Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Morgan smiled again. “All things end,” she remarked cryptically. “Let us talk of other matters. Has the world forgotten me, Arthur?”

  “Oh, no. You’re in Tennyson, Malory—you were even in the movies once.”

  “Movies?”

  Woodley explained. Morgan shook her head. “Faith! And no doubt they think I am a legend.”

  Vivienne said, “What were you telling me about history and fable, Morgan? I meant to explain it to Messire Arthur, but I could not understand. He did not know how legend could be true—nor do I, for that matter.”

  “Tell the story, Bleys,” the queen commanded. The Druid drank wine. “Oh, it’s simple enough. Something to do with the fluidity of time. Historically, Pendragon was named Artorius, a petty British chieftain who fought against the Romans, around 500. There weren’t any castles or knights then—not like this. We’re pure Plantagenet.” Woodley looked puzzled, as he felt. “But I thought—”

  “Legends can effect the past. Ever write a story, Messire Arthur?”

  “Well—I’ve tried a scenario or two.”

  “Then you’ve doubtless gone back to make insertions and revisions. Suppose you’re writing a history of the world. You deal with Artorius and his time historically, go on for a few thousand words, and then get a better idea. You decide to make Artorius a great king, and to build up a heroic saga about knighthood and the round table—about Bleys and Guenevere and Merlin and so forth. You just go back and make the insertion. Later on, you have one of your other characters, named Malory, make a number of references to the Arthurian cycle. Law of compensation and revision,”-Bleys said ambiguously.

  “But we’re not talking about stories,” Woodley contended. “We’re talking about real events. Life isn’t just a story somebody’s writing.”

  “That’s what you think,” the Druid retorted rudely. “And a lot you know about it. Bip!” There was a silence, broken when Vivienne began to retail some long-forgotten scandal about Yseult and a Dolorous Knight. As usual Woodley went to sleep. His last memory was the sight of Morgan’s half-glimpsed face, lovely, mysterious, and terrible.

  He awoke in bed, to find Nurmala peering in through the curtains. “We breakfast early, my lord,” the naiad bubbled. “Will it please you to rise?”

  “Is it morning?”

  “Sunlight shines through the lake.”

  “Oh,” said Woodley, and followed his routine of struggling into his drawers under the sheets. This seemed to baffle Nurmala, who presently quivered out of the room. Sight of her green jello back made Woodley realize that he was hungry.

  In the great hall he found only Vivienne. He had a slight headache, and, after responding to the girl’s request for a kiss, fell to upon ale, rolls, and salt fish. He would have preferred tomato juice. There was no invisible orchestra in the gallery this morning.

  “Cozy place,” he remarked, shivering a little. “I’ve never had breakfast in Grand Central Station before.”

  She caught his meaning. “All the castles had a great hall. After this we can eat in the solar, if you like. In the old days there were mighty feasts. Boards were laid on trestles to make tables—sometimes we have banquets even now.”

  “Visitors—down here?” Woodley asked, puzzled.

  “Morgan raises the dead,” Vivienne explained. “It amuses her, at times.”

  “Well, it doesn’t amuse me,” said the horrified man. “Where is Morgan this morning?”

  “She is—busy. Bleys? Trying to get drunk, I suppose. Senile creature that he is.”

  “Well, where’s Sir Bohart?” Woodley wanted to know.

  There was a strange look in Vivienne’s eyes. “After you fell asleep last night, and after Bohart had gone to his apartment, Bleys told me how that craven knight hurled you into the dragon’s courtyard. So I withdrew my protection from him. Now he plays at chess with Morgan.”

  Woodley choked on ale. “Oh, my g-guh . . . Vivienne, where is he?”

  “He plays at chess with Morgan. You will not see him again.”

  Woodley put down the drinking horn. His stomach was churning coldly. So the worst had happened. Bleys had remembered, and had talked. Now—

  “Vivienne! I thought you intended to keep Bohart alive. You’ve got to save him!”

  “After he tried to murder you? Nay! Besides, it is too late. The . . . game . . . will not finish till sundown, but Sir Bohart is already beyond rescue.”

  The girl’s dark brows drew together. “That reminds me. Morgan wants to see you.”

