouch, he trickled a thin stream of sparkling silvery powder to form a runic figure. He walked three times around the knoll, muttering under his breath, then reversed himself and walked nine times around in the opposite direction.
This done, he took a pin from his tunic and pricked his finger—it was the part of the spell he disliked—and squeezed a single drop of blood into each of the interstices between the black stones. Now all was ready.
He stepped back, sucking his finger, to make a last-minute check. Then he raised his hands and began to speak in a soft, liquid language that rose and fell melodiously. He brought his hands together suddenly; a great thunderclap rolled over the silent bog, and a flicker of darkness like the swirl of a cloak passed over them.
On the knoll stood a woman in a gown of pale yelow and green, with a cloak of deeper green over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were wide with astonishment. Glistening jet-black hair tumbled in waves to her hips, restrained only by a simple golden circlet on her brow. She was the most beautiful woman Kedrigern had ever seen, or hoped to see, or imagined he ever would see, and all his heart went out to her at first sight.
He stepped forward, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. “Forgive me my deception, Princess. I am Kedrigern, the wizard of Silent Thunder Mountain, and when you spoke my name, I knew that some kind fate had brought me here. I was destined to free you from your enchantment. And now that you see me, tell me, are you disappointed? Am I all you hoped I’d be? Speak to me, Princess!”
She looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers. Her perfect features softened in a tender smile, and she opened her arms to him. “Brereep,” she said.
Four
when the spirit moves you
Kedrigern could not help peeking back over his shoulder every few minutes to reassure himself that this was all real, and not a deception placed upon him by s
ome rival. Each time he looked, Princess was still there. She had not turned back into a toad, or metamorphosed into a bundle of rags or a hideous old crone. If anything, she was more beautiful than ever.
And she—this vision of loveliness, this radiance—was Kedrigern’s bride.
He thought fondly of the hermit Goode, who lived his pious life in the wood bordering the Dismal Bog. Goode was a kindly, considerate, compassionate soul, not some prying snoop smouldering with unhealthy curiosity. It was not Goode’s way to ask for explanations of people’s little idiosyncrasies. He had been quite content to allow Princess to partake in the marriage ritual by means of written word and manual gesture, without insisting on oral response, thus sparing embarrassment and avoiding lengthy explanations. A good man, Goode.
Ahead of them, the road rose, curved to the right, and disappeared into the dense forest on the slope of the mountain. Kedrigern fell back to the side of the little donkey upon which Princess rode, and taking his wife’s hand, said, “That’s Silent Thunder Mountain just ahead, my dear. We’ll be home within the hour.”
“Brereep,” she said sweetly.
“Once we’re settled in, I’ll get right to work on finding a counterspell. We’ll have you talking again in no time.”
“Brereep,” she said, squeezing his hand gently.
“I’m sure you’ll like the place. It’s practically brand new. I had it built to my specifications by the best workmen in three kingdoms. It’s beautifully landscaped. Lovely little garden. Magnificent views.”
“Brereep?”
“Well, yes, there are a few things still to be done. A bachelor wizard living alone—practically alone—falls into fairly rough and ready ways. Now that there’s a lady of the house, we’ll need some furniture… dishes and goblets… silverware… draperies… rugs… linens… a lot of little things that a man living by himself overlooks.”
“Brereep,” she murmured uneasily.
“Oh, there’ll be no problem obtaining everything we need, my dear, no problem at all. I once did a small spell for Wuxul the Well Provided, and he rewarded me with a castle filled with the most sumptuous furnishings. Wuxul’s part of the kingdom is no fit place to live—the climate is filthy and the woods are crawling with alchemists and barbarians—so I’ve never taken advantage of the stuff, but we can have the best pieces brought up here.”
Princess smiled with obvious relief. Kedrigern kissed her hand, returned her radiant smile, and stepped out to lead the way up the narrow road. A guide was an absolute necessity; the road turned and branched and forked in a most confusing way, purposefully designed to discourage the idle wanderer and confound anyone bent on mischief. In the night, ghosts and hideous apparitions stalked the labyrinthine ways. Only the most determined traveler, with a lion’s courage, a migrating swallow’s sense of direction, and an excelent map, could hope to find the way to the house of Kedrigern without the aid of magic.
In less than an hour’s time they emerged from the shadowed cool of the overhanging trees into an upland meadow. At the far edge of the meadow, on the fringe of the forest, stood a trim little house with a large, well-tended garden. A sunny dooryard faced the south, and shade trees stood to the west.
Princess said nothing as they drew near the garden gate, but the look of pleasure in her blue eyes warmed Kedrigern’s heart.
This was a cozy place. All it had ever lacked was a woman’s warming presence, and now, with Princess as its chatelaine, it would be a perfect home.
He helped her dismount, and looked on proudly as she sniffed a flower, plucked a peapod, and with a slim hand shading her eyes, admired the prospect from the sunny dooryard. She turned to him, eyes bright with joy, lips parted, and then she suddenly gave a cry of horror and flew to his arms, where she buried her head in his shoulder and clung to him, trembling.
“What is it, my love?” he asked, bewildered.
“Brereep,” she said in a voice faint with terror.
“Oh, that,” he said, relieved, glancing at the doorway, where a grotesque litle creature stood gesticulating wildly in greeting.
“That’s only Spot, my dear. The house-troll. A handy thing to have around, believe me. It won’t hurt you.”
