The Fantasy MEGAPACK ®

by Lester Del Rey

  In the darkening mists the tree was stern and menacing, more ominous than usual. A few leaves blew from it, drifting and swirling with the wind. A leaf blew past her and she tried to catch it. The leaf escaped, dancing back toward the tree. Lori followed a little way and then stopped, gasping and laughing.

  “No,” she said firmly, her hands on her hips. “I won’t.”

  There was silence. Suddenly the heaps of decayed leaves blew up in a furious circle around the tree. They quieted down, settling back.

  “No,” Lori said. “I’m not afraid of you. You can’t hurt me.” But her heart was hammering with fear. She moved back farther away.

  The tree remained silent. Its wiry branches were motionless.

  Lori regained her courage. “This is the last time I can come,” she said. “Steve says I can’t come any more. He doesn’t like it.”

  She waited, but the tree did not respond.

  “They’re sitting in the kitchen. The two of them. Smoking cigars and drinking coffee. Adding up feed bills.” She wrinkled her nose.” That’s all they ever do. Add and subtract feed bills. Figure and figure. Profit and loss. Government taxes. Depreciation on the equipment.”

  The tree did not stir.

  Lori shivered. A little more rain fell, big icy drops that slid down her cheeks, down the back of her neck and inside her heavy coat.

  She moved closer to the tree. “I won’t be back. I won’t see you again. This is the last time. I wanted to tell you.…”

  The tree moved. Its branches whipped into sudden life. Lori felt something hard and thin cut across her shoulder. Something caught her around the waist, tugging her forward.

  She struggled desperately, trying to pull herself free. Suddenly the tree released her. She stumbled back, laughing and trembling with fear. “No!” she gasped. “You can’t have me!” She hurried to the edge of the ridge. “You’ll never get me again. Understand? And I’m not afraid of you!”

  She stood, waiting and watching, trembling with cold and fear. Suddenly she turned and fled, down the side of the ridge, sliding and falling on the loose stones. Blind terror gripped her. She ran on and on, down the steep slope, grabbing at roots and weeds—

  Something rolled beside her shoe. Something small and hard. She bent down and picked it up.

  It was a little dried apple.

  Lori gazed back up the slope at the tree. The tree was almost lost in the swirling mists. It stood, jutting up against the black sky, a hard unmoving pillar.

  Lori put the apple in her coat pocket and continued down the side of the hill. When she reached the floor of the valley she took the apple out of her pocket.

  It was late. A deep hunger began to gnaw inside her. She thought suddenly of dinner, the warm kitchen, the white tablecloth. Steaming stew and biscuits.

  As she walked she nibbled on the little apple.

  * * * *

  Lori sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her. The house was dark and silent. A few night noises sounded faintly, far off. It was past midnight. Beside her Steven slept quietly, turned over on his side.

  What had wakened her? Lori pushed her dark hair back out of her eyes, shaking her head. What—

  A spasm of pain burst loose inside her. She gasped and put her hand to her stomach. For a time she wrestled silently, jaws locked, swaying back and forth.

  The pain went away. Lori sank back. She cried out, a faint, thin cry. “Steve—”

  Steven stirred. He turned over a little, grunting in his sleep.

  The pain came again. Harder. She fell forward on her face, writhing in agony. The pain ripped at her, tearing at her belly. She screamed, a shrill wail of fear and pain.

  Steve sat up. “For God’s sake—” He rubbed his eyes and snapped on the lamp. “What the hell—”

  Lori lay on her side, gasping and moaning, her eyes staring, knotted fists pressed into her stomach. The pain twisted and seared, devouring her, eating into her.

  “Lori!” Steven grated. “What is it?”

  She screamed. Again and again. Until the house rocked with echoes. She slid from the bed, onto the floor, her body writhing and jerking, her face unrecognizable.

  Ed came hurrying into the room, pulling his bathrobe around him. “What’s going on?”

  The two men stared helplessly down at the woman on the floor.

  “Good God,” Ed said. He closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  The day was cold and dark. Snow fell silently over the streets and houses, over the red brick county hospital building. Doctor Blair walked slowly up the gravel path to his Ford car. He slid inside and turned the ignition key. The motor leaped alive, and he let the brake out.

  “I’ll call you later,” Doctor Blair said. “There are certain particulars.”

  “I know,” Steve muttered. He was still dazed. His face was gray and puffy from lack of sleep.

  “I left some sedatives for you. Try to get a little rest.”

  “You think,” Steve asked suddenly, “if we had called you earlier—”

  “No.” Blair glanced up at him sympathetically. “I don’t. In a thing like that, there’s not much chance. Not after it’s burst.”

  “Then it was appendicitis?”

  Blair nodded. “Yes.”

  “If we hadn’t been so damn far out,” Steve said bitterly. “stuck out in the country. No hospital. Nothing. Miles from town. And we didn’t realize at first—”

  “Well, it’s over now.” The upright Ford moved forward a little. All at once a thought came to the Doctor. “One more thing.”

  “What is it?” Steve said dully.

