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EDITOR AND PUBLISHER Marion Zimmer Bradley

MANAGING EDITOR DESIGN Rachel E. Holmen Art Weller CLERICAL ASSISTANCE PROOFREADING: Raul Reyes Gil Lamont Jane Robinson Debbie Notkin

Lawrence Schimel Alan Bostick

Issue #15 — Winter 1992 — Vol. 4 No. 3

MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY’S FANTASY Magazine

ISSN 0897-9286

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MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY'S

FAWN TARY

Magazine

Excellence or Elitism?

In this country we seem — of course there are exceptions — to havea passion for the successful. At its worst, this means that no movie succeeds unless it’s on the Oscar nominees at least; no song is successful until it’s on the Top Ten; a Broadway show must be a hit; no book is successful until it makes the New York Times Bestseller list — I could continue, but I’ll spare you.

There is a flip side — and a beneficial side — of this. TV has at least banished what somebody called the “overtrained parlor soprano” from Midwestern living rooms, and with the Olympics on every TV screen we don’t have to spend our Saturday afternoons watching the local high school basketball games. Good entertainment drives out bad.

But there’s a down side to this. I, for my sins, once worked for a feminist magazine which, with its editors, shall be nameless. (Thisis, of course, why Iam nota doctrinaire feminist — at least not most of the time.) These editors made it known to their underlings, including me, that we had no right to judge the quality of submissions. “Women,” they stated categorically, “have seen too much rejection.” You can imagine the quality of what they printed — because unfortunately there are almost as many incompetent and uninteresting female writers as male ones. And right here in the s-f community, a well-known feminist writer has been heard to bemoan the fact that women must be “better than men”. “When,” she lamented rhetorically, “will women be permitted to be mediocre?” I wasn’t too sympathetic; I think there are already too many bad writers among men; we didn’t need to add multitudes of incompetent women. Among the really good writers, as I've said often, Inever knew an editor who knew or cared whether I were a woman, a man, or a chimpanzee in skirts with a typewriter. Some women don’t believe this; but it’s true.

Somebody once asked me, when I refused to attend a concert by a woefully bad musical rock band, why I wasn’t willing to support women’s music. I replied that when Shirley Verrett —a black singer of great merit — gavea concert, I'd be right there in the first row. But misplaced feminist support for mediocrity just diminished everybody’s respect for excellence; I disliked incompetent male rock musiciansat least as much as I disliked female ones, if not more.

The real down side of this is that it is much harder for young people to get a start. My daughter, a gifted harpist, has to struggle more ather age than I ever did for success as a writer; music is the only field more difficult than writing in which, unknown, to make a start. Shirley Chisholm, a black politician, in her book UNBOUGHT AND UNBOSSED, put her career on the line to remain her own woman. Paul Tsongas has just dropped out of the presidential race for lack of funds. Iedited anthologiesinaday when the conventional wisdom said that short stories don’t sell; I’m still here. I was lucky when I started —and no matter what anyone says, I never sold out toa mythical male “establishment”.

And I started this magazine partly to give young writers a chance — within reason. But that doesn’t mean I don’t insist on good stories. If that makes me an elitist,

| wn

MARION ZN Mee B-ReA-D-L Ee ys

FANTASY Magazine

Issue 15 Winter 1992

COVER STORY

H.P. Lovecraft Meets Fafhrd and The Gray Mouser 4 by Fritz Leiber

Harimau 11 by Shymala Dason; art by Vincent Di Fate

Wanted, One Virgin 16 by Thomas D. Sadler; art by James Balkovek

What Happy Ending? by Lyn McConchie; art by George Barr

2 Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

Fylgja by Heather Lynn Sarik; art by Rob Alexander

Sea King's Harp by Mary K. Frey; art by Alan Gutierrez

Changes by David R. Addleman; art by Gail Butler

Queen of Summer Forests by Isabel Cole; art by Margaret Organ-Kean

To Be The Best by Margarita Serbia; art by Barb Armata

All's Fair by G. E. Gaines; art by Janet Kramer

REGULAR FEATURES

Winter 1992, Issue #15

An Interview with Fritz Leiber by Darrell Schweitzer

Marion Zimmer Bradley Talks to Writers What I Reject - and Why

Writers Talk Balk

Prose and Cons: Rejection Slips Results of the Cauldron Letters to the Editor

The Last Word by Rachel E. Holmen

The Cauldron

H.P. Lovecraft Meets Fafhrd and The Gray Mouser

by Fritz Leiber

Ifirst gotin touch with Howard Phillips Lovecraft through the unasked help of my wife, Jonquil, who knew how highly I valued his supernatural horror stories. She simply wrote him a letter (I lacked the nerve to do this), telling him of our great enthusiasm for his tales.

At that time, we were living with my father and mother in Beverly Hills, Cali- fornia, where my father was beginning a career in the movies, while Lovecraft was at his home in Providence, Rhode Island. She wrote him in care of the magazine Astounding Stories, which had recently published his novel THE SHADOW OUT OF TIME.

Her letter was a long time reaching him. Hisreply, which arrived in Novem- ber 1936, was thoughtful and amiable.

Jonquil had mentioned that I acted in my father’s Shakespearean com- pany, and it turned out that earlier HPL had seen my father when he was acting in Robert Mantell’s Shakespeare com- pany,and had many favorable memo- ries of Leiber, Sr., particularly in the part of Faulconbridge in KING JOHN, in which he had some great speeches about his devotion to England.

I was overjoyed at the friendly contact my wife had made for me, and Iimmedi- ately wrote Lovecraft a long letter my- self, telling him in more detail of my great admiration for his works.

Our correspondence flourished, and I eventually sent him my unpublished long novella “Adept’s Gambit”, about Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and sev-

4

eral poems that were eventually pub- lished in DEMONS OF THE UPPER AIR. He responded favorably, sending me a long commentary on the novella. He knew to a tee how to encourage a budding fantasy writer of whom he ap- proved,alwaysincluding words of praise to balance each criticism. Eventually, he asked my permission to circulate “Adept’s Gambit” among his circle of fantasy-writing friends.

Our correspondences all continued to flourish. Lovecraft and I exchanged long letters on fantasy writing. I didn’t realize it fully at the time, but I was laying out plans fora lifetime of such writing under the gentle guidance of an author deeply interested in the whole field.

Lovecraft continued to write sepa- rately to my wife, who very tactfully asked him more practical questions: how he earned a living, managed his social life, queries like that. Heresponded very fully and frankly, telling us how he needed only five hundred dollars a year to maintain himself in a thrifty style to which he was becoming accustomed, how he made do with old clothes, and re- quired only two or three dollars a week for food, divided between breakfast and dinner. Breakfast consisted, for example, ofadonutand some cheese washed down with heavily sugared coffee; dinner was a can of beans or Chef Boyardee meat- balls and spaghetti.

Meanwhile, another figure had entered the correspondence circle. Before Christ- mas of 1936, lintroduced Lovecraft tomy

lifelong friend Harry Otto Fischer of Louisville, Kentucky. He had origi- nally invented the characters of Faf- hrd, modeled on me, and the Gray Mouser, modeled on himself. Harry and HPL exchanged several letters, particularly on the subject of fear. Harry claimed that supernatural horror stories did not frighten him, though he was often entertained by their grotes- queries. Lovecraft asserted that his fears stemmed from nightmares of childhood during which he was often kidnapped by winged faceless creatures who whirled him through dreadful panoramas to the ends of the universe.

Isomehow found time to doa series of illustrations for Lovecraft’s story “The Whisperer In Darkness”. These consisted of huge buildings silhouetted against starfields crossed by silhouetted flying figures. This was my Christmas present to Lovecraft. He responded with a gift to me and Jonquil of a privately printed copy of his short story “The Cats of Ulthar”, dedicated to our two cats, Mumphet and Grayface.

At the same time, Harry and Jonquil and I were commenting to each other about the very exciting time we were all going through.

I remember Harry being shocked by Lovecraft’s diet and saying he should be provided with fresh vegetables.

Harry, incidentally, spent much of this period isolated with his wife Martha and his parents in their house, besieged by floodwaters, having been

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

inundated for a fortnight to the first floor level. There was even a time when it was thought the Ohio River was changing its course to run through Louisville.

Almost fifty years later, my memories of this period were sharply reawakened by the publication of the fifth and last volume of Lovecraft’s SELECTED LET- TERS by Arkham House in 1970. This contained a long letter to his friend James F. Morton, published for the first time, which HPL was working on at the time of his death (March 15, 1937). I’ll quote from it at some length because it ex- presses his view of the period:

‘This England never did, nor never shall,

Lie at the proud Foot of a Conqueror,

But when it first did help to wound itself.

Now these her Princes are come home again,

Come the Three Corners of the World in Arms,

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue

If England to itself do rest but true!

“Thad the privilege of hearing these lines on the actual boards a quarter of a century ago when Robert Mantell’s rep- ertory company played Providence, and everafterwardsassociated them with the extremely gifted young actor who spoke them in the part of the bastard Faulconbridge — a chap named Fritz Leiber, who handled all such secondary roles as Horatio, Mercutio, lago, Macduff, Richmond, Edgar, Bassanio, Antony, and so on. I used to think that Leiber was really better than Mantell him- self—for the latter was getting egotistical, self-conscious, and stagey. Well —Ilately had occasion to revive those ancient memories, when I received (through As- tounding Stories) a communication from Fritz Leiber’sson and namesake—a fanatical and scholarly devotee of weird fiction and the aesthetic, psychological, and philosophical background behind it. Young Fritz (twenty-five, a University of Chicago graduate, and entering his father’s profession) has one of the keen- est minds I have ever encountered, and in the interval since last November has become one of the star correspon- dents on my desperately crowded list. His understanding of the profound emo- tions behind the groping for cosmic con- cepts surpasses that of almost anyone else with whom I’ve discussed the mat- ter; and his own tales and poems, while not without marks of the beginner, show infinite insight and promise. Papa’s ge- nius certainly reached the second gen- eration in this case — for whether or not

Winter 1992, Issue #15

Fritz Jun. equals his sire on the boards, he'll certainly get somewhere in litera- ture if he keeps on at his present rate. He has had classic thespian experience — having played in his father’s companies (which have never visited Providence) in recent years those self-same roles (Edgar, Iago, etc.) which in my day old Fritz himself played in Mantell’s companies. Incidentally, I saw old Fritz in two cin- emas last year — the Pasteur opera and ANTHONY ADVERSE. Young Fritz had a momentary bit in the current Camille film — which I have not seen. Pater et filius reside together (though young Fritz has a wife) in Beverly Hills, California — the same town with young Henry Kuttner. Young Fritz resembles his par- ent — who, by the way, is an amateur sculptor of much talent, with some re- markable Shakespearean busts to his credit. The son’s artistic ability is mani- fest in something he sent me for Christ- mas — a series of strangely potent and macabre illustrations for some of my tales. These designs were produced by a novel and original process which the artist- inventor calls ‘splatter-stencil work’, and they convey surprisingly vivid effects in a semi-futuristic way. The best is prob- ably one showing the Eastward flight of certain winged entities from nighted Yuggoth — illustrating “The Whisperer In Darkness”. There will shortly be cir- culated among the gang (you can be on the list if you like) a remarkable unpub- lished novelette by young Leiber - ‘Adept’s Gambit’, rejected by Wrightand now under revision according to my sug- gestions. It is a very brilliant piece of fantastic imagination — with suggestions of Cabell, Beckford, Dunsany, and even Two-Gun Bob [Robert E. Howard — Ed.] - and ought to see publication someday. Being wholly out of the cheap tradesman tradition, it has small chance of early magazine placement — hence the idea of circulation amongst the members of the circle. This novelette is part of a very unusual myth-cycle spontaneously evolved in the correspondence of young Leiber and his closest friend — Harry O. Fischer of lately-inundated Louisville. Fischer has also come within my con- gested epistolary circle, and is in some ways even more remarkable than Leiber — he has more imaginative fertility, though less concentrated emotional power and philosophic insight. Their myth-cycle, originally started by Fischer, involves my own pantheon of Yog-Sothoth, Cthulhu, etc., and re- volves around the adventures of tworov-

ing characters (Fafhrd, the Viking, mod-

‘elled after Leiber — who is six feet four —

and the Gray Mouser, modelled after the diminutive Fischer) in a vague congeries of fabulous and half-fabulous worlds of the remote past. Fischer’s parts of this cycle are vivid but unformulated and disjointed, so that at present Leiber — the better craftsman -—is the only pub- licly visible author of the pair. ‘Adept’s Gambit’ is laid in the Syria of the earlier Hellenistic period, but soon moves away from Tyre and Ephesus to a fabu- lous mountain realm of inland Asia. Fischer's wife is an accomplished artist, and has made several very effective pas- tel drawings of some of the inconceivable Entities in the Fafhrd-Mouser Cycle.”

In March of the next year, we were shocked and astounded by the sudden- ness of Lovecraft’s death. He had spent a couple of days in the hospital at the end of ‘36. Thereafter, his replies to Jonquil and myself shrank to one-page letters and postcards. He was still taking regu- lar walks, weather permitting, wearing a pair of shoes that had been cut to accom- modate his swollen feet. He still talked of his illness as an attack of grippe. When he became unable to help himself, he went to the hospital a second time, for the last week or so of his life. We got the news from his aunt, Mrs. Gamwell, who later, at his direction, returned our letters to him, and also sent us a small ruby-glass mug which he had received as a present on his tenth birthday. It became one of my lifetime’s treasured possessions, and was finally sold at auc- tion around 1980 to contribute to a fund to pay the last medical expenses of Manly Wade Wellman, another early Weird Tales writer.

My final reaction at the time was of wonder and admiration for a writer who had been able to create such long and instructive letters as Lovecraft had dur- ing November and December of the pre- vious year, when he was clearly sick to death, and I embarked on a revision of “Adept’s Gambit” introducing the names of such Lovecraftian entities as Yog- Sothoth and Nyarlathotep. I showed the resulting manuscript to my wife and to my friend Harry, who emphatically did not like the changes, and so I deleted them when the story was published (in 1947). I also eliminated a trail they follow through the atmosphere to the Castle Called Mist, a touch of realism which I would now include.

