The Green Magician

by L. Sprague De Camp

  “Indeed,” said Shea. “At the table you were saying. . .”

  “Will you never let a man finish his tale?” said Ollgaeth. “The way of it is this: The Sidhe themselves may not use the treasures — there is a geas on them that they can be handled only by a man of Milesian blood. Nor will they give them up, for fear the treasures may be used against them. And all who come into their land, they use hardly.”

  “I should think . . .” began Shea.

  “I do call to mind there was a man named Goll tried it,” said Ollgaeth. “But the Sidhe cut off both his ears and fed them to the pigs, and he was never the same man after. Ah, it’s a queer race they are, and a good man one must be to sit at table with them”

  The Hill of the Sidhe loomed in front of them.

  “If you will look there carefully, handsome man,” said Ollgaeth, “to the left of that little tree, you will see a darkish patch in the rocks. Let us move a little closer now.” They climbed the base of the hill. “Now if you will be standing about here, watch the reflection of the moon on the spot there.”

  Shea looked, moving his head from side to side, and made out a kind of reflection on the surface of the rock, not so definite and clear as it might be, more like that on a pond, wavering slightly with ripples. Clearly an area of high magical tension.

  Ollgaeth said, “It is not to everyone I would be showing this or even telling it, but you will be going back to your America, and it is as well for you to know that because of the spells the Sidhe themselves place on these gates, they may be opened without the use of the ancient tongue. Watch how.”

  He raised his arms and began to chant:

  “The chiefs of the voyage over the sea

  By which the sons of Mil came. . .

  It was not very long, ending

  “Who opens the gateway to Tir na n-Og?

  Who but I, Ollgaeth the druid?”

  He clapped his hands together sharply. The wavering reflection faded out and Shea saw nothing but blackness, as if he were looking into a tunnel in the side of the hill.

  “Approach, approach,” said Ollgaeth, “If is not like that the Sidhe will be dangerous against a druid as powerful as myself.”

  Shea went nearer. Sure enough, he was looking down a tunnel that stretched some distance into blackness, with a faint light beyond. He put out a hand; it went into the hole where solid rock had been without resistance, except for a slight tingly feeling.

  Shea asked, “How long will it stay open?”

  “Long enough for whatever passes to reach the other side.”

  “Do you suppose I could open it, too?”

  “Are you not a qualified magician, now? To be sure you could, if you will learn the spell. But you will give me something in exchange.”

  “Certainly,” said Shea. He thought; there was the one he had used in Faerie. “How about a spell to change water into wine? I can teach it to you first thing in the morning.” If he did it himself, the result would probably be rum of an uncommonly potent brew, but qualitative control was this guy’s own business.

  Ollgaeth’s eyes almost glittered in the moonlight. “That would be a thing to see, now. Raise your arms.”

  He followed Ollgaeth through the spell a couple of times, then repeated it alone. The wavelike shimmering disappeared, and the tunnel came open.

  “I am thinking,” said Ollgaeth, as they made their way back to the town, “that it would be as well not to come here again the night. The Sidhe will be noticing their gate clap open and shut and setting a guard over it, and though they are poor in arms, it’s a bad-tempered lot they are.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Shea.

  Within, he tapped at the door of the guesthouse.

  “Who’s there?” asked Belphebe’s voice.

  “It’s me — Harold.”

  The bolt slammed back, and the door opened to show her still fully dressed, a little line of worry in her forehead.

  “My lord,” she said, “I do pray your pardon for my angers. I do see now ‘twas no more your fault than it was mine at Muirthemne. But we must be quick.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She was collecting their small amount of gear.

  “Pete was here but now. We are in deadly danger, but more especially yourself. The Queen has given permission to this Lughaid who accosted you to take your head if he will.”

  Shea put his hand on his sword. “I’d like to see him try it.”

  “Foolish man! He is not coming alone, but with a band — six, half a score. Come.” She pulled him toward the door.