  Blair hesitated. “Post mortems—very unfortunate. I don’t think there’s any reason for one in this case. I’m certain in my own mind.… But I wanted to ask—”

  “What is it?”

  “Is there anything the girl might have swallowed? Did she put things in her mouth? Needles—while she was sewing? Pins, coins, anything like that? Seeds? Did she ever eat watermelon? Sometimes the appendix—”

  “No.”

  Steve shook his head wearily. “I don’t know.”

  “It was just a thought.” Doctor Blair drove slowly off down the narrow tree-lined street, leaving two dark streaks, two soiled lines that marred the pale, glistening snow.

  * * * *

  Spring came, warm and sunny. The ground turned black and rich. Overhead the sun shone, a hot white orb, full of strength.

  “Stop here,” Steve murmured.

  Ed Patterson brought the car to a halt at the side of the street. He turned off the motor. The two men sat in silence, neither of them speaking.

  At the end of the street children were playing. A high school boy was mowing a lawn, pushing the machine over the wet grass. The street was dark in the shade of the great trees growing along each side.

  “Nice,” Ed said.

  Steve nodded without answering. Moodily, he watched a young girl walking by, a shopping bag under her arm. The girl climbed the stairs of a porch and disappeared into an old-fashioned yellow house.

  Steve pushed the car door open. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

  Ed lifted the wreath of flowers from the back seat and put them in his son’s lap. “You’ll have to carry it. It’s your job.”

  “All right.” Steve grabbed the flowers and stepped out onto the pavement.

  The two men walked up the street together, silent and thoughtful.

  “It’s been seven or eight months, now,” Steve said abruptly.

  “At least.” Ed lit the cigar as they walked along, puffing clouds of gray smoke around them. “Maybe a little more.”

  “I never should have brought her up here. She lived in town all her life. She didn’t know anything a
bout the country.”

  “It would have happened anyhow.”

  “If we had been closer to a hospital—”

  The doctor said it wouldn’t have made any difference. Even if we’d called him right away instead of waiting until morning.” They came to the corner and turned. “And as you know—”

  “Forget it,” Steve said, suddenly tense.

  The sounds of the children had fallen behind them. The houses had thinned out. Their footsteps rang out against the pavement as they walked along.

  “We’re almost there,” Steve said.

  They came to a rise. Beyond the rise was a heavy brass fence, running the length of a small field. A green field, neat and even. With carefully placed plaques of white marble criss-crossing it.

  “Here we are,” Steve said tightly.

  “They keep it nice.”

  “Can we get in from this side?”

  “We can try.” Ed started along the brass fence, looking for a gate.

  Suddenly Steve halted, grunting. He stared across the field, his face white. “Look.”

  “What is it?” Ed took off his glasses to see. “What you looking at?”

  “I was right.” Steve’s voice was low and indistinct. “I thought there was something. Last time we were here.… I saw.… You see it?”

  “I’m not sure. I see the tree, if that’s what you mean.”

  In the center of the neat green field the lime apple tree rose proudly. Its bright leaves sparkled in the warm sunlight. The young tree was strong and very healthy. It swayed confidently with the wind, its supple trunk moist with sweet spring sap.

  “They’re red,” Steve said softly. “They’re already red. How the hell can they be red? It’s only April. How the hell can they be red so soon?”

  “I don’t know,” Ed said. “I don’t know anything about apples. A strange chill moved through him. But graveyards always made him uncomfortable. “Maybe we ought to go.”

  “Her cheeks were that color,” Steve said, his voice low. “When she had been running. Remember?”

  The two men gazed uneasily at the little apple tree, its shiny red fruit glistening in the spring sunlight, branches moving gently with the wind.

  “I remember, all right,” Ed said grimly. “Come on.” He took his son’s arm insistently, the wreath of flowers forgotten. “Come on, Steve. Let’s get out of here.”

  YELLOW EYES, by Marylois Dunn

  Originally published in Catfantastic (1989).

  Cat entered the castle through the cat door built into the wall near the kitchen. The dogs also used the door, as did an assortment of mice when there were no cats passing through. Scenting the various passers-through as he entered, Cat thought to himself that it would be better for the entire castle had they made the opening too small for the great hounds. A few cats in the house would have kept the varmint population to nothing. With the dogs coming and going, bringing their fleas and their filth and their aging bones with them, there was no way to control the intruders.

  He turned into the kitchen and sat under a table waiting for a handout. The cooks were like the dogs. They came and went. He did not know why or where and, frankly, did not care. There were usually one or two who would toss something under the table for him. Occasionally, he found a cook who would take time to discover his preferences, but at the present time, he did well to get a biscuit that was not too tough to chew.

  The alternative was to make his way to the top turret of the castle where the white cat ruled. She had cream for dinner every night. She had the best of the meat, liver, kidneys, and sweetbreads, chopped fine or sometimes lightly braised with butter. Other times, raw. Always tasty.

  The white cat was fond of him and generous. It rather hurt his pride, though, to make his way up those long stairs too often. He did not like to seem a beggar.

  Of course, he could always hunt, but rats and mice were such filthy things. More often than not, those which lived in the castle lived with or near the dogs and smelled like dogs. When he hunted, he went outside the walls of the keep where there were rabbits and fat, sweet field mice.

