The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Once my grandmother had a web of cloth in Deb’s looms, so she sent my mother and a girl named Phebe after it. The two girls were just as intimate as finger and thumb. They went to Deb’s house and told her what my grandmother said, and it made her mad, ’cause she didn’t like to be hurried. Near her back door was a tree full of red apples, and Phebe, said, ‘Won’t you please give me an apple?’ and Deb said, ‘Drat you! No, I won’t!’ My mother wasn’t afraid, so she took an apple for Phebe and one for herself, and she said to Deb:—

  “‘I ain’t afraid of ye, ye old witch!’

  “‘Ye ain’t?’ Deb screamed; ‘then I’ll make ye afraid afore ye git home!’

  “They had a piece of woods to go through; in the middle of it there was a pair of bars, and on the other side of the bars there was a brook. Suddenly they heard a roaring and they saw a black bull coming. ‘Oh!’ said Phebe, ‘Captain Besse’s bull has got out and he will get us’; so they ran for the bars. They got through them and across the brook, when the bull leaped the bars and stopped on the edge of the brook and roared; then my mother knew it was old Deb Burden who was in the bull to frighten the girls, because the brook stopped the critter. Witches can’t cross running water, you know.

  “The girls reached home dreadfully frightened, and told what had happened. ‘Never mind,’ said my grandfather; ‘I’ll fix Debbie!’ When she brought home the cloth, he came into the house and slipped behind her as she sat by the fire, and put a darning-needle through her dress and fastened her to the chair. Well, she set; and every once in a while she said, ‘I must go’; but she couldn’t stir; she would be still for a while and then say, ‘Why, I must go and tend my fire’; but she couldn’t stir no more’n a milestone; and he kept her in the chair all day, and then he pulled out the needle and let her go. ‘Scare my gal agin, ye old witch!’ he said. You know witches can’t do anything when steel is nigh, and that was the reason the darning-needle held her.

  “Once Deb came to Thankful Haskell’s in Rochester, and set by the fire, and her daughter, fourteen year old, was sweeping the room, and she put the broom under Deb’s chair. You can’t insult a witch more than that, ’cause a broomstick is what they ride on when they go off on mischief. Deb was mad as a March hare, and she cussed the child. Next day the child was taken sick, and all the doctors gin her up, and they sent for old Dr. Bemis of Middleboro; he put on his spectacles and looked at her, and said he, ‘This child is bewitched; go, somebody, and see what Deb is up to.’ Mr. Haskell got on his horse and rode to Deb’s house; there was nobody in but a big black cat; this was the devil, and witches always leave him to take care of the house when they go out. Mr. Haskell looked around for Deb, and he saw her down to the bottom of the garden by a pool of water, and she was making images out of clay and sticking in pins. As quick as he saw her he knew what ailed the child; so he laid his whip around her shoulders good, and said, ‘Stop that, Deb, or you shall be burnt alive!’ She whimpered, and the black cat came out and growled and spread his tail, but Mr. Haskell laid on the whip, and at last she screamed, ‘Your young one shall git well!’ and that child began to mend right off. The black cat disappeared all of a suddint and Mr. Haskell thought the earth opened and took him in.”

  “Moll Ellis was called the witch of Plymouth,” said the other sister, taking up the story-telling. “She got a grudge agin Mr. Stevens, a man my grandfather worked for, and three years runnin’ she cast a spell on the cattle and horses, and upset his hay in a brook. My grandfather drove and Stevens was on the load, and when they came to the brook the oxen snorted, and the horses reared and sweat, and they all backed and the hay was upset into the brook. One day Stevens said, ‘I’ll not stand this; I’ll go and see what Moll Ellis is about.’ So he went up to her house, and there she lay on her back a-chewin’ and a-mutterin’ dretful spell words, and as quick as Stevens saw her he knew what ailed his cattle; and he walked right up to the bed, and he told Moll, ‘If you ever upset another load of hay I’ll have you hung for a witch.’ She was dretful scart, and promised she never would harm him again. When she was talking, a little black devil, that looked just like a bumblebee, flew into the window and popped down her throat; it was the one she had sent out to scare the cattle and horses. When Moll died, they couldn’t get the coffin out the door because it had a steel latch; they had to put it out the window.”

