Here be Monsters

by Christopher Stasheff

  Geoffrey looked down and walked forward, tracking their enemies. Uphill they went, through the trees, with Gregory and Alain vigilant and ready for the slightest sign of danger. Then the ground began to fall away. They walked downhill steadily, until the trees thinned.

  “Now we come to a clearing!” Gregory drew his wand, eyes flashing.

  “But why do their thoughts still seem to come from a distance?” Geoffrey wondered.

  They crept forth from the trees and had their answer. Gregory stared about him, slack-jawed. “We are back where we were ambushed! How could they lay so false a trail so quickly?”

  “Is it false?” Alain asked. “Listen to every thought, wizards, whether it be of earthworm, squirrel, or bird! If a woodsman can call like a jay, he may be able to think like one, too!”

  “Well thought,” Geoffrey said with surprised approval. Alain was the very soul of fairness, loyalty, and truth; he was steady as a rock, clear-headed in a crisis, and had an unimpeachable sense of judgment—but not much insight. Geoffrey hoped he was learning, although he had to admit Alain’s qualities were far more important to the monarch he would one day be, than great intelligence.

  Gregory looked very pensive for several minutes, then shook his head. “None are near.”

  “Then how did they lay a trail back here?” Geoffrey exploded. He hated being tricked.

  They were still for a few minutes, looking at one another and trying to make sense of it. Then Alain said, “Was it truly them?”

  “Who else could it have been?” Geoffrey asked with a frown.

  “Some forest spirit?” Gregory gazed off into the woods. “It could be. I hear none, but magical creatures might guard their thoughts well.”

  “If they have them,” Geoffrey said in disgust. “They may simply follow impulses.”

  “You mean some sprite has led us astray on a whim?” Alain looked skeptical.

  “Puck would,” Geoffrey pointed out.

  “But he is our friend.”

  “Not above playing tricks on a comrade, though. Besides, there are several other kinds of supernatural beings who think it is the height of humor to watch mortals go astray—especially if those mortals are in some haste, for hurry is a concept the faerie-folk lack.”

  “Let us assume the worst and take it to be something of the sort,” Alain proposed. “Follow those tracks again, Geoffrey, and we shall see if there is a body to go with those footprints.”

  They went off into the woods again, Geoffrey glancing keenly from the ground to the bushes and trunks around, alert for every slightest sign that someone had passed that way. He no longer watched for the path of a mass of people, but for the traces that a single being might have made in passing.

  “How shall you distinguish between false tracks made by one sprite,” Alain asked, “and true ones made by a dozen human feet?”

  “There is no sure way,” Geoffrey replied, “but the lone spirit might leave his own true track somewhere, which would not match the mortal ones—or have left a mark upon a tree trunk or broken a twig, in places mortals would not reach.”

  “Then too,” said Gregory, “he might have been seen by a bird or fox or squirrel, so I shall read the mind of each as I come by.”

  “If the one who saw him is still near,” Alain said, musing. “You cannot scan the mind of every dweller of this forest.”

  “There is that,” Gregory admitted.

  They followed Geoffrey deeper into the wood. This time, though, they noticed when they began to go downhill again.

  “I have an unpleasant feeling about this,” Alain said.

  “And I a rather wrathful one,” Geoffrey said, lips pressed thin.

  “Let us press ahead quickly,” Gregory urged. “If we go where we think, there is no need for caution.”

  “Our enemies would love to hear you say that!” Geoffrey answered, but he hurried forward too, sparing only glances for the tracks he followed.

  They burst through the screen of leaves into the same churned-up clearing from which they had first come. Alain and Gregory listened with respect as Geoffrey set about cursing their unknown misguiding spirit with a vocabulary that was an eloquent testimony to the amount of time he had spent in the troopers’ barracks, learning their modes of fighting.

  When he ran down, Alain offered, “We know in which direction our attackers fled. Let us follow a landmark that lies in that quarter.”

  “Scarcely proof against a truly wily spirit,” Geoffrey growled, “but I know no better way.”