  “She . . . she does?”

  “Tonight, she said. I do not know why. Something Sir Bohart told her, she said. It does not matter.”

  “Oh, doesn’t it,” Woodley muttered, and finished the ale. It didn’t help much. He could visualize the future all too well. Bohart, facing destruction, had revealed to Morgan the trick about the undine. And what had Morgan said last night?

  “If you have not passed my testing fairly, nothing can save you.”

  Tonight would be zero hour, then. Woodley had until sundown—perhaps a little more time than that, but certainly not much more.

  One day, in which to learn the wet magic spell from Vivienne!

  Abruptly Woodley determined on a bold move.

  An attack was the best defense.

  “Vivienne,” he said. “I want to go back.”

  She did not move. “You will stay with me always.”

  “Suppose Morgan—does something to me?”

  “She will not. And—” Vivienne’s eyes darkened. “And I would rather have it thus than let you go back above the lake, where other women would have you. Mark you, Arthur; you cannot breathe above water now. Only Morgan or I can change that. In air you die. We will not help you to leave the lake. And if you try—I shall bring you back, messire. Listen!” She leaned toward him, elbows on the chessboard table. “You are invisible and intangible to humans. You are one of us. Your voice could not be heard by any but the magic folk.”

  “You could change me back, Vivienne!”

  “And let another woman have you? I would sooner see you a corpse. Do not speak of this again, messire, lest I change my mood and tell Morgan she may have you for a chess partner!”

  “Don’t bother,” Woodley said through tight lips. “Morgan can take care of herself.”

  But he realized he had gone too far, and taken the wrong tack with Vivienne. So he placated her—and she was responsively willing. At last, head on his shoulder, she began to talk about Sir Pellinore and the Questing Beast. “Glatisant, its name was,” she explained, all velvet now. “Old Pellinore got tired of his wife and said he had to go qdesting. Honor demanded it. So off he went, cavorting through Britain. Nobody ever saw the Beast but Pellinore—and many’s the wench who listened to Pellinore’s stories about Glatisant, to her sorrow. Forsooth! You could mark Pellinore’s trail nine months after he passed. I always say—”

  Woodley wasn’t listening. He was thinking, hard and fast. He knew now, quite definitely, that he had to get out of the lake before sundown. Morgan . . . she was not, he thought, of human blood at all. And that—chess game!

  What nightmare that euphemism masked he could not guess. But he knew very well he didn’t want to play chess with the Queen of Air and Darkness, as poor Bohart was doing now. Again Woodley remembered the Eden tapestry—

  How could he escape?

  He was invisible and intangible—and dumb—to humans. No one could see, hear or sense him. Except the magic folk, whoever they were. Moreover, once Woodley got out of the lake, he would strangle.

  Wait! There was a thought somewhere along that line. Men could live under water, in diving suits. Presumably Woodley could live in air, if he could arrange to breathe water continuously.

  A diving suit was obviously out of the question.

  But—good lord!—all Woodley needed was a bowl of water to carry with him! He almost grinned at the thought, but masked his face in time.

  In this rocky country there w
ere few streams—only one emptying into the lake. But . . . let’s see . . . Woodley didn’t want to be a water-breather all his life; it would be horribly inconvenient.

  And Vivienne would pursue him. She could fly—

  Woodley strained his memory. Wasn’t there something in the Arthurian legend that would help him? He had a vague glimmer of an idea . . . Merlin.

  In his dotage, Merlin fell in love with Vivienne and followed her all through Britain. Finally the girl, tired of her ancient lover, learned a spell from him and used it to shut Merlin up inside the trunk of an oak. If Merlin were only around!

  “Good lord!” said Woodley, sitting up. “Uh . . . oh, nothing, darling. Something bit me.”

  “Poor dear,” said Vivienne, snuggling closer. “After killing that undine yesterday . . . well, as I was saying, this knight climbed down from the tower and hid in the moat till—”

  Woodley was remembering his experience just before he had met Vivienne—that little cave of roots under an oak tree, where something had kicked him in the pants. Soon after that, Vivienne had said that he “smelled of Merlin.”

  Merlin—of course!—was in that oak!