  THE LEGEND OF THE PIPE, by Launcelot

  Originally appeared in The Hesperus and Western Miscellany, July 1828.

  About 40 years ago, on one of those wet and dry evenings in the month of April, which are so common in some parts of Pennsylvania, and which may be called nondescript; for instead of being a regular and decent kind of weather, it continually flits about, and has more variations than a prismatic glass, or weathercock; for one moment, you will have a sousing rain that will soak you to the very skin, and then perhaps a sunny hour; but about the time you begin to enjoy its enlivening effect, and feel its cheering influence, you are saluted with a sharp skin-cutting north wind, accompanied by a mixture of rain and sleet, which comes, as it were, to destroy the equilibrium of the pericranium, and irritate us to the utmost, by playing with impunity, an unwelcome and discordant tune in our teeth:

  Well, it was on one of these evenings that Hans Bradin was returning home from a trip to what was then Fort Pitt, rather melancholy and depressed in spirits, on account of his bad luck that day in the sale of his produce, and was rendered pettish and irritable by the fluctuations of the weather. As night was a sneezing distance off, Hans was conscious that, in his present state of mind and body, it would be impossible for him to pass the Wizard’s Cave which lay immediately in his way home, and which he would have to pass after nightfall; so to raise his spirits, he took a potation from an oddly constructed bottle, which he drew from a pocket made in his packsaddle expressly for its accommodation. By the bye, in those days, they made every thing to some purpose.

  Having fortified himself he spurred forward his horse with increased courage, and spirits buoyed up by the “needful,” till he came within an Irishman’s mile of the cave, where, finding his spirits and courage flagging, he halted; and having refortified himself with many large potations, he again set forward. But the bottle is not always the true supporter of courage; so it was with Hans; for the nearer he approached the cave, the more his courage failed him. He tried to sing his song, and actually waded through the first verse without any very culpable aberration from the original, but the second was completely out of tune; from a proper pitch, it sunk down to a sort of quivering melody which perfectly coincided with the agitation of his body. “How cold it is,” muttered Hans, his teeth making doleful music by chattering rather unneighbor-like against one another; “How cold it is,” again muttered Hans. “A companion, even though an indifferent one, would be acceptable at such a time as this, for in an ill hour, bad company is better than none: if I could but whistle a tune now, I don’t doubt but it would raise my spirits a little; but I’m so abominably chilled, that it’s rather doubtful—I’ll try however—it won’t do; it’s like smoking a pipe without fire or tobacco. Ugh! how cold it is! I shiver all over like an aspen leaf, and my teeth make as much noise as a wind-broken horse at a full gallop! I was never so cold in my life! My nose feels like a piece of ice— How unlucky I was to lose my pipe in town! If I had it now, I should be quite merry. Yes, it would make me as joyful as—as—a king. I wish I had one now; I’d give a dollar for one.”

  “What’s that you say, Hans Bradin?” said a strange, harsh voice. Hans knew it was the wizard that spoke, for he was directly opposite the cave; so he pretended he didn’t hear him, and looked or tried to look in another direction: but Venificus (that was the wizard’s name,) was not accustomed to be slighted or put off; so he cried out again. Hans knew the penalty of making him angry, and turned round, and threw his eye-sight in the direction from whence the voice proceeded. He nearly fell from his horse; he was astounded at
the sight of the wizard, (’twas the first time he ever saw him,) who withal was not a very disagreeably looking personage.—“When I looked round,” in Hans’ own words, “I saw a short, portly looking little man, with a very large abdomen, which was held up by a stout girdle of leather, ornamented with magic signs. His legs were short, and of such an immense thickness, that it was matter of surprise to me that he could walk. He had the smallest head I ever saw, set in, or rather buried between a pair of expansive shoulders; large grey eyes which shone like two balls of fire; a mouth very disproportionate to the size of his head, reaching from ear to ear, and a nose which was a very prominent one, and turned up in the form of a pot hook. But all these were nothing to his pipe. Heavens, what a pipe! It was the largest one in the world! It actually frightened me.”

