Here be Monsters

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Of a sort,” Gregory acknowledged. “I studied the vibrations of its cry when first it called, so I knew how to modulate the air currents out over the water to make the sound of a challenger.”

  “Well done, if a bit tardily,” Alain said.

  “Tardily indeed!” Gregory tore open the prince’s doublet. “Let me see how deep that wound is, and how much inclined to infection!”

  “Oh, kill the bacteria with a thought,” Geoffrey said crossly, glaring at the gouge in his thigh.

  “As you do?” Gregory noted the direction of his gaze. “Well, knit the flesh back together, brother—or if you would like more objectivity, I shall do it for you. Are you angered from the pain, or because your hose are quite irretrievably stained?”

  “Neither,” Geoffrey groused. “I simply dislike losing—or in this case, not winning.”

  “Besides,” Alain said through clenched teeth, “he was counting on roast fowl with all the trimmings. Have a care, Gregory! It may be deeper than it looks.”

  “The pain you feel is the wound closing,” Gregory assured him. He stood up, watching the torn flesh flow back together as he made cell bond to cell. “This is easy enough to do. I wonder how our enemy made it so hard to render the Boobrie back into the fungus of which it was made.”

  “Perhaps it was simply the strength of its desire to live,” Geoffrey suggested.

  “It is certainly convenient to have a wizard along when I’m apt to be wounded,” Alain said with a sigh of relief. He tested his wand. “I cannot see the slightest trace of a seam.”

  “He is a passable tailor,” Geoffrey grunted. He looked up at another whooping laugh from the lake. “Are you certain there is no other male Boobrie about, brother?”

  “Quite sure,” Gregory answered, “because our Boobrie is a singular bird.”

  Geoffrey looked up, frowning. Then his eyes glazed as he gazed off toward the lake, his mind seeking thoughts like the Boobrie’s. At last he nodded. “True enough. There are none others for miles about, at least.”

  “This part of the kingdom seems suddenly filled with monsters that have never appeared before,” Alain said thoughtfully. “I suppose they must have now and again, though, or there would not be tales about them.”

  “Or is it because there are tales that they have come to be?” Geoffrey countered. He turned to Gregory. “Did you not say that this was just such a monster as haunted your dreams?”

  “Not a dream exactly,” Gregory explained, “but one among many in a scene that burst into Allouette’s mind while she meditated. I shared it to leach some of the horror from it.”

  “And gained it yourself?” Geoffrey’s voice held a new sort of respect for his little brother. “So you saw what she dreamed.”

  “This was the least of them,” Gregory assured him. “Still, I could find it in me to wonder how it came from my dreams to this lake.”

  “Perchance through someone else’s dream,” Alain suggested.

  “Wherefore would two dream the same nightmare?” Geoffrey asked.

  They were all silent, looking at one another, knowing the thought they shared.

  “It was no accident, was it?” Alain asked. “Someone planted those vile illusions in your minds.”

  “And if in ours, in how many other people’s nightmares?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Three, or a dozen, or a score.” Gregory shrugged. “It matters not, as long as one of them was an esper who knew not his own strength.”

  “Then when he described the horrible bird to a listener, somewhere in the forest bits of witch-moss flowed together and took on the shape he saw in his mind’s eye.” Geoffrey nodded. “It is likely enough—but who placed that vision in so many minds?”

  “It was someone beyond the mist,” Alain said. “More than that, we cannot know.”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “We have been given a name; why not use it? Call that pusher of dreams ‘Zonploka.’”

  “It is as good a name as any, until we find the thing the word truly names.” Alain nodded.

  But Gregory frowned. “It is inexact and an invitation to error. What if, when we do find this Zonploka, it turns out not to be the dream-weaver—or perhaps not even human at all?”

  Geoffrey tossed his head in exasperation. “If we discover the referent, we may need to seek a new term—or we may not; we may find that Zonploka is a man or woman, and the dream-caster indeed.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “Why borrow trouble?” Alain asked. “Until we know better, let us assume it is Zonploka who sends these nightmares amongst us.”

