by John White
"Then drink!"
"But I'm only a boy ..."
"You are the Sword Bearer. So drink!"
John raised his goblet with both his hands, staring at the liquid inside it. He raised it further, to his lips, and tasted. Bitterness and fire exploded in his mouth and throughout his body. Disgusted and afraid, he spat and spat again, wiping his mouth feverishly with one hand. "Ugh, it's horrible! You're playing a joke on me. You think you're funny, don't you!"
The frustrations of the previous twenty-four hours boiled up inside him. Tears stung his eyes as he stared at the wizard, and rage threatened to take his breath away. In a thin, shaky voice he cried, "Here—take your filthy wine!" and flung the contents of the goblet in Mab's face, hurling the empty vessel onto the table.
Then he turned and ran into the darkness, sobbing with rage as he ran.
9
* * *
The Goblin
Prince
The next morningjohn stared gloomily through the window of the Gaal tree. His feelings were confused. The previous night Mab had found him where he lay in the grass at one end of the glade. He had pounded his head and fists into the earth until he was exhausted. Wearily John had accompanied the old man to the Gaal tree and accepted a cup of liquid from him.
"What is it? It's not that pardon wine, is it?" he had asked suspiciously.
"It's medicine," Mab had replied gently. "It will ease the hurts and griefs in you. You will rest better if you drink."
He had watched John sadly as he took the cup, and after a moment he had said in a low and trembling voice, "No one can make you drink the wine of free pardon. You must want to drink it yourself. And until you do, John the Sword Bearer, your sword will prove useless to the cause. Indeed, if before drinking the wine you should ever try to kill the Goblin Prince with it, your sword will surely fail you."
John had remembered no more. He had lain back on the couch on which he was sitting and sunk into a dreamless slumber. Now staring out of the window, he was ashamed of his behavior. But he was also defiant and determined not to apologize. He was the Sword Bearer.
He scarcely saw the glade, washed in the morning sun, or the Matmon washing themselves in the stream and cooking breakfast on fires before their tents. Here and there the tethered horses contentedly cropped grass. When at last his attention was arrested by the scene in front of him, it was not by any movement, but by the sudden absence of movement
They had all stopped. It was rather like a movie that suddenly freezes on one frame. Some still knelt by their fires. Others stood motionless in a variety of postures. The horses had ceased to eat. But this was not the stillness of death so much as of intense watchfulness. All of them were staring, gripped by what they saw.
John drew in his breath when he spotted what they were looking at. A bear had emerged from the forest a bear larger than he had imagined any bear could be. Though from where John stood it appeared to be black, it was in fact a grizzly, but greater in size than grizzlies of our modern world. Even on all fours it stood taller than the horses, and clearly was of far greater weight and bulk John wondered what it would look like when it stood on its hind legs.
The bear was the only thing in the whole glade that moved as it slowly shuffled with apparent aimlessness into the opening. Even the leaves on the trees did not stir. Matmon and horses watched the bear as though transfixed. But eventually one of the Matmon did move. John saw him draw back a spear. For several seconds nothing happened. Then the arm flashed forward, and the spear sailed through the morning air to glance lightly across one of the bear's shoulders. It swung its shaggy head to stare at the Matmon, who had dropped to his knees.Then it turned to look at the spear.
The grizzly was no ordinary bear as John was to find out. Grizzlies cannot pick up spears with one paw. But this grizzly did. Then it raised itself to its full height of fifteen feet, held the puny weapon above its head in its two paws, snapped it in two and tossed the pieces away. A growl came from deep in its chest, a growl that made even the window of the Gaal tree rattle, and then it moved on its hind feet toward the cowering Matmon.
There was a sound of hurried footsteps behind John. The wizard had seen what had happened and was tumbling through the door. "Oso," he cried. "Oso! Let him be, Oso. He is a friend! He does not understand! Oso!"
John followed the old man through the door. As he emerged he saw that the bear had dropped to all fours and was now bounding like a great eager dog in the wizard's direction. John backed nervously to the tree, only to find to his dismay that once again the door through which he had just emerged was no longer there. Instead of going through it he slipped behind the tree.