  The little man was sitting on the top of his cave about thirty feet above where Hans was standing, and his pipe reached to the very road. The bowl was about the size of a hogshead, and would have contained with ease a barrel and a half of tobacco. The stem or tube was made of blue glass, which plainly told ’twas not fabricated on earth, and at the base, or at the place it joined with the bowl, it was as thick as a man’s body, and tapered off to a point of about two inches in diameter. I now no longer wondered at the reason of the wizard’s mouth being so large. Venificus gave a sagacious gurgling at my astonishment; and repeated his former question. I scarcely knew what to answer, but knowing he would be displeased if I didn’t reply, I plumply told him what I wanted. “Oh! Is that all, Hans Bradin, is that all, that’s not much: we shall contrive to furnish you with a pipe; but hark’e, Hans, have you ever a pipe of tobacco about you, my pipe’s almost out, and I’d like to have a small smoke before I go into my cave.”

  Hans was thunderstruck—“a pipe full of tobacco”—“a small smoke”—muttered he to himself. Hans had that day laid out all his money in tobacco for the old folk, and although he knew there was no tobacco at home, he did not hesitate, but liberally pitched up his whole stock to Venificus who received it with a frown as black as midnight, and exclaimed in a voice of thunder, “What, is it you, Hans Bradin, is it you! You, that offers me this little bit of tobacco! Bad luck to you, do you think this will fill my pipe? Here, give me some, you son of the world, for this is not near enough!”

  Hans, trembling and affrighted, told him it was all he had, and related to him his ill luck that day at market, and Venificus had only pretended anger, to try Hans, and with one of his own laughs, he cast part of the tobacco into the pipe bowl; when lo! the little bit of tobacco, the mite, swelled up, up, up, and increased, and grew larger and larger, till the pipe was completely filled: it took fire of itself, and he began smoking. After he had done, he jumped up, said a few words which Hans could not understand, and the pipe disappeared. Venificus then came down, notwithstanding his corpulency, with as much agility as Hans could have done it himself. When he had come close up to Hans, he told him to follow, but not to speak a word till he was spoken to. He then led Hans into a long winding passage for a great distance, till he came to what seemed the end; here he stopped, lit a fire, and said a few words over it. The fire then died away, and a passage opened just where the fire was; down went the little man, down went Hans, and the passage closed behind them.

  They were now at the end of their journey. Hans looked round, and found himself in a large chamber. It seemed almost a mile square, and was completely filled with pipes of all sizes and descriptions, and, according to the fashion, from every quarter of the globe. “Hans,” said the wizard, after Hans’ astonishment had subsided, “you have acted like a wise and liberal man tonight, and I’m about to reward you. You see all these pipes? Well, now you may take your choice of them, and learn always to oblige every body; for if you had not acted as you have, I would have put you in my pipe, and smoked you up.”

  Hans then made choice of the smallest pipe he could see; it was a glass one; and as soon as he had taken it, he stood looking on it abstractedly. “Hans,” said Venificus, “you are afraid you will not have enough tobacco to fill the pipe, (it was as big as a bushel,) but don’t be alarmed; here is a bit of what you gave me; when you go home, throw it in, you will soon see the effect, and never more want for tobacco.” He then led Hans to the outside of the cave to his horse. Hans got on, and arrived safe at home that night.

  The fame of the wonderful pipe spread through the country; all flocked to see it, but Hans would gratify the curiosity of none by telling the Legend of the pipe, till pressed by my solicitations; and unwilling to disoblige an old friend, he confided to me the above, and his posterity to this day possess the wonderful pipe.

  THE JUSTICE-BEARER, by Cynthia Ward

  Originally published in Galaxy #6, Nov. 1994.

  A sudden clangor disrupted the silence of Alisha’s sanctum. She gestured, stilling her sentry-spell. Then she turned from the cluttered stone worktable to the mirror on the wall. Another gesture, and the silverglass became a window on the world outside.

  The mirror showed a portion of her moat, or the broad muddy trench that had once been a moat. The drought had killed all the moat creatures save one. The surviving monster, which resembled a twenty-foot green salamander, was attacking a sword-swinging barbarian.