Two years later my wife and I were

5

back in Chicago, where I had a job writ- ing articles on science for Consolidated Book Publishers’ University of Knowledge, a series of books sold at a dollar apiece through newspaper advertisements, an early competitor in the World Book En- cyclopedia field.

Meanwhile, the magazine Unknown had been launched in New York by Street and Smith. I had tried to sell “Adept’s Gambit” to several book publishers and also to Weird Tales but had met with rejections. I decided to write a new Fafhrd-Mouser story shaped more to the needs of the action-adventure pulp magazine.

In search of buried treasure in a fabu- lous world, my two heroes encounter an old castle that promises what they are looking for, but is really a trap. In other words, they find the treasure but are almost destroyed by its supernatural guardian. Along the way, rival treasure-

seekers provide plenty of sword fights and excitement.

This story sold on its first submission to Unknown, which seemed to me a superior market to Weird Tales. I had written and submitted it without any previous consultation with Harry Fischer, so it was published under my name alone.

Harry, meanwhile, had found a career with the General Box Company of Louis- ville, Kentucky. He started in the factory and soon became a designer of boxes.

Although we had conceived and de- veloped the characters of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser and their ancient land of Lankhmar on the shores of the Inner Sea together, we had somehownever thought of writing as a team but conceived of itasa literary property we could both exploit individually. I always thought he was the better writer, but I made the compromise of adapting to the pulp mar-

ket. It wasn’t until many years later, in the ‘60s, that I took 10,000 words he had written and developed them into a story for both our names.

Looking back, it seems to me that Lovecraft had a greater influence on my writing than he did on Harry Fischer's (much more than I realized at the time). After my correspondence with Lovecraft I forever conceived of Fafhrd and the Mouser stories asadventuresin therealm of cosmic horror, colliding with them in each story with varying results, while Harry Fischer resisted this element in Lovecraft more strongly than I did. This distinction is preserved in the characters of the two heroes — Fafhrd being the more romantic and susceptible to illusion, while the Mouser remains more of a realist. Read “The Lords of Quarmall”,in which Harry’s contributions are clearly

distinguishable from my own. ee

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Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

An Interview with Fritz Leiber

by Darrell Schweitzer

You've been publishing now for fifty-one years and it’s hard to imagine you doing anything else. Looking back over things, can you see how your life could have gone any other way, and you might have been something other than a writer?

It’s hard now to think of its going any other way, my becom- ing an actor or something else. I’m certainly happiest that I’ve become a writer, and thank God I seem to have stayed a writer. I've been very, very fortunate in having such a large audience and such a variety of audience. It’s been very good.

You started writing a little later in life than most people do. What were your interests then, and what made you suddenly start writing?

Well, I think I needed a lot of push and some definite encour- agement. I think that the first thing really that made mea writer was someone to talk to, the emergence of an individual audi- ence, someone my own age whom I wanted to be friends with, and I found it in my friend Harry Fischer. He was the original of the Gray Mouser. In fact he invented the two characters, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, to describe his feelings about himself and me. I was the good friend, the great friend, and so was he. That was the way we started out. I think that is the reason Ive kept on writing so faithfully about Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. He was my first audience, and he was a better writer than I was. He was a much more developed writer at that time than I was. So I had to work hard to equal him, to come anywhere close to him. This was a good thing for me. It put me on my level from the start. I had to equal my friend. When he wrote letters that were twenty and thirty pages long, I had to get my letters more than four or five lines long. This was the challenge I needed.

At first you were writing letters back and forth, describing Fafhrd, the Mouser, and their world. At what point did this become a formal attempt to write stories for publication?

That was a question: getting, finding a suitable market. We weren't so conscious of the need at first to finish the stories. It was well enough to inhabit a world where the stories didn’t have to be finished. We'd just start them and pile on the atmosphere with no thought of someday having to finish it off. We weren’t thinking in those terms.

Winter 1992, Issue #15

What else were you doing with your life at this time? Were you doing any acting?

I was acting in my father’s company. It was a made job, as it was, and it was a job I didn’t have to make any effort toward, because he had his company out and I was of an age to act init, so I had a job. My friend Harry Fischer, he didn’t have a job. He’d just gotten married, and he and his wife had a puppet show, which they took out for all of three weeks after their marriage. They were going to tour this puppet show around the countryside. But it was not to be. This was around 1934, in the depths of the Depression, and so Harry and Martha’s puppet show never paid off. They were in farming communities where the people paid in vegetables, if anything. So that didn’t work out, and Harry went back to Louisville with his wife, and there he got a job with the General Box Company. He started a career of first making, and then designing, boxes to contain various products.

Had he any further inclination to become a writer?

He did eventually, in later life, when he lost his job with the box company, which happened in the middle of his career.

I had to equal my friend Harry. When he wrote letters that were twenty and thirty pages long, I had to get my letters more than four or five lines long.

About the time you began writing, you came into contact with H.P. Lovecraft. Surely that was a great inspiration.

Oh yes. This also happened before my actual writing — my actual selling — career began. I didn’t have the nerve to write him, but my then-wife did. Her name was Jonquil. She died in 1969. But she was the one who first wrote Lovecraft,and as soon

74

as Lovecraft answered her letter, why, I wrote him with the greatest enthusiasm, to tell him how much I enjoyed his stories. We began a tremendous correspondence, Lovecraft and I.

How many of your stories did he see? He speaks well of you as a writer in some of his letters.

He saw “Adept’s Gambit”, the first long Fafhrd and Mouser story, and besides that he saw some poems I wrote, which were published later as the short collection DEMONS OF THE UPPER AIR.

I knew a lot about fear from myself. For me the supernatural horror story was basically a story about the things I was or had been afraid of, like the dark and the unknown.

You mentioned once that there were Cthulhu Mythos elements ina version of “Adept’s Gambit”.

Yes. Inmy enthusiasm for Lovecraft Idid a version of “Adept’s Gambit” which had invocations to Shub-Niggurath and ap- peals to Yog-Sothoth and Nyarlathotep and so on. But I realized later that this was just a desire to emulate Lovecraft.

Yet, unlike Robert Bloch or Henry Kuttner, you did not begin your career writing distinctly Lovecraftian stories. You declared your artistic independence early.

I felt that Lovecraft was another writer and my stories wouldn’t necessarily be a great deal like his. So at first ]had no thought of writing supernatural horror stories; except that the Fafhrd and Mouser stories were basically supernatural horror.

What did you first plan to write then? Perhaps more straight adventure stories on the order of Talbot Mundy?

I wanted to write stories like the Fafhrd and Mouser stories were, and they were supernatural horror. They were to that extent like Lovecraft. Supernatural horror was the center of interest in them.

Yet in a couple years you were writing science fiction. How did this change come about?

That was just another thing. I certainly admired science fiction, but I had trouble writing it at first. The supernatural horror stories came much easier. I think it is because the super- natural story is of simpler structure. You have the phenomenon thatis feared and you have the hero of the story who is menaced by the horror, and then the other characters are just observers. So it was a simple thing, relatively, for me to write a supernatu- ral horror story, because all I needed was something to be feared. I knew a lot about fear from myself. For me the super- natural horror story was basically a story about the things I was or had been afraid of, like the dark and the unknown. So I was able to write the horror story. But the science fiction story required a whole social scene. This demanded more of me than [had at first.

But you did manage to produce sf fairly quickly. How much did John W. Campbell help you?

John Campbell was certainly a help. The story of “The Jewels in the Forest” or “Two Sought Adventure” was written for Campbell’s Unknown. I had checked that, and I realized some- thing as a source of terror for an Unknown story, and I found it in architecture, in the idea of a building that was alive, an

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apparently ancient place in the forest which turned out to bean alive building. So I had the tremendous image of the tower beating down on the two heroes.

Campbell was famous for feeding ideas to his writers and shaping their careers. He gave Heinlein at least one novel idea. Did he do that with you?

He did, but afterward. The first story was just a gift from the gods. He had nothing to do with “The Jewels in the Forest”. But then later on he began to feed me ideas. My first long weird story, CONJURE WIFE, was written in response to his sugges- tion to me that women were a good source for the elements in the horror story. What did they carry around in those handbags of theirs? The obvious answer, materials for witchcraft, was a very potent one, because it did suggest the whole story of CONJURE WIFE. And I happened to be at my first formal job at the time. I was ona college faculty and I was having my first experience with college faculty politics, the maneuverings, the slight kowtowings to the heads of departments.

What did your wife think of the idea of the novel?

She was a great help. She was very enthusiastic, because she had the background for it. She was from Wales. She wasa British girl whom I met in Chicago, but she had just moved there from Wales, which was, again, a place where you could think of witchcraft as being possibly true and powerful. So I got the idea that the hero would be helped by his wife, who believed in all this stuff, though he didn’t believe init at all. She would pick his brain for the anthropological material he had on witchcraft,and she would use witchcraft to defend him and to promote his career. When she did she gradually found out that the other women on the faculty had long been operating under the same principle, that they were using witchcraft to defend their hus- bands. And so it went.

My wife had just moved from Wales, a place where you could think of witchcraft as being possibly true and powerful.

You've shown a great fascination with witchcraft throughout your career, from your very earliest stories up to such recent works as THE KNIGHT AND KNAVE OF SWORDS. Care to comment?

Yes. I have had a great fascination with witches. I'd say that our modern witchcraft has developed, in a sense, with me. As I've grown interested in the topic, it has become of greater interest to menand women throughout the world. There’s been the whole modern witchcraft movement, which really dates back to the years just after World War II, when witchcraft ceased to be a criminal act in England. It was punishable by law until quite recently. So there was a great promotion of witchcraft in the 1950s. When I wrote CONJURE WIFE in the early 1940s, witchcraft was a pretty obscure thing. You had to at least refer to The American Weekly as the source of information on the topic. The Sunday supplements.

Or perhaps books like THE WITCH-CULT IN THE WESTERN WORLD by Margaret Murray.

Yes.

I take it you get along well with witches.

Yes. I accept the witches around me in San Francisco. I've visited a coven out there and shared their full moon meetings,

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

things like that. That’s the way it was especially when I was writing “The Mouser Goes Below”, which is in many ways a witchcraft story.

But you haven’t encountered any malevolent witches, the sort who probably mostly exist in fiction.

No, [haven’t. Most of the witches I know out in San Francisco are just practising heathens, or pagans, who practice or believe in several cults. They’re pantheistic, you might say. They have a pantheon of gods whoare rather like the gods of the Norse or the Greeks.

Let's turn to your science fiction now. Curiously, your first major science fiction story was also about witches. I mean, of course, GATHER, DARKNESS! Could you tell us how that came about.

GATHER, DARKNESS! was suggested by CONJURE WIFE, and also, I think, by Heinlein’s story, SIXTH COLUMN. You remember it. So I said, let’s go one step further. The scientists wouldn’t just use their power to rescue people from exploita- tion. They would use it to exploit also. The only way to counter them would be to start a witchcraft based on science.

At the time John Campbell had an unpublished and somewhat unfinished novelette called “ All”, which was the basis for the Heinlein novel. He apparently showed it to Heinlein and said, “I’m Editor now. You write this.” Did he ever show it to you?

No. I didn’t see that.

But it seems that what Campbell really contributed to your develop- ment as a writer was that he got you to write novels, instead of short stories. Your first three novels appeared in his magazines. How much did you learn about novel-writing from him?

I think I learned a great deal about it. I wrote CONJURE WIFE and GATHER, DARKNESS! and then DESTINY TIMES THREE definitely for Campbell.

Yet by the early 1950s you were primarily writing for other editors. How did this change come about?

I tried to write steadily for Campbell, but I think that the change came about when I got the idea for THE BIG TIME, which I wrote for Galaxy. Horace Gold, the editor of Galaxy, liked the idea of the novel, and he bought it. At the same time I was selling a short story based on the same world, “Try and Change the Past”, to Campbell. This created some ill will between myself and Campbell.

But more than that, the whole approach of the two stories is quite different. “Try and Change the Past” is more realistic and almost a gimmick story, whereas THE BIG TIME is very theatrical and has what are almost Brechtian distancing-devices in it. It’s very different in sensibilities from anything Astounding would publish. So, was this a matter of your horizons broadening, or Campbell's narrowing?

I don’t know. It was mine broadening, I think, that brought it about. But I think the fact that he had boughta short story which seemed to be based on the same idea of a change-war between rivals in space and time, between mega-cultures, was more the issue.

In essence, he didn’t want the rest of the series running in someone else’s magazine.

Yes.

The theatrical quality of THE BIG TIME does bring us back to the influence of theater on your writing. Could you talk about this? A lot of your stories do read like plays.

Well, that’s true. I have tended to think of them as plays. But that’s a matter of appearances more than anything else.

Have you ever wanted to write for the stage?

Mine hasn’t been the sort of writing that leads to actual sales in movies and plays.

Well, CONJURE WIFE has been filmed twice, for all you weren't

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directly involved. Were you ever approached to write a screenplay for something like that?

Ihave tried to doit, butit hasn’t worked out. I’ve tried to write a Fafhrd and Mouser movie, but it hasn’t worked out.

The problem is perhaps that movies and TV require too much committee-work...?

Yes, I think that is a great deal of it. I’ve always been very much a lone-wolf writer and worker.

Far removed from both most of the Fafhrd and Mouser series and things like CONJURE WIFE, you've also written a lot of overtly satirical work, such as ASPECTER IS HAUNTING TEXAS. This represents a further broadening of your work. So, how did you go from writing supernatural horror to writing social satire?

I can’t always tell you that. I wish I could. I think it’s been a matter of changing my focus.

Lovecraft toward the end of his life felt that the most ominous thing for the United States was the domi- nance of big business, that this was the greatest threat to progress.

This ability to change focus must surely be one of your greatest strengths. You must have noticed how many writers of, say, the 1940s, who were regarded as your equals then, haven’ t been heard from since. Hardly names to conjure with — Nelson Bond or Cleve Cartmill or Raymond F. Jones — and then there were so many writers promi- nently published in the 1950s,and they haven't been heard from since. And so on. Yet you keep changing and growing.

