The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  “We live in a flat.”

  “If you could even relate to your wristwatch or understand your doorbell,” said Wally, “it would be progress.”

  “I’d like to talk to your wife.”

  Wally shook his head. “Oh, you are not ready for that yet. Start with your wristwatch. No, Charlotte takes a long preparation.” He shut his eyes, turned in his canvas chair and was with the refrigerator again.

  Max stepped out into the hall, which was full of appliances and cardboard cartons. Two doors past Dr Wally’s study, someone hissed at him. The doorway was partially blocked by a sewing machine. In the small room it led to was Charlotte Wally. “In here, boob.”

  Max slid the sewing machine aside, stepped over a carton of mixers. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “That’s all nitwits like you ever want.” She was wearing a dark and narrow ankle-length lounging robe and her hair was done into two long braids. “Listen, rube. I need your help. Imagine that, turning to a peabrain for aid.”

  “You ought to have another talk with that sewing machine and get rid of some of your hostility,” said Max. “You’re responsible for the ghost of King Challens, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up and listen.” Mrs Wally crossed to an electric stove and slid out the broiler drawer. “I have to hide my collection from the good doctor. He’s a clunk at times himself. Here, coconut, this is the book I used.”

  Max took the proffered magic book. It was bound in cracked black leather. He read the title aloud. “Familial Ghosts And Various and Divers Ways To Summon Them.”

  “I’m going to loan that to you, stupe. Don’t lose it. It’s a first edition, besides being invaluable for the spells in it.”

  “You used this to summon up the ghost of Wendy’s father. What went wrong?”

  “I didn’t expect the whole pavilion and all the noise,” said Charlotte Wally. “My husband, and I was feeling sentimental toward the jerk at the time, had his heart set on acquiring that place of Mayer’s. We almost had the old uncle convinced he should sell and then he died. As soon as your chums moved in I paid a courtesy call on the pair of dimwits. I found out all I needed to know.” She smiled evenly. “She’s got a thing about her father and he’s a screw-up. I figure the ghost of her father would either break them up or scare them off.”

  “A common motive in ghost cases,” remarked Max. “All the extra ghosts or whatever they are, the big band and the noise are hurting business here.”

  “I wanted to do this as a surprise for old nuts and bolts, my husband. Now I can’t even admit I’m involved. That’s where you come in, dodo.”

  Max asked, “Why can’t you call off the ghosts yourself?”

  “Turn to page 112, dumbell.”

  Max did and read the spells written there. “That’s great. The only way to reverse the spell is to get the nearest kin of the haunted person to go up against the ghost and read a counter-spell.”

  “Kin to kin, a nice old-fashioned touch,” said Mrs Wally. “I knew Bert Mayer, the nearest kin as defined by that spell, even if he found out what was going on, wouldn’t be able to bring off the counter-spell.”

  Marking the place with his finger, Max said, “He’ll have to.”

  “For a jerk, you’ve had some pretty good luck as a ghost breaker. You’ll have to coach that boob.”

  “First,” said Max, “you’ll have to sign an agreement not to hex or spell the Mayers in any way again. Otherwise I don’t cooperate.”

  Mrs. Wally went to a front-loading washing machine and got out writing paper and a rattling little box of steel-tip pens.

  Jillian came running into the guest room of the Mayer house. She stopped, hesitated, waiting for her breath, then said, “Max, it’s out there and she’s gone inside.”

  Bert Mayer jumped up out of the wicker easy chair. “The pavilion?”

  “Yes, it showed up just a minute ago, while Wendy and I were setting the table out on the patio in back,” said Jillian, two folded white cloth napkins still in her hand. “Wendy heard it, drifted off. I followed, couldn’t stop her. She pushed me away and ran. Right inside the place.”

  The magic book slid out of Bert’s hand. “Max, I figured it wouldn’t get here for an hour or two.”

  Max was still sitting on the edge of the bed. “Bring the book and let’s go.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bert. “What page was it again? I should have taken notes while you explained.”

  “Page 112.” Max stood and walked out of the room.

  Bert caught up with him in the hallway. “Are ghosts really that perceptive, Max? Would they absolutely know it wasn’t me if you went in?”

