The Fantasy MEGAPACK ®

by Lester Del Rey

  * * * *

  Ellowan waited intently as Donahue inspected the finished work. Where the blackened metal had been bent and twisted, and filled with holes, it was now shining and new. The smith could find no sign to indicate that it was not all one single piece, now, for the seams were joined invisibly.

  “Now that’s craftsmanship,” Donahue admitted. “I’m thinking we’ll do a deal of business from now on, the two of us, and there’s money in it, too. Ellowan, m’boy, with work like that we can buy up old radiators, remake them, and at a nice little profit for ourselves we can sell them again. You’ll be searching no further for labor.”

  The elf’s eyes twinkled at the prospect of long lines of radiators needing to be fixed, and a steady supply of work without the need of searching for it. For the first time, he realized that industrialization might have its advantages for the worker.

  Donahue dug into a box and came out with a little metal figure of a greyhound, molded on a threaded cap. “Now, while I get something else for you, you might be fixing this,” he said. “ ‘Tis a godsend that you’ve come to me….Eh, now that I think of it, what brings you here, when I thought it’d he in the old country you worked?”

  “That was my home,” the elf agreed, twisting the radiator cap in his hands and straightening out the broken threads. “But the people became too poor in the country, and the cities were filled with coal smoke. And then there was word of a new land across the sea, so we left, such of us as remained, and it was here we stayed until the smoke came again, and sent us sleeping into the hills. Eh, it’s glad I am now to be awake again.”

  Donahue nodded. “And it’s not sorry I am. I’m a good blacksmith, but there’s never enough of that for a man to live now, and mostly I work on the autos. And there, m’boy, you’ll be a wonderful help to be sure. The parts I like least are the ignition system and generator, and there’s copper in them where your skill will be greater than mine. And the radiators, of course.”

  Ellowan’s hands fumbled on the metal, and he set it down suddenly. “Those radiators, now—they come from a car?”

  “That they do.” Donahue’s back was turned as he drew a horseshoe out of the forge and began hammering it on the anvil. He could not see the twinkle fade from the elf’s eyes and the slowness with which the small fingers picked up the radiator cap.

  Ellowan was thinking of his people, asleep in the hills, doomed to lie there until the air should be cleared of the poisonous fumes. And here he was, working on parts of the machines that helped to make those fumes. Yet, since there was little enough else to do, he had no choice but; to keep on; cars or no cars, food was still the prime necessity.

  Donahue bent the end of a shoe over to a calk and hammered it into shape, even with the other one. “You’ll be wanting a place to sleep?” he asked casually. “Well, now, I’ve a room at the house that used to be my boy’s, and it’ll just suit you. The boy’s at college and won’t be needing it.”

  “Thank’ee kindly.” Ellowan finished the cap and put it aside distastefully.

  “The boy’ll be a great engineer some day,” the smith went on with a glow of pride. “And not have to follow his father in the trade. And it’s a good thing, I’m thinking. Because some day, when they’ve used up all their coal and oil, there’ll be no money in the business at all, even with the help of these newfangled things. My father was a smith, and I’m by way of being smith and mechanic—but not the boy.”

  “They’ll use up all the coal and oil—entirely?”

  “They will that, now. Nobody knows when, but the day’s acoming. And then they’ll be using electricity or maybe alcohol for fuel. It’s a changing world, lad, and we old ones can’t change to keep with it.”

  Ellowan picked up the radiator cap and polished it again. Eh, so. One day they’d use up all the sources of evil, and the air would be pure again. The more cars that ran, the sooner that day would come, and the more he repaired, the more would run.

  “Eh, now,” he said gayly. “I’ll be glad for more of those radiators to mend. But until then, perchance I could work a bit of yonder scrap brass into more such ornaments as this one.”

  Somehow, he was sure, when his people came forth again, there’d be work for all.

  DOGS QUESTING, by John Gregory Betancourt

  Originally published in Grails: Quests, Visitations, and Other Occurences (1992).

