by Jack Dann
But then he remembered, with a failing heart, the doctor's last command. "That is, all except the phoenix."
Maggie turned away. All down the village street he watched her small, proud back, until she crossed the bridge and was out of sight. And it seemed as if his heart went with her.
The very next day he let loose all the doctor's birds—the finches and thrushes, the starlings and blackbirds, the woodpecker and the wild heron. He thought Maggie looked at him with a kinder eye when he walked up to the hay and feed store to tell her what he had done.
The people of the town grew fond of their new doctor, but they lamented his sad and downcast look. "What ails him at all?" they asked one another, and Tom Mahone said, "He's as mournful as old Dr. Kilvaney was before him. Sure there's something insalubrious about carrying on the profession of medicine in this town."
But indeed, it was not his calling that troubled the poor young man, for here his patients were as carefree a set of citizens as he could wish. It was the ceaseless running of the sand.
Although there was a whole roomful of sand to run through the glass, he couldn't stop thinking of the day when that roomful would be dwindled to a mere basketful, and then to nothing but a bowlful. And the thought dwelt on his mind like a blight, since it is not wholesome for a man to be advised when his latter end will come, no matter what the burial service may say.
Not only the sand haunted him, but also the phoenix, with its unrelenting stare of hate. No matter what delicacies he brought it, in the way of birdseed and kibbled corn, dry mash and the very best granite grit (for his visits to the hay and feed store were the high spots of his days) the phoenix was always waiting with its razor-sharp beak ready to lay him open to the bone should he venture too near. None of the food would it more than nibble at. And a thing he began to notice, as the days went past, was that its savage brooding eye was always focused on one part of his anatomy—on his left leg. It sometimes seemed to him as if the bird had a particular stake or claim to that leg, and meant to keep watch and see that its property was maintained in good condition.
One night Theseus had need of a splint for a patient. He reached up to a high shelf, where he kept the mastoid mallets, and the crutches, and surgical chisels. He was standing on a chair to do it, and suddenly his foot slipped and he fell, bringing down with him a mighty bone-saw that came to the ground beside him with a clang and a twang, missing his left knee-cap by something less than a feather's breadth. Pale and shaken, he got up, and turning, saw the phoenix watching him as usual, but with such an intent and disappointed look, like the housewife who sees the butcher's boy approaching with the wrong joint!
A cold fit of shivering came over Theseus, and he went hurriedly out of the room.
Next day when he was returning home over the bridge, carrying a bag full of bird-mash, with dried milk and antibiotics added, and his mind full of the blue eyes and black hair of Maggie, a runaway tractor hurtled past him and crashed into the parapet, only one centimetre beyond his left foot.
And again Theseus shuddered, and walked home white and silent, with the cold thought on him. He found the phoenix hunched on its perch, feathers up and head sunk.
"Ah, Phoenix, Phoenix," he cried to it, "why will you be persecuting me so? Do you want to destroy me entirely?" The phoenix made no reply, but stared balefully at his left leg. Then he remembered the old doctor's wooden leg full of rubies. "But I'll not wear it," he cried to the bird, "not if it was stuffed with rubies and diamonds too!"
Just the same, in his heart he believed that the phoenix would not rest satisfied while he had the use of both his legs. He took to walking softly, like a cat, looking this way and that for all possible hazards, watching for falling tiles, and boiling saucepans, and galloping cattle; and the people of the town began to shake their heads over him.
His only happy hours were with Maggie, when he could persuade her to leave the store and come out walking with him. Far from the town they'd go, forgetting the troubles that lay at home. For Maggie had found her aunt was a small, mean-minded woman who put sand in with the hens' meal and shingle among the maize, and Maggie couldn't abide such dealings.
"As soon as I've a little saved," said she, "I'll be away from this town, and off into the world."
"Maggie!" cried Theseus, and it was the first time he'd plucked up courage to do so. "Marry me and I'll make you happier than any girl in the length and breadth of this land."
"I can't marry you," she said. "I could never marry a man who kept a phoenix in a cage."
