The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  The wrestling match looked ridiculous, with Gogmagog (Ares) being three or four times the size of Corineus (Artemis), but my sister had developed a rather fine flying jump on to Ares’s knees in the hope of toppling him over, and I had to admit he looked rather silly, hopping along with his legs fastened together, trying to throw her off. However, might is might, and Ares managed to shake her off into the air, catch her, and drop her flat on the ground. Then he thoughtfully sat astride her and raised his arm in triumph. I clapped.

  It was premature.

  Suddenly something strange happened. Corineus heaved up his body, throwing Gogmagog off to sprawl on the ground, then sprang up and kept his tiny foot on Gogmagog’s vast body. Ares lay there, looking as if he were wondering how a girl only a quarter of his size could overturn him. Being so very masculine, he would be touchy on the point.

  “Victory is ours,” piped up Corineus. He bent down and picked up Gogmagog in his arms. How furious Ares’s face looked at finding himself cradled in darling Artemis’s arms, as she ran with him to the cliff edge and then threw poor old Gogmagog over.

  “I’ve won my temple!” It was Snake’s voice, but to my horror it was chortling in my ear from behind me.

  “If you’re there – then who . . .?” I pointed in horror at Corineus, now puffing himself up with pride and shaking everyone by the hand. Then I realized with sinking heart who was inside him.

  “Aphrodite!” Father roared in fury, materializing in all his sable-browed thundery might.

  “How did you know where we were?” I wailed, falling on my knees. One is apt to ask silly questions in times of stress.

  “I am the All-Seeing Eye.”

  In fact, I discovered later, because I was temporarily missing and couldn’t arrange any love trysts for him, he went in search of his own wife, prepared to put up with her for once. Of course he couldn’t find her either, for she was having the time of her life inside a giant.

  “How dare you disobey my ruling, child?” he continued to roar, as Sister Artemis smirked her head off.

  “Because it wasn’t fair,” I said meekly. “You said Aeneas could found New Troy.”

  “Certainly,” he agreed grandly. “And I always keep my word. But I never said how many New Troys there would be, did I?”

  I wonder how he thought that one up?

  Father put on his “I am All-Powerful” look, thundering, “Aeneas is busy founding a New Troy. The name Hisperia will change to Italy, and New Troy to Rome. In due course,” he added hastily, seeing my tears welling up.

  “Then what’s Brutus doing here, if Aeneas’s children are going to inherit this Rome?”

  He explained it to me kindly, as if to an idiot child. “Brutus is going to march up to the eastern side of this island where it was always intended he should land until someone—” he said meaningfully, “arranged he should be blown here. He will found New Troy, and – here’s the part you’ll like, Aphrodite – in years to come New Trojans from Rome will conquer it. It, too, will change its name. Perhaps London, that has a nice ring to it.”

  “Oh, Father,” I said delightedly, clapping my hands. “You are kind.”

  “But my temple will remain there,” jeered Artemis.

  Dolefully, I turned to Father. He shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid so, Aphrodite. At least until such time as the Britons get some decent gods of their own.”

  He cast a scathing look at Gogmagog, whose head was dolefully appearing over the top of the cliff, though Ares had hopped out of him long ago.

  “So it won’t be there for ever,” I said smugly.

  “Oh yes it will,” Artemis shouted, and Father continued hastily:

  “Yes, but over it a new temple will be built called St Paul’s.”

  I thought she was going to howl, and so did Father for he added soothingly: “How would you like some trophies from this day’s sport, Artemis?”

  “Oh goody.” Artemis cheered up: she likes a nice bloody stag to hang up in her bedchamber. “What can I have?”

  Zeus pointed. Over the clifftop came Gogmagog. I thought I was seeing double at first, so I looked again. Then I realized I was. There were two of them, identical twins, both giants.

  “Twins,” Artemis cried in ecstasy. “Oh, I like twins.”

  It’s a good job Gogmagog claimed immortality – I wouldn’t give much for his chances otherwise.

  “I’m Gog,” announced one gloomily.

  “I’m Magog,” announced the other.

