All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  "There isn't time to reach the castle," Duncan said. "Besides, Snoopy warned us of the castle."

  Daniel was at his right hand, Andrew at his left, Beauty and Meg next, with Conrad and Tiny anchoring the left.

  "Meg, what are you doing here?" demanded Duncan. "Get out of here. Run for your life."

  She cackled at him. "I can bite and scratch," she squealed. "I can kick. I can summon up some magic."

  "A pox on your magic," Andrew told her. "Those coming at us are the ones with magic."

  The hairless ones came slowly down the hill with their lumbering gait, the clubs in their hamlike fists held ready. Behind them rolled the cloud of fog that now seemed shot through with lightning bolts, flaring as it seethed. Within it loomed horrific shapes, revealed momentarily by the lightning flares, then shut from sight by the roiling of the fog.

  The last rays of the sun still touched the top of the hills to the north, but in the valley, shadows were beginning to creep across the land.

  Duncan held his sword at ready and was pleased to find that there was no fear in him. It was useless, he told himself, to attempt to make a stand before such a force. The hairless ones would strike them and for a moment there would be a flurry of fighting, then the hairless ones and the monstrosities coming on behind them would roll over their thin line and that would be the end of it. But what was a man to do? Run, to be hunted down and dragged down, like a fleeing animal? Collapse upon his knees and plead for mercy when he knew there would be no mercy? Simply stand and take death as it came? No, by God, he told himself, he'd fight and when it was all over, once it all was known, there'd be no shame at Standish House.

  For a moment he remembered, as clearly as if he stood before him, that old man at Standish House, with his plumb-line upright body, his rugged face with the short clipped mustache, his gray hair and the clear, honest grayness of his eyes. The kind of a man, Duncan knew, that a son could never shame.

  He raised his sword as the foremost hairless one came toward him. Another step, he told himself. The hairless one took the other step, his club raised and already beginning to come down. Duncan chopped with his blade. He felt, rather than saw, the striking into flesh. Then the hairless one was falling and another took his place. The sword slashed out again, missed the stroke that he had intended, deflected by the club, but took off the club arm just above the elbow. Beside him Daniel was screaming in battle rage, as only a fighting horse could scream, standing on his hind legs, striking out with his forelegs, crushing skulls, bowling over the hairless ones as they leaped at him. To Duncan's left Andrew was tugging to free his staff from the belly of one of the attackers. Another hairless one aimed a club at him as he was tugging at the staff, but before the club could strike Duncan brought his sword down, slicing open the throat of the thing that held the club.

  Duncan lost track of time. There was no past, no future, simply a bloodstained, straining present in which he thrust and struck, as if somewhere back there someone was lining up the hairless ones for him to strike at, as if it were some sort of silly game, replacing the one that went down with another that came charging in upon him to supply him with another target for his swordsmanship. It seemed to him incredible that he could keep on, but he did keep on.

  Quite suddenly there was in front of him not a hairless one, but a spitting, vicious fury that was all claws and fangs, black as the deepest pit of night, oozing loathsomeness, and in a flare of blinding hatred, a hatred he had not felt against the hairless ones, he brought down the blade upon it, hewing it in half.

  Something struck him from one side and he lost his balance, going over. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw what had struck him. A raging griffin, poised with beating wings over the swirling cloud of fog, which was still streaked by lightning flashes, was reaching down with grasping claws and stabbing beak, slashing, clawing, stabbing, rending the things that hid inside the cloud. Leaning from the griffin's back, a woman clad in a leather jacket, the red-gold glory of her hair streaming in the battle wind, wielded a shining battle axe that was smeared with the red of blood and black ichor such as had spouted from the body of the spitting fury Duncan had killed.

  As Duncan surged to his feet he heard the thunder of hoofs coming from above him, as if they were riding down the sky, the sudden blaring of a hunting horn, and the deep bay of hunting dogs.