  Alisha sighed. The townspeople were after her again.

  Whenever a drought or hard winter ravaged the land, the people of Tyldan blamed Alisha and sought to kill her. At first she had tried to convince the villagers she had nothing to do with the climate, and had tried to win their confidence by offering medicines they could ill afford to refuse. Finally she’d conceded her attempts were futile and given them up. But the burghers did not concede. They attacked her fortress whenever times grew bad. This time, it seemed, they had changed their methods, pooling their scanty resources to hire a warrior.

  Alisha studied their champion, a tall brawny western barbarian. He wielded the large sword without apparent effort, his long yellow braids swinging with every blow. His eyes glittered like ice chips. His chain-mail tunic gleamed mirror-white in the sun, but his leather boots were almost completely hidden by shiny, gluey mud. His bare, wide-braced legs rose from the muck like tree trunks, thick and dark and knotted.

  Alisha thought of the wolf-pack, and the mirror showed her grey guardians lying motionless, feathered shafts sprouting like deadly wheat from ribs and eyes. The blood was black on the yellow grass.

  Alisha put a hand to her eyes. The silverglass went blank.

  She turned her thoughts to the village, and the mirror showed a narrow dirt street lined with sagging cottages. Dogs and children sat motionless in the street. A woman slumped on a bench, nursing her baby and weeping. Men with bowed shoulders trudged through ankle-deep dust, raising fat plumes that took minutes to settle.

  Alisha closed her eyes. When she opened them, the silverglass once again showed the assassin.

  * * * *

  Though Drellan struck with all his strength, his steel broadsword could not pierce the demon’s jade-green hide. The demon lunged, its long jaws gaping to reveal fangs as big as hunting-knives. Drellan tried to jump back. The mud held his feet and he fell. The tremendous jaws crashed shut inches above him as he sank into warm, stinking muck. Enraged, he lashed out with his sword. The blade rebounded without leaving a scratch, but it knocked the jaws aside before they could close in his flesh. As the demon’s head snaked back for another strike, Drellan thrust savagely upward. The long blade slipped between the gaping jaws and sank deep into the roof of the mouth.

  With a deafening shriek the demon raised its head, wrenching the sword out of Drellan’s hand. He tried to scramble away. With every movement, he sank deeper into the mud; but he reached the bank, and crawled up the dirt incline. Gasping for breath, he lay beside his abandoned bow and empty quiver, and watched the monster writhing in its death-throes. By Trasgen Thunderlord, its hide might have deflected his arrows and defied his broadsword,
but while its mouth was open the demon was as vulnerable as a man!

  After the demon stopped twitching, Drellan waited several moments before returning to the moat. Then, bracing his foot against the huge head, he reached between the rows of dripping fangs, seized the hilt, and worked his broadsword free.

  The blade was black with thick blood, as Drellan’s body was black with sticky mud. He shook his arms violently, but the mud clung fast. Well, he was no filthier than he got in battle.

  Drellan waded through the mud to the squat, round, stone fortress, to the great wood drawbridge inset with a small door. He stared at the door’s shining handle, which was cast in the shape of a snake poised to strike. At his touch the metal snake would surely come to life, twisting with sudden unnatural fluidity to sink venomous fangs into his flesh. He wouldn’t fall for that trick! He sliced off the snake-head. It was hollow brass.

  Drellan took the hilt of his broadsword in both hands and swung at the door. The shock of contact shivered up blade and arms into his shoulders. The door was thick oak. He chopped. Wood chips flew. Sweat dripped off his jaw.

  When the door gave way, Drellan saw a stone corridor barren save for a few insubstantial floating globes of watery green light. Drellan stepped into the corridor and leaped back. A stone block wider than he was tall crashed down where he had stood an instant before.

  Drellan laughed. The witch’s tricks were obvious. Killing her would be as easy as seducing a tavern-wench. It had taken his clan’s shaman five minutes to heal a minor wound; carnival wizards needed two minutes to create a simple illusion. Drellan would get the witch faster than she could cast something as demanding as a death-spell.