  By the time the last of the knights had padded in for evening conclave, a great central fire already burned bright and hot. A stag hung over the flames, and grease dripped onto the embers, sizzling and hissing away to nothing. The scent of roasting meat filled the air.

  Jerek, the greatest warhound from Farthest Brittany, carved the meat himself that night, and between lapping ale and eating venison, the knights had their usual wild time.

  At last, as talk wound down and the fire died to embers, a wise old bard rose, stretched, and moved forward with deliberate solemnity. All grew silent with respect.

  “This is the time,” the bard said slowly, “to hear the tale of Uthor’s Sin and how we came to our great quest.”

  As all the knights settled into their usual places, the bard hunkered down and sketched a circle in the earth with one sharp nail.

  “In the beginning there was only Man…”

  * * * *

  In the beginning there was only Man (the bard said), and Man’s dogs. Man owned home, and food, and fire. Peaceful days running the fields and flushing game for Man’s pleasure, and dreamful nights on the hearth with bellies full and the snap-crackle warmth of fire at your back: this was a dog’s life, and it was good.

  Season blended into season, year following year, each moment a joy of motion and freedom. Then one day Uthor, who is also called Uthor the First, and sometimes Uthor the Snake, looked at Man and said to himself, “My eyes are sharper than Man’s eyes. My nose is keener than Man’s nose. My claws are sharper than Man’s claws. Why then must I serve him?”

  Uthor did not go into the fields with the other dogs the next morning. Instead, Uthor lay under bushes and peered out snakelike, watching Man as Man went about his duties. Thus Uthor learned the secret way in which Man created fire.

  That night Uthor showed the other dogs the trick of fire, too. The young dogs marveled at his daring. The older ones shook their heads sadly.

  At last the oldest and wisest dog came forward and said: “This is not our way, Uthor. You will anger Man, and we will all be punished. No more shall you steal from our master.”

  Uthor was filled with shame. The next day he went with the other dogs to the fields, and there they played in the sun and grass until Man summoned them back to his house for dinner.

  So it went for several weeks. Yet a fierce urge to know all that Man knew continued to grow in Uthor, until he could no longer contain himself. Once more he strayed from the fields to spy on Man. Once more he learned one of Man’s great secrets: how to make the winds blow at his command. Then remembering the words of the oldest and wisest dog, Uthor did not share his learning with the other dogs.

  Over the following months Uthor managed to steal all of Man’s secrets. Uthor practiced until he too could pull water from the depths of the Earth, and make the grass grow tall, and cause the sun to rise and set.

  When he had learned all he thought there was to learn, Uthor went into the private chamber of Man, where dogs are forbidden, and rose up on his hind legs to look Man in the eye. Uthor said: “I know all that you know.”

  Man smiled and said, “What do you know, little dog?”

  Uthor replied: “Dogs are Man’s equal, and you keep us in slavery only to serve you.” Then Uthor showed Man that he too could make fire, and bring water to the earth, and cause the sun to rise and set just as Man could.

  If Man grew angry or afraid, he did not show it. Man merely rose, patted Uthor upon
the head, scratched once behind Uthor’s ears, and gave a soft sigh. Throwing open the doors and windows of his house to all the beasts, Man strode from his ancient home and started down the long pebble path. At the gates of his land, Man paused to gaze around one last time. There were tears in his eyes.

  “I guess you truly have no need for me,” Man said. Then Man strode out into the world without a backward glance.

  Uthor watched all this from a window in Man’s house, alone for the first time, and very afraid. Uthor had not expected Man to leave. In his pride, he expected Man to embrace him, so that they could live together as equals.

  When the other dogs returned from the fields that night, they found Uthor hiding under Man’s bed. Of Man, there was no sign. The dogs dragged Uthor out and made him tell what had happened.