  He took a step forward and stumbled again, coming down with one knee across the fallen body of the hermit. Ahead of him a hairless one was shambling forward, rocking on his bowed legs, heading for Tiny, who was systematically tearing apart a horror that squealed and shrieked. Duncan lunged to his feet, surged toward the hairless one. The point of his blade took it in the throat, and the club, coming down, thudded into the ground, falling short of Tiny.

  Then the thunder of the hoofs and the deep hoarse baying of the hunting dogs seemed to fill the valley, and down out of the sky they came—black silhouettes of horse and rider and hunting dogs—fog-draped shadows that still had some substantiality, and a howling wind came with them that almost blew Duncan from his feet.

  The Wild Huntsman and his pack swooped down to tear through the roiling bank of fog that concealed the hideous shapes with the obscene teeth and beaks and talons, emerged again, climbing in the sky, then wheeled to return.

  Atop the griffin, her high-lifted battle axe dripping blood and ichor, Diane shouted at Duncan. "The castle! Run for your life. Run to the castle!"

  Duncan turned to pick up Andrew, but the hermit was getting to his feet, using his staff to pull himself erect. One side of his face was raw, the blood dripping from his wispy beard onto his tattered robe.

  "To the castle," Duncan shouted at him. "Run. As fast as you can go."

  Diane still was shouting, "Everyone to the castle. It's your only chance."

  Duncan reached for Daniel, grabbed him by the mane.

  "Daniel, come," he shouted.

  There were no longer any of the hairless ones charging in upon them. The fog bank lay in tatters, the lightning flashes gone, and a mass of dark shapes were hopping and running, crawling and wriggling up the hillside.

  Duncan spun around to look for Conrad and saw him limping toward the ruined castle, one hand gripping the collar of a raging Tiny, dragging the dog along. Meg and Beauty were running a footrace for the castle, Meg hobbling and wobbling in a frantic effort to keep pace with the little burro. Andrew stumped along behind them, angrily striking at the ground with his staff.

  "Come, Daniel," Duncan said and set off at a swinging pace, the big horse following.

  Looking over his shoulder, Duncan saw the Huntsman and his pack in a sharp climb up the sky. He heard a swirl of leathery wings and saw Diane and the griffin also heading for the castle.

  The canted standing stones were just ahead of him and as he ran toward them, he wondered what kind of safety might be offered by the castle. If the Evil forces and the remaining hairless ones attacked again, and probably they would as soon as they had reassembled, he and his band would have to fight again. They would be fighting, this time, with the castle mound to protect their backs, but even so, how long could they hope to stand against such a force? It was sheer good luck they had made the stand they had. Had it not been for the intervention of Diane and the Huntsman, they now would all be dead. And the Wild Huntsman, he wondered. Why had this wild rider of the skies taken a hand in it? What interest could have brought him to it?

  He looked quickly behind him and saw the irregular lumps of the dead hairless ones lying in a ragged row. The hairless ones and the other things as well—the spitting fury that he had sliced in two, the squawling thing that Tiny had torn apart, and perhaps there were others of them, too.

  He passed between two of the standing stones, Daniel pacing at his side, and as he stepped between them, the grass beneath his feet turned from unkempt meadow grass to a well-kept, pampered velvet lawn.

  Startled, he looked up and gasped at what he saw. The castle mound was gone. In its place stood a spl
endid castle, a building out of fairyland, brand new and shining, stone steps leading up to a great front entrance that was agleam with candlelight and with lights showing as well in some of the many windows.

  The griffin stood humped upon the lawn in front of him and Diane, in her leather breeches and her leather jacket, her hair a golden glory in the fading light from out the west, still carrying the gory battle axe, was walking across the lawn toward him.

  She stopped a few feet from him and made a little curtsy.

  "Welcome," she said, "to the Castle of the Wizards."

  All the rest of them were there, standing on the sweep of immaculate lawn, their heads tilted up to stare at the castle, all of them, more than likely, as puzzled as he was.

  He still was carrying the naked sword in his fist, and he lifted it, unthinking, to place it in the scabbard, but Diane made a motion to stop him.