Mab stumbled forward. As the bear reached him, it again reared to its terrifying height, dwarfing the fragile figure of the old man. "Welcome, old friend!" Mab cried, opening his arms widely as though to hug the large creature.
"I come from Aguila," the grizzly rumbled. "She thought I might be of use to you!"
Then, as if a signal had been given, Matmon began to move again and the tethered horses to eat grass.
That night under a full moon, after a day of preparation to strike camp for the long journey ahead and after yet another feast provided by Aguila, John sat somewhat sulkily with Mab and Vixenia between the haunches of Oso.
"You are still of a mind to accompany us then?" Vixenia asked the old man.
"I fear to say what I will do," Mab replied.
"You fear?"
"The moon is full."
"And what of it?" Clearly Vixenia was puzzled.
"The Goblin Prince is said to walk abroad at times when the moon is full. I fear that if I declare my intention to join you, some great evil will befall you all."
"Let evil come!" Vixenia barked. "What do I care about the wrath of the Mystery? Let it do its worst, full moon or no full moon!"
"Hsst—it has ears—"
"Then let it hear and do what it may!" Vixenia returned.
The pain was growing in John's shoulder again, throbbing relentlessly and slowly worsening. He rubbed it, frowning. Mab turned to see what he was doing. "It hurts," John said. "It doesn't hurt all the time—just when Nicholas Slapfoot seems to be around."
"Who is Nicholas Slapfoot?"
John tried to explain.
"Does it hurt at no other time?"
"Just once," John found himself flushing. "I felt it the other night when the Lord Lunacy came to the cave where they imprisoned me. It really hurt then."
"And what about now?"
"It's—it's getting worse. It's certainly not dying away." Oso growled deeply as John continued.
The old man drew in a breath. "Perhaps it accepts your challenge, Vixenia. At any rate, evil is abroad in the camp. And I would advise you to return to your den to be with your mate and your little ones."
"You mean the Goblin Prince is here?" Vixenia asked.
"I only know that evil is near. My staff tells me that much. And it seems that the Sword Bearer's shoulder serves the same purpose."
"I don't know about the Goblin Prince. But Nicholas Slapfoot can't be here," John said. "I mean, it's not possible. He—he doesn't belong to this sort of place. He just doesn't."
Pendleton, Pimblett's Place and the old rag-and-bone man seemed impossibly remote. Yet suddenly the night was filled with memories, the moonlight cold and deadly, and the stillness—the sort of stillness that made you think of invisible dangers waiting to strike. All the Matmon were asleep. Folly had retired with the horses.
Mab rose to his feet, pushing himself upright with the vibrating staff. "Come, Oso," he said, "we shall follow the edge of the glade. If there is anything brooding in the woods that surround it, I shall know by my staff." He turned to John and looked at him uncertainly. Then he nodded as if he had made up his mind. "Go with Vixenia," he said, "and see that she gets back safely. You think you could find the tree again?"
John nodded.
"Well then, if I have not returned, unsheath your sword an
d bid the door open in the name of the Changer. I shall be back before long."
John wanted to ask what was likely to happen, but the pain in his shoulder made conversation difficult. In any case, the old man did not wait for questions. Oso had rolled onto all fours, and as Mab headed toward the northern end of the glade, the bear followed him.
John looked inquiringly at Vixenia. "Our den is in the opposite direction," she said, rising to stand on her tiny, delicate paws. "We were lucky to find it It hadn't been used for a couple of years."
She turned from the trees and John followed. "You said 'we'?" he murmured. "Is there more than just you?"
"I have a mate and cubs," Vixenia said. "My husband was at first unwilling to come on this expedition. Life for him is a matter of hunting birds and bringing them to the den for food. But he came in the end."
If his shoulder had been hurting less, John would have been delighted to accompany the vixen to her den on a moonlit night in the woods. As it was, the pain grew steadily the further they advanced, and it was all he could do to follow her, his lips tightly pressed together and his forehead creased.