  When Uthor finished his story, the other dogs gave howls of dismay and fell on Uthor in a great savage pack, ripping open Uthor’s throat and laying bare Uthor’s flesh to the bone. Perhaps they thought Man would forgive them if they punished Uthor. Perhaps the anger and fear and loneliness of that moment drove them mad for a time. Whatever, despite their howls and pleadings, despite their pitiful whimpers into the dark and empty night, and despite even Uthor’s murder: none of it brought Man back.

  Thus did Uthor, first and least of all dogs, die.

  Thus was Man lost to the wilderness.

  Thus do all dogs even now roam the world, in search of Man, in search of a home, in search of all that they have lost.

  * * * *

  When the bard finished his tale, the knights all laid their heads upon their paws, sighed a sad sigh, and felt the pack’s emptiness rise around them like a thing alive. They felt Uthor’s sin in their hearts and their bones.

  To a one, all vowed to continue the quest until Man was found and returned to his place. Then the fields would bloom again, and the breezes blow, and the sun rise up to drive darkness from the land in a frenzy of light.

  Only with Man, they knew, would they be whole once more.

  OF WITHERED APPLES, by Philip K. Dick

  Something was tapping on the window. Blowing up against the pane, again and again. Carried by the wind. Tapping faintly, insistently.

  Lori, sitting on the couch, pretended not to hear. She gripped her book tightly and turned a page. The tapping came again, louder and more imperative. It could not be ignored.

  “Darn!” Lori said, throwing her book down on the coffee table and hurrying to the window. She grasped the heavy brass handles and lifted.

  For a moment the window resisted. Then, with a protesting groan, it reluctantly rose. Cold autumn air rushed into the room. The bit of leaf ceased tapping and swirled against the woman’s throat, dancing to the floor.

  Lori picked the leaf up. It was old and brown. Her heart skipped a beat as she slipped the leaf into the pocket of her jeans. Against her loins the leaf cut and tingled, a little hard point piercing her smooth skin and sending exciting shudders up and down her spine. She stood at the open window a moment, sniffing. The air was full of the presence of trees and rocks, of great boulders and remote places. It was time—time to go again. She touched the leaf. She was wanted.

  Quickly Lori left the big living-room, hurrying through the hall into the dining-room. The dining-room was empty. A few chords of laughter drifted from the kitchen. Lori pushed the kitchen door open.

  “Steve?”

  Her husband and his father were siting around the kitchen table, smoking their cigars and drinking steaming black coffee.

  “What is it?” Steve demanded, frowning at his young wife. “Ed and I are in the middle of business.”

  “I—I want to ask you something.”

  The two men gazed at her, brown-haired Steven, his dark eyes full of the stubborn dignity of New England men, and his father, silent and withdrawn in her presence. Ed Patterson scarcely noticed her. He rustled through a sheaf of feed bills, his broad back turned toward her.

  “What is it?” Steve demanded impatiently. “What do you want? Can’t it wait?”

  “I have to go,” Lori blurted.

  “Go where?”

  “Outside.” Anxiety flooded over her. “This is the last time. I promise. I won’t go again, after this. Okay?” She tried to smile, but her heart was pounding too hard. “Please let me, Steve.”

  “Where does she go?” Ed rumbled.

  Steve grunted in annoyance. “Up in the hills. Some old abandoned place up there.”

  Ed’s gray eyes flickered. “Abandoned farm?”

  “Yes. You know it?”

  “The old Rickley farm. Rickley moved away years ago. Couldn’t get anything to grow, not up there. Ground’s all rocks. Bad soil. A lot of clay and stones. The place is all overgrown, tumbled down.”

  “What kind of farm was it?”

  “Orchard. Fruit orchard. Never yielded a damn thing. Thin old trees. Waste of effort.”

  Steve looked at his pocket watch. “You’ll be back in time to fix dinner?”

  “Yes!” Lori moved toward the door. “Then I can go?”

  Steve’s face twisted as he made up his mind. Lori waited impatiently, scarcely breathing. She had never got used to Vermont men and their slow, deliberate way. Boston people were quite different. And her group had been more the college youths, dances and talk, and late laughter.