  And no doubt feeling embittered toward Vivienne. Woodley’s memory of Malory told him that Merlin and Morgan le Fay had always been bitter enemies. Usually Merlin had triumphed.

  Merlin would help him now, out of sheer gratitude, if he could free the wizard. Certainly Merlin could reverse the wet magic, make Woodley an air-breather again, and protect him against Morgan and Vivienne. Shut up in that oak for centuries—ha!

  It was beautifully logical. And all Woodley had to do, therefore, was to learn the spell that would free Merlin.

  Bleys was the answer to that.

  “Darling,” said Woodley suddenly, “what happened to the clothes I was wearing when you brought me to the lake?”

  “Why?” Suspicion showed in the dark eyes.

  “I want a cigarette.” He explained about tobacco. The girl nodded.

  “Of course. Morgan can make some, by magic, but it will take time till she finds the right spell. I’ll have your things brought here. Nurmala!”

  The naiad came translucently from behind the curtain, listened, and went away, to return with Woodley’s clothing. He searched for and found the cigarettes, which were magically dry. Of course, it was quite impossible to smoke under water, but . . . Woodley blew a smoke ring.

  He glanced keenly at Vivienne. “Try it, darling?”

  Under his tutelage, the girl learned about tobacco. Ten minutes later, her face a rather becoming shade of mauve, she interrupted an involved story about Guenevere and Borre to leave the room. She did not return.

  Tense with nervous excitement, Woodley found the flask of brandy still in the pocket of his uniform. It was more than half full. Good!

  He went to Bleys’ apartment. On the way, he picked up a glazed crockery bowl, which he thoughtfully left just outside the Druid’s door. “May I come in?”

  “Bip!”

  Woodley took this for assent. He found Bleys fuming over a retort and sampling the contents of a jug.

  “Dish water!” Bleys shrilled. “Hog slop! Pap for suckling babes! After working hours over the spell, I felt sure it would be at least thirty proof. May Satan crumble my bones! No—” he added hastily, glancing around, “I take it back.”

  “Try this,” Woodley offered, holding out the flask. “I’d forgotten I had it with me.”

  Bleys’ eyes glistened through his floating beard as his clawlike hand shot out. “Dry-land liquor? Messire Arthur, I love you for this! Wine? Ale?”

  “Brandy. Try it.”

  Bleys took one swallow. Then he lowered the flask, his lips twitching convulsively, his head thrown back. A low purring came from deep in his throat.

  “Brandy.” His voice caressed the word. His eyes opened, a greedy, mad gleam in them. “I shall get drunk! For the first time in centuries!”

  “No,” said Woodley, who had recaptured the flask. “Sorry. That’s all you get.”

  “B-but—” Bleys’ jaw dropped. “Messire Woodley! You jest!”

  “Like hell I do,” Woodley said grimly.

  “Wait,” said the Druid, slobbering. “I’ll make you wine. Mead. Ale. Tons of it. I’ll give you anything.”

  Woodley waited. Finally he decided he had Bleys where he wanted him. “O.K.,” he said then, “you can have the rest of the brandy. But you’ve got to pay me for it. I want a certain—spell.” Bleys looked shrewd. “The spell to change a water-dweller to an air-breather? All right.”

  “No, you don’t,” Woodley snapped, drawing the flask out of reach. “You told me once that you didn’t know it. No tricks, now.”

  “Well,” the Druid said sulkily, “what do you want, then?”

  “Does Mer . . . did Merlin know the wet-magic spell?”

  “Yes, he did. Merlin was my pupil once, you know, but he learned far more than I ever did. Why?”

  Woodley sighed with relief. “Never mind. Do you know the spell to release a man shut up in an oak tree?”

  For a long time Bleys said nothing. Then he whirled to a nearby table, picked up a jug, and drank from it. With a furious oath he sent the ewer smashing against the floor.

  “Slop!” he shrilled. “I cannot drink this stuff forever! The oak tree enchantment? Oak is a Druid tree. Of course I know it.”

  “Then tell it to me,” Woodley said.

  “For the brandy,” Greed triumphed.

  At last Bleys explained the formula.

  “That’s the right one?”

  “It is. Bip! Give me the brandy!”

  “Swear it by . . . uh . . . Mider.”