  “It should serve,” said Alain, “though a goblin that could lay a false trail would also prove capable of setting up a false landmark, and moving it subtly to lead us even more astray.”

  Gregory shook his head. “To make us think we see a mountain peak that is not really there would take substantial meddling with our minds. Distracted I may be, but I think I would detect such interference nonetheless.”

  Alain nodded. “Onward, then.”

  A third time, the trio set off to follow the original tracks of the mountaineers. Geoffrey pointed at a twisted rock on the summit of the slope. “Yon is our guide—like a monk with a hood.”

  Alain nodded judiciously. “Brother Boulder shall be our quarry, then. We march!”

  Whatever their misguiding spirit was, it didn’t succeed against determined line-of-sight navigation. An hour passed and they still had not come back to the clearing. On the other hand, they hadn’t reached the crest yet, either—the land fell away in a gully, one that twisted and turned like a double-jointed snake, forming curves and oxbows. At the bottom, way down, they saw water purling.

  “What a poxy place to put a river!” Geoffrey said, exasperated. “Has our misguider found a way to lay a barrier in our path?”

  “No, this stream has been here many years,” Alain said, “very many. See how it curves and twists?”

  Geoffrey looked back over the course and nodded. “So many meanders mean years of water-flow—and it has cut thirty feet down into the soil.”

  “ ’Tis an ancient river indeed,” Gregory agreed.

  “Well, there’s no help for it—we shall have to climb down and find a ford.”

  “How did the mountaineers pass it?” Alain asked.

  “Most likely by a bridge they know of, and we do not,” Geoffrey answered, “or perhaps by climbing down, even as we do, but with slabs of rock placed as steps and camouflaged.”

  Alain nodded. “We could spend our last few hours of daylight seeking such a place. Well, down we go!”

  It was a skidding and perilous descent, for the bank was steep; the river had cut its own ravine. They caught at saplings and low branches and tried to discover roots to use as footholds. More quickly than they would have wanted, but with only one or two falls, they came to the riverbank.

  “Yonder is our crossing!” Geoffrey cried, pointing to a large raft moored to a tree. A cable was tied above it, stretching across the river and running through two large holes in the raft’s railing. “It may be that this is the mountaineers’ route, after all!”

  “It would seem you have guessed better than you knew,” Alain agreed. “Let us bring our horses aboard and shove off.”

  The horses weren’t all that happy about such infirm footing, but they were well-trained war steeds, so they went. Gregory untied the painter while Alain and Geoffrey held fast to the cable. Gregory leaped aboard and prince and knight started hauling on the hawser.

  “A novel idea, and a good one,” Gregory said, nodding in pleasure. “The ride is quite smooth.”

  As soon as he had said it, they neared the middle of the river and the current caught the raft. Gregory and Alain shouted as the railing strained against the cable. Suddenly hauling was much more difficult.

  Gregory went to the forward rail, peering out at the river. “Whence came such a sudden current?”

  “From nearing the middle of the river, brother!” Geoffrey panted.

  “ ’Tis not so broad a stream as that,
” Gregory said. “It must have been . . .” He caught his breath, pointing, then managed to call out, “Hold! Freeze! Avaunt! Danger lies ahead!”

  “What manner of danger?” Geoffrey turned, eyes alight at the prospect of action—and saw the circle of water in midriver, a circle that expanded and deepened into a funnel even as they watched, pulling the waters toward it, pulling every bit of floating wood toward it—including the raft.

  Suddenly the rude craft was straining against its cable.

  “Surely many have survived this before!” Alain called over the roaring of the water.

  “Not if this whirlpool comes solely for our benefit!” Geoffrey called back. “Pull, Alain! Back to shore!”

  They hauled as hard as they could, muscles bulging with the effort, but they might as well have been playing tug-of-war with a mountain; the raft stayed obstinately in midriver. Gregory ran to throw his weight against the current, pulling on the hawser with his new and powerful muscles, but even as he did, the whirlpool widened to its fullest diameter, its outer rim almost under the raft, and the roaring pressure strengthened. Gregory gave a quick glance down the funnel as it widened enough to show slimy mud at the bottom—and a bulb-bodied creature the size of a pony, with great buck teeth and burning eyes glaring up at them while its broad flat tail stirred the water to make the whirlpool and keep it formed. “Yonder is the spirit who has led us! ’Tis the afanc!”

