Savagely he grasped her wrists. She screamed to me for aid and struggled. I came near but halted, playing my usual impotent part. He swore at her, bellowed for her to be silent, whereupon she cried the louder, shaking furiously in his arms.
He struck her across the face.
At once she was quiet. Her eyes closed: almost, it would seem, in ecstasy. Standing there, she had the pose of a woman offering herself.
“Go on, hit me! You want to hit me!” she whispered.
With the words, with the look of her, he too was altered. As if realising for the first time her true nature, he dropped his fists and stepped back, staring at her sick-mouthed. His heel met no resistance. He twisted suddenly, spread out his arms as if to fly, and fell over the cliff edge.
Her scream pursued him down.
Even as his body hit the waters of the fjord, it began to change. A flurry of foam marked some sort of painful struggle beneath the surface. Then a seal plunged into view, dived below the next wave, and swam towards open sea over which already a freshening breeze blew.
Green Magic (1963)
JACK VANCE
JACK VANCE (1916–2013) authored dozens of novels over the course of his long career, including To Live Forever, The Languages of Pao, Big Planet, The Last Castle, and many more. His works variously won the Hugo, Nebula, Edgar, and World Fantasy awards.
Over the years, F&SF has published a lot of stories involving magic but, this one remains one of the best tales about the discipline of study. According to Gary Gygax, Vance’s work was a big influence on Dungeons & Dragons.
OWARD FAIR, LOOKING over the relics of his great uncle Gerald McIntyre, found a large ledger entitled: WORKBOOK & JOURNAL
Open at Peril!
Fair read the journal with interest, although his own work went far beyond ideas treated only gingerly by Gerald McIntyre.
“The existence of disciplines concentric to the elementary magics must now be admitted without further controversy,” wrote McIntyre. “Guided by a set of analogies from the white and black magics (to be detailed in due course), I have delineated the basic extension of purple magic, as well as its corollary, Dynamic Nomism.”
Fair read on, remarking the careful charts, the projections and expansions, the transpolations and transformations by which Gerald McIntyre had conceived his systemology. So swiftly had the technical arts advanced that McIntyre’s expositions, highly controversial sixty years before, now seemed pedantic and overly rigorous.
“Whereas benign creatures: angels, white sprites, merrihews, sandestins—are typical of the white cycle; whereas demons, magners, trolls and warlocks are evinced by black magic; so do the purple and green cycles sponsor their own particulars, but these are neither good nor evil, bearing, rather, the same relation to the black and white provinces that these latter do to our own basic realm.”
Fair re-read the passage. The “green cycle”? Had Gerald McIntyre wandered into regions overlooked by modern workers?
He reviewed the journal in the light of this suspicion, and discovered additional hints and references. Especially provocative was a bit of scribbled marginalia: “More concerning my latest researches I may not state, having been promised an infinite reward for this forbearance.”
The passage was dated a day before Gerald McIntyre’s death, which had occurred on March 21, 1898, the first day of spring. McIntyre had enjoyed very little of his “infinite reward,” whatever had been its nature . . . Fair returned to a consideration of the journal, which, in a sentence or two, had opened a chink on an entire, new panorama. McIntyre provided no further illumination, and Fair set out to make a fuller investigation.
His first steps were routine. He performed two divinations, searched the standard indexes, concordances, handbooks and formularies, evoked a demon whom he had previously found knowledgeable: all without success. He found no direct reference to cycles beyond the purple; the demon refused even to speculate.
Fair was by no means discouraged; if anything, the intensity of his interest increased. He re-read the journal, with particular care to the justification for purple magic, reasoning that McIntyre, groping for a lore beyond the purple, might well have used the methods which had yielded results before. Applying stains and ultraviolet light to the pages, Fair made legible a number of notes McIntyre had jotted down, then erased.
Fair was immensely stimulated. The notes assured him that he was on the right track, and further indicated a number of blind alleys which Fair profited by avoiding. He applied himself so successfully that before the week was out he had evoked a sprite of the green cycle.