  “By Mider I swear it,” Bleys said angrily. “You are a fool, Messire Arthur. But do as you will. If Morgan slays me, at least I will die drunk.”

  He drank brandy. Woodley turned away.

  The Druid’s voice halted him. “Wait. I have a thought.”

  Bleys was shaking his head, his beard streaming, as he blinked through watery eyes. “This—brandy—clears my brain. Strange. I have been half-drunk for too long . . . a minute.” He drank again.

  Woodley hesitated, remembering Morgan. But the Druid’s skinny hand clutched his arm. Bleys peered up, searching the other’s face with his bleary stare.

  “Arthur . . . I should have thought of this before. When I saw you bringing back the undine .yesterday . . . Bah, to be in one’s dotage—I grow old and stupid. Yet I remember now.”

  He tightened his grip. “You must listen. It is important. Perhaps because Morgan mislikes you, perhaps because your name is Arthur—listen! Do you remember that I told you the course of history can be changed? That time is fluid?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Strong characters twist an author’s pen and change the story he writes. Artorius of Britain did that. He was a petty chieftain, but he was strong—valorous. So strong that he forced himself into a greater role than he had originally. There was a—revision. This petty chieftain took Excalibur and made a legend. As Arthur Pendragon he saved England from the powers of the dark.”

  Woodley glanced at the door, anxious to be gone. “Well?”

  “On Arthur’s tomb are the words—he was and will be. There is a legend that Arthur will come again, in the hour of England’s need, to save her once more. Has that hour come?”

  “Then—” Woodley stopped, licking his lips. He stared at Bleys.

  “Listen again!” The talon fingers tightened. “Any man can be Arthur, if he is strong enough to twist the author’s pen. Any man can be Arthur, if he dares to hold Excalibur. And your name—“Your life may not have been a great one, till now. That does not matter. Artorius was not great, till he held Excalibur. Do you know why I am here, why Morgan has kept me her prisoner?”

  “Why?”

  “I am Excalibur’s guardian,” Bleys said. “After Merlin passed, the charge was given to me. Arthur slept in Avalon. Yet the prophecy said that in England’s hour of
need, he would come again, and I must offer Excalibur to him. I looked to see Pendragon,” the Druid went on quietly. “I had forgotten that Pendragon was once merely Artorius. Now I think the time has come. It was not chance that brought you beneath the lake. Excalibur lies here, ready for your hand. With it you can be Arthur.”

  Woodley’s eyes were shining. “Bleys—” He paused, biting his lip. “Morgan.”

  “With Excalibur you can conquer her—and more. The man who holds Cut-Steel will save England!”

  “Why haven’t you used it on Morgan?” Woodley asked quickly.

  “I am its guardian—the only man in all earth who can never hold that brand.” There was a strange, deep sorrow in Bleys’ voice. It was incongruous that he should seem a figure of such dignity, in his dingy brown robe—

  “I know what is in your mind,” the Druid said. “Escape and safety. It is not the right way. Excalibur lies ready for your hand. I have seen the portents, and I think the time has come. Remember—any man can be Arthur. If he has the courage to take and wield Excalibur. Artorius had that courage. Gawaine, the son of Morgawse, did not; Cut-Steel was offered him first, and he was afraid. And now—”

  “I—can be Arthur,” Woodley said, very softly. “You can change past, present, and future. A strong and brave man can alter history. Your own past does not matter. If you take Excalibur now, there will be—revisions.”

  Woodley did not answer. He was remembering the way a sword hilt had felt against his palm, and the strange, high excitement that had filled him when he matched steel briefly against Bohart. To hold Excalibur—

  To be Arthur!

  “You can be the man,” Bleys said. “You slew the undine. I should have known then that you were the man for whom I had waited.”

  But Woodley had not slain the undine. A small cold sickness crawled suddenly in his stomach. He said, “If I took . . . Excalibur . . . what would I have to do?”

  Bleys’ scrawny body trembled with excitement. “You would know. First, slay Morgan. After that your star would lead you.”

  Slay Morgan?

  Somehow a sword, even Excalibur, seemed a poor weapon against the horror of her eyes. Even now the enchantress might be finishing Bohart and preparing for the next victim.