  Wood groaned from strain.

  “Beware!” Geoffrey cried. “The whirlpool’s pull may break the cable!”

  But it wasn’t the cable that broke—it was the railing. Wood burst apart with cracks like explosions and the raft surged toward the whirlpool. As they began to swing about it in a circle, the horses screamed, fighting to be free.

  “Hold their heads!” Geoffrey cried in agony. “If they leap from here, they shall slide down the funnel and be drowned!”

  “Peace, peace, my beauties,” Alain soothed. He held all three reins tight in one hand and stroked the beasts’ necks with the other. “We shall not capsize, for we have two powerful wizards with us. Endure in patience. There now, beasts so brave in battle cannot be afraid of a little water!”

  On and on he went, and his soothing tone calmed the horses at least a little. They stopped fighting, but their eyes still rolled in fear.

  Resolutely, Alain drew his sword. “Cold Iron is the bane of all creatures of faerie! If I can wound it badly enough to make it stop stirring the waters, we may live to swim to the surface.”

  “If we can strike it.” Geoffrey, too, drew his sword, holding his horse’s bridle with his left hand, eyes fixed to his enemy the afanc. “Creatures supernatural have ways of evading our blows.”

  “ ’Tis so,” Alain said heavily, then turned to Gregory. “You who have studied so much of faerie lore—can you not destroy this creature with your mind?”

  “I have been willing it to dissolve,” Gregory said, face taut with strain, “but some other power holds it bound in form.” He raised his voice, shouting above the roar of the whirlpool. “Spirit of this river, hear! Come before us, we pray—appear! Your stream is invaded by a spirit impure! Banish it swiftly so your river endures!”

  “But surely the afanc is the spirit of this river!” Alain cried in despair.

  The raft tilted sharply and water cascaded down upon them. The horses screamed and fought the reins. The only thing that kept them on their feet was centripetal force.

  “Aroint thee, malignant spirit!” cried a rusty but vibrant voice, and a woman broke through the wall of the whirlpool—an old woman, withered and wrinkled, hands hooked to claw the afanc. Her skin was olive-colored and her hair like silvered seaweed, floating about her head and shot with sparks. Her trailing green gown seemed to be made of river-weeds, and her eyes burned with anger. “Begone, monstrous creature! Get you hence! Away from my waters; pollute them no more with your pestilential presence!”

  The afanc made a ratcheting noise, gathering itself to pounce—but the water-wraith sprang first, nails growing into claws even as she plummeted to the bottom of the funnel, claws that sank into the afanc’s neck. It screamed and bit in a frenzy, whipping about, trying to shake the crone loose. Its huge incisors sank into her shoulder but she only laughed. “Can you hurt the water? Can you damage the foam? Forfend, foolish furball! Go away! Get you home!”

  But the afanc kept trying to shake her loose, its whole body whipping back and forth. Its broad tail ceased to stir the waters, and with a roar the whirlpool fell in upon itself, burying wraith and monster both and drenching the men and their mounts. The horses’ screams ended in gurgling, but their owners grabbed frantically for their nostrils, covering the velvet noses. The horses kicked out, but the raft rose beneath them, bearing them all back up to the surface. It popped into the sunshine, pitching from side to side. It was all the three could do to keep their feet. The horses tossed their heads, gulping air, and fought the reins frantically, hooves slipping on the sodden deck.

  “Gently, O Prince of Horses, gently!” Geoffrey crooned. “The monster’s buried in the tide; you have naught now to fear!”

  “All is safe, they are gone!” Gregory assured his mount in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “The river-mother has ousted the afanc and we are safe.”

  “Aye, gallant warhorse, you have every cause for pride,” Alain assured his steed. “You have borne up nobly, you have faced the river-demon with stalwart courage! Be at ease, be placid!”