  “Why do you go up there?” Steve grumbled.

  “Don’t ask me, Steve. Just let me go. This is the last time.” She writhed in agony. She clenched her fists. “Please!”

  Steve looked out the window. The cold autumn wind swirled through the trees. “All right. But it’s going to snow. I don’t see why you want to—”

  Lori ran to get her coat from the closet. “I’ll be back to fix dinner!” she shouted joyfully. She hurried to the front porch buttoning her coat, her heart racing. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, excited red as she closed the door behind her, her blood pounding in her veins.

  Cold wind whipped against her, rumpling her hair, plucking at her body. She took a deep breath of the wind and started down the steps.

  She walked rapidly onto the field, toward the bleak line of hills beyond. Except for the wind there was no sound. She patted her pocket. The dry leaf broke and dug hungrily into her.

  “I’m coming …” she whispered, a little awed and frightened. “I’m on my way …”

  * * * *

  Higher and higher the woman climbed. She passed through a deep cleft between two rocky ridges. Huge roots from old stumps spurted out on all sides. She followed a dried-up creek bed, winding and turning.

  After a time low mists began to blow about her. At the top of the ridge she halted, breathing deeply, looking back the way she had come.

  A few drops of rain stirred the leaves around her. Again the wind moved through the great dead trees along the ridge. Lori turned and started on, her head down, hands in her coat pockets.

  She was on a rocky field, overgrown with weeds and dead grass. After a time she came to a ruined fence, broken and rotting. She stepped over it. She passed a tumbled-down well, half filled with stones and earth.

  Her heart beat quickly, fluttering with nervous excitement. She was almost there. She passed the remains of a building, sagging timbers and broken glass, a few ruined pieces of furniture strewn nearby. An old automobile tire caked and cracked. Some damp rags heaped over rusty, bent bed-springs.

  And there it was—directly ahead.

  Along the edge of the field was a grove of ancient trees. Lifeless trees, withered and dead, their thin, blackened stalks rising up leaflessly. Broken sticks stuck in the hard ground. Row after row of dead trees, some bent and leaning, torn loose from the rocky soil by the unending wind.

  Lori crossed the field to the trees, her lungs laboring painfully. The wind surged
against her without respite, whipping the foul-smelling mists into her nostrils and face. Her smooth skin was damp and shiny with the mist. She coughed and hurried on, stepping over the rocks and clods of earth, trembling with fear and anticipation.

  She circled around the grove of trees, almost to the edge of the ridge. Carefully, she stepped among the sliding heaps of rocks. Then—

  She stopped, rigid. Her chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing. “I came,” she gasped.

  For a long time she gazed at the withered old apple tree. She could not take her eyes from it. The sight of the ancient tree fascinated and repelled her. It was the only one alive, the only tree of all the grove still living. All the others were dead, dried-up. They had lost the struggle. But this tree still clung to life.

  The tree was hard and barren. Only a few dark leaves hung from it—and some withered apples, dried and seasoned by wind and mists. They had stayed there, on the branches, forgotten and abandoned. The ground around the tree was cracked and bleak. Stones and decayed heaps of old leaves in ragged clumps.

  “I came,” Lori said again. She took the leaf from her pocket and held it cautiously out. “This tapped at the window. I knew when I heard it.” She smiled mischievously, her red lips curling. “It tapped and tapped, trying to get in. I ignored it. It was so—so impetuous. It annoyed me.”

  The tree swayed ominously. Its gnarled branches rubbed together. Something in the sound made Lori pull away. Terror rushed through her. She hurried back along the ridge, scrambling frantically out of reach.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”

  The wind ceased. The tree became silent. For a long time Lori watched it apprehensively.

  Night was coming. The sky was darkening rapidly. A burst of frigid wind struck her, half turning her around. She shuddered, bracing herself against it, pulling her long coat around her. Far below, the floor of the valley was disappearing into shadow, into the vast cloud of night.