  “Yes.” Max and Bert went out the front door, across the sun deck and down the steps. The Strawhouse Pavilion was sharp and clear, the band was playing In The Mood.

  “I’ll mess it up,” said Bert. “Read it backwards.”

  Max said, “No, you won’t. You’ll go in and get Wendy out and do what you have to do and end this. Right?”

  Bert said, “Okay.” He left the real grass, hesitated just onto the gravel, then walked to the flashing pavilion and up the wide wood staircase and in.

  Jillian joined Max, took his hand. “What do you think?”

  “Watch,” he said.

  The band finished the tune and there was applause. They went into Sophisticated Lady. The number was almost finished when the Strawhouse Pavilion exploded. It flashed bright, expanded and was suddenly gone. The cars, the parking lot, the sounds, the past. All were gone and Bert and Wendy were in the field of dark grass. The sky was night-clear and you noticed stars again.

  Bert and Wendy walked to Max and Jillian. “Wasn’t too hard,” Bert told them. He was shaking his head, half smiling.

  Wendy said quietly, “I wonder if my father was always like that. He didn’t seem very much like I remember. Just a middle-aged man, trying so hard to impress everyone.” She waved a hand at where the pavilion had stood, not turning. “He willed all that, he said, kept it coming back. He was the ghost and the rest of it he willed somehow. To impress me, to have me see him at his best. I don’t quite know how he did it. He wouldn’t talk about that, about himself that way. He told me, ‘You wouldn’t get it, Wendy.’ He always used to say that. Why did I forget he did? He wanted to impress me. He couldn’t just come back. He had to bring a ballroom.” She stopped, touched Bert. “You handled the situation very well, Bert.”

  “Wasn’t too hard,” he said.

  A Bevy of Beasts

  DRAZONET

  Esther Friesner

  Esther Friesner is without a doubt the queen of comic fantasy. Just check out her novels New York by Night (1986), Here Be Demons (1988), Gnome Man’s Land (1991) and Majyk by Accident (1993) for a few examples. Or her collections Ecce Hominid (1991), It’s Been Fun (1991) and Up the Wall (2000). Or her anthologies Alien Pregnant by Elvis (1994) or Chicks in Chain Mail (1995) and its sequels. Of course she doesn’t just write humorous stuff. But it’s all fun. Try Druid’s Blood (1988) or Yesterday We Saw Mermaids (1991) for alternate views of our history. I’m delighted to be able to include two stories by her in this anthology. Here’s a short piece to serve as an entrée to the much longer one later on.

  This is the castle – Righteous Garde. Here over eight hundred knights, ladies, lackeys, squires, toadies, and the odd monarch live and work together in peace and harmony. Only sometimes harmony’s too much to ask. That’s where I come in. My name’s Britomart. I’m a damsel. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

  AD 839. The Dark Ages were well under way, and most of the ladies were counting the months until the Norsemen showed up to carry them off. I was catching up on my tapestry work. Just then, Helios came in. He’s my partner. He’s a unicorn.

  “How’s your latest maiden, Helios?” I asked.

  “Eaten. Dragon.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Those are the breaks.”

  Helios is a good unicorn. You don’t get m
any like him these days. I could see something was on his mind. “Spill it.”

  “We’ve got a 403.”

  I couldn’t believe it. We hadn’t had a 403 in years. Rogue mage. “You sure, Helios?”

  “I’d stake my horn on it. Got it from a wood elf.”

  “Wood elves lie.”

  “Not this one. Mage changed him into a squirrel from the waist down. Hard to argue with that.”

  I put down the tapestry frame. “Let’s investigate. We’ll use the black-and-white.”

  I was proud of the black-and-white. Not many castles had one. Not many would. It was a bear. Not your ordinary bear, but a foreign model, imported all the way from the mountains of Cathay. “You have to move with the times, Britomart,” the king had told me. “It doesn’t pay to keep local bears any more. They put away too much food, then they’re out of service for most of the winter.”

  We found the black-and-white in his stall, eating bamboo. He got up when he saw me and bowed. “Does Lady Britomart have use for this unworthy bear?” Can’t beat these imports when it comes to style.