I think my greatest strength has been in the actual writing, in my handling of the subject-matter. It’s a literary accomplish- ment.

But you're writing very differently now from what you were doing in the 1940s.

Yes.

Most writers, after a while, stop changing. They're probably won- dering what your secret is.

It’s just to keep on trying to be different.

Have you ever felt the kind of commercial pressure where the publisher demands another book just like the last one?

No. This hasn’t happened to me. They’re moreapt to say, “We want more just like it.”

((Laughter from audience.))

Leiber continues: That's true.

Oh, I don’t know. I'd think it would be a tried and tested product by now.

You really think so? Apparently it hasn’t worked that way for me.

But virtually everything you've written is still in print.

Yes, one way or another. That's true. And, thank you. But I think it’s for literary, for story value that it’s read.

So what we are seeing here is the triumph of artistry over mass- production.

Yes, I would say so.

But there are so many writers who say, “ Well, this is a trend, so I'll write more of those ...and more and more and more.” This has always struck me as a short-sighted way to do it. You must be living proof that I'm right.

I think that is true.

Looking back over all that you've done, is there any particular story which is your favorite?

Oh, I have several favorites. Among the Fafhrd and Mouser stories, I particularly like “Lean Times in Lankhmar” and “Bazaar of the Bizarre”.

Any particular reason for those two?

“Lean Times in Lankhmar” is a great comedy of Fafhrd’s alcoholism and the Mouser’s fascination with money-making. And also it turned out to be a comedy of religion in a way.

This will never go out of style, because the subject matter is so universal. But won't some satires date out from under you, such as A SPECTER IS HAUNTING TEXAS, which is largely about Lyndon Johnson?

I was hoping...but he didn’t run for president again, which was a problem.

((Laughter from audience.))

But there was something universally grotesque about him, so the novel still works.

That's true.

How did you come to write this novel?

I decided to do my bit to stop Goldwater, so I supported Lyndon Johnson, and found that all I’d done was help to escalate the war in Vietnam. This put me off politics, while trying to work in politics myself. I saw how poor a judge I was.

So you'd never be tempted to write a science fiction novel about Ronald Reagan, for all he seems to be a very science fiction subject...?

It’s tremendously tempting.

Are you writing anything just now?

Not right now. But this may help inspire me. I'd say that.

This convention, or Ronald Reagan?

This convention.

SELECTED QUESTIONS FROM THE AUDIENCE:

Having survived now through almost six decades of writing in the field, you must have some ideas about what we're doing right and what we're doing wrong. Could you offer some thoughts on this?

Lovecraft toward the end of his life felt that the most ominous thing for the United States was the dominance of big business, that this was the greatest threat to healthy progress in this country. When I see our president devoting himself so much to the fortunes of the oil companies in the Mideast, I cannot but say that he was possibly right in his judgment.

((Applause.))

Is this perception likely to inspire you to writeanother ASPECTER IS HAUNTING TEXAS?

It might.

What was the background for the story “Poor Superman”?

To some extent it was based on Hubbard’s Dianetics and Scientology.

Pro or con?

Con.

((Laughter and applause from audience.))

I’ve always been fascinated by the goddesses of Lankhmar. Were these created out of whole cloth, or was some prior mythology in mind?

I made them an expression of my own feminism, to some degree. I’ve tried to make them that.

Could you explain the remark, your own feminism?

I’ve been very sympathetic and in favor of feminism.

What have been your reactions to the graphic novel versions of the Fafhrd and Gray Mouser stories?

I haven't really passed on it in any great detail. I have been favorably impressed so far.

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What did you think of the earlier comic-book adaptations of the Mouser, the ones of about fifteen years ago?

I thought they. were only fair, or partially successful.

You haven't mentioned THE WANDERER. Could you tell us about the creation of that?

Yes. I was asked to write a story for a cover illustration of Fantastic Stories, and the cover illustration showed a moon exploding. eventually worked outa story ina couple of weeks,

Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are a projection of myself and my friend Harry Fischer, who invented them in the first place.

that had some interstellar psychopaths setting off explosions on the Moon. Butat the same time I had the vision of writing a story in which the Moon would be crushed to rubble by tidal forces and become a source of meteorites and comets which would injure the Earth. I wrote the story on the basis of the Wanderer being a planet of equal gravity to the Earth, and between them the Earth and the Wanderer would destroy the Moon. That was the novel that I ultimately got out of this assignment from Fantastic Stories.

What do you regard as your own relationship to Fafhrdand the Gray Mouser?

They are a projection of myself and my friend Harry Fischer, who invented them in the first place. So it’s a very direct participation on my part. Fafhrd isa projection of myselfand the Mouser of Harry Fischer. It’s very personal. I am Fafhrd, for better or for worse.

Do you wish you'd lived a life more like Fafhrd?

Who doesn’t?

((Laughter and applause. ))

Could you give us some background on the essay “Monsters and Monster Lovers”?

Yes. I wrote that essay to try to explain to myself my feelings about monsters and the people who are drawn to them. I wrote the essay and then in 1964 I had to deliver an address at a West Coast convention, and I decided to use it as my address at the convention. The idea of monsters — science fiction fans being monster lovers — gave me a way of introducing the subject in a popular address. Then as soon as I'd given the address, why Cele Goldsmith, the editor of Fantastic Stories, boughtit from me after hearing it and ran it as a non-fiction piece.

What do you think of the proliferation of trilogies in fantasy today?

It just presents a very different problem for the writer. We’re told that the fantasy novel is the hardest thing in the world to sell, and then suddenly many writers are required to write them. We've had to go along with it and try to fulfill the publishers’ desires.

What is the difference between someone who writes and someone who is a successful writer?

I don’t see it. Someone who writes and someone who is a successful writer. You're asking what is the secret of success, what is the thing that qualifies a novel. I don’t know any better than you do. What is the secret of the human heart?

I think we can wrap this up. Thank you all for coming. Fritz, thank you for being with us.

((Applause.)) — November 18, 1990, PhilCon

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

Savithri wiped her hands on her sari skirts and picked up her knife. She glanced nervously around her. The es- tate was quiet. Neat rows of tall, leafy rubber trees ran inevery direction,and in the dimness below them, there was no movement. No smell of tigers.

She forced herself to concentrate as she stripped away the dried rubber from the cut on the tree, letting the sap run free. She had made the cut too deep. That was the third time today. At least this was the last tree in her section.

She picked up her buckets and walked rapidly, gratefully, toward the road. Another day safely over. For the past two weeks she had been hearing rumors of a man-eating tiger who was moving, by the pattern of his kills, closer and closer toward the Kula Serai area. Perhaps he would pass them by. She walked even faster.

She stepped out of the trees onto the

Winter 1992, Issue #15

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road. The truck was waiting to drive them back to the compound. The other rubber tappers stood beside it, waiting for the Mandor to measure the liquid in their collecting cans. Just as usual, and yet she felt some difference.

They were talking in low, rapid whis- pers, their faces both excited and grave. She shook her head to clear it. She was imagining things. She moved toward them.

They fell silent. They looked at her, then at one another.

Savithri nodded to them, spoke througha throat suddenly dry. “Is some- thing happening?”

The group stirred, and Mangala shoul- dered her way toward Savithri, her face gleaming with excitement. Savithri felt

by Shymala Dason

AAT

her stomach contract. Mangala had looked like this when she broke the news that Savithri’s husband had gone away. Savithri stiffened.

Mangala’s hands were waving excit- edly, the garish glass bangleson her wrists jingling. Her voice was thin and shrill. “Poor Savithri, I’m so sorry, the tiger attacked your son.”

Savithri felt Mangala looking at her expectantly, waiting fora reaction, want- ing her to scream or cry or tear her hair, but she stood still and did nothing. Fi- nally Mangala repeated spitefully, “It’s true, the Mandor saw it — Raju was prac- tically half-eaten. The big man came with his gun, otherwise the boy would have been killed there and then.”

That pierced her. Still she would not cry. She felt herself swaying. Mangala’s armsreached outto hold her, and Savithri shuddered and tried to pull away buther body would not answer her. There was a

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Artwork by Vincent Di Fate

burst of light, and she saw Mangala’s face looming, inches from hers, heard Mangala’s voice, “Poor thing, it’s been too much for her.”

Downwind of the truck, Harimau the tiger stood within the shelter of the trees. His liquid, amber eyes were unblinking, the round, predator's pupils reduced to an intense, black dot by the afternoon light. Harimau’s white whiskers twitched. He should have been sleep- ing, for he was heavy with food, but some- thing cried within his head and held him here. Something that reached toward the woman. He watched, intent, till she fell. The wind brought him many scents: he knew hers, and inhaled it.

Savithri’s faint did not last long. She was at the hospital within the hour. She listened while they explained her son’s condition. First the elderly staff nurse talked to her, and then the young doctor. Their voices slipped through her hands, and she could not grasp what they said.

At Raju’s bedside she stood quietly, her hands tightly clenched on the rail. Then she spoke for the first time. “Doc- tor, sir, do whatever you have to do. Give me my son back. I don’t have much money, but Ill raise what I can....”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor repeated stiffly. “There’s nothing more we can do now. You have to just say your prayers.”

“Prayers,” she whispered softly. “Prayers.” She closed her eyes. Slow tears trickled down her cheeks. She felt the doctor’s silent presence, sensed when he quietly left. She bent her head, sobbed silently. Her heavy braid slipped for- ward, over her hands, slipped onto the bed to touch the body of her son.

The next day she waited. At Raju’s bedside when they would let her, and when they would not, in the small,square waiting room of the estate hospital. Waited for news. People streamed in and out. Mangala, bearing a large, steaming tiffin carrier, was the first, and she was not easy to dislodge. There were many others. Savithri listened politely to ev- eryone but said little. She ate the rice and sambar that they put in front of her, though she hated accepting even that much from Mangala; it had no taste.

Late in the evening, when she came home to bathe and change, her grand fa- ther came. Savithri gave him his dinner, glad to have something to do, and lis- tened as he talked of his six-hour bus ride from Kuala Indah, his stop at the hospi- tal. The small house did not seem quite so empty with him there. After dinner they

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sat on the doorstep, chewing betel leaf.

Her grandfather spat, a long, thin stream of red betel juice. “You people are fools,” he said. “Just because someone has been to university you think he knows a lot.”

Savithri sighed, and explained pa- tiently, “They have doneeverything they can. They even did two operations, and he is not getting better. Even the great doctor from Kuala Indah can’t do any more. We just have to trust God.”

“Isaw how the boy looked. God knows His business. You are not doing your part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Go to the bomoh. He’s very strong. The Harimau stole Raju’s spirit. The bomoh can give you a charm to get it back.” As Savithri looked at him doubt- fully, the old man repeated, “You didn’t fight to keep your husband; are you just going to sit still and let your son go, too?”

She went to the bomoh the next morn- ing.

The bomoh sat cross-legged on the floor, his sarong tucked up around his knees. He waved Savithri down opposite him. He cast a handful of frankincense

onto the glowing coals in the small clay brazier between them. As the cloud of smoke billowed up, he rubbed his hands over the lock of hair Savithri had brought him. Raju’s hair.

The bomoh began to sway from side to side, his eyes closed. He spoke in a sing- song voice, long pauses between phrases.

“see your son. I see his spirit attacked by the tiger. I see he has only a small piece of his spirit left in his body.”

Savithri flinched.

“Harimau has eaten the rest. Harimau is trying to eat it all.” The bomoh came out of his trance and sat, waiting.

Savithri laid the ten ringgit billin front of him. “Can you get his spirit back from the tiger?” she asked.

“Tt is not an easy charm,” he replied, “but I feel pity for the pain of a mother, so I will doit for you.” He picked upa piece of paper and wrote on it with a bit of charcoal. Then he carefully wrapped Raju’s hair in the paper, folding it over and tucking it. He handed it to her.

“You have to geta young goatand take it to the river, near where the tiger has been seen. Bury the charm in the ground, then tie the goat to that spot. When the

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

Artwork by Vincent Di Fate

tiger comes to kill the goat he will step on the charm and your son’s spirit will be freed.”

Savithri took the packet silently, and stared at it. She wanted her son to be better, but the thought of going into the jungle was terrifying. Tears came into her eyes.

The bomoh stood up. “Your son will die if you do not hurry. You must block the fear from your heart and believe in the charm, or it will not work. Go.”

She tightened her lips and nodded, then left his house, tucking the folded paper into her sari blouse.

Savithri knew she was nota very clever woman, nora brave one. Now, she dared not stop to think, because she knew that if she did, she would not be able to go through with what she had to do.

Where could she get a goat? That would cost two hundred ringgit, half a month’s salary. She sighed, and her hand rose to touch the pendant hanging by a black cord about her neck, her tali, the symbol of her wedlock — the only thing, besides Raju, that her husband had ever given her. She clutched it so tightly that the edges cut into her hand.

At noon she stood outside what she thought was the pawn shop, in the middle of Kuala Serai. She hesitated, looking at the sign, wishing she could read it. There were Chinese characters on the sign, and regular letters — English or Malay, she couldn’t tell. She could recognize her own name when it was written, in either Tamil or English, and she could print it, but that was all.

Finally, the proprietor came to the front of the shop and barked, “Are you coming in or what? You're blocking my busi- ness.”

“Il have something to pawn.” She walked up to him, her hands kneading her sari skirts. His glance flicked over her, from cheap sari to plastic bangles. She could imagine herself in his eyes, feel every drop of sweat on her face.

“What do you have?” His voice was brusque, but he stood aside and let her enter the shop.

“My tali.” She pulled the cord over her head and put it on the counter. Without its familiar weight she felt naked.

The proprietor picked it up and exam- ined it, turning it from side to side; sun- light pouring through the open door caught highlights off the curved sign of her husband’s caste carved onto the tali.

“No one will buy this secondhand.”

“My son is very sick. Ineed three hun- dred ringgit.”

Winter 1992, Issue #15

He shook his head. “I don’t want this. If I cannot sell, I don’t buy.”