  Zeus looked pleased. He always does when he performs a party trick successfully. “I’m appointing them sub-gods for Britain – under your command, of course, Artemis. You can march them up to London with your Trojans.”

  “Mighty Father, son of Cronos, thank you.” She grovelled on the floor. “I’ll build a very small temple for them in the public market-place, and call it the Guildhall. They will worship me above all goddesses.”

  Not if I have anything to do with it.

  “Father, may I join the triumphant march to New Troy?” I asked humbly. Artemis eyed me suspiciously, but I can put on a good show when I need to.

  I was forced to walk quite a lot of the way, partly to catch up on the family news that I’d missed for a few generations, and partly so that I could chat to that friendly pair of oversized mortals, Gog and Magog, who were happily striding towards their new home.

  Some way along the route to London I spied a suitable place and suggested it as a campsite. Morpheus, who’d joined us for a day or two, obliged me by putting the rest of the party to sleep, leaving me, Gog and Magog to discuss the responsibilities of immortal status. It takes a lot to get these Albionites started. Eventually I had to come straight to the point, stripping off in all my womanly immodesty and saying: “As goddess of love, I do feel I have a professional responsibility to the New Trojans in view of the size of you Albions, but I don’t know which of you to choose.”

  The message slowly percolated and they both began to look satisfactorily interested. “Me.” They both thumped themselves on the chest.

  “Alas, I can’t love you both,” I said regretfully (give me a chance).

  “Then we fight.”

  “Over little me?” I opened my wondrous eyes wider. “Well, if you insist. You see that big pile of large, rough-hewn stones over there? Perhaps you could have a contest as to who could throw them furthest?”

  Men are so simple-minded. The mutts did it. I stood, goddess-like, on a mound watching them toss those huge stones as if they were flower petals. From time to time I gave them a little encouragement, but they were so keen on their “fight” they hardly needed it. All the same they needed some direction.

  “Darling Magog, why don’t you try to throw one across those stones Gog has so clumsily dropped upright?”

  “Dearest Gog, it’s really you I want. Why don’t you drop a couple more upright if you can?”

  That night, somewhat tired after rewarding both my giants’ efforts (it seemed so mean to favour only one when both had done so well, so I declared it a draw), I staggered out of our sheltering bower and walked down to the plain beneath the mound, where I could admire my new temple set so prominently against the skyline. Built by my henchmen giants, it would stand for ever – unlike the one to Artemis, ho, ho!

  What should I call my glorious stone temple? I like to reward effort, so then the perfect name came to me.

  I’d call it Stonehenge.

  THE FIFTY-FIRST DRAGON

  Heywood Broun

  Heywood Broun (1888–1939) is another pretty much forgotten humorist, who was always better known in his native United States than he ever was in Britain. He was a columnist and critic for several New York newspapers, particularly the World and the Telegram. An ardent socialist, he became famous for his outspokenness and his crusades for or against causes. His work is seldom reprinted today, but I think you’ll find the freshness and vivacity in the following story, which first appeared in 1921, a pleasant surprise. It also gives
me an opportunity to include an Arthurian fantasy. My thanks to F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre for securing a copy of the story for me.

  Of all the pupils at the knight school Gawaine le Cœur-Hardy was among the least promising. He was tall and sturdy, but his instructors soon discovered that he lacked spirit. He would hide in the woods when the jousting class was called, although his companions and members of the faculty sought to appeal to his better nature by shouting to him to come out and break his neck like a man. Even when they told him that the lances were padded, the horses no more than ponies and the field unusually soft for late autumn, Gawaine refused to grow enthusiastic. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce were discussing the case one spring afternoon and the Assistant Professor could see no remedy but expulsion.

  “No,” said the Headmaster, as he looked out at the purple hills which ringed the school, “I think I’ll train him to slay dragons.”

  “He might be killed,” objected the Assistant Professor.

  “So he might,” replied the Headmaster brightly, but he added, more soberly, “we must consider the greater good. We are responsible for the formation of this lad’s character.”

  “Are the dragons particularly bad this year?” interrupted the Assistant Professor. This was characteristic. He always seemed restive when the head of the school began to talk ethics and the ideals of the institution.

