Best of Marion Zimmer Bradley Fantasy Magazine, Volume 2

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

“He would have used his Voice of Pronouncement. It hurts my head when he does that.”

  “It’s supposed to. It’s so you’ll realize what he’s saying is something important.”

  On cue, Merlin’s bellow worked its way through the trees. Artie winced. “See?”

  I nudged his shoulder. “You’ll have time for rabbits later. Right now there’s work to be done.”

  By the time I got Artie back to the stone, Merlin was looking a little frazzled. He saw us coming, stopped waving his arms, and glared balefully at Artie. Kay, I saw, stood in a belligerent posture at the front of the crowd. The sword hung from one hand.

  I dropped my head down to Artie’s shoulder, leaning weight into it. “Promise me one thing,” I said. “Try the sword, this time.”

  “I tried before. It didn’t work.”

  “Artie—please. If you love me, give it a try.”

  Artie stopped short, swung on his heels, slung both arms around my neck. “But of course I love you!”

  The watching crowd snickered. Kay said something snide, but I couldn’t quite catch it.

  “All right,” I hissed, “that’s enough. Don’t make a scene—yet.”

  Artie disentangled his arms from neck and mane. His eyes were suspiciously bright, and his cheeks were damp.

  A soft-hearted fool, our Artie.

  “Go stand with the others,” I murmured.

  Obligingly Artie went off to stand at the edge of the throng. As usual, people made comments.

  Merlin turned back and thrust his arms into the air. The Voice of Pronouncement bellowed forth once more. “So there can be no doubt as to who shall rule Britain, I pledge to you that Whosoever Pulleth This Sword From the Stone Shall Rightwise Be Born King of All England!”

  A voice from the back of the crowd: “We did this once, already.”

  Merlin glared at them all. “Do it again!”

  Kay didn’t move.

  Merlin scowled at him. “Put the sword back.”

  He didn’t so much as twitch.

  “Put the sword back.”

  Kay’s eyes narrowed. “Make me.”

  A single massive in-drawn breath nearly sucked the leaves from the trees. Expectancy abounded.

  Merlin took two steps to Kay. He leaned forward slightly. No one dared to breathe.

  Very softly, Merlin said: “Put. The sword. Back.”

  Everyone on the hillside clapped hands over ears as the final word crashed through the forest. Trees fell. Lightning flashed. Camp dogs barked, while picketed horses squealed.

  I, of course, didn’t, though I had to unpin my ears with effort.

  Somewhat hurriedly, Kay went over and stuffed the blade back into the rock. But his intransigence remained firm. “I get first crack.”

  “Fine,” Merlin gritted. “First Kay, then everyone else.”

  He stabbed a look at Artie. “You too, this time!”

  Artie nodded glumly.

  England’s greatest magician waved impatient hands. “All right. Let’s get going. We don’t have all day.”

  Kay tried, and failed. Three times, in all, grunting and straining, sweat running from his red face. Then two of his friends caught him by either elbow and pulled him bodily away.

  “Next!” Merlin called.

  Everyone had a try. Lastly came Artie.

  “It won’t work,” he muttered to us. “I tried this already.”

  Merlin stuck his face into Artie’s. “Just do it!”

  Sighing, Artie wrapped both hands around the grip and yanked.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, God,” Merlin breathed. “I’m ruined. I’m finished. It’s over. It’s done with. Finis—”

  “Shut up,” I hissed. “He’s not done yet.”

  But he was. Artie tried twice more. The sword didn’t budge.

  “Keep your hands on the grip,” I said quickly. Then, to Merlin: “Your Voice of Pronouncement! Now!”

  “What am I supposed to Pronounce?”

  “And make some fog. Hurry!”

  “Hell, fog’s easy.”

  It was. Almost instantly the forest was choking in fog.

  “Hey!” someone called. “What’s all this, then?”

  I shut my teeth on the grip and dragged the sword yet again out of the stone. “Here,” I mumbled to Artie. “Hold the blasted thing.”