It appeared in the semblance of a man with green glass eyes and a thatch of young eucalyptus leaves in the place of hair. It greeted Fair with cool courtesy, would not seat itself, and ignored Fair’s proffer of coffee.
After wandering around the apartment inspecting Fair’s books and curios with an air of negligent amusement, it agreed to respond to Fair’s questions.
Fair asked permission to use his tape recorder, which the sprite allowed, and Fair set the apparatus in motion. (When subsequently he replayed the interview, no sound could be heard.)
“What realms of magic lie beyond the green?” asked Fair.
“I can’t give you an exact answer,” replied the sprite, “because I don’t know. There are at least two more, corresponding to the colors we call rawn and pallow, and very likely others.”
Fair arranged the microphone where it would more directly intercept the voice of the sprite.
“What,” he asked, “is the green cycle like? What is its physical semblance?”
The sprite paused to consider. Glistening mother-of-pearl films wandered across its face, reflecting the tinge of its thoughts. “I’m rather severely restricted by your use of the word ‘physical.’ And ‘semblance’ involves a subjective interpretation, which changes with the rise and fall of the seconds.”
“By all means,” Fair said hastily, “describe it in your own words.”
“Well—we have four different regions, two of which floresce from the basic skeleton of the universe, and so subsede the others. The first of these is compressed and isthiated, but is notable for its wide pools of mottle which we use sometimes for deranging stations. We’ve transplanted club-mosses from Earth’s Devonian and a few ice-fires from Perdition. They climb among the rods which we call devil-hair—” He went on for several minutes but the meaning almost entirely escaped Fair. And it seemed as if the question by which he had hoped to break the ice might run away with the entire interview. He introduced another idea.
“‘Can we freely manipulate the physical extensions of Earth?’” The sprite seemed amused. “You refer, so I assume, to the various aspects of space, time, mass, energy, life, thought and recollection.”
“Exactly.”
The sprite raised its green corn-silk eyebrows. “I might as sensibly ask can you break an egg by striking it with a club? The response is on a similar level of seriousness.”
Fair had expected a certain amount of condescension and impatience, and was not abashed. “How may I learn these techniques?”
“In the usual manner: through diligent study.”
“Ah, indeed—but where could I study? Who would teach me?”
The sprite made an easy gesture, and whorls of green smoke trailed from his fingers to spin through the air. “I could arrange the matter, but since I bear you no particular animosity, I’ll do nothing of the sort. And now, I must be gone.”
“Where do you go?” Fair asked in wonder and longing. “May I go with you?”
The sprite, swirling a drape of bright green dust over its shoulders, shook his head. “You would be less than comfortable.”
“Other men have explored the worlds of magic!”
“True: your uncle Gerald McIntyre, for instance.”
“My uncle Gerald learned green magic?”
“To the limit of his capabilities. He found no pleasure in his learning. You would do well to profit by
his experience and modify your ambitions.” The sprite turned and walked away.
Fair watched it depart. The sprite receded in space and dimension, but never reached the wall of Fair’s room. At a distance which might have been fifty yards, the sprite glanced back, as if to make sure that Fair was not following, then stepped off at another angle and disappeared.
Fair’s first impulse was to take heed and limit his explorations. He was an adept in white magic, and had mastered the black art—occasionally he evoked a demon to liven a social gathering which otherwise threatened to become dull—but he had by no means illuminated every mystery of purple magic, which is the realm of Incarnate Symbols.
Howard Fair might have turned away from the green cycle except for three factors.
First was his physical appearance. He stood rather under medium height, with a swarthy face, sparse black hair, a gnarled nose, a small heavy mouth. He felt no great sensitivity about his appearance, but realized that it might be improved. In his mind’s eye he pictured the personified ideal of himself: he was taller by six inches, his nose thin and keen, his skin cleared of its muddy undertone. A striking figure, but still recognizable as Howard Fair. He wanted the love of women, but he wanted it without the interposition of his craft. Many times he had brought beautiful girls to his bed, lips wet and eyes shining; but purple magic had seduced them rather than Howard Fair, and he took limited satisfaction in such conquests.