  “I’ve never known them worse,” replied the Headmaster. “Up in the hills to the south last week they killed a number of peasants, two cows and a prize pig. And if this dry spell holds there’s no telling when they may start a forest fire simply by breathing around indiscriminately.”

  “Would any refund on the tuition fee be necessary in case of an accident to young Cœur-Hardy?”

  “No,” the principal answered, judicially, “that’s all covered in the contract. But as a matter of fact he won’t be killed. Before I send him up in the hills I’m going to give him a magic word.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said the Professor. “Sometimes they work wonders.”

  From that day on Gawaine specialized in dragons. His course included both theory and practice. In the morning there were long lectures on the history, anatomy, manners and customs of dragons. Gawaine did not distinguish himself in these studies. He had a marvelously versatile gift for forgetting things. In the afternoon he showed to better advantage, for then he would go down to the South Meadow and practice with a battle-ax. In this exercise he was truly impressive, for he had enormous strength as well as speed and grace. He even developed a deceptive display of ferocity. Old alumni say that it was a thrilling sight to see Gawaine charging across the field toward the dummy paper dragon which had been set up for his practice. As he ran he would brandish his ax and shout “A murrain on thee!” or some other vivid bit of campus slang. It never took him more than one stroke to behead the dummy dragon.

  Gradually his task was made more difficult. Paper gave way to papier-mâché and finally to wood, but even the toughest of these dummy dragons had no terrors for Gawaine. One sweep of the ax always did the business. There were those who said that when the practice was protracted until dusk and the dragons threw long, fantastic shadows across the meadow Gawaine did not charge so impetuously nor shout so loudly. It is possible there was malice in this charge. At any rate, the Headmaster decided by the end of June that it was time for the test. Only the night before a dragon had come close to the school grounds and had eaten some of the lettuce from the garden. The faculty decided that Gawaine was ready. They gave him a diploma and a new battle-ax and the Headmaster summoned him to a private conference.

  “Sit down,” said the Headmaster. “Have a cigarette.”

  Gawaine hesitated.

  “Oh, I know it’s against the rules,” said the Headmaster. “But after all, you have received your preliminary degree. You are no longer a boy. You are a man. Tomorrow you will go out into the world, the great world of achievement.”

  Gawaine took a cigarette. The Headmaster offered him a match, but he produced one of his own and began to puff away with a dexterity which quite amazed the principal.

  “Here you have learned the theories of life,” continued the Headmaster, resuming the thread of his discourse, “but after all, life is not a matter of theories. Life is a matter of facts. It calls on the young and the old alike to face these facts, even though they are hard and sometimes unpleasant. Your problem, for example, is to slay dragons.”

  “They say that those dragons down in the south wood are five hundred feet long,” ventured Gawaine, timorously.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” said the Headmaster. “The curate saw one last week from the top of Arthur’s Hill. The dragon was sunning himself down in the valley. The curate didn’t have an opportunity to look at him very long because he felt it was his duty to hurry back to make a report to me. He said the monster, or shall I say, the big lizard? – wasn’t an inch over two hundred feet. But the size has nothing at all to do with it. You’ll find the big ones even easier than the little ones. They’re far slower on their feet and less aggressive, I’m told. Besides, before you go I’m going to equip you in such fashion that you need have no fear of all the dragons in the world.”

  “I’d like an enchanted cap,” said Gawaine.

  “What’s that?” answered the Headmaster, testily.

  “A cap to make me disappear,” explained Gawaine.

  The Headmaster laughed indulgently. “You mustn’t believe all those old wives’ stories,” he said. “There isn’t any such thing. A cap to make you disappear, indeed! What would you do with it? You haven’t even appeared yet. Why, my boy, you could walk from here to London, and nobody would so much as look at you. You’re nobody. You couldn’t be more invisible than that.”

  Gawaine seemed dangerously close to a relapse into his old habit of whimpering. The Headmaster reassured him: “Don’t worry; I’ll give you something much better than an enchanted cap. I’m going to give you a magic word. All you have to do is to repeat this magic charm once and no dragon can possibly harm a hair of your head. You can cut off his head at your leisure.”