  “We’ve got a 403.”

  “Rogue mage,” Helios said for the bear’s benefit. By the way, his name’s Ch’a. It’s a weird name, but someone’s got to have it.

  We hitched up Ch’a to the panda-wagon and headed for the Forest Perilous. Hard to believe that Righteous Garde, with all its beauty and intrigue, is less than a basilisk’s spit from the Forest Perilous. It’s a tough place. You’ve got your elves. You’ve got your moss-wives. You’ve got your wyverns and your sometime-trolls. When they can’t make it in the big epics, they head for the woods. They’re young, they’re failed, and they’re bitter. It doesn’t pay to go there unless you’re looking for distress. But distress is my business. Like I said, I’m a damsel.

  Helios took us straight to the elf. If he’d been changed into a squirrel from the waist down, he’d also been changed into a squirrel from the neck up, years ago. Inside, I mean. That’s the trouble with these wood elves. Wood alcohol. His tiny little eyes were so bloodshot, they looked like a pair of juniper berries.

  “Lee’ me ’lone,” he mumbled. He wiped his slobbering mouth with the tip of his furry grey tail.

  “Sober up, point-ear.” Helios is tough. Tough, but fair. “We’re here to help you.”

  “Huh! Castle folk! When you ever help us elves, huh? Ge’ one look at one of us inside your damn’ castle and call the ’sterminators.” He belched loudly and sang something quaint. Quaint, but obscene.

  “You get in the castle, you spend your time looking up the ladies’ skirts, short stuff,” said Helios. “You don’t want this horn somewhere vital, you’ll cooperate. This is the damsel Britomart. Tell her what you told me.”

  “Damsel?” The elf gave me a canny look.

  “That’s what it says on my card.”

  “If you’re a damsel, I’m a—”

  “Watch it!” Helios threatened the elf with one sharp hoof.

  “Yah! Real brave, ain’tcha? When it’s the little people you’re stepping on. But wait until you hit that wizard, horn head! He’ll turn you into unicorn on the cob and have you for lunch.”

  “What wizard?” I asked.

  “‘What wizard?’ she asks! Sure, I always run around this cockamamie forest with a craving for acorns! ‘What wizard?’” The elf was ticked. Ticked elves aren’t a pretty sight.

  “Just the facts, elf.”

  “Oh, a tough honey. OK, you think you’re tough, you go down this path, turn left at the well of lost souls, double around the swamp of the hanging men, two grave-mounds on your right, and when a dragon eats you, you’re there.”

  A real class neighbourhood.

  “This wizard have a name?”

  “Mildred.” Like I said, ticked elves aren’t your Mr Nice Guy.

  The black-and-white got us there fast. I had to unhitch him from the wagon when we hit the swamp, though. Too boggy for wheels. No one said this was going to be an easy job. The dragon was waiting. He guarded the wizard’s lair. He was big, but you learn fast that size isn’t everything in this kingdom. He let out a roar when he saw us. It didn’t faze Helios.

  “Go ahead, worm,” he said. “Make my day.” The dragon charged. Helios slew him. He made a minor earth tremor when he hit the ground. The wizard came out of his den to see what was up.

  “What have you done to Mildred?” He was one angry mage.

  “Dragon gets out of line, dragon takes what’s coming. Those are the breaks,” I said. “We’re here to investigate a complaint. You turn an elf into a squirrel?”

  “Half a squirrel.”

  “You admit it. Why’d you do it?”

  The wizard stroked his beard. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. “Who wants to know?”

  “If he doesn’t like the report I bring back, maybe the king wants to know. Turning elves into squirrels is a felony. Turn him back, and maybe we can settle out of the royal court. Don’t make it tough on yourself.”

  “Half a felony.”

  “A wise guy.” Helios has a good sneer, for a ’corn. He lowered his horn at the wizard’s chest. “OK, smart man. This is a forty-four spell unicorn’s horn, the most powerful piece of mana known to sorcery. Now I can’t exactly remember whether I’ve used forty-four of the annihilation spells in it, or only forty-three, so if you don’t answer the damsel Britomart’s questions real polite, maybe you can ask yourself, ‘Am I feeling lucky today?’”