  “But where’s Pete? We can’t go back without him.”

  “Nor can we go back at all if we do not live out the night,” she said, leading out into the dark, silent street. “Pete is doing what he can to gain us time — his singing’s wholly caught them. Hurry!”

  “I don’t see what good merely running away tonight will do us,” said Shea. “Wait a minute, though. I can get in touch with Ollgaeth. You’re right.”

  There was only one guard at the gate, but he held his spear crosswise and said, “I cannot be letting you out again the night. The Queen has sent word.”

  Belphebe gave a little cry. Shea half-turned to see sparks of light dancing, back among the houses. Torches. He swung round again, bringing his sword out with a wheep, and without warning, drove a thrust at the guard’s neck. The soldier jerked up his buckler just in time to catch Shea’s point in the edge of the bronze decorations. Then he lowered his spear and drew it back for a jab.

  Shea recovered, knocking the spear aside, but was unable to get around the shield for a return lunge.

  He thrust twice, feinting with the intention of driving home into an opening, but each time a slight movement of the buckler showed it would be futile.

  The soldier balanced, drew back for another thrust, and then swore as Belphebe, who had slipped past him, caught the butt end of the weapon.

  He shouted, “Ho! An alarm!”

  They would have to work fast. Shea aimed a cut at the man’s head, but he ducked, simultaneously releasing the spear into Belphebe’s hands, who went tumbling backward as the man did a quick side-step and whipped out his sword.

  Shea made a lightning estimate; the guard’s face and neck were too small a target and too well protected by the shield, and the torso was doubly protected by shield and mail. Down.

  He made a quick upward sweep that brought the buckler aloft, then drove the blade into the man’s thigh, just above the knee and below the edge of the kilt. He felt the blade cleave meat; the man’s leg buckled, spilling him to the ground in a clang of metal with a great groaning shout.

  Behind them in the rath there were answering cries and the torchlight points turned. “Come on!” cried Belphebe, and began to run. She still clutched the big spear, but was so light on her feet that it did not appear to matter. Shea, trying to keep up with his wife, heard more shouts behind him. “The hill,” he gasped, and as he ran, was suddenly glad that the Irish of this period were not much with bows.

  There were only occasional trees, but the moonlight was tricky and dubious. A glance backward showed the torchbearers had reached the gate and were beginning to spread. There ought to be just barely time if he could remember the spell correctly. Whatever dangers the country of the Sidhe held, they were less than those to be encountered by staying.

  He was getting short of breath, though Belphebe beside him was running as lightly as ever. The hill loomed over them, dark now by reason of the movement of the moon. “This way,” gasped Shea, and led up the uneven slope. There was the black rock, still shining queerly mirrorlike. Shea lifted his arms over his head and began to chant, panting for breath:

  “The chiefs of the voyage — over the sea — By which — the sons of Mil came. . .”

  Behind one of the pursuers set up a view-halloo. Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw Belphebe whirl and balance the spear as though for throwing; he didn’t have time to stop and tell her that such a w
eapon couldn’t be used that way.

  “Who but I, Harold mac Shea?” he finished, resoundingly.

  “Come on.”

  He dragged Belphebe toward the dimly seen black opening and then through it. As he entered the darkness he felt a tingling all over, as of a mild electric shock.

  Then, abruptly, sunlight replaced moonlight. He and Belphebe were standing on the downward slope of another hill, like the one they had just entered. He had time to take in the fact that the landscape was similar to the one they had quitted, before something crashed down on the back of his head and knocked him unconscious.

  VIII

  BRIUN MAC SMETRA, King of the Sidhe of Connacht, leaned forward in his carven chair and looked at the prisoners. Harold Shea looked back at him as calmly as he could, although his hands were bound behind his back and his head was splitting. Briun was a tall, slender person with pale blond hair and blue eyes that seemed too big for his face. The rest of them were a delicate-looking people, clad with Hellenic simplicity in wrap-around tunics. Their furnishings seemed a point more primitive than those in the Ireland from which they had come — the building they were in had a central hearth with a smoke-hole instead of the fireplaces and chimneys he had seen there.