  “The dream nightmares, or the ones that draw blood?” Geoffrey countered.

  “Yes,” Alain said. “Both, for if he sends the dreams knowing an esper shall speak of them, then he deliberately sends the monsters that grow from the words.”

  “Then I hope we find it so,” Gregory sighed, “and do not seek so hard for a man who may not exist, that we look right past the true source of the trouble.”

  “We must keep open minds,” Alain agreed, “and watch for every possible menace—must we not, soldier and knight?”

  “We must be vigilant and wary, of course,” Geoffrey agreed, “but if we do meet a man or woman named Zonploka, I for one shall shield my mind most shrewdly. Where now shall we seek him?”

  “Where indeed?” Alain shrugged. “One direction is as good as another, and the road lies before us. Let us ride!”

  The trees grew smaller and farther apart as the road wound upward. By midafternoon, the women began to hear a rushing sound in the distance. Allouette drew in her horse with a frown. “It is like to the noise of a flock of birds preparing to fly south.”

  “Strange.” Quicksilver smiled. “I always thought such a flock sounded like a babbling brook.”

  “Brook or bird,” Cordelia said, “let us chase the sound and see.”

  They left the path, angling eastward across the slope of the land toward the sound. It grew louder as they rode until they crossed a meadow and found themselves by a river—but one in full spate and choked with rapids. The water laughed and scolded, nagged and cried as it rushed around the boulders and fell over ledges. The women sat their horses, drinking in the sight and the sound, letting the spray on their faces refresh them.

  “It is glorious, is it not?” asked Cordelia.

  “It is indeed,” said Allouette, but she turned with a frown and demanded, “Who is he?”

  Cordelia and Quicksilver turned to follow her gaze and saw a man in a fur tunic sitting on a rock watching the water strike the boulders and roil on down the channel. There was something melancholy about him, something immensely sad as he sat watching the river. He wore the usual peasant’s tunic and hose, but ones made of fur. His grizzled hair was cut evenly around his head.

  “What is there about that fellow that makes me feel such sadness?” Allouette wondered.

  The man looked up at the sound of her voice. He was middle-aged and round-faced, all his features seeming to droop—except his nose, which was too small, but the moustache beneath it more than made up for it. It was grizzled like his hair, very bushy, bristling out to hide his upper lip. His chin receded, scarcely visible. He was stocky and looked as though he should be slow in his movements.

  “I see what you mean,” Cordelia said softly. “Merely the look of him makes me feel the need to comfort.”

  The man’s eyes widened, registering the sight of three beautiful young women, and he rose from his rock with a sinuous speed, a lithe economy of movement, that seemed to belie his age and appearance. He came toward them, hands rising in a plea. “I pray you, beauteous maidens, do not pass by!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  “I fear that we must,” Allouette said with gentle sympathy, “for we’ve young men waiting, and we must find them before they wander into trouble.”

  “Young men! What do young men know?” The ugly man was right beside her horse somehow; he had moved far more quickly than she had exp
ected. “Age betokens experience! It takes maturity for a man to know how to read a woman’s signs, to recognize her wants and needs and fulfill her wishes.”

  “You had best not be speaking of the wishes I think you mean,” Quicksilver warned.

  But the ugly fellow paid her no heed; all his attention was focused on Allouette. “Nay, maiden, stay awhile, and I shall show you such delights as never a young man could.”

  “I am no maiden,” Allouette answered, beginning to be frightened but striving not to let it show—or to let it make her lash out. “I am no maiden, and my fiancé has already shown me all the delights I can stand.”

  Cordelia felt a perverse pride in her brother.

  “All the delights you can think of.” The ugly man’s hands rose in supplication. “Nay, tarry with me, and learn far more exquisite notions than youth can know!”

  “I wish no greater pleasure than the embrace of my betrothed.” Allouette’s voice hardened. “Foul are you to urge me to betray him! Forfend and farewell!” She turned her horse away.

  But the ugly man caught her bridle, beseeching, “Only a little while, only an hour, only half! If I cannot teach you far more of desire than ever you have known in even so little time as that, turn aside from me and leave me evermore!” He reached out to touch her hand.