“Tonly want to pawnit,” she said. “I’m going to redeem it.”

He glanced ather, and she burned with embarrassment. She could save the money to redeem it. He had no right to look down on her.

He reached for the scales. Then, before she could stop him, he had tugged open the knot in the cord and slid the tali off.

“No... .” That knot was tied on her wedding day. Only death should have untied it.

He placed the tali on the scale. “I can give you only the gold price. Two hun- dred twenty ringgit.”

She nodded. She picked up the cord, balled it up tightly in her fist.

He put away the tali and handed her the money. Tucking the roll of notes into her blouse, she walked back to the bus stop.

It was evening by the time she was ready.

She stole away from the village, lead- ing the goat, her heart pounding quickly and so loudly that it drummed in her ears. She walked as fast as she could through the rows of rubber trees, then into the jungle.

She blinked. Thick leaves overhead blocked the fading light. She moved on, toward the river, stumbling a little as her eye adjusted to the gloom. The goat bleated in complaint. Mosses growing on the jungle floor felt cool and damp beneath her feet, squished up around the edges of her chappals and between her toes. A faint, sour smell rose from the mosses when they were crushed.

She began to make out colors again, deep purples, blues and vibrant reds, and sweet heavy fragrances so rich she could almost see them too: wild orchids.

She walked on; straggling vines caught her ankles, stones and dead branches tripped her. The goat bleated again. She slapped at her exposed arms and feet, her face and neck. Mosquitoes. Mighty God, she prayed silently, if You can hear me, don’t let there be leeches.

The “breek-breek” of the crickets pounded on her ears, and her heart be- gan to beat faster, in time to their cry. Birds flew somewhere high above her, and she shivered as the echoes of their screams fell through the trees toward her. These were not the littlemynah birds and sparrows that she knew. These were jungle birds. Unknown.

She neared the river. Ahead of her, the

chorus of frogs began. Soon the night hunters would be out.

One hunter already walked in the jungle.

Harimau followed the woman, carefully staying downwind of his prey. He was con- fused. He could not understand why he was so strangely drawn to the woman. He had hunted successfully the previous night, and was still comfortable. The strange feeling made him angry. He followed her.

Finally, Savithri reached theriver bank. Picking up a sharp stone she scooped a small hole in the damp clay beneath a tree and buried the paper. Then she teth- ered the goat close to the tree, so it stood directly over the buried charm.

The wind shifted. The goat started to cry out, loud and quivering, almost hu- man in its fear.

Savithri looked up.

She froze.

Her vision was filled by the great cat. Harimau was huge. He stood before her, and she saw his jaws quivering with his breath, his whiskers twitching. She screamed, a long, thin scream, then turned and ran.

The goat was bleating madly now, tugging at its rope. Harimau sprang, knocked over the goat. He raked the struggling animal with his claws. The smell of fresh blood rose dizzy- ing in his nostrils. He bent to feed, then paused, shook his head in puzzlement. He abandoned the dying goat, and leapt after the woman.

Moonbeams filtered through the jungle canopy. Harimau stood bathed in their light. Something lay still at his feet. He lifted his head and licked his bloody muzzle. A deep, contented rumbling came from his throat.

He slept. He dreamed.

Savithri woke. She found herself in a cave, dimly lit by a reddish glow, flicker- ing in the firelight. She looked around, puzzled, not recognizing where she was. She strained to remember, and then it came back to her. The jungle, and the dark, and the fear, and Harimau.... She shivered. Perhaps this was the afterlife.

A flicker of motion caught her eye. Someone — something — was circling, watching her. She drew herself up, felt her heart pounding. Then there was a voice.

“Amah?”

She was silent, stunned.

The voice came again, hesitant, young. “Amah? Have you come to take me home?”

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It was impossible. She was dead, and this was her punishment. Yet it sounded so like... “Raju!” she screamed, and there was a sound of rushing feet, and Raju wasinherarms, crying, asif he were a small child again.

“Amah, I'm sorry [disobeyed you and went into the jungle. I wanted to see the Harimau. I’m sorry, Amah, please take me home!”

She held him close, automatically soothing him, as she tried to understand what was happening. She remembered the tiger’s attack; she remembered her son’s still body in the hospital. As the boy’s sobs quieted she shook him gently.

“Raju! Amah will take you home, but you have to be a brave boy and help me, all right?” He nodded, sniffling, and she continued, “I want you to tell me every- thing that happened to you, everything you can remember.” It took time, but between his sobs she extracted the story.

Harimau heard voices. They disturbed his rest. His ears twitched, trying to shake away the voices. They did not stop. It woke him. He surged to his feet, roared angrily. The voices in his head did not stop.

The red-lit cavern shook, and the roar of the tiger echoed through it. Raju screamed and flung himself against his mother. She held him, and pulled the throw of her sari over her head and his, trying to block out the dreadful sound and the leaping flame. Then suddenly she understood. They were inside the tiger!

Man-eaters were not ordinary beasts, everyone knew. This must be a spirit tiger. Not content with killing bodies, it also imprisoned souls. Savithri shivered. Death she could face, but not to be able to go to her ancestors, to spend all eternity locked inside the tiger... Her anger rose at the unfairness of it all. And Raju was so young! If only she could find a way out. If only she were cleverer. . .

“Ma?” Raju tugged at her hand. “’Ma, please, I want to go home. I’m hungry.”

Tears came into her eyes. Her son was here; he looked at her trustingly, waiting for her to take him home, for her to feed him. She kissed him tenderly. “Soon, my son, my eye. Very soon. Amah has to think of a way first.”

The old stories — there were many sto- ries about Harimau — maybe she could remember something. Long moments passed before she sighed and sat up.

“Raju, stay close to me, and don’t be frightened if Iseem strange.” She saw the

14

question in his eyesand said firmly, “Just do as I say.”

She made a circuit of the cave, study- ing the tiger, thinking about all the injus- tices and sufferings in her life, of which this was the last. She fed her anger. She began imagining that she was a spirit also, a spirit of vengeance as elemental as Harimau. She grew taller, darker, and there was fire in her eyes. Her son whim- pered, began to drawaway, butshe pulled him to her side sharply. She fed anger to her thoughts, turned it all against the tiger, threw her hatred at the animal who would destroy the little that she had.

Harimau paced from side to side restlessly. He rubbed his head against a rock till the blood came, but no matter what he did the voice did not stop.

Soft, reasonable, merciless, tireless, she continued. “You stole my son’s spirit, Harimau, and I am going to make you give it back. You thought you could steal my spirit, too, Harimau, but I am stron- ger than you. I will kill you, Harimau, as you killed my body, and I will take your body to clothe my spirit. You were wrong to steal me, Harimau... .”

Harimau fought. He was strong, but he had just eaten, and he was sluggish. He cried out, and the jungle stilled in horror at the sound, because it was a scream of pain; and none of the jungle denizens had ever imag- ined any being who could cause such fear and pain in Harimau.

Savithri walked around the cavern. She was larger now, and the color of blood. She carried the child, for he had fainted.

Just as well, for this was not for a child’s sight. She grasped great handfuls of the flame, lifted this to her mouth, and swallowed it, laughing. “I eat your sub- stance, Harimau. You will die, Harimau.”

Harimau felt madness walk within his head. He saw the great, striding figure, where he was used to seeing only the spent shadows of men. He tore through the jungle, and all gave him wide berth. Blood poured down his head, and there was foam on his lips. He ran straight into the river, past the stiffening body of the goat.

The water closed over his head, and he fought to get above the surface, but the hated voice was there,dragging him down. Harimau fought, and the water burned in his lungs, the voice wailed in his head.

The river was still for a time. Then the surface rippled, and the woman rose

above it and pulled herself onto the bank. She was dripping wet, and her sari clung to her, but she was oddly surefooted as she made her way back to her house.

She passed the spot where the tiger had attacked her. There was nothing there; no body, no blood, only some crushed grasses.

The next day, Savithri sat on her door- step, pounding cumin seed in a granite mortar and pestle. They came to tell her Raju was recovering. She smiled quietly and thanked them.

ee

SuymaLa Dason is of Indian extrac- tion, and she was born and raised in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. She was re- cently able to travel in Malaysia for an extended stay and hopes to write more stories based on materials collected there. She hasa degree in physics and a master’s degree in applied mathematics. She now works at NASA, writing software for the Mars Observer. She is trying to sell her first novel and is working on several others. She comments about “Harimau”: “Tam a student of yoga and believe that anyone who willingly embraces the price will grow into a tiger.”

Vincent Di Fate attended the Phoenix (now the Pratt-Manhattan Center) for his formal art training, worked as a photo- engraver, taught elementary school art, and worked in animated films before turning to freelance work in 1969. He won the Hugo for Best Professional artist in 1979, one of the several awards he has received. He has had a number of one- man shows at museums and galleries in North America, Europe, and Japan. In addition to his art activities, Di Fate has lectured extensively about the methods and history of his craft and has been a consultant for MCA, 20th Century Fox, and MGM/United Artists.

The Friends of Darkover wish it to be known that the Darkover Newsletter, a quarterly, is available for the sum of $7.00 annually in the U.S., $10.00 per annum in Canada, or $17.00 foreign. Payment must be either a check in U.S. funds drawn ona U.S. bank or a postal money order in U.S. dollars, payable to

Marion Zimmer Bradley, Ltd.

The Friends of Darkover is a non- profit, non-dues-paying, disjointed, un- mustered group representing the span from the golden season to the golden years, and from the golden mean to the gilded extreme.

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Winter 1992, Issue #15 (714) 455-9543 : 15

Wanted, One Virgin

by Thomas D. Sadler

Thin tendrils of smoke circled in the air above a small forge in one corner of the sunlit workshop. Along one wall stood a tall set of shelves filled with books and curiousinstruments. Directly across from thebookshelves was thedoor to the work- shop; cabinets filled with jars and bottles stood on either side. A pair of work- benches stood side by side along the last wall with two figures bent over them, each intent on something in front of them. One of the people muttered to himself.

“Fenthorn, baneroot, caulwort... Hmm ... So far the ingredients should present no problem. They’re all re —- Wait. Oh damn!”

“What? What's the matter?” Leesa Darmin looked up from the compounds she was labelling. Leesa was tall, strik- ingly good-looking with long, chestnut hair framing a square face with a wide forehead, a pair of sultry hazel eyes, long eyelashes, and full lips often parted inan alluring smile. Behind it all, she had one of the finest mindsin Calthoria.“Oh noth- ing. The spell calls for eight drops of a virgin’s tears.” Andrik Turrin curled his lip. He was slightly shorter than Leesa, average in build, with thick black hair,a clean-shaven face, with a mouth that fre- quently turned down at the corners. His dark blue eyes flashed. “Virgin’s tears! Where in the Seven Hells am I going to find virgin’s tears?”

“T’msure I haveno idea, Andrik. There must bea virgin or two somewhere in the city.”

16

“Possibly.” The magician looked thoughtful and his rugged face became almost handsome.

“All you have to do is advertise for one. Surely —- Ouch! Why did you do that?” Leesa stooped and rubbed herright foot where Andrik had tromped on it. She started to blot ata tear that formed in the corner of her eye.”I thought maybe I could save myself a little work.” Andrik said. “Hey! Don’t do that.” He snatched up a small jar and tried to catch Leesa’s teardrops.

“Just what makes you think I’m a vir- gin?” Leesa demanded. “Just because I took up magic? That’s a load of horse droppings and you know it. Only Black Magic works like that.” She shuddered. “And I don’t want anything to do with that.”

“All right. So maybe you're not a vir- gin.” Andrik set the jar back down. “I don’t see how a virgin’s tears could be different from anyone else’s anyway.”

Andrik sighed. “I guess I'll just have to do as you suggested and put an adver- tisement in the paper. I really want to see how this spell turns out.”

The next day, in the lower right hand corner of the Glastonburg Journal —a four page broadside - a small ad ap- peared, set off in a box. “Wanted, one virgin. Between the ages of 15 and 19. Only genuine virgins need apply. See Andrik Turrin at 346 Piedmont Lane, Glastonburg.”

“That's quite an ad,” Leesa said. “But aren’t you afraid people might misinter-

pret it?”

“What people think of my ad is their problem, not mine. We both know there'll be nothing improper going on.”

“We do?” Leesa arched an eyebrow and folded her armsacross her chest. She had no doubt of that. Nothing improper had ever gone on with Andrik.

“Of course! I’m no cradle robber, Leesa.”

“No. Of course not.” Leesa agreed.

“But that’s not important right now,” Andrik replied, searching among the bottles on one of the shelves. “Do you think the ad will bring results?”

“Results? Oh, you...” Leesa jerked her chin up and abruptly turned her back on him and pretended to examine some- thing on her work table. “It just might,” she said over her shoulder several sec- onds later. “But it will probably take a few days.”

“| think you're right. As usual. I’ll just have to be patient then,” Andrik said, puzzled by Leesa’s abrupt change of mood. Women! He’d never understand them. Even women magicians, and Leesa was one of the best he’d ever met.

Silence filled the workshop as each of them concentrated on their own magical researches. Leesa was still angry with Andrik for his seeming indifference to her womanly charms. She knew it wasn’t right. After all, she had joined up with him to learn more about magic. It wasn’t his fault she had found him attractive and desirable.

Early thenextmorning, Leesa emerged

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from her bedroom justasa knock sounded on the front door. She hurried to answer it, surprised that anyone else would be up and about so early. She opened the door a crack, then swung it wide, and smiled.

“Oh, Andrik! Could you come here, please?” she called over her shoulder.

“I'm coming,” Andrik called back as he came out of his room, tying a sash around his waist. “What's the problem? Don’t tell me someone has come about the ad already.”

“I think so. Would you come in, please?” Leesa said as she stepped back out of the way to admit a tall, blond, muscular young man of around seven- teen.

Andrik looked at the young man in speechless surprise.

“You shouldn’t stare, Andrik, It isn’t polite. What’s your name, young man?” Leesa fought to keep from laughing at Andrik’s reaction.

“Tt’'s Dennis, Ma’am. Dennis Servalle. This is 346 Piedmont Lane, isn’t it?”