  “It will do you no good at all to be going on like this,” said the King. “So now it is nothing at all you must lose but your heads, for the black-hearted Connachta that you are.”

  “But we’re not Connachta!” Said Shea. “As I told you . . .”

  A husky man with black hair said, “They look like Gaels, they speak like Gaels, and they are dressed like Gaels.”

  “And who should know better than Nera the champion, who was a Gael himself before he became one of us?” said the King.

  “Now look here, King.” said Shea. “We can prove we’re not Gaels by teaching you things no Gael ever knew.”

  “Can you now?” said Briun. “And what sort of things would those be?”

  Shea said, “I think I can show your druids some new things about magic.”

  Beside him Belphebe’s clear voice seconded him. “I can show you how to make a bow that will shoot — two hundred yards.”

  Briun said, “Now it is to be seen that you are full of foolish lies. It is well known that we already have the best druids in the world, and no bow will shoot that far. This now is just an excuse to have us feed you for a time until it is proved you are lying, which is something we can see without any proof being needed. You are to lose your heads.”

  He made a gesture of dismissal and started to rise.

  The black-thatched Nera said, “Let me . . .”

  “Wait a minute!” cried Shea, desperately. “This guy is a champion, isn’t he? All right, how about it if I challenge him?”

  The King sat down again and considered. “Since you are to lose your head anyway,” he said, “we may as well have some enjoyment out of it. But you are without armor.”

  “Never use the stuff,” said Shea. “Besides, if neither one of us has any, things will move faster.”

  He heard Belphebe gasp beside him, but did not turn his head.

  “Ha, ha,” said Nera. “Let him loose and I will be making him into pieces of fringe for your robe.”

  Somebody released Shea and he stretched his arms and flexed his muscles to restore circulation. He was pushed rather roughly toward the door, where the Tuatha De Danaan were forming a ring, and a sword was thrust into his hand. It was one of the usual Irish blades, almost pointless and suitable mainly for cutting.

  “Hey!” he said. “I want my own sword, the one I had with me.”

  Briun stared at him a moment out of pale, suspicious eyes. “Bring the sword,” he said, and then called: “Miach!”

  The broadsword that Shea had ground down to as fine a point as possible was produced. A tall old man with white hair and beard that made him look like a nineteenth-century poet stepped forward.

  “You are to be telling me if there is a geas on this blade,” said the King.

  The druid took the blade and, holding it flat on both palms, ran his nose along it, sniffing. He looked up. “I do not find any smell of geas or magic about it,” he said, then lifted his nose like a hound toward Shea. “But about this one there is certainly something that touches my profession.”

  “It will not save him,” said Nera. “Come and be killed, Gael.” He swung up his sword.

  Shea just barely parried the downstroke. The man was strong as a horse, and had a good deal of skill in the use of his clumsy weapon. For several panting minutes the weapons clanged; Shea had to step back, and back again, and there were appreciative murmurs from the audience.

  Finally, Nera, showing a certain shortness of breath and visibly growing restive, shouted, “You juggling Greek!” took a step backward and wound up for a two-handed overhead cut, intended to beat down his opponent’s blade by sheer power. Instantly Shea executed the maneuver known as an advance-thrust — dangerous against a fencer, but hardly a barbarian like this. He hopped forward, right foot first, and shot his arm out straight. The point went right into Nera’s chest.

  Shea’s intention was to jerk the blade loose with a twist to one side to avoid the downcoming slash. But the point stuck between his enemy’s ribs, and, in the instant it failed to yield, Nera’s blade, weakened and wavering, came down on Shea’s left shoulder. He felt the sting of steel and in the same moment the sword came loose as Nera folded up wordlessly.