  He took a heavy book from the shelf behind his desk and began to run through it. “Sometimes,” he said, “the charm is a whole phrase or even a sentence. I might, for instance, give you ‘To make the’— No, that might not do. I think a single word would be best for dragons.”

  “A short word,” suggested Gawaine.

  “It can’t be too short or it wouldn’t be potent. There isn’t so much hurry as all that. Here’s a splendid magic word: ‘Rumplesnitz.’ Do you think you can learn that?”

  Gawaine tried and in an hour or so he seemed to have the word well in hand. Again and again he interrupted the lesson to inquire, “And if I say ‘Rumplesnitz’ the dragon can’t possibly hurt me?” And always the Headmaster replied, “If you only say ‘Rumplesnitz’, you are perfectly safe.”

  Toward morning Gawaine seemed resigned to his career. At daybreak the Headmaster saw him to the edge of the forest and pointed him to the direction in which he should proceed. About a mile away to the southwest a cloud of steam hovered over an open meadow in the woods and the Headmaster assured Gawaine that under the steam he would find a dragon. Gawaine went forward slowly. He wondered whether it would be best to approach the dragon on the run as he did in his practice in the South Meadow or to walk slowly toward him, shouting “Rumplesnitz” all the way.

  The problem was decided for him. No sooner had he come to the fringe of the meadow than the dragon spied him and began to charge. It was a large dragon and yet it seemed decidedly aggressive in spite of the Headmaster’s statement to the contrary. As the dragon charged it released huge clouds of hissing steam through its nostrils. It was almost as if a gigantic teapot had gone mad. The dragon came forward so fast and Gawaine was so frightened that he had time to say “Rumplesnitz” only once. As he said it, he swung his battle-ax and off popped the head of the dragon. Gawaine had to admit that it was even eas
ier to kill a real dragon than a wooden one if only you said “Rumplesnitz”.

  Gawaine brought the ears home and a small section of the tail. His schoolmates and the faculty made much of him, but the Headmaster wisely kept him from being spoiled by insisting that he go on with his work. Every clear day Gawaine rose at dawn and went out to kill dragons. The Headmaster kept him at home when it rained, because he said the woods were damp and unhealthy at such times and that he didn’t want the boy to run needless risks. Few good days passed in which Gawaine failed to get a dragon. On one particularly fortunate day he killed three, a husband and wife and a visiting relative. Gradually he developed a technique. Pupils who sometimes watched him from the hilltops a long way off said that he often allowed the dragon to come within a few feet before he said “Rumplesnitz”. He came to say it with a mocking sneer. Occasionally he did stunts. Once when an excursion party from London was watching him he went into action with his right hand tied behind his back. The dragon’s head came off just as easily.

  As Gawaine’s record of killings mounted higher the Headmaster found it impossible to keep him completely in hand. He fell into the habit of stealing out at night and engaging in long drinking bouts at the village tavern. It was after such a debauch that he rose a little before dawn one fine August morning and started out after his fiftieth dragon. His head was heavy and his mind sluggish. He was heavy in other respects as well, for he had adopted the somewhat vulgar practice of wearing his medals, ribbons and all, when he went out dragon hunting. The decorations began on his chest and ran all the way down to his abdomen. They must have weighed at least eight pounds.

  Gawaine found a dragon in the same meadow where he had killed the first one. It was a fair-sized dragon, but evidently an old one. Its face was wrinkled and Gawaine thought he had never seen so hideous a countenance. Much to the lad’s disgust, the monster refused to charge and Gawaine was obliged to walk toward him. He whistled as he went. The dragon regarded him hopelessly, but craftily. Of course it had heard of Gawaine. Even when the lad raised his battle-ax the dragon made no move. It knew that there was no salvation in the quickest thrust of the head, for it had been informed that this hunter was protected by an enchantment. It merely waited, hoping something would turn up. Gawaine raised the battle-ax and suddenly lowered it again. He had grown very pale and he trembled violently. The dragon suspected a trick. “What’s the matter?” it asked, with false solicitude.