“Yes itis. Are you here about the ad?”

“No! He can’t be.” Andrik finally said, his face bright red. “That's ridiculous.”

“Oh? Why?” Leesa regarded Andrik coolly. “The ad just said virgin. It didn’t specify the virgin had to be female.”

“Yes, but - everybody knows that vir- gins are...”

“Women? But virgins don’t have to be women or girls, Andrik.” Leesa looked the youth up and down. He was a mere child!

“Yes, but whoever heard of a male virgin? I’ve never come across a man who would admit to it.”

“Well here’sone who does. And arather good-looking one at that,” Leesa said gently teasing.

“Excuse me, ma‘am. Sir. Could you tell me why you want a virgin? Are you looking for a suitor for your daughter? I'd be pleased to meet her.”

“Daughter!” Leesa gasped. Nowit was Andrik’s turn to laugh. She gave him a murderous look which he ignored. “Do I look old enough to have a daughter your age?” she asked icily.

“Well I did think you looked kind of young. But I’ve never been much good at guessing ladies’ ages.”

“I can tell you you've guessed this lady’s age wrong! You won't do at all. I'm sorry. You'd better leave. Now.” Leesa pointed at the door.

“Leave? But I thought... “

“Would you like me to turn you into a slug?” Leesa raised her hands, pointed at

Winter 1992, Issue #15

note

17

Artwork by James Balkovek

the youth, and began muttering strange words.

The youth turned pale and backed away from her. “Oh no! You’re a magi- cian. I don’t want anything to do with magicians!” He turned and fled out the door.

“Daughter, indeed!” Leesa huffed. “Why I'm not much older than that— that brat.”

“Of course you are. And much better- looking, too. I wish you hadn’t been so quick to turn him away,” Andrik said with an ill-concealed smile. “It might have been interesting to make him cry and gather some of his tears. Just to see if they might work. It’s —”

“T don’t want to talk about it,” Leesa hissed.

“As you wish.” Andrik smiled and turned away to fuss with something on his workbench. “Well, I hope the next caller proves to be more suitable all the way around.”

“If you ask me, I think it’s a ridiculous idea to try to find a virgin around here,” Leesa sniffed. “That spell probably isn’t all that important anyway. Why don’t you just forget about it and go on to something else?”

“T suppose you're right, but I still keep getting the feeling there’s something in- credibly potentaboutthis particular spell somehow. Besides, it shouldn’t be that hard to find a virgin and catch some of her tears.”

“And I suppose you're not going to give up until you find a virgin.” Leesa let outa long, slow breath. “Well, why don’t you just conjure up a virgin?”

“Conj—do youreally thinkit’sassimple as that? If it were, there would be virgins all over Calthoria and the rest of the Six Kingdoms. Virgins would be as common as — as leaves on a tree. Conjure a virgin, indeed!”

“Well it was just a thought, Andrik. No need to get so excited.”

“Tt was a good thought even if it was wrong,” Andrik admitted. “But just maybe... There’s something I want to try.” Andrik went straight for his workbench and gathered up half a dozen bottles and jars of various powders. He measured out ingredients and mixed them up ina large stone mortar.

“Leesa, draw me a pentacle, please. About four feet across and don’t forget the candles.”

“Thaven’t yet,” she said, picking up the colored chalks to scribe the diagram in the middle of the floor. “I don’t suppose

18

you would tell me what you’re going to do?”

“You'll see soon enough.” Andrik took a sheet of parchment, rolled it into a cone openat both ends, pinched the small end shut, and spooned the mixed powders into it. He traced the outer circle of the pentacle with the powders and sprinkled more in the center of the star.

“Thave to check something in the Mallik Grimoire. Would you please light all but one of the candles, Leesa?”

Leesa nodded and got the flint and steel from her workbench. Andrik pulled the grimoire off the shelf, opened it, and began leafing through it. Still trying to figure what Andrik was up to, Leesa lit seven of the candles and then waited patiently for the wizard to finish. Andrik muttered something under his breath, then clapped the book shut and laid it on his workbench.

“Now what?” Leesa asked.

“T want you to light the powder in the circle and the last candle while I chant a modified spell from Mallik. I’ve never tried this variation before so there’s no telling what will happen. At least the circle will keep the result from breaking out. Ready?”

“Uh — yes. I think so.” Leesa struck a spark to a taper and as Andrik chanted, she touched the fire to the powder and then the last candle. There was a bright green-blue flash, a huge puff of smoke, and a boom that seemed to shake the entire building. She jumped back, dropped the taper, then hurriedly stamped out the small fire.

“You sure go in for some flashy spells, don’t you?”

“No. Just ones that work. As I hope this one does. Well, something’s happening.” Andrik took a step closer to the circle as an indistinct form appeared inside the pentacle.

“What in the world is it supposed to be?” Leesa uneasily eyed the short, squat horned creature with multicolored scales, a wide lipless mouth, and two large glow- ing ochre eyes.

“That, my dear Leesa, is a virgin locater,” Andrik said proudly.

Leesa backed away from the circle to- ward the front door of their workshop. “I wouldn’t want something like that hunt- ing for me. Andrik, are you sure it won't do something nasty instead?”

“Positive. I redesigned a spell from the Mallik. It will just help us find a virgin. Now. Where’s my atheme?” Andrik hunted around on his workbench.

“Justamomentbefore you cut the circle.

I still don’t trust that thing.” As if in response, the demon lumbered to the side of the circle closest to Leesa. It looked straight at her and opened and closed its mouth witha lewd expression on its face. Leesa shuddered and looked slightly ill.

“IknowI don’t trust that thing, Andrik. Let me arm myself with an extra protec- tive spell and amulet. You can do what- ever you want.”

“Oh all right. But make it quick. This thing will be here for only about twelve hours at the most.”

“It'll take about two minutes.” Leesa said as she measured out several liquids into ajar and mixed them up. She picked up a thin chain with a small medallion affixed to it and dipped it into the liquid.

“Why do you think you need a protec- tive charmanyway?” Andrikasked,sud- denly suspicious.

“That’s my business,” Leesa said as she hung the chain around her neck and left the medallion out in the open. “Be- sides, I've worked with you long enough to know magic can sometimes be unpre- dictable. You can cut the circle now.

“Thank you very much.” Andrik blew out two of the candles and drew the knife across the chalk and the blackened lines. In a blink, the demon appeared outside the circle accompanied by the smell of burnt oil and sulphur.

“What want you of me?” itasked, look- ing from Andrik to Leesa, then back again.

“I want you to help me - us — find a virgin fora very important spell I want to work.”

“A virgin?” the demon asked in sur- prise. “What makes you think I can do that? It is not an easy task.”

“I know that!” Andrik snapped. “I didn’t summon you here to argue with. Just find me a virgin and return here.”

“Very well. Your spell has bound me to do your bidding and I will do what I can.” The demon drew itself to its full height, muttered something, and van- ished.

“Tf [had known it was going to be this much trouble, I’d have forgotten about the whole thing,” Andrik muttered.

“You've often told me magic isn’t al- ways easy,” Leesa reminded him.

“Yes, But this is ridiculous.” Andrik snorted and leaned against his work- bench. He gazed at Leesa and it began to dawn on him howvery good-looking she was. He’d always known and admired her fine intellect; that was one reason he had agreed to take her onasa partner and pupil. That and her ability and skill with magic. But now he realized that she was

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

also extremely attractive.

Leesa meanwhile busied herself with studying one of the books on herbal lore she had acquired two days ear- lier. She was aware of Andrik’s attention and felt both flat- tered and uncomfortable. That was the most he’d looked at her since she'd first come to work for him a year earlier.

Could he be wondering if I really am a virgin? she thought. That protective amu- let lactivated should really be getting to him. She turned a page and stared atit, trying to concentrate. I wonder how long we'll have to wait for the demon to reappear.

At that moment, as if on cue, there was a loud boom and a puff of smoke, and two figures popped into existence.

“By the Seven Hells! Not again,” Andrik bellowed.

Leesa broke out in a wide smile. It was Dennis Servalle. Again. Looking more bewil- dered and confused than be- fore. He stared at the two ma- gicians and moaned.

“What have you done?” Andrikshouted at thedemon. “You fool!”

“You wanted a virgin. I brought youa virgin. This was the only one could find in the entire city.”

“I wanted a female virgin! We've al- ready seen this one and sent him away.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I'll put him back.”

“Yes. Send him back. And before you return, find me a female virgin. I don’t care how far you have to look. Don’t come back until you have found one.”

“Hold it right there, magician. You brought me here to find and fetch youa virgin. You didn’t specify whether it had to be male or female. I'll take this one back but then my obligation to you is finished. If you need a virgin you'll have to go look for one on your own.”

The demon seized Dennis Servalle’s arm and vanished in another puff of smoke and a loud boom, leaving Andrik standing there open-mouthed and red- faced. After afew seconds, Andrik turned to Leesa.

“Did you hear what he said to me? He won't go out and get me another virgin. He says his obligation is finished.”

“T heard, Andrik. Maybe you should

Winter 1992, Issue #15

just give up. It isn’t worth it. Surely the spell can’t be that important.”

“I suppose you're right.” Andrik rubbed his eyes wearily. “Butitjustseems tome there must be some good reason for requiring a virgin’s tears,and Isure would like to find out what.”

“Isitreally thatimportant?” Leesa stud- ied him closely. He appeared so vulner- able at that moment that her heart went out to him.

“Tdon’treally know. As faras I can tell, this particular spell hasn’t been done in over a hundred years. I just have to know what it does. The need to know is almost driving me crazy.”

“Tl make a deal with you, Andrik,” Leesa said. He jerked his head up and looked at her. “IfI can get what you want, you have to do something for me in re- turn.”

“What? I'll do it. Anything you want. Gladly. When - where are we going to look?”

“We aren't. I'm going out alone. You stay here and wait. I don’t know how long it will take, but when I return you'll be able to complete your spell.”

“IT don’t know how to thank you.”

Andrik impulsively took

Leesa by theshoulders, pulled

her close to him, and kissed

her full on the mouth. After a

few seconds, he broke off,

blushed, and turned away.

“Tl — uh — be waiting right

here for you. Good luck,

Leesa.”

“Thank you.” Shesmiled. If that wasasample of his kisses she wouldn’t mind more like those. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Then we'll discuss my part of the bargain.”

Leesa turned and headed for the door, the brief kiss lin- gering pleasantly in her mind.

Andrik turned back around just as the door shut. He was still shaky and weak-kneed from the kiss. Why had he done that, he wondered. A handshake would have been

. More appropriate. Or even a $ brotherly hug. But, then, they % weren’tbrotherand sister,and “ he found he was really glad of e that. Andrik forced the thoughts to the back of his mind. If $ Leesa really was going to re- < turn with a virgin, he needed to have everything ready. Humming softly, he began removing bottles and jars from their places on the shelves. He lined everything up care- fully and then wiped the floor clean, took out the chalks, and began drawing the pentacle. Once everything was ready, he sat down ina chair and propped his feet up to rest for a short while.

When Andrik awoke, the light coming through the window was a soft red- orange and the shadows were long. He grunted and got up to light some lamps. There was no sign of Leesa, which sur- prised him. He hadn’t expected her to take quite so long. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he went to the kitchen to start a fire to prepare something to eat.

He had just finished eating his skimpy meal when Leesa entered. She had a sat- isfied look on her face. Andrik stood up and came toward her, all smiles himself.

“You really did it! You found a virgin. That’s wonderful. Where is she?” He looked toward the door. “She’s waiting outside, isn’t she?”

“No, Andrik. I didn’t bring a virgin back with me.”

“What! But you said... I thought... “

twork by Jai

19

“Don’t get excited. Your spell calls for eight drops of a virgin’s tears.” Leesa held up a small cut crystal vial. “Here are the tears. There should be enough to work your spell several times over. Take them, and good luck.”

“Thank you.” Andrik accepted the vial with a puzzled frown. “Where... Who. .. These aren’t yours, are they? After all we've gone through, you wouldn’t do something like that to me, would you?”

“They’re not my tears, Andrik,” Leesa said with a trace of anger and irritation. Though it was possible, she thought.

“Oh.” Andrik studied the vial for a few seconds. “You didn’t hunt up that Den- nis what’s-his-name, did you?”

“No! Not that I wasn’t tempted to. Those tears are from a young woman who’s a genuine virgin.”

“That's a relief.” Andrik relaxed but held onto the vial tightly. “Who is she? How did you find her? How did you know she was a real virgin?”

“Andrik, you ask too many questions. Please stop. I’m tired and hungry.” She looked around the workshop. “Since you seem to be all ready, why don’t you try out your spell now?”

“Tm going to. But you don’t want to watch?”

“No. I'm going to to get something to eat and rest for a while. Call me when you get results.”

“Tf you insist. But it won’t be the same without you here. -uh—my spells seem to turn out better when you’re around.”

“If I thought you really meant that I’d be flattered.”

“But I do. It’s just that I never realized it before. Since you started working with me, my magical skills have improved almost as much as yours.”

“You'rea good teacher, Andrik, even if you go about it in an odd way.”

“So are you, Leesa. These past couple of days, you've taught me there are other things besides magic.”

“Tm glad you finally realize that. But I really am hungry and tired. Could we talk about this later?”

“How thoughtless of me. Of course. One more thing before you go — some- thing I never thought to ask you before.”

“What mightthat be?” Leesa wondered what he was going to ask. She felt sure it wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear. It wasn’t.

“The book I got the spell from wasn’t very legible. I was just wondering — do you have any idea what the spell could be?”

“] think so. It’s something you prob-

20

ably never would have thought of. It’s a love potion, Andrik.” Leesa smiled smugly and headed for the kitchen, leav- ing Andrik to gape after her.

After a few seconds, he followed Leesa into the kitchen. “A love potion? What makes you so sure it’s a love potion?”

“With an ingredient like virgin’s tears, what else could it be? Besides, Ilooked at the spell yesterday while you were busy with something else. I figured it out right off. So that’s what it has to be.”