  "Not," she said, "until you wipe it clean. Here." One hand went to her throat and pulled free the white stock that she wore.

  "Use this," she said, holding it out to him.

  "But I would not want to…"

  "Go ahead," she said. "I have plenty of others. This is an old one, anyhow."

  "I could manage with some grass."

  She shook her head and he took from her the length of fabric. It was fine of weave and silky to the touch.

  "With your permission, ma" am," he said.

  Carefully he wiped and polished the blade until there was not a fleck upon it.

  "Give the rag to me," she said. Hesitantly, he handed the stained piece of cloth to her and she, in turn, used it to clean the battle axe.

  "It was good sport," she said. "Good hunting."

  He shrugged in bewilderment. "Yes, it turned out that way. We were in a bad way for a time, until you and the Huntsman showed up. Tell me, what has the Huntsman to do with all of this? For that matter, what have you? And this castle…"

  "I've told you," she said. "This is the Castle of the Wizards. Once you pass the magic circle you stand on enchanted ground."

  Conrad came limping up, followed by Tiny.

  "What happened to you?" asked Duncan.

  Conrad swung slowly around to show the bloody gash that ran from thigh to knee. "Something raked me. I think that thing, whatever it was, that Tiny tore apart. But you are all right, m" lord."

  "Knocked down by a griffin's wing, that's all."

  He put his hand up to his forehead and it came away sticky with clotting blood.

  "I'm sorry about that," said Diane. "At times Hubert tends to get a little awkward. But it's really not his fault. He is so old, you know." She said to Conrad, "You better had come in. That gash…"

  "It will heal," said Conrad. "I have taken worse."

  "There could be poison in it. There are unguents that will take care of that. I'm well schooled in salves and potions."

  "My thanks," said Conrad, trying to be courtly, but not quite making it.

  Glancing back at the circle of standing stones, Duncan saw that now they were all in place and correctly seated. Now there was no cant to them. Lying squarely on top of them, in their proper places, were the lintel stones. All the stones, the lintels and the standing ones, were new and white, shining faintly in the fading light, as if they had been carved only yesterday.

  "I don't understand," he said to Diane. "The stones all standing, the castle new and shining, this lawn, the stone benches on the lawn, the shrubs and trees, the little pools, the paths, all so neatly landscaped."

  "It is an enchanted place," she said. "A special place. Outside the magic circle it all seems a ruin, as it rightly should be, for it was raised many centuries ago. But once inside the circle it is as it always has been since the day it was created. Here time and the ravages of time are held at bay. At one time many powerful wizards lived here and they possessed great secrets. They could hold the world and time at arm's length. They could…"

  "At one time, you said. And now?"

  "Now one wizard still lives here. He is the last of them."

  He started to ask another question, but clamped shut his mouth before the words came out.

  She laughed a merry laugh at him. "You were about to ask about myself."

  "I have no right, milady."

  "I don't mind telling you. I have wizard blood."

  "You a wizard?"

  She shook her head. "No. I have tried to be. I wanted to be. I have found I'm not. Wulfert. You remember that I asked of Wulfert."

  "Yes, I do remember."

  She said, "Wulfert was my great-grandfather. But we stand here talking when we should be going in. Your big comrade needs something on that wound. And there may be other injuries. You have a scratch upon your head. All of you, I suppose, are half starved."

  Conrad brightened visibly. "I could do with food," he said. "And a little drink should you have it. Fighting's thirsty work."

  "You must excuse him," Duncan said. "He has no shame at all."

  "We have no staff," said Diane. "Not a single servant. There was a day when the castle did have servants everywhere, when there were people here who might have need of servants. But now there really is little need of them and it is hard to find the kind of faithful servitors that one would want. There is not a great deal to do. The preparation of food, the making of beds, such small chores as that. The enchantment takes care of all the rest."

  "In a rough fashion, milady," said Conrad, "m" lord and I can cook, and I suppose old Meg as well. The hermit I don't know about. At best he is a simple soul."