  Today, however, the weather had turned foul, cold and wet, and his rabbit hunting had gone sour. He came into the castle grumbling to himself and stopped off in the kitchen to see what might be offered.

  While he waited to be noticed, he attended to his toilet. He began at his shoulders and worked his way down, tonguing carefully until he had all four paws clean and was nearing the tip of his tail. He did this by turning himself almost double and putting one forepaw on his tail to hold it in place while he licked.

  An armored warrior came clanking into the kitchen, accompanied by four hounds who slavered and shook water all over the floor. They acknowledged Cat’s presence but did not attempt to come under the table where he sat. None of them were fools.

  One small female lay down beside the table, watching Cat with her yellow eyes. Have they fed you? she asked.

  Not yet, Cat replied. How was your hunting?

  The hound picked at the burrs between her toes with her small front teeth. Not very good, she said. When the rain began, it was hard to pick up a scent. Some of those stupid males went off after a wee little bunny. I knew it was useless, and I had a better trail. For which, I caught a lash across my flanks. If he were not the master, I would think him as stupid as those males.

  What were you hunting?

  Deer is what he said we were after. We came across some old tracks but nothing fresh. We have hunted too much too close to the castle. The game moves out. We should as well.

  I would have settled for a wee rabbit, Cat said.

  The yellow eyes looked at him mildly. Come with me sometime. I will chase one your way.

  Cat did not answer but thought he would have to be starving to hunt with a hound.

  The hound opened her mouth and panted with her tongue curled upward. Cat knew she was laughing at him.

  A scullery maid trotted past, kicked at the hound and said, “Ho, there, Cat. Is that hound pestering you?”

  She gave the hound another boot, and Cat saw it disappear into the great hall after the others. Strange, he thought. The hounds usually do not acknowledge more than my presence. This one seems almost feline. She does not look like the others either. Smaller. Lighter color. Leaner. Yellow eyes. Cat’s eyes. Strange.

  Then he did not have time to think about the hound. The scullery maid had brought a saucer of fresh milk and some tidbits of meat. They were cutting the roasted haunch for the dinner table and she had sneaked a few scraps for Cat’s supper.

  * * * *

  After he had eaten and washed his whiskers, Cat made his way into the great hall where a fire burned fiercely on the large hearth. The sun was down and there was no light coming through the windows, but Cat leaped up on his favorite resting place anyway. Enough heat from the fire came across the room to keep him comfortable on the window ledge. He enjoyed curling on his pillow, paws tucked under his chest, watching the proceedings in the room from slitted eyes. No one noticed him there. He was as much a fixture as the window itself.

  The warrior, who ruled under the woman, was speaking. “There is something abroad these nights that I do not like. Have you not felt it, Claire?”

  “I feel the winter’s approach. Nothing more.”

  “Perhaps you should light your herbal fires and consult your crystals. Something is abroad. I feel it. The hounds feel it. Something unnatural.”

  The woman laughed. “Unnatural? What seems unnatural to you, Ruger?”

  “The game has all left the vicinity. The dogs feel it. They do not turn their noses after the harts because there are none to find. If I do not take a party out to find what is creating this disturbance, we may eat rabbit for the rest of the winter. It is not a prospect I relish.”


  “Nor I, my dear. I should have known it was your stomach which was disturbed. The weather is terrible right now. Allow me to consult my resources. Rest yourself and your men until the weather clears, and perhaps by then I will be able to tell you what you are looking for.”

  He took her hand and kissed it lightly.

  There were many people in the room; listening to the conversation between the master and mistress had kept most of them silent. When it was done, the chatter and laughter began again. Knights seeking ladies. Knights entertaining each other with lies of valorous deeds.

  Cat wondered what one of them would do if he actually saw a live dragon. His whiskers flattened against his cheeks in amusement.

  A moist nose came over the window sill and touched his own nose. Cat opened his eyes and sat up quickly. Oh, he said, seeing the yellow-eyed hound looking up at him. What do you want?

  That looks like a good place to watch without being noticed. Is there room enough for me?

  Certainly not. The ledge is little wider than I am. In fact, Cat craned his neck and studied the hound’s size, I doubt you could fit up here alone.

  Too bad, the hound sighed and lay down below the window sill. The hounds are over there by the fire scratching fleas. Eating bones I would not bother to bury. They stink, you know.

  I know, Cat murmured not quite sure if the hound meant the bones or the other hounds. After a long silence Cat said, Why are you talking to me? Dogs never talk to me.

  Their loss, I expect. I don’t know why. You seem like a sensible fellow. In my village, dogs and cats were companions, not enemies. I do miss my home.

  I thought you looked different from the others. Where is your home?

  The hound sighed again. The village name was Timbaca, but I know that means nothing to you. It was a warm, sunny country and the game differed greatly from game here. I came over much water in more than one boat. It was a long journey. The master bought me at a fair. He called me a leopard dog and said I would be a good breeder. So far, I have not taken one of those idiots to mate. If I have my choice, I won’t, either. Ever.