Here was the first factor which drew Howard Fair back to the green lore; the second was his yearning for extended, perhaps eternal, life; the third was simple thirst for knowledge.
The fact of Gerald McIntyre’s death, or dissolution, or disappearance—whatever had happened to him—was naturally a matter of concern. If he had won to a goal so precious, why had he died so quickly? Was the “infinite reward” so miraculous, so exquisite, that the mind failed under its possession? (If such were the case, the reward was hardly a reward.)
Fair could not restrain himself, and by degrees returned to a study of green magic. Rather than again invoke the sprite whose air of indulgent contempt he had found exasperating, he decided to seek knowledge by an indirect method, employing the most advanced concepts of technical and cabalistic science.
He obtained a portable television transmitter which he loaded into his panel truck along with a receiver. On a Monday night in early May, he drove to an abandoned graveyard far out in the wooded hills, and there, by the light of a waning moon, he buried the television camera in graveyard clay until only the lens protruded from the soil.
With a sharp alder twig he scratched on the ground a monstrous outline. The television lens served for one eye, a beer bottle pushed neck-first into the soil the other.
During the middle hours, while the moon died behind wisps of pale cloud, he carved a word on the dark forehead; then recited the activating incantation.
The ground rumbled and moaned, the golem heaved up to blot out the stars.
The glass eyes stared down at Fair, secure in his pentagon.
“Speak!” called out Fair. “Enteresthes, Akmai Adonai Bidemgir! Elohim, pa rahulli! Enteresthes, HVOI! Speak!”
“Return me to earth, return my clay to the quiet clay from whence you roused me.”
“First you must serve.”
The golem stumbled forward to crush Fair, but was halted by the pang of protective magic.
“Serve you I will, if serve you I must.”
Fair stepped boldly forth from the pentagon, strung from yards of green ribbon down the road in the shape of a narrow V. “Go forth into the realm of green magic,” he told the monster. “The ribbons reach forty miles, walk to the end, turn about, return, and then fall back, return to the earth from which you rose.”
The golem turned, shuffled into the V of green ribbon, shaking off clods of mold, jarring the ground with its ponderous tread.
Fair watched the squat shape dwindle, recede, yet never reach the angle of the magic V. He returned to his panel truck, tuned the television receiver to the golem’s eye, and surveyed the fantastic vistas of the green realm.
Two elementals of the green realm met on a spun-silver landscape. They were Jaadian and Misthemar, and they fell to discussing the earthen monster which had stalked forty miles through the region known as Cil; which then, turning in tracks, had retraced its steps, gradually increasing its pace until at the end it moved in a shambling rush, leaving a trail of clods on the fragile moth-wing mosaics.
“Events, events, events,” Misthemar fretted, “they crowd the chute of time till the bounds bulge. Or then again, the course is as lean and spare as a stretched tendon . . . But in regard to this incursion . . .” He paused for a period of reflection, and silver clouds moved over his head and under his feet.
Jaadian remarked, “You are aware that I conversed with Howard Fair; he is so obsessed to escape the squalor of his world that he acts with recklessness.”
“The man Gerald McIntyre was his uncle,” mused Misthemar. “McIntyre besought, we yielded; as perhaps now we must yield to Howard Fair.”
Jaadian uneasily opened his hand, shook off a spray of emerald fire. “Events press, both in and out. I find myself unable to act in this regard.”
“I likewise do not care to be the agent of tragedy.”
A Meaning came fluttering up from below: “A disturbance among the spiral towers! A caterpillar of glass and metal has come clanking; it has thrust electric eyes into the Portinone and broke open the Egg of Innocence. Howard Fair is the fault.”
Jaadian and Misthemar consulted each other with wry disinclination. “Very well, both of us will go; such a duty needs two souls in support.”