Vixenia moved through the woods following no pathway that John could detect He was obliged to force his way between thickets and undergrowth, crashing noisily in the woods in the wake of his silent and agile guide who would wait for him whenever she got too far ahead. There was less light under the trees, and at times he would be on top of Vixenia before he realized she was there. He felt clumsy and awkward.
From somewhere ahead they heard the sound of a fox's bark and Vixenia stiffened. Then in the silence came the awesome and ponderous crashing of a falling tree. Both of them froze. They heard another tree crack and then crash to the ground. Then another and yet another. In all, a dozen trees must have fallen only a few yards from where they stood.
"What is it?" John whispered.
"It is the Goblin Prince," Vixenia replied. "He alone has the strength to fell trees with his fists."
For about a minute they heard nothing more, until at last came the chilling sound of a yelp, a thick scream and a pitiful squealing.
Vixenia was gone. Soundlessly she disappeared into the dense thicket John's heart beat sickenly. It was all he could do to suppress a whimper because of the pain. Stubborn pride struggled to assert itself. He was the Sword Bearer. If evil was abroad, could he not deal with it?
Another thought gripped him. Was he not himself evil? Did not his strength lie in evil? Gritting his teeth, he plunged into the bushes in the direction he thought Vixenia had followed. The same fierce exultation that he had first experienced with the Lord Lunacy inside the cave flushed his body again, filling him with scorn for the danger ahead. He forged ahead determinedly crying, "I am the Sword Bearer!" But his voice sounded thin and unconvincing.
A second later the fleeting exultation left him. A peal of diabolical laughter sounded from a few yards ahead. It seemed to cut through his muscles and make his shoulder jump with agony. He stopped abruptly and gasped in pain. Peal after peal of laughter sent jolt after jolt into his shoulder. There was no exultation left
In misery and pain, shivering with cold and fear, he emerged into moonlight into the confused chaos of fallen trees and the source of the devilish laughter.
At first his mind could not take in what he saw. A man stood behind the foliage of a fallen tree. He was holding the limp form of Vixenia high above his head. The voice of Nicholas Slapfoot cried, "Yes, Vixie, me sweet you'd like me to kill you, wouldn't you? But I want you to live."
He shook her furiously but her body remained limp and flaccid. He lowered her, cradling her in his arms as though she were a baby and rocking her gently. "There, there, sweet'art. You must tell that young John 'ow I tore your husband's 'ead off and murdered all your cubs. You mus' tell 'im I felled these trees with one blow from me fists." Then he took the limp Vixenia by the tail and flung her into the bushes.
John sank to the ground, sickened with horror. He dropped his head onto his knees and closed his eyes. He crouched without moving for at least two minutes and then slowly the pain began to leave his shoulder. Nicholas Slapfoot was here— wherever "here" was—and Nicholas Slapfoot was called the Goblin Prince. He didn't belong to Pendleton after all. This was the strange world he came from. Nicholas Slapfoot had found his way into this other existence and seemed more powerful than ever. John opened his eyes and looked up, half expecting his tormenter to be grinning down at him, but his eyes met with only the foliage of a fallen tree in the moonlight.
Cautiously he rose to his feet. Nicholas Slapfoot was no longer present, and the pain in his shoulder was gone entirely. Scarcely daring to hope, he began to scramble over and around the fallen trees in the direction where Vixie might lie. He forced his way over a thick branch, groping with his foot for firmer ground. Instead he felt something soft. Was it Vixenia? He bent down, pushing leaves and branches away from his face, awkwardly trying to feel with the fingers of one hand what his foot had encountered.
And at last he did. He felt the warm and shaggy coat of a fox. He had stumbled on the body of Vixenia's mate. He turned and dropped to his hands and knees. For several minutes he remained crouched among the fallen trees, shaking uncontrollably.
10
* * *
The Secret
Plan
That night in the Gaal tree John scarcely slept at all. Nightmares haunted the fringes of his sleep, terrible nightmares of Nicholas Slapfoot. In the morning he was feverish, confused and suffering from a severe headache.