  "Well, get along," said Diane. "The larder is well stocked. It always is well stocked. We'll not go hungry."

  With Duncan on one side of her, Conrad on the other, she led the way toward the long flight of broad, wide steps that went up to the castle's entrance. Meg fell in behind them.

  "We'll find meat for the dog," said Diane. "The lawn will provide good pasturage for the horse and burro."

  "We thank you, milady," Duncan said. "Your hospitality is above and beyond all courtesy. What you did in helping us today…"

  "The help was mutual," she said. "You did as much for us as I and Hubert did for you. You lured the Evil out and struck a mighty blow against them. You made them smart. Cuthbert will be pleased. It is something he would have done himself had he not been so old and feeble and so very much alone. You see, I am the only one he has. All his old comrades are gone."

  "Cuthbert?"

  "He is the wizard that I spoke of. The last of a mighty band of wizards. But now all the rest are gone and he has lost much of his former power because of the loss of his companions, although he would deny that should it be mentioned. I am very careful not to mention it."

  "You say he is old and sick. I did not know…"

  "Wizards are not supernatural beings," said Diane. "Certainly you know that. They are merely men of great knowledge in certain arcane subjects and therefore able to accomplish many wondrous things, but they are not immune to the common ills and woes of mankind. I had meant to come back to the church and village where we first met, but when I returned I found Cuthbert very ill and have remained here since, nursing him."

  "And how is he now?"

  "Much better, thank you. It's his own fault, perhaps. When I leave he forgets to eat. He gets so busy that he forgets to eat. Old as he is, he needs proper nourishment."

  They came to the foot of the long stairs and began to climb them. Halfway up, Duncan looked back and saw that outside the circle of standing stones stood a heavy growth of trees.

  "Those trees were not there before," he said.

  "What trees?" Diane asked.

  "The trees outside the circle."

  "You don't understand," she said. "From this place you see everything the way it was when the castle was created. At the time it came into being this land was wilderness, with only a few wild tribes or occasional hunters following the few paths that ran across it."

  They continued their climb and finally came to the great entrance, whi
ch led into a large room, a sort of reception hall, thought Duncan. The floor was of well-fitted, colorful flagstone, and from it ran up several other short stone staircases leading to other parts of the castle. Candelabra set in the walls flared with thick waxen candles, lending a soft light to the hail.

  In the center of the hall stood a six-foot column of stone, three feet through, and at the sight of what crouched atop it, Duncan and all the others stopped short in their tracks.

  "Come on," said Diane impatiently. "It is only Scratch. There is no need to fear him. I assure you he's quite tame and harmless."

  Slowly they went forward, the creature on top of the column watching them intently. The creature spoke to them. "Only Scratch, she says, and she speaks right, as she always does, for she is a very truthful and even a kindly person. You see before you, either for your pity or your contempt, a demon straight from the pits of Hell."

  "He always dramatizes," said Diane. "He stops all who visit to tell his story to them. There's no one now, of course, who can judge how true it is, but he has much to tell. Give him the opportunity and he'll talk an arm off you."

  "But what is he?" asked Duncan.

  "He is what he told you, a demon out of Hell. He has served as doorkeeper here for almost as long as the castle has existed."

  "That is what they designate me," said Scratch, "but I keep no door. I am chained here to this column as a subject for ridicule by humans, who more often than not make great sport of me. Rather, it seems to me, I should be an object of deep pity, the most unfortunate of creatures, a runaway from my place of origin, but not a true resident of this palace of opulence and glory. Gaze upon me, please, and see if I tell you wrong. See my crumpled horn, observe the hump upon my back, the clubfoot that I carry, my crippled hands, clenched and held as in a vise by arthritis, the result of the foul and damp and chilly climate of this most barbarous of countries."

  "Scratch, shut up," Diane said sharply.

  "And please," said Scratch, "look upon my tail which, along with his horns, is the pride of any demon. Look upon it and tell me if it seems a thing of pride. Broken in three places and never set properly, although the setting of it would have been as child's play for any competent chirurgeon."