“And you let me go through all this? You didn’t saya word aboutit to me until now.”

“Why should I? You’re a smart man, Andrik. You should have been able to figure it outif you’d just looked at it from a different angle than your usual one.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh never mind. Why don’t you go work the spell and see for yourself? Though, the way you are, a love potion would be wasted.”

“Oh really? We’ll see about that.” Andrik raised his eyebrows. “A love po- tion, eh? MaybelI can find someone to use it on.”

Andrik smiled and strode from the room. This time it was Leesa’s turn to gape in surprise. But then she forced herself to concentrate on her meal. He may be bluffing, she told herself, but she wasn’t going to let it bother her. Much.

Leesa finished eating muchsooner than she'd originally planned and rushed into the workshop. Andrik was seated in a chair facing the kitchen door. He smiled and stood up when she entered the room. “You're a little earlier than I figured. Oh well. Never mind.”

“The spell!” Leesa snapped. “Have you tried the spell?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for you. And you took less time than I expected. You must be really curious.”

“Damn you, Andrik. Are you going to work the spell or not?”

“T think not, Leesa.”

“What? Why not?”

“T don’t think it’s necessary. You're usually rightaboutsuch things. Also, I’m afraid we might end up attracting that Dennis fellow again. But I really don’t need something like that since I’ve come to realize that I’ve got you and there could be more between us.”

“I should have realized you’d — what did you say?” Leesa shook her head and put up a hand. “I heard you. It just took me by surprise. It’s about time you real- ized that.”

“I never claimed to be wise when it

came to understanding womenand love.” A knock on the door interrupted Andrik. He looked at Leesa questioningly.

“T'll see who itis,” she said. She went to the frontdoorand opened it. And gasped.

“Is this 346 Piedmont Lane?” a female voice asked. “I’ve come about the adver- tisement for a virgin.”

“So did I,” another female voice said.

‘Me, too,” came a chorus of female voices.

“By the Seven Hells!” Leesa said, hold- ing onto the door. She looked back at Andrik. “We forgot all about your ad. There’s a line of young women out there that must stretch halfway across town. What’ll we do?”

“Shut the door and lock it!” Andrik barked. “We'll sneak out the back way. We don’t need that much success.”

Tuomas D. SavLeEr lives in Michigan with his wife and four children, a cat, a paraket, two dogs, and five goldfish. He only recently started writing and trying to sell his own stories, after a lifetime of reading and enjoying fantasy and sci- ence fiction. He has written a fantasy novel (as yet unpublished) and edits and publishes his own fanzine “to help keep me busy writing.”

James BALKOVEK is one of FANTASY Magazine's most popular artists. Helives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Membership in ASFA, the Associa- tion of Science Fiction and Fantasy Artists, the group which gives out the Chesley Awards, is open to anyone. It costs $18.00 a year, payable to ASFA, P.O. Box 151442, Arlington TX 76015-7442, and includes their (beautiful) quarterly newsletter.

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

XO Oba - 1991)

ey ee sSa7

Artwork by George Barr

BS Us sy

What Happy Ending?

Most stories seem to end with the hero riding offinto the sunset with the heroine across his saddlebow. They live happily ever after and people tell tales about them for a hundred years. My story isn’t like that at all. How could it be? For a start, | was standing over the body of the hero.

He was supposed to kill the werewolf, not get bitten by it. However, what hap- pened happened. He became a werewolf in turn. He might still have been a hero if he'd killed himself, or found a priest and had the spell annulled, something - any- thing butreturn to our villageand kill my mother and little sister because they were the ones stupid enough to trust him.

I wouldn't be riding off with him for another reason. I killed him once I found out what he’d become. That isn’t in the tales either. Just because my family was

Winter 1992, Issue #15

by Lyn McConchie

loving and foolish enough, he assumed I would be too. I wasn’t—butI’d loved him and it wasn’t with any feeling of heroism that I shoved the silver-bladed dagger into his heart.

So there I was. No hero or saddlebow for me. No happy ending with marriage to my heroanda family to tell the story of his heroism to on long winter nights. All I could do was stare down at the body and try to wipe away the silly tears as they trickled down my face. The village was kind, of course. They buried him at the crossroads, and gave Mother and Anna decent graves beside the church. I could have stayed but everything re- minded me of him. Him and the last fading look of betrayal as he died. So I took to the road with what small belong- ings I could carry and a pouch of copper

and silver bits from the sale of the rest. The priest blessed me before I went and did his best to offer words of comfort. I listened for politeness’ sake and forgot them as soon as I was past the first bend. Somehow I didn’t think that I was going to find the joy he foretold.

It isn’t that I’m uncomely. But I’m a little too tall, just a trifle over-muscled from all the work in the field, and my father —the Gods rest his soul-taughtme before he died to use a dagger and shortsword quite competently. It’s little things like that that tend to put the suit- ors off. Garuth had been fond enough to offer for me. I tried to overlook that my dower wasa good-sized field and he was interested in it more than me. He was young, good looking, decent enough, and if he did think too much of his abilities, it was no more than most of the males in

21

our village. I had loved him since I wasa child and he’d stood up for me once against teasing. If he could overlook my failings, I could pass over his. Until the last. [would lovenomanso muchI could ignore the torn bodies of the only twokin [had left in the world.

I marched on in a haze of weariness and sorrow. I stumbled around a corner to find myself in the middle of the scram- bling, confused fight. A length of wood swung at me and I ducked.

“Here! I’m not your enemy.”

For some odd reason I wasn’ tbelieved. The wood lifted to strike again and I struck first.

“Curses!”

“Behind you!”

Ispunand slashed witha hastilydrawn sword. The dagger I had used to stun the first fool dropped from my hand as I parried.

“Hold up, man. I have no quarrel with you.”

The movement of his sword made it clear the statement was not mutual.

“Stop! Ihave no desire to fight.”

His sword licked out, and in reflex I feinted and struck back. He dropped. A bellow of rage alerted me to yet another attacker. This one was older but no less impetuous and unskilled.

We fenced for a few minutes while I attempted to explain that the death of one who was clearly his kinsman had been no more than self-defense. At last my patience ran out and so did his time. I stepped back to clear the blade and peered at what was left of the figures involved in this nonsense.

“Do you want to fight me too?”

“No.”

I relaxed carefully. The remaining fighter appeared to have a very high voice. A boy? I looked as it closed in. No, by the Gods! A woman like me.

“You're a woman.”

“You have a talent for the obvious.”

I grinned. And she had a sharp tongue. “Why were they attacking you?”

“We differed on the justice of murder.”

“Oh? They attempted your life?”

She shook her head. “They tried to kill a dog. I’m fond of dogs and I wasn’t fond of them.”

Iblinked. “I killed two men over some animal?”

“Not some animal. My dog. A pure- bred Mollosian dravenhound.”

That was interesting. Firstly that she owned one: they were extremely expen- sive. Secondly that these inept warriors would consider killing one.

22

“Why kill a beast worth so much?” I asked.

"She ran off from the caravan. I’ve been hunting her for days. When I found her these fools tried to deny she was mine. Then when I told them she had mated to a wolf and that was why I was seeking her, they attempted tokill her. Why would they be so stupid? They just muttered something about accursed beasts and tried to sword her.”

I looked at her. That explained the attack. “You come from quite along way from here?”

“Yes. Is that relevant?”

“Someone who lived around here would know better than to tell them your bitch mated with a wolf.”

She looked bewildered. “Her pups will be giants amidst their pack. They will be better hunters, hold to me more faith- fully. My people always breed a strain of wolf into a line.”

“Quite,” lassured her. “Buthereabouts we have recently had a plague of werewolves. Your recent adversaries would have considered werewolves with the Mollosian fighting skills as a lethal plague you intended to loose upon their kin.”

“Werewolves wouldn’t mate with a

Artwork by George Barr

dog. Even if my Johara would stoop to mate with one of them.”

"I know, you know. They didn’t seem to have the brains to know,” I snapped.

“Well, we owe you a debt anyhow. Four were a few too many for me.”

“Why didn’t your beast help?” I que- ried, puzzled. “Where is she anyhow?”

“Back down the road. One of them struck her over the head before she could prevent it. Then when he tried to stick her, I stopped gaping and the fight be- gan. They had her tied when I found them.”

“Thenlet’s make sure sheis still there.”

“Yes. My name’s Sheearra, by the way. Friends call me Shar.”

We hurried around the bend to where a great beast struggled against bonds. Over her stooped a fifth man striking ineptly downwards at her with a short dagger. Her struggles were causing him to miss, but not for long. I glanced at Shar and her look answered me. I tiptoed si- lently forward, and, opening my mouth, imitated the growl of the dravenhound. The unfortunate man dropped his dag- ger with a howl of terror and, before I could speak, displayed an astonishing turn of speed. He vanished down the road ina cloud of dust and disappeared around the bend while I stood with my mouth open. Shar began to giggle. It was contagious and I joined her after a few seconds. She bent, slashed the rope that bound her beast, and the dog rolled over to stand shaking the road dust from her coat.

“A magnificent animal. I can see why you value her.” I said quietly.

A sudden wave of sadness came over me. I had not even a dog to travel with me. I was alone as even this wanderer of the roads was not.

Shar patted the dog and pointed at me. “Johara! Friend!”

I twitched as the great beast sniffed me thoughtfully. Then a long tongue swept across my face as she rose on hindlegs to touch me.

“She likes you. She is willing to accept you as a friend.”

"Thank the Gods for that!”

Shar stared hard at my sword. “You used that as if you’d had training?”

We tramped on down the road, Johara at our heels, and I told her of Father.

“What about the rest of your kin?”

I sighed and continued the story.

“So you have no kin left?”

“Tam alone,” I agreed.

“Tama caravan guard. They could use another who knows something of the

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

sword.”

I nodded slowly. It would be a living while I decided what to do next.

Shar looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Besides, you have to stay with us for a while.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Where I come from, one who is saved owes a life to the rescuer.”

I stared at her. “I saved no lives. You were holding them off quite well when I arrived.”

Shar snorted. “True. I could have es- caped at any time. But what about Johara?”

“How is she going to repay me?”

“If you remember, the original bone of contention was her pups.”

I gaped and then a slow feeling of warmth spread over me. A Mollosian dravenhound of my own!

“You mean it? You would gift me with one of her pups?”

“IT mean it, and it is not my gift but hers.” She paused. “Sister.”

“How long?” My eyes accepted her naming.

Shar smiled happily. “Why,along time. First she must bear them. Then your choice must be weaned. Then trained. You might have to travel with us for

Artwork by George Barr

more than a year.” She looked at me.

I looked back and a matching smile spread over my face. I doubted that this was the happy ending foretold by the priest. But for now, it would do. Indeed, it would do very well. Imarched to what- ever destiny awaited me. With me marched a newfound friend and one unborn who would be another sword at my side. To Hades with fairy tales! Iliked this reality!

cs

Lyn McConcuie is a New Zealander who had this often-heard experience: “It comes a time when you read several pieces of trash and look up and say ‘I could do better than that!’” A voracious reader with a personal library of over four thousand books, she discovered fandom in 1981. When sheis not writing, she runs a small farm where she raises sheep for colored wool (brown, grey, etc. — sorry, no pink or green!).

GeorcE Barr made his first profes- sional art sale in 1960. He lives in San Jose, CA, and has been providing illus- trations for FANTASY Magazine since its first issue. He won the Hugo as Best Fan artist in 1968 and has been nominated in both Fan Artist and Professional Artist categories.

Stories:

+ First Place: “Guardian”

+ Second Place: “The Promise”

+ Third Place: “The Tengu’s Scroll”

Winners of last issue’s

Cauldron

voting

Artists:

+ First Place: Alan Gutierrez

— Bunnie Bessel

— for “The Promise”

+ Second Place: Gail Butler

— Diana M. McCabe

— for “Black Ribbon”

+ Third Place: Alicia Austin

— Dana Kramer-Rolls

FANTASY Magazine

- for “The Tengu’s Scroll”

Our congratulations to the winners, and our thanks to all of you who took the time to vote!

Your interest and enthusiasm mean a lot to us at

Winter 1992, Issue #15

23

The Fylegja

by Heather Lynn Sarik

Theda saw them first through the pale green gauze of the herb-seller’s tent, a sight that made the packet of dried agri- mony flutter from her limp fingers into the powder-fine dust at her feet. Step- ping out into the direct sunlight, a fever- ish hand of blessing laid on her scarfed head, she leaned around the wind- twitched cloth, squinting. She did not move to retrieve her purchase, but stood watching as the pair made their way through the maze of cloth-walled stalls, silhouetted behind curtains of yellowand blueand violet, emerging each time from monochrome dark-on-light into a blaze of pagan color. Their height and fairness were unusual enough in a marketplace teeming with small, wiry, dark bodies, but the sheer audacity of their costumes drew stares from even the most jaded of the merchants and passersby.

Theda tugged at the pale blue sash of her decorous white robes, viewing with some amusement the flittering multicol- ored ribbons that adorned the woman’s flaxen hair, the great zigzags of red, purple and black cloth that composed her male companion’s tunic. According to local scripture, the pair of them might be struck down for their vanity by the Thes, a trio of goddesses whose astrin- gentlaws specifically forbade everything from cosmetics to jeweled belt buckles to the waxing of mustaches. Denied the adornment of their bodies, their wor- shippers lavished ridiculous embellish- ment upon their dwellings, temples and public buildings. Theda had found it

24

wise to abandon her usual dress for the cooler and more austere garb of the na- tives; these two, however, were not only flouting custom but seeming to enjoy the disturbance their obnoxious dress was generating.

As the two foreigners neared her, she caught the sounds of their voices: the woman’s unaccented to her mideastern ears, the man’s guttural and sharp. His narrowed eyes darted to and fro, and he muttered unintelligibly under his breath in a constant, scowling flow of words. The woman, her rune-scrawled staff marking her as a presumptuous sourer of milk or a conjurer of some merit, nod- ded and murmured in reply.

They passed her, and she distinctly heard the man’s gruff commentary: “. .. Sheep, sheep, cow, goat, cow, mouse, eel... .”