"We'll give it away," he said, "give it away and forget about it." But even as he spoke he knew they could not. They kissed despairingly, up on the moors in the twilight, and turned homewards.
"I always knew that phoenix was a trouble-bringer," said Maggie, "from the day when Father bought it off a traveling tinker to add to his collection. He said at the time it was a bargain, for the tinker threw in the wooden leg and the great hour-glass as well, but ever after that day Father was a changed man."
"What did he give for it?" Theseus asked.
"His peace of mind. That was all the tinker asked, but it was a deal too much, I'm thinking, for that hateful bird with his wicked look and his revengeful ways."
When he had seen Maggie home, Theseus went to the Public Library, for he couldn't abide the thought of the doctor's house, dark and cold and silent with only the noise of the phoenix shifting on its perch. He took down the volume owL to POL of the encyclopedia and sat studying it until closing time.
Next day he was along to see Maggie.
"Sweetheart," he said, and his eyes were alive with hope, "I believe I've found the answer. Let me have a half-hundred-weight sack of layers' pellets."
"Fourteen shillings," snapped Aunt Rose, who happened to be in the shop just then. Her hair was pinned up in a skinny bun and her little green eyes were like brad-awls.
"Discount for cash payment," snapped back Theseus, and he planted down thirteen shillings and ninepence, kissed Maggie, picked up the sack, and hurried away home. Just as he got there a flying slate from the church roof struck him; if he'd not been wearing heavy boots it would have sliced his foot off. He ran indoors and shook his fist at the phoenix.
"There!" he yelled at it, pouring a troughful of layers' pellets. "Now get that in your gizzard, you misbegotten fowl!"
The phoenix cocked its head. Then it pecked a pellet, neck feathers puffed in scorn, and one satiric eye fixed all the while on Theseus, who stood eagerly watching. Then it pecked another pellet, hanging by one claw from its perch. Then it came down on to the floor entirely and bowed its golden head over the trough. Theseus tiptoed out of the room. He went outside and chopped up a few sticks of kindling—not many, but just a handful of nice, dry, thin twigs. He came back indoors—the phoenix had its head down, gobbling—and laid the sticks alongside the cage, not too close, an artful width away.
Next evening, surgery done, he fairly ran up to the hay and feed store. "Come with me," he said joyfully to Maggie, "come and see what it's doing."
Maggie came, her eyes blazing with curiosity. When they reached the surgery she could hear a crackling and a cracking: the phoenix was breaking up twigs into suitable lengths, and laying them side by side. Every now and then it would try them out in a heap; it had a great bundle in the bottom of its cage but it seemed dissatisfied, and every now and then pulled it all to pieces and began again. It had eaten the whole sackful of pellets and looked plump and sleek.
"Theseus," said Maggie, looking at it, "we must let it out. No bird can build inside of a cage. It's not dignified." "But my promise?"
"I never promised," said Maggie, and she stepped up to the cage door.
Theseus lifted a hand, opened his mouth in warning. But then he stopped. For the phoenix, when it saw what Maggie was at, inclined its head to her in gracious acknowledgment, and then took no further notice of her, but as soon as the door was opened, began shifting its heap of sticks out into the room. If ever a bird was busy a
nd preoccupied and in a hurry, that phoenix was the one.
"But we can't let it build in the middle of the floor," said Theseus.
"Ah, sure, what harm?" said Maggie. "Look, the poor fowl is running short of sticks."
As soon as Theseus had gone for more, she stepped over to the hour-glass, for her quick eye had noticed what he, in his excitement, had failed to see—the sand was nearly all run through. Quietly, Maggie reversed the glass and started the sand on its journey again, a thing she had often done for her father, unbeknownst, until the day when it was plain he would rather die than stay alive.
When Theseus came back the phoenix was sitting proudly on the top of a breast-high heap of sticks.
"We mustn't watch it now," said Maggie, "it wouldn't be courteous." And she led Theseus outside. He, however, could not resist a slant-eyed glance through the window as they passed. It yielded him a flash of gold—the phoenix had laid an egg in a kidney-basin. Moreover, plumes of smoke were beginning to flow out through he window.