  Slowly the horses calmed, even though the waves rocked them, slowly subsiding, but moving them even more quickly than they had planned toward the far shore. The steeds were almost restored when the raft struck the riverbank, nearly jolting them off their feet. Hooves scrabbled and men clung frantically to reins, voices rising in assurance all over again. Quickly they led the horses off the raft and sagged against rocks and tree trunks, striving to catch their breath.

  “I had thought we would certainly be drowned!” Gregory said in a tremulous voice.

  “I, too,” Alain seconded. “How did you know the afanc was not this river’s true spirit, Gregory?”

  “Because it so resembles a beaver, Alain,” the younger brother said, “and beavers never stay overlong in any one river. They build their dams, eat all the fish their ponds catch, hibernate, waken, and move on.”

  “True,” Geoffrey said thoughtfully. “They are visitors to any stream.”

  “Then too,” Gregory said, “I suspect the spirits of every stream it visited chased it away whenever they found it, just as this one did.”

  “A point,” Geoffrey said, frowning. “Therefore it would be feign to attack anything living that came in or on the water, would it not?”

  “There is sense in that,” Alain said judiciously. “If the creature were supernatural, a surprise attack might win, and if it were mortal, it would be good to eat.”

  “What a charming beast!” Gregory said with a shudder.

  “Let us be glad the water-woman was not beguiled.” Geoffrey gave Gregory a narrow look. “I had not realized you knew the habits of beavers. How came you by such knowledge of game, O Scholar?”

  Gregory smiled. “When I was a lad, I wished to learn all I could about everything, O Hunter. Do you not remember chiding me for spending long hours gazing at the river and whole days wandering the woodlands?”

  “Truly, I do not remember saying it,” Geoffrey said ruefully. “So that was study? And all these years I had thought you had gone off to brood!”

  “To meditate, perhaps,” Gregory said with a smile, “but not to brood.” He glanced back at the water. “I had thought this stream was old, for it has many ox-bow curves—but I had not realized it was ancient!”

  “Certainly its spirit was,” Alain agreed, “but nonetheless powerful.”

  “Old or young, I bless that river-crone for safe deliverance.” Geoffrey raised his voice. “Dame of the waters, we thank you for kind rescue!”

  “May your stream always be pure,” Alain called,
“and your watershed well-forested!”

  They watched the river, half expecting the water-wraith to rise from the stream to scold them for being so foolish as to take a raft that was far too convenient. The stream only flowed past them, though, still choppy, but with no sign of supernatural intervention.

  “Do you think the afanc set the raft in place for us?” Alain asked, frowning.

  “We should have realized that the mountaineers would not have left us the means of passage,” Geoffrey said, chagrined.

  “But the afanc had no hands!” Alain protested. “How could it have bound the tree trunks together?”

  They were silent, staring at one another for a few minutes. Then Geoffrey stated the logical conclusion: “It had help, of course.”

  “Surely,” Gregory agreed. “If the mountaineers are willing to aid an invading army for the promise of land, why would not one of their number be willing to aid the afanc against us?”

  “Only one?” Alain asked, frowning.

  “A witch-moss crafter,” Gregory explained, “for that raft was not built before the afanc sensed us nearing.”

  “Either that, or the mountaineers did use it and have for weeks or years,” Geoffrey objected, “and the afanc needed only to push it back to the near shore in order to set its trap.”

  The three were silent again, testing the idea. Then Gregory asked, “How did it tie the mooring rope?”

  Geoffrey frowned. “You do not think the beast was telekinetic, do you?”

  “That it tied the knot with its mind?” Gregory smiled. “Why not? Some ancestral projective telepath did craft Puck with all his magical powers. Why could not his descendant make witch-moss into a monster that was itself an esper?”

  “An esper making an esper!” Geoffrey shook his head. “I shall have to think that one over for some days, brother! But let us mount and ride on, for I do not relish the thought of spending the night by that stream.”

  “Nor I,” Alain said with a shiver.

  Thus they led their horses up out of the ravine and on to the top of the slope, looking warily about them every foot of the way.