  “Again?” he asked wonderingly.

  “The Voice!” I hissed at Merlin. “Britain has a king!”

  Merlin began Pronouncing.

  “For God’s sake,” I said desperately, “make the fog disappear! No one can see anything!”

  In mid-syllable the fog winked out, leaving Merlin Pronouncing enthusiastically, me blinking owl-eyed, and Artie—dear, sweet Artie—clutching the sword.

  “Whosoever Pulleth This Sword From the Stone—”

  “Here,” someone said, “I didn’t see anything!”

  “—Is Rightwise Born King—”

  “Not Artie!” Kay shouted. “My God, not Artie!”

  “of All England!” Merlin finished. “The End.”

  “Not yet,” I said aggrievedly.

  “For me, it is,” he rasped. “I need a drink.”

  “Artie didn’t do it!” Kay shouted. “It wasn’t Artie at all! I was standing right here—I saw—” He dragged in a wheezing breath. “Merlin’s horse did it!”

  Heavy silence ensued. And Kay, who is not entirely a fool, realized what he’d said, what it sounded like, and what it might do for his future.

  I selected that moment to bestow upon the earth my undeniably horsey essence in a noisy, lengthy stream.

  Glumly Kay looked at Artie. “Long live the king.”

  Very quietly.

  As I knew he would, Artie came up to see me later. I stood hipshot in the moonlight, whuffling a greeting. I smelled oatcakes.

  Artie untied a knot and held it out. I lipped it up gingerly. “Where’s the sword?” I asked, once I’d finished the cake.

  “Merlin’s got it. He says he doesn’t trust me with it yet. He says I’d probably give it to Kay, or somebody equally unsuitable.”

  “Well, you did once.”

  “But don’t you see? I’m not suitable, either!”

  “The sword says you are.”

  “That sword says nothing at all! You pulled it out!”

  I didn’t answer at once.

  Artie nodded firmly. “Twice, you pulled it out.”

  “Yes, well… you can’t very well expect a horse to be King of All England.”

  “You can’t expect me to be, either!”

  “Too late, Artie. Merlin’s done his Pronouncing.”

  “But I can’t be WhOsoever Pulleth,” he insisted. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Rightwise,” I murmured. “And, Artie—it doesn’t really matter that much. This is how things are done.”

  “What things?”

  “Important things. They happen the way people make them happen, and then other people sing songs and tell stories and write about them the way they wished they’d happened.” I twitched a shoulder. “It’s just the way life is.”

  “I never wanted to be king.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’ll be a good one.”

  “Will I?” He brightened. “Are you sure?”

  “Leave it to Merlin. He’ll see it comes out all right.”

  Artie hooked an arm over my withers. “You’re the finest horse I’ve ever known.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to do something for you. Something grand and wise and kingly, so no one will ever forget you.”

  “They’ll forget me, Artie. I’m only a horse, after all.”

  Artie looked worried. “But you’re sort of the glue that holds us all together!”

  I winced. “Let’s not mention glue, shall we?”

  “All right.” He brightened. “I’ll name my firstborn son after you!”

  I snorted. “After a horse? That’s not very kingly—and the
son might object, once he’s old enough.”

  “But I have to do something.”

  It wasn’t worth arguing over. Besides, it would hurt nothing. Part of me was already on permanent loan. “Do as you will, then,” I said. “It’s Excalibur.”

  “Your name?”

  “Yes.”

  Artie grinned. “I’ll see you’re never forgotten! I’ll see to it the name lives on forever and ever!”

  “Artie…” But I let it go. “Thanks, Artie. I appreciate it.”

  He hugged my neck tightly. “Excalibur,” he whispered. “A good name for a horse.”

  “Go to bed,” I suggested. “You’ve got a full day ahead tomorrow.”

  “I suppose.” He slapped me in farewell. “I’ll bring you an oatcake in the morning.”

  He meant it, I knew. I also knew he’d already fed me the last of the oatcakes. “Go on,” I said, and nudged him very gently.

  Waving good night, Artie went back to the camp.