"Goodbye, Phoenix," Maggie called. But the phoenix, at the heart of a golden blaze, was much too busy to reply.
"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Theseus. "Now I shall never know when the last of my sand was due to run through." Maggie smiled, but made no comment, and he asked her, "Is it right, do you think, to let the house burn down?"
"What harm?" said Maggie again. "It belongs to us, doesn't it?"
"What will the people of the town do, if I'm not here to doctor them?"
"Go to Dr. Conlan of Drumanough."
"And what about your father's leg full of rubies?" he said, looking at the phoenix's roaring pyre.
"We'd never get it out now," said she. "Let it go on holding up the kitchen table till they both burn. We've better things to think of."
And hand in hand the happy pair of them ran out of the town, up along the road to the high moors and the world, leaving behind a pocketful of rubies to glitter in the ashes, and a golden egg for anyone who was fool enough to pick it up.
THE TROLL
Trolls have much in common in their nature and habits with the more ferocious of the man-eating giants—although they are generally portrayed as being smaller, closer to human-size—and it is quite possible that just as giants may be the diminished and dwindled remnants of gods, so trolls may be the dwindled and diminished remnants of giants. Like some giants, most trolls cannot tolerate sunlight, many of them being turned to stone by its touch. Humanoid in form but less human-looking than most giants, trolls are usually green or gray in color, sometimes scaly, and often have preternaturally-long arms that hang down past their knees. They are almost universally described as being monstrously ugly of face, sometimes having huge tusks, often having enormous, grotesquely-malshaped noses. They are usually man-eaters, sometimes being said to prefer human flesh to all other meat. By most accounts, they are tremendously powerful and very hard to kill, sometimes continuing to struggle ferociously even after they have literally been hacked to pieces. All in all, they are as dire as any creatures to be found in the pages of fantasy literature, and few if any writers have anything good to say about them.
In the stories that follow, we find a troll inhospitably at home in the traditional dank and gloomy cave, but also see another troll acting with equal incivility in the carpeted halls of a modern hotel, in spite of a considerable upgrading of luxury and comfort. Perhaps in some cases Heredity is more important than Environment, at that ..
Poul Anderson is one of the best-known and most prolific writers in SF and fantasy. In the course of his 38-year career, he has published more than 80 books, sold hundreds of short pieces to every conceivable market, and won seven Hugo Awards, three Nebula Awards, and the Tolkien Memorial Award for lifetime achievement in fantasy. His latest books are the novel Orion Shall Rise and the collection Time Patrolman.
The late T. H. White was perhaps the most talented and widely-acclaimed creator of whimsical fantasy since Lewis Carroll. Although he did publish other novels, White's major work—and the work on which almost all of his present-day reputation rests—was the massive Arthurian tetralogy, The Once and Future King, one of the landmark volumes of modern fantasy. It was later the inspiration for the Broadway musical Camelot. His short fiction has been collected in The Maharajah and Other Stories. White died in 1964.
The Valor of Cappen Varra
by
Poul Anderson
THE WIND CAME from the north with sleet on its back. Raw shuddering gusts whipped the sea till the ship lurched and men felt driven spindrift stinging their faces. Beyond the rail there was winter night, a moving blackness where the waves rushed and clamored; straining into the great dark, men sensed only the bitter salt of sea-scud, the nettle of sleet and the lash of wind.
Cappen lost his footing as the ship heaved beneath him, his hands were yanked from the icy rail and he went stumbling to the deck. The bilge water was new coldness on his drenched clothes. He struggled back to his feet, leaning on a rower's bench and wishing miserably that his quaking stomach had more to lose. But he had already chucked his share of stockfish and hardtack, to the laughter of Svearek's men, when the gale started.
Numb fingers groped anxiously for the harp on his back. It still seemed intact in its leather case. He didn't care about the sodden wadmàl breeks and tunic that hung around his skin. The sooner they rotted off him, the better. The thought of the silks and linens of Croy was a sigh in him.
Why had he come to Norren?