  Allouette recoiled, for his flesh was cold and moist. “Forfend, forgo! I shall indeed leave you, and that without a minute’s more converse!”

  “Say congress, rather,” the ugly fellow pleaded, “or even a kiss, only one! If that will not thaw the chill of your heart, then leave me indeed!”

  Allouette fought to conceal the revulsion that swept her at the thought of that bristly moustache against her skin and the cold moist flesh of those lips against her own. She let a little anger show. “Must I speak with cruelty, fellow? Loose my mare’s reins and let me go, for I do not wish to visit harm upon you!”

  “But your steed does not recoil from me,” the ugly man pointed out. “Indeed, she welcomes my touch.” To prove it, he stroked the animal’s neck; her skin quivered. “See? She trembles with longing!”

  “Or shivers with apprehension! Let go and stand off! Will you force me to be cruel?”

  “You are so already, merely by denying me! O lady of beauty, O damsel of delight, pay heed! Suffer only one caress, and you shall crave more!”

  “I should suffer indeed!” Allouette turned to her companions. “Ladies, will you not help me escape this importunate fellow?”

  “He importunes you indeed.” Cordelia studied the scene with brooding attention. “Off with you, old man! Cease your attentions when a lady shows she does not welcome them!”

  “Ah, but she will if—”

  “Away with you, she said!” Quicksilver sat tense and poised, her hand on her sword hilt. “We have no wish to be hurtful, but we will suffer your attentions no longer!”

  “O paragon of loveliness, bid your friends ride on without you!” the ugly man implored.

  “Be off!” Quicksilver drew her sword. “Or have you as strong a taste for steel as for women?”

  The polished blade flashed sunlight into the ugly man’s eyes. He cried out, covering his eyes in pain, and fell backward into the water.

  “No! I will not have him die for dismissal!” Allouette kicked her horse forward toward the stream.

  “Wait!” Cordelia seized her arm, pointing with the other hand. “See how he fares!”

  The ugly man sank below the water. As the foam and the waves closed over his head, they could see his tunic tighten about him, saw his cross-garters dissolve and his legs fuse together, the fur leggings clinging to the flesh even as his feet broadened into the twin flukes of a tail. His thatch of grizzled hair darkened and seemed to flow downward over a skull that flowed into a powerful neck and shoulders; his mouth and nose bulged outward into a muzzle and the bushy moustache stretched into whiskers; the nubbin of nose turned black, and his arms shrank even as his hands grew and flattened into paddles. The seal shot back to the surface, balancing on its tail and turning to look back at them, calling out in one last mournful series of barks before it turned and plunged back into the roiling water, diving to twist and turn between the boulders as it raced away and shot glistening over a little waterfall, then disappeared in the foam.

  “It was no true man,” Cordelia whispered, “but a selkie.”

  Allouette began to tremble.

  “It was a very handsome seal,” Cordelia said tentatively.

  “But a very ugly man,” Quicksilver answered scornfully. “Come, ladies—let us ride.”

  • • •

  “Surely we should stop to rest soon,” Gregory protested. “Night is not a healthy time for travel when there are so many supernatural creatures about.”

  Geoffrey was nodding in his saddle, but at his brother’s protest he shook himself back to some semblance of wakefulness. “Come, brother, what have we to fear? Whatever comes against us, surely Alain and I can hold it at bay while you disassemble it.”

  “Not if it is as tightly counterspelled as that last,” Gregory said darkly.

  “We have ridden the clock around,” Alain reminded Geoffrey, “and we always pitch camp before dark. Why do we push ahead after sunset now?”

  “After sunset? Well after sunset! In pitch darkness!” Gregory exclaimed. “What need?”

  “Our encounters have made me wary of the darkness,” Geoffrey confessed. “I wish stout walls about me this night, though I cannot say why. Only a little farther, gentlemen, and surely we shall come to a village!”

  Ahead of them, a roar shook the night.

  “I think a campfire would do well enough,” Gregory said nervously.