They impinged upon Earth and found Howard Fair in a wall booth at a cocktail bar. He looked up at the two strangers and one of them asked, “May we join you?”
Fair examined the two men. Both wore conservative suits and carried cashmere topcoats over their arms. Fair noticed that the left thumb-nail of each man glistened green.
Fair rose politely to his feet. “Will you sit down?”
The green sprites hung up their overcoats and slid into the booth. Fair looked from one to the other. He addressed Jaadian. “Aren’t you he whom I interviewed several weeks ago?”
Jaadian assented. “You have not accepted my advice.”
Fair shrugged. “You asked me to remain ignorant, to accept my stupidity and ineptitude.”
“And why should you not?” asked Jaadian gently. “You are a primitive in a primitive realm; nevertheless not one man in a thousand can match your achievements.”
Fair agreed, smiling faintly. “But knowledge creates a craving for further knowledge. Where is the harm in knowledge?”
Misthemar, the more mercurial of the sprites, spoke angrily. “Where is the harm? Consider your earthen monster! It befouled forty miles of delicacy, the record of ten million years. Consider your caterpillar! It trampled our pillars of carved milk, our dreaming towers, damaged the nerve-skeins which extrude and waft us our Meanings.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Fair. “I meant no destruction.”
The sprites nodded. “But your apology conveys no guarantee of restraint.”
Fair toyed with his glass. A waiter approached the table, addressed the two sprites. “Something for you two gentlemen?”
Jaadian ordered a glass of charged water, as did Misthemar. Fair called for another highball.
“What do you hope to gain from this activity?” inquired Misthemar. “Destructive forays teach you nothing!”
Fair agreed. “I have learned little. But I have seen miraculous sights. I am more than ever anxious to learn.”
The green sprites glumly watched the bubbles rising in their glasses. Jaadian at last drew a deep sigh. “Perhaps we can obviate toil on your part and disturbance on ours. Explicitly, what gains or advantages do you hope to derive from green magic?”
Fair, smiling, leaned back into the red imitation-leather cushions. “I want many things. Extended life—
mobility in time—comprehensive memory—augmented perception, with vision across the whole spectrum. I want physical charm and magnetism, the semblance of youth, muscular endurance . . . Then there are qualities more or less speculative, such as—”
Jaadian interrupted. “These qualities and characteristics we will confer upon you. In return you will undertake never again to disturb the green realm. You will evade centuries of toil; we will be spared the nuisance of your presence, and the inevitable tragedy.”
“Tragedy?” inquired Fair in wonder. “Why tragedy?”
Jaadian spoke in a deep reverberating voice. “You are a man of Earth. Your goals are not our goals. Green magic makes you aware of our goals.”
Fair thoughtfully sipped his highball. “I can’t see that this is a disadvantage. I am willing to submit to the discipline of instruction. Surely a knowledge of green magic will not change me into a different entity?”
“No. And this is the basic tragedy!”
Misthemar spoke in exasperation. “We are forbidden to harm lesser creatures, and so you are fortunate; for to dissolve you into air would end all the annoyance.”
Fair laughed. “I apologize again for making such a nuisance of myself. But surely you understand how important this is to me?”
Jaadian asked hopefully, “Then you agree to our offer?”
Fair shook his head. “How could I live, forever young, capable of extended learning, but limited to knowledge which I already see bounds to? I would be bored, restless, miserable.”
“That well may be,” said Jaadian. “But not so bored, restless and miserable as if you were learned in green magic.”
Fair drew himself erect. “I must learn green magic. It is an opportunity which only a person both torpid and stupid could refuse.”
Jaadian sighed. “In your place I would make the same response.” The sprites rose to their feet. “Come then, we will teach you.”
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said Misthemar.
Time passed. Sunset waned and twilight darkened. A man walked up the stairs, entered Howard Fair’s apartment. He was tall, unobtrusively muscular. His face was sensitive, keen, humorous; his left thumb-nail glistened green.
The Very Best of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Volume 2 Page 15