They did not look at her; they seemed not to see her, standing in the green-dark shadows of the tent. Theda scooped up the packet of herbs and walked swiftly after them, catching the fading tail-ends of expressions of astonishment and dis- gust left in the foreigners’ choppy wake.

“Hog, sow, sheep,” the man went onas Theda crept behind. “Bah, this town is full of milksops and weaklings. See that man over there, the one with the leather armor?”

“The bodyguard?”

“A hare. He's a stinking, hopping hare.” Hisharsh accent made the dispar- agement savage.Theda wondered for a fleeting moment if the entire town was

composed of animals enchanted into human form.

“T need a lion, a wolf, a-a stinking badger!” the man exclaimed. “How else will we find the grave of —”

The woman laid a warning hand on his arm, turning her head in a swirl of rib- bons and gleaming pale hair to stare at Theda.

“What's this?” she demanded. “Why do you follow us?”

Theda stood speechless, clutching at the folds of her robe.

The man turned, too, his hand on the hilt of the leather-scabbarded sword at his side. His eyes, the watery grey color of a morning fog, stared fixedly at some- thing just over Theda’s head.

“The silver hind,” he gasped, falling to one knee.

Theda tooka step back, glancing wide- eyed over her shoulder. There was noth- ing; a veiled seller of rope sandals met her gaze with wide black eyes.

“My lady...” His hands were raised in supplication as she turned back, startled; his voice held a tremor of something akin to relief.

“Kel,” the woman said, her hand onhis shoulder, her voice sharp with warning.

“She’s the one weneed.” His voice was flat, emphatic. The woman folded her hands on her staff and sucked at her lower lip.

Theda stared from one to the other, at their green eyes and almost colorless, sunburnt noses and cheeks. The woman held up a hand ina gesture of peace that

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

Jepuexajy qoy Aq yom

Winter 1992, Issue #15

was traditional to the province where Theda had conducted her apprentice- ship. The maids there braided their hair with strips of bright cloth, as was the staff-holder’s; the man, however, judg- ing by his accent, must have come from some more northerly area.

“We have need ofa guide,” the woman said carefully.

“I’m nota native,” Theda replied, con- fused; her red-brown hair ought to have made that obvious, despite her clothing. “There are dozens of local folk who will conduct you through town fora few cop- pers.”

“Still, you must be more familiar with the town than we. And -” She hesitated. “My companion has seen something about you which may be important to us.”

“T don’t understand.”

“Will you take your midday meal with us, at least?” She forced her stern, fine- boned face into a smile. “We are strang- ers here like yourself. We would be ill- mannered if we did not extend the cour- tesy of an invitation to one who comes from the North, surely from my own province and not so far from Kel’s Thursfeld.”

The odd, almost desperate appeal in Kel’s eyes and the woman’s pained smile quelled any desire to flee their unthreatening strangeness. Theda tucked the packet of agrimony into a pocket and nodded slowly, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Good,” the woman said as Kel rose, his red and black hose bland with dust. “Where might we find the closest re- freshment?”

“The Violet Sands.”

“Lead the way, friend.” The woman made a genial and sweeping gesture of expectation.

Theda could not help but notice, as she started out across the marketplace, an open and inexplicable admiration on Kel’s face that had nothing to do with lascivious interest. She turned quickly away, feeling as if her privacy had some- how been violated.

The Violet Sands was not so much a tavern as a clutter of tables and benches beneath a billowing expanse of delicate many-hued cloths, lashed to pillars of brass and stone and allowed to hover, wind-bourne, over the heads and at all sides of the patrons. Keland Lirisdid not seem so alien here, in this dancing tem- pest of color; the sunlight, slanting through filmy emerald and sapphire,

26

caused even their skins to defy the prohi- bitions of the Thes.

“Tam about to die,” Kel said, sipping at a goblet of honey-mead; they did not have the ale he wanted, not here in the South.

“Are you sick?” Theda asked. “As Liris guessed, I am a healer; my trifling skills are at your —”

“He isnot sick,” Liris said quietly. “He has seen his fylgja.”

The statement did not strike Theda with the seriousness she suspected it should have. “What does that mean?”

“In the belief of my people, everyone has two souls,” Kel replied. “The first cannot be seen. The second, the fylgja, takes the shape of an animal, an animal whose traits mirror those of its owner.” He took a hearty and unrefined swig from the goblet, scowling. “When one can see his second soul, and the second souls of others, it means he will die.”

“He saw his fylgja one week ago,” Liris added softly. “There is little time left for him.”

“We came to the South, like you, to gain new knowledge,” Kel went on. “Now that my deathis near, I have differ- entaims. There isa grave near this town, a cairn of stones, where an infamous warrior of my people is buried. Hisname was Olen Storrson. He took to his tomb a stolen jewel which rightfully belongsin the crown of our king. Since I will die anyway, I will try to take back the jewel from the guardians he set to watch over his remains. It will be dangerous; no one has yet succeeded, and not for lack of trying. But it the way I wish to die.”

“I know of that place, but I don’t see why you need me,” Theda said uncom- fortably. “I’m no fighter; I can’t use a knife or a staff, and it goes against my vows to take part in offensive battle.”

“Icannotin conscience leave Lirisalone to return the jewel to my country, skilled conjurer though she is.”

Liris snorted, and it was clear that it was not his praise of her skills which she found objectionable.

“We have lingered here for three days, looking a worthy companion,” Kel went on. “Your fylgja tells me that you are both brave and a powerful healer. The silver hind in the tales of our gods is the creature whose breath can purify the waters and whose touch can raise the dead. I trustin my sight,and Iam certain that youshare the attributes of your fylgja. I will pay you handsomely to join us, to guide us to the tomb, and to help Liris return the jewel should we succeed.”

“Oh,” Theda said, taken aback.

“Yoursis the only fylgja of worth, here,” Kel said disparagingly. “I have seen nothing but rats and rabbits and cattle since I arrived. We have dire need of a courageous and adept healer such as yourself.”

“Will you accept?” Liris asked gently.

“I have no employment here, and if you think Iam worthy of such a task ~”

“Yes, yes,” Kel cried, standing. “It is I who am not worthy of you! My eternal thanks, Healer.”

He excused himself to see about find- ing mounts for the journey, stamping from the tavern ina flash of bright-hued eagerness.

“There is more that you should know,” Liris said in a low voice. “This is not merely the suicide mission of a dying man. His honor is in question, and the recovery of the jewel will help him re- store it.”

“What do you mean?” Theda asked, her face still flushed with Kel’s compli- ments to her skills.

“Your fylgja is the silver hind, and apparently denotes your skills in heal- ing; mine is the black swan, and indicates my proficiency in magicks. But Kel —” She sighed, shaking her ribbon-plaited head. “Kel’s fylgja is the jackal, the scav- enger, the coward. The bear or wolf he would have welcomed, the fox accepted with reservations; but the jackal is too much for him to tolerate.”

Theda hummed softly under herbreath as she gathered her scattered belongings from the tiny rented room. Packets of dried herbs, precious jars of her own salves and tinctures, a little ceramic pot for the cooking of infusions, silken thread and platinum needles, strips of cloth for bandages; carefully wrapped in the folds of an old quilt, they all went into her pack.

At home, she had accounted herself a healer of somewhat less than average ability. She had come South for the sole purpose of gleaning some new skill or medicinal formula from the local physi- cians and thus making herself and her knowledge a sought-after commodity. Though she had failed miserably in this quest due to the secretive and often dis- dainful attitudes of her southern coun- terparts, it was no small consolation that Kel had sensed some sort of untapped potential within her.

It was just the boost her flagging confi- dence needed. Early on she had discov- ered that healing, like wizardry, required

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

an inborn knack which she appeared to lack. The best healing went beyond the application of salves or the drinking of potions; she had seen her master restore burned flesh and mend wounds with a touch. Devotion and interest, both of which she possessed in great quantity, had seen her through her apprenticeship but would never be sufficient in them- selves to carry her on to mastery. Per- haps now, drawing on herlong-dormant capacity for healing, she could rise above mere competence and cure rather than simply comfort.

Her horse was just plain stupid. Theda had decided that a half hour ago, when it became clear that the beast would not be moved from following Liris’s gelding at adistance of approximately three inches. Its mouth, like its head, was hard and

Winter 1992, Issue #15

unyielding to repeated and increasingly furious tugging on the reins. Theda slumped back and tried not to flinch when the enchantress’s mount kicked delicately atthe nose snuffling atitsrump, sending up light sprays of dust.

Kel rode ahead, unspeaking, straight- backed, at peace. By contrast, Liris was increasingly ill at ease, trembling, her plaits fuzzed with loosened hair; when they met this morning, her face had been haggard with sleepless strain. Theda had been surprised, yesterday, at how calmly she seemed to have accepted her companion’simminent death. The mask had fallen; Theda could see that the woman’s shoulders were hunched with tension, her head turning sharply, con- stantly, from the path to Kel to her gelding’s bobbing head. She wondered, again, if the two were lovers; Liris’s

former composure had made her think not, but now...

“How much farther?” Kel called, his head turned back over his shoulder. He wore white, the northern color of death; it would be his burial garb.

“Over the next hill, I think,” Theda shouted back.

Liris glanced back; her face was shock- ingly hollow. “You will have to remain outside the circle until the guardians are crippled; they willattack you otherwise.”

Theda nodded; they had been over this last night. A barrier of thirteen animate stones, to be overcome with Kel’s swordwork and the enchantress’s magicks, and herself to patch the en- chantress up. In her pouch rattled a handful of gold and silver coins, part of the accumulated wealth Kel would have Liris share out to his kin in the Thursfeld

27

Artwork by Rob Alexander

after his death. As her own funds had been at the point of running out, the payment was more than welcome, though she wished she were not helping Kel to die. She could not imagine, having been told of the northman’s repeated acts of selfless bravery and integrity, how his fylgja could be such a disgraceful crea- ture as the jackal.

“There it is,” Kel cried, pointing; as her horse jogged persistently along behind Liris’s, Theda could see the man-height mound of rocks, stark against the flat- ness of the dusty wasteland, and the thir- teen standing stones that were positioned around it in a rough oval. By some sor- cery or trick of erosion- Theda suspected the former—the stones were man-shaped, with boulder-sized suggestions of heads, and midsections that tapered into pro- portionate legs and feet.

Kel had drawn his sword and stopped his horse, the blade balanced across his thighs.

“From what I’ve heard, they don’t at- tack until you cross their circle,” he said in low, remote voice as they halted their mounts beside his, his eyes on the cairn. “Then they come to life, with great stone arms, and crowd you onto the mound. Someone said once that they crush you on the rocks, but everyone else claims the grave sucks you down, and Olen’s bones tear the limbs from your body.”

His serenity in the face of such a hor- rible death made Theda shudder.

“As I’ve said, I can hope to distract only half of them at most,” Liris said, her face ashen and bleak.

“Even stone can be hewn with this blade,” Kel said, unruffled. “You your- self have verified the enchantment laid upon it.”

Liris said nothing.

Kel dismounted, holding his sword at the ready asif healready faced the stand- ing stones and their flailing limbs. “It’s as blue as autumn skies,” he said sud- denly, irrelevantly.

“Whatis?” Thedaasked as she dropped to the ground, for Liris’s chin was slumped against her chest, her hands white on the reins.

“The jewel of Aurik’s Crown,” he re- plied. “There’s said to be magicks in it, and the one who wearsit can speak to the alfar-men without fear of being beguiled into their hills.”

“Let's go,” Lirissaid inastrange,empty voice. “Let’sget this done and over with.”

Theda stared at her, shocked that she would want to hasten Kel’s death; but Kel only nodded, seeming untroubled.

28

Theda unhooked her bulging pack from her horse’s saddle, her hands trembling as she slung it over one shoulder; Liris had only her staff and an assortment of small cloth bags.

“You'll have to wait out in the open and hope they don’t come after you,” Kel told her, nodding towards the cairn. “If you see Liris go down, do what you can. The ring she gave you isn’t very power- ful, but if something should go wrong, use it.”

“But —"

“And don’t try to save me, no matter what happens,” he said sternly, divining her objection. “Fate hasdetermined what will befall me. You could not prevent it even if you tried.”

She nodded reluctantly, rubbing a fin- ger over the unadorned silver circlet on the third finger of her right hand.

After Liris cast a minor charm to keep the horses in the vicinity, the three of them began to plod toward the cairn. The enchantress seemed hardly able to walk, her jaw clenched, her eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the rocky tomb; Theda felt an almost painful upwelling of com- passion for her.

“What are those white stones mixed in with the others?” Theda asked Kel in an undertone.

His voice was devoid of emotion. “Bones.”

The standing stones were not man- sized; Theda could tell that much from several yards away. They were perhaps twice the height of Kel, and many, many times heavier. If one of them were to fall onto the northman, he would be killed instantly. At the edges of the stones and the mound, spiraling tufts of dust were being kicked up by a breeze that did not exist outside the circle. The silence was complete and unnerving.

“Wait here,” Kel said. He did not add any words of farewell, or clasp her hand. Theda was obscurely relieved. Liris nod- ded to her, once, then hobbled away after Kel with a stiff, dragging gait.

Theda busied herself with laying out her supplies, setting them in an order that would make them easy to find and grab up. Broken bones would likely be the consequence of an encounter with a creature made of stone; she could hardly imagine either of them surviving with- out some limb ground into a mass of shattered bones and lacerated flesh. She had never tried to heal such a serious wound, and the thought sent a thrill of fear through her.

Kel and Liris were now a few feet out-

side of the circle. The enchantress pointed at the cairn and said something; Kel nod- ded, hissword raised and gleaming dully in the overcast morning light. Liris lifted her staff in her hands, nodded jerkily at the northman, and the two of them sprinted into the circle of standing stones.

Theda leapt to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides. The ground trembled; there wasa heavy, wet smell to the air, damp and grainy like the scent of earth after a rain. The standing stones began to rock violently to and fro, as if thirteen infant rock-creatures struggled within them.