A gigantic form, vague in the whistling dark, loomed beside him and gave him a steadying hand. He could barely hear the blond giant's bull tones: "Ha, easy there, lad. Methinks the sea horse road is overly rough for yer feet."
"Ulp," said Cappen. His slim body huddled on the bench, too miserable to care. The sleet pattered against his shoulders and the spray congealed in his red hair.
Torbek of Norren squinted into the night. It made his leathery face a mesh of wrinkles. "A bitter feast of Yolner we hold," he said. "'Twas a madness of the king's, that he would guest with his brother across the water. Now the other ships are blown from us and the fire is drenched out and we lie alone in the Wolf s Throat."
Wind piped shrill in the rigging. Cappen could just see the longboat's single mast reeling against the sky. The ice on the shrouds made it a pale pyramid. Ice everywhere, thick on the rails and benches, sheathing the dragon head and the carved stern-post, the ship rolling and staggering under the great march of waves, men bailing and bailing in the half-frozen bilge to keep her afloat, and too much wind for sail or oars. Yes—a cold feast!
"But then, Svearek has been strange since the troll took his daughter, three years ago," went on Torbek. He shivered in a way the winter had not caused. "Never does he smile, and his once open hand grasps tight about the silver and his men have poor reward and no thanks. Yes, strange—" His small frost-blue eyes shifted to Cappen Vana; and the unspoken thought ran on beneath them: Strange, even that he likes you, the wandering bard from the south. Strange, that he will have you in his hall when you cannot sing as his men would like.
Cappen did not care to defend himself. He had drifted up toward the northern barbarians with the idea that they would well reward a minstrel who could offer them something more than their own crude chants. It had been a mistake; they didn't care for roundels or sestinas, they yawned at the thought of roses white and red under the moon of Caronne, a moon less fair than my lady's eyes. Nor did a man of Croy have the size and strength to compel their respect; Cappen's light blade flickered swiftly enough so that no one cared to fight him, but he lacked the power of sheer bulk. Svearek alone had enjoyed hearing him sing, but he was niggardly and his brawling thorp was an endless boredom to a man used to the courts of southern princes.
If he had but had the manhood to leave—But he had delayed, because of a hope that Svearek's coffers would open wider; and now he was dragged along over the Wolf s Throat to a midwinter feast which would have to be celebrated on the sea.
"Had we b
ut fire—" Torbek thrust his hands inside his cloak, trying to warm them a little. The ship rolled till she was almost on her beam ends; Torbek braced himself with practiced feet, but Cappen went into the bilge again.
He sprawled there for a while, his bruised body refusing movement. A weary sailor with a bucket glared at him through dripping hair. His shout was dim under the hoot and skirl of wind: "If ye like it so well down here, then help us bail!"
"'Tis not yet my turn," groaned Cappen, and got slowly up.
The wave which had nearly swamped them had put out the ship's fire and drenched the wood beyond hope of lighting a new one. It was cold fish and sea-sodden hardtack till they saw land again—if they ever did.
As Cappen raised himself on the leeward side, he thought he saw something gleam, far out across the wrathful night. A wavering red spark—He brushed a stiffened hand across his eyes, wondering if the madness of wind and water had struck through into his own skull. A gust of sleet hid it again. But—
He fumbled his way aft between the benches. Huddled figures cursed him wearily as he stepped on them. The ship shook herself, rolled along the edge of a boiling black trough, and slid down into it; for an instant, the white teeth of combers grinned above her rail, and Cappen waited for an end to all things. Then she mounted them again, somehow, and wallowed toward another valley.
King Svearek had the steering oar and was trying to hold the Longboat into the wind. He had stood there since sundown, huge and untiring, legs braced and the bucking wood cradled in his arms. More than human he seemed, there under the icicle loom of the stern-post, his gray hair and beard rigid with ice. Beneath the horned helmet, the strong moody face turned right and left, peering into the darkness. Cappen felt smaller than usual when he approached the steersman.
He leaned closer to the king, shouting against the blast of winter: "My lord, did I not see firelight?"