  “You don’t scare me,” said the mage. He disappeared.

  “Where’d he go?” Helios was baffled.

  “Respectfully beg to point out presence of second large dragon,” said Ch’a. This time, it was a fire-breather. This time, Helios was the one whose luck ran out.

  The dragon grabbed me. Ch’a hid. Helios smouldered. He’d been a good unicorn. I was sorry to see him go. But right now I had other problems.

  “That elf was small potatoes, sugar,” the dragon said. “I’m taking over this kingdom.”

  “It’s a fool’s game and you know it, mage. Give yourself up. The king’ll be lenient.”

  “The king will be dead! The whole kingdom will die, unless it submits to me!”

  “Big talk. You two-bit thaumaturges think that just because you can take the hicks on market day with the old shell game, you can take the kingdom. I’ve seen your kind come and go. Mostly they go. And it’s not a pretty sight when they do.”

  The dragon laughed. He was big, all right, big and golden, but he still had the mage’s eyes. I didn’t like them. “It won’t be a pretty sight, my dear? Then you should be happy you won’t be around to see it! Say your prayers, damsel, for you shall be the first to perish!”

  “No prayers. Just let me say goodbye to the bear.”

  “Bear? What bear?”

  Ch’a emerged timorously from the underbrush. “If the august and majestic dragon-king would not find it too great an inconvenience, this unworthy bear would be most grateful for the opportunity to bid his beloved Lady Britomart farewell.”

  “A touching last request. Granted.” The dragon-mage set me down, but kept one paw on the hem of my dress.

  “So long, Ch’a,” I said. “Sometimes this business gets away from you. But you have to take the good with the bad.”

  “This humble bear is distressed beyond words,” said Ch’a. He was crying.

  “Don’t cry,” I said. “You’ll serve other damsels. You’ve been a good partner. Go back to the castle.” He turned to go. “Hey!” He stopped. I gave him a kiss for luck. “You be careful out there.”

  The black-and-white skin slipped off in my hands. A big man in strictly non-reg armour – black-and-white lacquer-work – stood in front of me. He pulled a sword and leaped at the dragon-mage. The dragon-mage laughed. Then his head fell off. Those are the breaks.

  I made my report to the king. Things were back to normal in the forest. The squirrel-elf was disenchanted. Who isn’t, these days? We’d need a new unicorn and
maybe a new bear to pull the wagon. Ch’a introduced himself. He was a warrior from an island beyond Cathay, turned into a bear by one of those hotshot Eastern wizards. I’d broken the spell with my kiss.

  “Good work, Britomart.”

  “Just doing my job, Sire.”

  I married Ch’a. You can’t stay a damsel for ever. You can try, but it’s a fool’s game.

  There are eight million stories in the Forest Perilous. This has been one of them.

  THE DIPLODOCUS

  Porter Emerson Browne

  I like to take the opportunity when I can to reprint lesser-known stories, especially if they demonstrate that comic fantasy isn’t new and has been with us a good long time. I found reference to this story in Everett Bleiler’s incredible book Science Fiction: The Early Years, and I am extremely grateful to Denny Lien, reference librarian at the University of Minnesota, who tracked it down for me from the long-ignored pages of The New Broadway Magazine of 1908. I was pleased to find it was every bit as amusing as it sounded, and surprisingly modern in tone. Porter Browne (1879–1934) was a popular American humorist of his day, best known for his work for the theatre, especially A Fool There Was (1909).

  HE looked up from his paper.

  “This Burbank guy,” he said, “is sure a wonder, ain’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “I suppose before long he’ll be grafting corn onto beans and getting succotash,” he continued, speculatively. “And then he’ll fix apple trees so’s they’ll bear pertaters, thereby saving all the trouble of digging ’em.”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” I assented. “The wonders that science each day unfolds are almost unbelievable.”

  He nodded profoundly at my very trite remark.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And that same science is folding up a few wonders, too, that we don’t never hear nothing about. Take my friend Vertigo Smith, for instance.”

  “Who was he?” I queried, interestedly.

  “You never heard of him?” responded my vis-à-vis; as one who asks a question, knowing beforehand the answer.