Mab and Oso having heard the sound of falling trees had been quick to find him. They found Vixenia, too, shivering, silent but apparendy suffering no injuries. She did not weep and would say only that the Goblin Prince had killed her mate and her cubs, and would then retire into a tormented silence in which she made no response either to questions or to kind-ness.
Gray skies and a slight drizzle of rain did nothing to lift the pall of gloom that had fallen on the company. In the afternoon there was a funeral. Most of the Matmon attended the burial of Vixenia's mate and cubs. King Bjorn made a speech at the graveside while Vixenia with horror-filled eyes sat shivering and remote, wrapped in a grief she could share with no one.
John was not present at the service. He had stayed in bed during the morning and toward lunchdme had fallen into a troubled sleep.
He struggled in his dreams to lift Grandma Wilson to a chair. If he could but get her to sit up, she would tell him about the ring and the locket. So he struggled and struggled. Sometimes she would almost be in the chair. Then mysteriously she would slip back onto the floor again.
She was heavy, so very heavy. He would heave and heave and heave, now from behind, now from in front, now pushing, now struggling to lift. Then the chair would move magically farther away. From the dream he would struggle into wakefulness to find himself sitting on a feather mattress straining his muscles at nothing. His body drenched in perspiration, he would lie back with a groan. He never saw the tense figure of Mab who watched him anxiously from the shadows.
John's dream continued to repeat itself. Each time he would exert all his strength. He would almost get her into the chair only to let her slip through his arms again.
Finally, as he woke, he saw that Mab was beside him, the wrinkles in his ancient face delineated like tiny chasms in the moonlight "Here, Sword Bearer, drink this!" he said, holding out a silver cup.
"What is it this time?"
"Drink it! Never mind what it is. It will help you to rest"
John tasted it "It's horrid!"
"Drink it! The faster it goes down, the less time you'll spend disliking it!"
John tilted his head back and gulped the potion down, shuddering and retching as he did so. "Ugh!" But even as he said the word, the taste in his mouth had turned to honey, and a warm glow enveloped his body and limbs.
"Now lie down and try to rest"
There were no more dreams of Grandma Wilson. For several hours he slept deeply, and M
ab left him to attend the funeral. But soon John was dreaming again.
Like the dream in his last night in Pendleton, it seemed too real to be a dream at all. He sat on a rock in a beautiful circular cove. A soft breeze brushed his skin and ruffled his hair. The rock was the tallest of a circle of green rocks that jutted like sentinels from the glass-clear water, their pale green splotched with brilliant orange patches of lichen. Through shadowy pine woods surrounding the cove a pathway led from a small sandy beach. No undergrowth cluttered the woods, but rocks of all sizes stood boldly among the trees as though, like the rocks in the cove, they were soldiers on guard watching him. Turning his head he saw a narrow rocky entrance to the cove behind him. Beyond that the lake stretched, its waters a glittering slate blue.
Then electric needles shot through his body. The Lord Lunacy (where had he come from?) glowed motionless as he stood beside and above him, his great body dominating the whole cove. He was not looking at John but staring intently into the clear waters below him. For a moment John was too shocked to breathe. The glowing alabaster beauty magnetized him. Awesome power flowed from the proud head down the deathly white robes to the marble feet.
One foot was resting on John's leg, but he felt no weight When he stared, he could see only the Lord Lunacy's foot At other times he could see only his own leg, and occasionally he could see both his leg and the wide foot simultaneously. It reminded him of his first dreamlike experience of Anthropos.
Relief filtered slowly through him. Evidently the Lord Lunacy would not be able to perceive his presence, any more than the Matmon king and queen had done. Very slowly he began to drag his foot away. But the alabaster figure made no move. All its attention seemed concentrated on the water below.
John would have preferred to get away, but there was nowhere to go, unless he swam to another rock. And that might draw attention to him. It would be better to stay. He looked down to see what it was that held the terrible being,s gaze.