Spot had grown a bit. It was almost all head now, and a very ugly head, too, with its tiny eyes and bulging brows and scarcity of forehead; with its great hook of nose, like a drinking horn covered with warts; with its ledge of chin and hairy ears like wide-flung shutters.
Two great dirty feet splayed at the ends of the creature’s tiny legs, and hands like butter paddles jutted from its sides. The top of its mottled, warty, scurfy head reached just to the height of Kedrigern’s knee.
“Brereep,” said Princess, her voice muffled.
“Don’t be hasty. It’s almost impossible to get good help around here.”
“Brereep!”
“Spot is very strong. It can cook—if you give very clear directions. It cleans boots, tends the garden, dusts… It’s a dependable all-around servant. And a good mouser.”
Princess stopped shaking. She moved her head slowly around to take a second look at the house-troll. Spot was bouncing up and down on the doorstep now, crying out “Yah! Yah!” in jubilant welcome, waving its enormous hands and flapping its ears. It was an extremely ugly creature.
“See? It likes you,” Kedrigern said reassuringly.
“Brereep,” she murmured.
“No, really. Spot can be very friendly. I should have warned you about its appearance, though. I’m sorry you had such a start. I’ve become so accustomed to Spot that I scarcely notice it anymore.” Turning to the exultant troll, Kedrigern said, “Bring us a bottle of the best wine, Spot. And the silver goblets. And bring a slab of cheese, and some bread, too.”
“Yah!” the troll cried, and disappeared inside.
“Would you like to eat out here, my dear, and enjoy the sunset, or would you prefer to go inside?”
“Brereep,” said Princess, starting for the doorway.
She stepped inside, and halted. When her eyes had adjusted to the interior gloom, she gave a soft groan.
In the pursuit of his profession, Kedrigern was correct to the point of punctiliousness. Every ingredient of a spell was told out exactly, every syllable pronounced with precision; he tolerated no makeshifts, accepted no substitutes, permitted no stopgap measures. This was not a question of conscience or temperament, it was a matter of survival.
Magic was an iffy business even when practiced with care. One botched ingredient in a spell, and there was no predicting the outcome.
But in the nonprofessional area of his life, Kedrigern was casual to the point of anarchy. It mattered little to him whether clothing lay heaped on a chair or footstool, or in a corner, until the passing of the seasons recalled it to active use. Dust, unsteady tables, stains and spills did not trouble him, as long as they were confined to the living area.
Making a bed seemed to him an enterprise of consummate futility, on a par with ostentatious use of tableware. A single plate, cup, and utensil were enough for anyone, he believed; and by a careful choice of food, one might even dispense with the utensil.
From the look of dismay on her face, he could see that Princess followed a different school of domestic economy.
She looked like one who has been promised a scepter, and handed a shovel.
“Bit of tidying up to do,” he said cheerfully. Princess turned and glared at him, and he explained, “I’ve been away for a while. Things get messy.”
She said “Brereep” under her breath, and slowly scanned the room, shaking her head.
“I’ll have Spot get to work on it at once.”
She did not reply, merely shook her head in mute censure. The furniture—what little there was of it, and such of that as was visible under heaped garments—looked as if it had been hurled into the room from a great height and then trodden upon by giants. The floor was thickly covered with rugs which, in turn, were thickly covered with dust, dirt, and a vari
ety of unidentifiable objects. Small bright eyes peered at her from the corners, then disappeared into trembling webs of heroic size. Here and there, on shelves and under tables, things moved.
“Not bothered by the occasional spider, are you, my dear? ‘They’re practically part of the family. Quiet little chaps.”
“Brereep?”
“They’re Manny’s descendents, every one. Manny was with me for a long time. He stayed on in my old place when I moved here. Just couldn’t bring himself to leave it. I imagine it’s all one big web by now.” Kedrigern sighed nostalgically and gazed at Manny’s progeny in fond reminiscence. Taking Princess’s hand, he said, “Why don’t we have our wine and cheese out under the trees, my dear? Spot can clean up in here while I show you the grounds.”
“Brereep,” she said noncommittally.
“Before we go out, I’d like you to see something,” said Kedrigern, leading her to another room where a massive carven chest stood against one wall, covering most of it. “It may be some time before we can locate a sempstress, and meanwhile you might find a few things here.”
He raised the heavy lid and propped it in place. She looked at the contents of the chest and gave a little gasp of astonishment and pleasure. Rich silks and samite and satins, gleaming damask and glittering brocades, smooth linens and glossy lampas shone in the beam of fading light from the far window. Gold and precious stones winked in the recesses of the chest as Kedrigern raised a lantern to assist her inspection.
“Brereep?”
“They were given me by Ulurel, a very kindly sorceress I once assisted,” Kedrigern explained. “She knew your measurements. She could read the future.”
He took her arm, and they withdrew to the shade of the trees, where Spot had laid out a light collation. The goblets were slightly tarnished; otherwise, everything was just right. The evening was pleasantly cool, the food was tasty, the wine superb. In the gentle twilight, Princess saw her surroundings at their most beautiful, and her mood began to soften. Noises suggesting the migration of entire nations came from within, and when they returned to the house, Princess found the great room emptied of furniture, dust, and cobwebs. She smiled at Kedrigern, and gave Spot a gingerly pat on its warty head.
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