  “All right,” I said. “You can come out now.”

  He came, drifting out of the darkness like a nightwraith. “So,” he said. “Excalibur, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Faint accusation: “You never told me.”

  “True Names contain magic. You know better than that.”

  “But Artie intends to let everyone know it. It won’t be you, anymore.”

  I twitched an ear. “It doesn’t matter, now. I have no part in the story. Let him use it as he will.”

  Merlin stroked my nose. “We’ve made England a king, old friend.”

  “Artie will do fine.”

  Fingers drifted up beneath the forelock, then brushed it aside. The dark eyes so full of magic were bright in the moonlight as he studied my forehead. “So that’s where it came from.”

  I twitched a shoulder dismissively.

  “Powerful magic, that. More than I’d risk.”

  I shook the forelock back into place. “Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s over and done with.”

  “I suppose so.” He patted me on the shoulder. “A good plan, old friend. Most assuredly, my reputation will survive.”

  “And your name.” I swished my tail. “Artie—and England—will need you.”

  “And Excalibur.” Which was no longer me.

  Another pat, and then Merlin, who knew, was gone. I shook my head again, aware of a vague tingle in the place beneath my forelock where the sword-shaped blaze had been.

  I gazed up at the waning moon. “A kingdom for a horse?”

  No. I rephrased it.

  A horse for a kingdom.

  About Mara Grey and “The White Snake”

  Mara Grey is a landscape designer, writer, and Celtic harper. She lives on Whidbey Island, Washington, in a house surrounded by herbs, flowers, cedar trees, chickadees, jays, and wrens.

  And she writes unusual stories, like this one.

  The White Snake

  Mara Grey

  “Hey, kid, where’d you get that stick?”

  The gruff, tight voice came from an old man sitting hunched on the porch of a shabby house. Paint peeled off the siding and the steps sagged; dead bushes lined the sidewalk.

  “My dad’s place, under an old tree. Why?”

  The boy looked about fourteen, skinny, a bit too big for his clothes. He stood at the edge of the dusty summer road, a dog at his heels, swinging the stick.

  Heat pressed down on the house, on the road; the air smelled of dry grass and pungent weeds. Crows swooped and cawed over the nearby fields. The only shade lay under the porch roof, where the old man leaned forward eagerly, like a hound scenting its quarry.

  “Can I hold it a minute?”

  He tried to smile, but his face, like his body, seemed crooked, as if inhabited by something twisted, wrong.

  The boy scratched one ear for a few seconds and looked down at the ground, then walked through the overgrown yard and up the steps.

  “Here. I can’t see what you’d want with it, but hold it as long as you like.”

  The old man didn’t seem to hear. He fingered the stick slowly, caressingly, crouching over it like a miser over a bag of gold.

  “Years I’ve looked,” he whispered, “years and years. But it was here all the time. The tree was here. Here! Who would have thought it?”

  Suddenly he straightened up.

  “Could you find the tree again?”

  “The one the stick came from? Sure. I told you it’s on my dad’s farm. Biggest tree in the county, maybe even the state.”

  Again the old man’s mouth contorted into a kind of smile.

  “I’d like you to do something for me. I’ll pay you for it, fifty dollars. All you have to do is catch something for me, something that lives in a hole at the bottom of that tree.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in amazement.

  “How’d you know there was a hole there? I never saw anything come out of it, though. You want to pay fifty dollars? That’s crazy.”

  The old man pulled a battered wallet out of his back pocket and counted out five ten-dollar bills. He held them up in his right hand.

  “Here’s the money. I’ll give you a sack and all you have to do is wait at the base of that tree.”

  He paused to put the money back in the wallet.

  “There’s seven snakes in that hole. Let the first six go, but put the last one in this sack and bring it back to me.”

  The boy tapped one shoe on the floor for a minute and stared off into the distance.

  “How’d you find out about all this? What makes you so sure they’ll be there? What do you want with a snake?”