  “We must face our fears!” Geoffrey was fully alert now. “Onward! We must see what made that bellow!” He kicked his horse to gallop; the exhausted beast managed a valiant trot.

  Gregory sighed as he and Alain picked up their own paces, clucking to their mounts as they tried to catch up with Geoffrey. They came abreast with him only because he paused at the top of a rise as another bellow shook the ground. “Yonder!” He pointed at the dots of light that made a semicircle ahead and below.

  “What manner of sight is this?” Gregory wondered.

  “It is the village your brother hoped for.” Alain pointed at a tall shape glowing faintly in the moonlight. “That is a church, or I miss my guess.”

  “Aye, and there are cottages around a common,” Gregory added.

  Geoffrey frowned. “I see it now—and those little lights curve along one side of that circle.”

  The roar shook the trees about them; several dead branches fell.

  “Curiosity consumes me,” Alain confessed.

  “And that roar has the sound of a monster seeking battle.” Geoffrey grinned with anticipation. “Let us ride in and discover what it is.”

  They found a pathway and started down the slope. “Slowly,” Alain cautioned. “There is no need to rush into danger.”

  Geoffrey’s mouth tightened; he would have loved to do just that, but he held his peace, silently acknowledging that Alain had common sense on his side.

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or has that half-circle of lights grown smaller?” Gregory asked.

  Geoffrey studied the scene for a second, then nodded. “Your eyes show truly, brother. If there are people holding those lights, they are moving closer together.”

  “Ho! What have we here?” The prince drew his horse up.

  Looking down, the brothers saw a man and a woman crouched by the roadside, one arm wrapped about each other, the others encircling a little boy and a little girl.

  The roar sounded again. One of the children gave a cry of fear and the mother spoke soothing words, though her own voice trembled as twigs fell on her shoulders.

  “Why hide you so far from your cottage?” Alain asked. “Be sure that if you fear for your safety, there are three swords here to guard you!”

  “Swords will do little good against that monster
,” the woman moaned.

  “What manner of monster is this?” Gregory said with keen interest.

  “It is a ghost, Sir Knight,” the man answered, “but it has taken the form of a bull.”

  Gregory stared. “Why would a human ghost so disguise itself?”

  “In life, Bayurg was a most wicked man,” the woman explained, and shuddered at the memory.

  “He was a bully and a miser,” the husband said bitterly, “who only did two good deeds in all his life, and many, many evil ones.”

  “He cozened the lord into giving him parts of the fields of each of his neighbors,” said the wife, “and traded shoddy cloth for grain.”

  “And spoiled grain for good stout cloth,” the man said darkly.

  “He promised marriage to six different lasses,” the woman said, “and when he had tasted their delights, he scorned each one. Four he got with child but would not give anything to their keeping. At last no woman would listen to his suit, so he went to take a seventh by force, but all the folk were watching him shrewdly by then and drove him away.”

  “He lied, he cheated, he swindled,” the man said. “He stole tools and food and furniture and beat their owners if they sought to regain their goods.”

  “A most evil man indeed,” Alain said, affronted. “What were the two good deeds he did?”

  “He did give a worn-out cloak to a poor man,” the wife said reluctantly, “and once, in a moment of weakness, gave a bit of bread and cheese to one of his children, for the boy was very hungry.”

  “But that was not enough to win him a place in Heaven,” the husband said, “nor even in Purgatory, I suspect. He fell down dead in his forty-ninth year and the parson buried him, but none mourned him.”

  “So his two good deeds were enough to delay his exile to Hell,” Gregory mused. “Why, though, do you think he could not gain Heaven or Purgatory?”

  “Because his ghost came back,” the wife said, and shuddered.

  “It was doubtless to give him a chance to make amends for all the wrongs he had done,” the husband said, “but he has only gone on as he did when alive. A bully he was, and as a bull he has returned, a giant bull who appears on the common in the dead of night. For weeks he will not come, and we will begin to relax when the sun sets—whereupon he will descend on us again, frightening any who dare walk abroad after dark, chasing them into rivers or mires, and bellowing so loudly on the common that he shakes the thatch off our roofs and makes the shutters bang so hard that they break.”