  “You’re hurt!” cried Belphebe. “Let me loose!”

  “Just a flesh wound,” said Shea. “Do I win, King Briun?”

  “Loose the woman,” said the fairy King, and tugged at his beard. “Indeed, and you do. A great liar you may be, but you are also a hero and champion, and it is our rule that you take his place. You will be wanting his head for the pillars of the house you will have.”

  “Listen, King;” said Shea. “I don’t want to be a champion, and I’m not a liar. I can prove it. And I’ve got obligations. I really come from a land as far from the land of the Gaels as it is from Tir na n-Og and, if I don’t get back there soon, I’m going to be in trouble.”

  “Miach!” called the King. “Is it the truth he is telling?”

  The druid stepped forward, said, “Fetch me a bowl of water,” and when it was brought, instructed Shea to dip a finger in it. Then he made a few finger-passes, murmuring to himself, and looked up. “It’s of the opinion I am,” he said, “that this Mac Shea has obligations elsewhere, and if he fails to fulfill them, a most unfavorable geas would come upon him.”

  “We may as well be comfortable over a mug of beer in deciding these questions,” said the King. “We command you to follow us.”

  Belphebe had been dabbing at Shea’s shoulder. Now she caught his hand and they went in together. The big sword was awkward, and they had taken his scabbard as well, but he clung to it anyway. When they were inside, and King Briun had seated himself again, he said, “This is a hard case, and requires thinking, but before we give judgment, we must know what there is to know. Now, what is this of a new magic?”

  “It’s called sympathetic magic,” said Shea. “I can show Miach how to do it, but I don’t know the old tongue, so he’ll have to help me. You see — I’ve been trying to get back to my own place, and I can’t do it because of that.” He went on to explain about the court of Maev and Ailill, and the necessity of rescuing Pete and getting back with him.

  “Now,” he said, “if someone will give me a little clay or wax, I’ll show you how sympathetic magic is done.”

  Miach came forward and leaned over with interest, as someone brought a handfull of damp clay to Shea, who placed it on a piece of wood and formed it into a rather crude and shapeless likeness of the seated King. “I’m going to do a spell to make him rise,” said Shea, “and I’m afraid the effect will be too heavy if you don’t chant. So when I start moving with my hands, you sing.”

  “It shall be done,” said Miach.

  A verse or two of Shelley ought t
o make a good rising spell. Shea went over it in his head, then bent down and took hold of the piece of wood with one hand, while he murmured the words and with the other began to make the passes. He lifted the piece of wood. Miach’s chant rose.

  So did a shriek from the audience. Simultaneously an intolerable weight developed on Shea’s arm, a crack zigzagged across the floor, and he half-turned his head in time to see that the royal palace and all its contents were going up like an elevator, already past the lower branches of the trees, with one of the spectators clinging desperately to the doorsill by his finger-tips.

  Shea stopped his passes and hastily began repeating the last line backward, lowering his piece of wood. The palace came down with a jar that sent things tumbling from the walls and piled the audience in a yelling heap. Miach looked dazed.

  “I’m sorry,” began Shea. “I . . .”

  Patting his crown back into position, King Briun said, “Is it ruining us entirely you would be?”

  Miach said, “O King, it is my opinion that this Mac Shea has done no more than was asked, and that this is a very beautiful and powerful magic.”

  “And you could remove the geas on this woman and return the pair to their own place?”

  “On the wings of the wild swan.”

  “Then hear our judgment.“ King Briun stretched forth a hand. “It is the command of the gods on all of us to help others fulfill their obligations, and this we will do. Yet it is equally true that a doing should be met with a doing in return, and this we cannot escape. Now, Mac Shea has killed our champion, and does not wish to take his place. There must be a balance against this, and we set it that it shall be this wonder-working bow of his wife’s, which if it is as good as his magic, will surely shoot holes through the walls of the mountains.”