  ”It’s a secret,” the old man whispered. “My father told me the secret when I was about your age, the way his father told him. I’ve traveled for sixty years, gone just about anywhere you could name just to find the secret.”

  The boy looked at him warily, as if he expected him to jump up and foam at the mouth, like the madman he seemed to be.

  “Well, okay. I guess there’s no harm in looking. Where’s the sack?”

  The old man, his hands trembling slightly and his eyes gleaming with excitement, opened the screen door and went inside. A few minutes later he returned with a burlap bag and a piece of twine.

  “Tie it tight, now. Don’t want him getting away at the last moment.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m good at tying knots. It’s almost suppertime, so I might not be able to do it till tomorrow. Is that soon enough?”

  “Sure. But bring him here as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting.”

  The boy took the sack, called his dog away from the back of the yard, and strolled off up the street, still swinging the stick.

  The old man ran a hand over his face and said softly, chuckling to himself, “He’ll get it. Just wait. He’ll get it.”

  The old man spent most of the next day on the porch, watching clouds build up over the hot, flat land, looking up the road. He sat, stood up, and sat again.

  Then, late in the afternoon, he went down the rickety steps and stood out by the road. The boy was coming, whistling, alone. Across the road, the crows startled into the stormy sky, loud, complaining.

  The old man reached hastily for the sack as soon as the boy came close and looked inside.

  “A white one, yes, I should have known.”

  “I waited a long time before the first one came out, then they came so quickly I could hardly count them. But the last was this one, as white as one of my dad’s Sunday shirts.”

  The old man pulled out his wallet and handed the boy the five ten-dollar bills. Then he thought a moment.

  “I’ve got an appointment in town in a few minutes, but I don’t want to wait any longer. I’ll give you another five dollars if you stay and help me cook it.”

  “You’re going to eat a snake?” Amazement and a bit of disgust colored the boy’s voice. “Well, so long as it’s not me, I don’t care. Why not?”

  Overhead, the clouds piled up higher; the
re was a roll of thunder.

  In the kitchen, a small room with yellow paint on the dirty walls, the old man took the snake out of the bag.

  It was white as frost, white as foam on sea waves, white as the petals of plum blossoms, but its eyes were black, rimmed with gold. They seemed ancient, old, wise as though they’d seen worlds die, only to be born again. A red tongue flickered in and out of the small mouth as it tried to pour away from the old man’s hands.

  He put it in a pot on the stove, filled the pot with water, and lit the burner. Then he picked up a small metal bowl.

  “Now, listen. The instructions said to seal up the pot, not to let the steam get out. I haven’t got time, but here’s a paste I made up. Put a lid on the pot and stick the paste around the edges. And don’t you or anyone else eat a bite of that snake!”

  “No way. I wouldn’t do that for anything!”

  The old man took a last look into the pot and whispered something to himself. Then he shuffled out of the room.

  Rain spattered the windows and lightning pierced the dull afternoon light as the storm broke. Inside, the boy carefully pressed the paste into the crack between the lid and the pot.

  “He’s crazy. He must be. Oh, well, it can’t hurt to help him a bit. I’ll leave as soon as he gets back.”

  Before he finished, the water in the pot boiled. As the boy tried to push a bit of paste over the last bit of crack left to seal, his thumb came down across a gush of scalding steam.

  “Oh, hell, that hurts.”

  He backed away from the stove, then stuck his burned finger in his mouth.

  And the world changed.

  First, all colors brightened. The yellow paint on the kitchen walls became a blend of many shades of gold, orange, silver; the shabby house almost seemed to glow. The cracked linoleum on the floor shone with a light that seemed to come from beneath it.

  Then the sounds began, soft musical twitterings and chirpings, as if flocks of birds were perched just outside the door. In one direction, he could hear waves on a beach; if he turned another way, he heard wind blowing across an immense forest or a fire rustling on someone’s hearth.

  He stood in the center of the old man’s kitchen, turning around and around, staring at the walls, the stove, the sink as if, somehow, they could help him make sense of what was happening.

  He knew, he knew… what?