Liris raised her staff and screamed a series of harsh, strangely accented words, her voice a hoarse cawing, her body wracked with tremors. At once, the ground beneath two of the stones began to give way under their frenzied move- ment, churning into a frothy, sinking mud. The other eleven, unmired, began to move slowly forward in slow, gro- tesque undulations of whathad appeared to be hard and solid rock.

Kel was by now one-handedly tossing stones as largeas his head from the cairn, not pausing to differentiate between rock and the skeletal remains of his predeces- sors. He did not look back, and Theda shouted a warning as a particularly nimble standing stone neared the edge of the mound. Kel did not appear to have heard her; the grinding musthavealerted him, and he whirled with sword held ready to strike. A pendulous extremity loosed itself from the towering stone with a dull grinding, and as it swung ponder- ously toward him the northman stepped aside and dealt it a slashing blow.

His sword broke. Asit struck the stone arm, there was a spectacular burst of glittering light, the upflung metal frag- ments of the blade catching the bleak sunlight. The splinters rained down on both attacker and defender, and Theda saw bright blood appear on Kel’s face and chest as he staggered back onto the cairn. He had dropped the hilt of his weapon; hisrightarm hung limp, stunned by the force of the impact. And another standing stone was about to join the first.

Breathless, Theda glanced at Liris, who had wallowed two more of the stones in a sorcerous swamp; there was a blinding burst of light, and a fifth lay in small, blackened fragments, unmoving. The enchantress seemed not to see the di- lemma of her companion; she drooped over her staff, her lips moving, her trem- bling hands aimed at another of the lum- bering stones.

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Kel was moving weakly up the cairn, his progress agonizingly slow but still swift enough to avoid two ungainly swings of stone appendages. He scrambled nearly to the top, ducking under a swing that crashed into the mound and sent dust, splinters, and pebbles up in a blinding spray.

A sixth standing stone went down un- der Liris’s magicks, knocked back flat with an invisible fist of force; Kel had disappeared on the mound, obscured by fine, floating debris. The two standing stones pounded the cairn at random and atirregular intervals, sending up a chok- ing smoke that had Liris wheezing yards away. Two more stones were rounding their fellows at the mound; it seemed Kel would be crushed under the barrage of hammering extremities.

Theda closed her eyes and twisted the silver ring on her finger. There was no abrupt cessation of sound; there was no change in the noise of the battle atall. She opened her eyes, seeing that nothing had changed. Savagely, she turned the gleam- ing circlet twice, three time around her finger, but to no effect. Cursing, blinking back tears, she tore the useless ring off and threw it away. What had Liris been thinking, giving her such a thing?

Helplessly,she watched as the enchant- ress staggered towards the cairn, her hand upraised, chanting in a ragged, hardly recognizable voice. Allat once, the stand- ing stones ground to a halt; one upraised stone arm stiffened where it had been ready to fall upon the mound. Theda gasped in delight, taking the occurrence to have been the enchantress’s work. Then a gust of wind cleared away the dust cloud in a brown-grey puff, and Theda saw that something had risen from the cairnand was drawing Kel down into it.

Liris screamed, rushing forward; the standing stones did not move to stop her. She clambered up onto the mound, send- ing rocks rattling down in all directions, her black mourning robes catching on jutting rocks. Leaving her equipment behind, Theda ran heedlessly toward the circle.

What wassucking thenorthmandown was not clear. There were flashes of glimmering paleness, what looked likea bony arm locked around Kel’s neck; he struggled feebly, but it was clear that he would disappear within moments. Liris struck out at the thing with her staff; its grip loosened, and Kel slid partway out of its grasp, sprawled slackly along the cairn.

Winter 1992, Issue #15

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Artwork by Rob Alexander

Theda dashed past the frozen stones, wheezing, scaling the mound with the same stumbling ineptitude as the en- chantress. Liris gasped out unintelli- gible sounds, beating at the calcified re- mains of Olen Storrson with all her strength.

Later, Theda would remember that it was her own cunningly aimed rock that stopped the animated skeleton, shatter- ing its hard, brittle skull into a pile of gleaming, curved shards. Her action gave the creature pause, certainly; but Liris’s exhausted, coughing spell was whatburst itsevery boneintoa powder, coating Kel, Theda, and herself in a clinging, chalky film.

There were sounds of movement, a jostle of pebbles. Theda opened her eyes, wiping them free of the dust, blinking. Liris had crawled to Kel’s side and was leaning over him, no doubt murmuring final endearments. Embarrassed, she turned her head away, then looked back, startled. What had caught her eye was the glint of the dagger that was in the enchantress’s left hand.

“A stag,” Kel muttered thickly. “I meet my urpr a stag.”

“Of course,” Liris said quietly, and with an underlying venom that chilled Theda to her bones.

He blinked, tried to move; she saw witha wave of nausea that his left leg had been battered against the rocks of the cairn. “Viper,” he muttered. “A viper, Liris, what have you done that your fylgja is”

“The jewel, love. Where is it?”

He did not reply.

“Can you hear me?” The enchantress’s voice held an edge of irritation. “Where is the jewel, Kel?”

“What have you done?”

“You know what I’ve done,” Liris snapped. “You'll die under the hands of that bumbling little fool and I'll have the jewel. Where is it?”

“Inside the cairn,” he grated.

She smiled smugly, shifting the dagger to her other hand.

“What are you going to do to him?” Theda demanded, rising.

Liris whirled, seeming to have sud- denly remembered her presence. “Go back to whatever insignificant little farm- ing village you came from, you birther of calves, you binder of scraped knees.”

Theda flushed angrily. “Kel said my fylgja —”

“Kel saw what I wanted him to see,” Liris sneered. “It was a terrible strain, but I kept the enchantments alive. Silver

30

hind indeed, you second-rate herb-witch. Vanity and superstition — oh, I caught you both. And now, all the secrets of the Alfar, mine.”

=YOu ="

“He was no closer to dying yesterday than I,” Liris snorted. “I plucked you from the crowd because Kel wouldn't have left town without a third person, not because you heal like some mythical deer.”

“IT would like to see it,” Kel gasped, startling both healer and enchantress. “The jewel, I must see it... .”

Liris shrugged indifferently, sheath- ing her dagger. “If you’restill alive when I find it.”

Theda could only stare at the woman’s matter-of-fact callousness.

“Give him the mercy-blow with a rock if you’ve a mind to,” the enchantress added, stepping over Kel’s bloodied form toward the aperture through which the skeleton had risen. “Don’t try to stop me, and you can keep your purse and your wretched bags of dried leaves for all I care.”

Theda staggered to Kel’s side, trying to think of something she could do to help him. Her equipment was scattered over the ground outside the circle, and he might be dead by the time she could return with it.

“Wren,” he muttered, gazing at her with unfocused eyes. “Plain, brown, honest wren. Not quite the silver hind, wouldn’t you say?”

“You were no more a jackal than I was a silver hind,” she said, uncomfortable, perversely disappointed. “I didn’t be- lieve it, anyway.”

“I know, now,” he wheezed. “Perhaps — perhaps it would be kinder if —”

“T can’t,” Theda said, biting into her lower lip.

He closed his eyes, nodding slightly. His hands were knotted into tight fists, and she was suddenly aware of how much pain he must be in. Feeling utterly helpless and every bit as inept as Liris had suggested, she took hold of his hand, meaning to comfort him.

There was a dislocation; there was a cool, sickening sensation of debilitation. Theda gasped, trying to tug her hand from Kel’s, but his fingers were gripping it too tightly. She had been cut once, while gathering tree-bark, her hatchet slipping and slicing into her thigh; look- ing at her blood flowing down her leg, she had felt exactly this way. Black spots danced in her vision; she saw through hazy eyes Liris’s black-draped form dis-

appearing into the cairn.

She finally managed tosnatch her hand away, near vomiting, bending down to rest her head on her white-dusted knees.

“Armine and all the gods,” Kel gasped.

Theda sluggishly raised her head to glance at him, wondering if his time had come. She was for a moment unable to connect her dizziness with the fact that his leg, though still bleeding trickles through several deep cuts and twisted at an odd angle, was not the crushed, un- recognizable thing it had been before.

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, to question; surely she could not be responsible for the healing of those injuries. Without a whisper of warning, the cairn shuddered, sending her scrab- bling halfway down one side, Kel crying out with the pain of his jarred wounds. A scream arose, shrill and horrified; it took Theda a few seconds to realize that it was neither hers nor Kel’s.

“Liris,” she called into the rock- dribbling silence, peering up at the top of the mound from her half-crouch.

There was no reply. Kel groaned from above; she scrambled up the now some- what less steep slope, seeing that the northman had been rolled over twice across the broad surface of the mound. She peered into the mouth of the cairn, seeing nothing but darkness.

“Liris?”

“I think she’s dead,” Kel muttered.

“Should I go after her?”

“No,” he said sharply, painfully, twist- ing his head around to fix her with a fierce scowl.

“But the jewel, your quest —” She fell silent as Kel held up one fist and opened it to reveal a shallow, azure gem that nearly filled his palm.

“Olen dropped it, trying to draw me down,” he said in a slow, bleak voice. “There are wards in any cairn, and I lied so that — so that she would be killed, looking.”

Theda stood staring at him, unsure of what to say, or whether she ought to say anything at all.

“I knew — I knew when my sword shattered. I saw the swan flicker, I saw the viper take its place, and it was her —” He shut his eyes, wincing. “Isaw my true fylgja. I ought to have died.”

“Maybe the jewel. . .”

Kel shook his head. “You healed me. She lied even about your ability.”

Theda did not feel prompted to correct him; there was no way he could know that she had never before mended a hurt without salve or potion.

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

The gem shone dully in his dangling hand as she helped him, limping pain- fully, down the slope of the mound. The contorted, lifeless standing stones reached in vain toward the nearly lev- eled cairn; Theda could not conceive ofa more fitting grave for the enchantress.

“Will you sharein my king’s thanks for the recovery of the jewel?” he asked as they reached the pile of strewn equip- ment and the wary, skittering forms of the horses.

It was a cleverly phrased invitation to travel with him; Theda hid a smile. “I’ve been paid to help deliver the jewel, after

all,” she said, indifferently. “And of course, I cannotin good conscience leave you alone to return it, skilled warrior though you are.”

He smiled grimly at her wry jest. “The wren is said to be the messenger of the gods, you know.”

Theda did not need his consolation, however well-meant; she could be satis- fied, now, with what she was. She grabbed up the strap of her half-empty pack as they walked by, leaving her bottles and packets spread out over the gentle slope. The real tools of her trade were no effort to carry; they

had been with her all along. -

HEATHER LYNN Sarik is a 19-year-old freshman at University of North Caro- lina in Chapel Hill. She says, “I love to write and I hope my writing will some- day supplement my income as a super- market cashier or french-fry maker, be- cause I'm afraid that’s all I'll be qualified to do after I receive my B.A. in English.” She is working ona novel; “The Fylgja” is her first published work.

Ros ALExANDrERisa talented newcomer from Seattle. This is his third set of illus- trations for FANTASY Magazine.

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Winter 1992, Issue #15

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Marion Zimmer Bradley

Talks To Writers: What I Reject - And Why

All too often I'll reject a story for this magazine by saying either “Fantasy content is insufficient” or that the story in question impresses me as science fiction. Judging by the letters I get in response to this, all too many of the stories I think of as science fiction have already been rejected by some other editor as having too much of fantasy in them — and the indignant author fires off a letter telling me, often in no uncertain terms, that so-and-so said it was really fantasy, and Iam really stupid.

What can I possibly say except it didn’t feel all that much like fantasy to me — and like any other umpire, I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em. After all, the first thing a professional has to learn in this business — I will spare

Cauldron line-up. So I may take a chance on another such story —if I go crazy about it; but I wouldn’t count on that reaction, if I were you. If you really think it’s good enough to keep me reading it, you should at least have sold to me often enough that I'd be willing even to read a science fiction story by you, even if Iadvised you to send it elsewhere. And if Ilose interest on page 2 or 3, remember I warned you.

Butit’s safer to sneakitby me; by not starting the story off with spaceships or alien planets; because, nineteen times out of twenty — or ninety-nine times out of one hundred —I’ll read that and say, “Oh, darn, it’s science fiction.” If the story doesn’t turn me on, I may even

you some edifying stories about how Whatcan I possibly say say, “Oh, goody, it’s science fiction, don’t roughly I had to learn it back in the fifties, ip didi’t feel all even have to finish reading it,” and reach when there were no markets for fantasy at except it dian t feel a for a handy rejection slip.

all, and science fiction fan purists used an even wider definition of fantasy than I did —is that the editor is right, even when he — or she — is wrong. One reason some of my own books - those written in the fifties—are so much like science fiction is that I learned how to make fantasy to read like science fiction — and I don’t think it’s too much to ask to expect would-be fantasy writers to do the same — in reverse, that is; if you give your science fiction story a feel of fantasy, I might buy it. (That is, if I like it enough.)

But if you start out by telling me in your cover letter that you think of it as science fiction, don’t blame me if I do, too. In that case all you're likely to getis a rejection slip where I suggest that you submit it to a strong science fiction market somewhere.

On the other hand, if I’m absolutely crazy about a story, I'll take any excuse I can think of to call it fantasy. The best example of thisis the story by Diana Paxson in the short short issue, “The Dancer of Chimaera”. Now, this story was about a space station, but I knew Diana well enough to trust her and read it; by the end of the story, so much did it remind me of one of C. L. Moore’s Northwest Smith stories that I simply couldn’t part with it; and reader votes agreed — it came in well up in the

sees ‘em.

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that much like fantasy to me — and like any other umpire, I calls ’em like I

So how can you be absolutely sure I won't reject it as science fiction? In other words, what's unequivocally fantasy?

Dragons? Judging by the number of in- different dragon stories I get, people who know nothing about fantasy thinkadragon story is sure-fire; I get about two dozen or so every week, and at least three-quarters of them are clones of Anne McCaffrey dragons. Now, I love Ms. McCaffrey’s dragons, but she treats them more like serious science fiction alien beasts; and when I get an Anne McCaffrey- type dragon, or one treated seriously as science fiction — by virtue of being on an alien planet, perhaps — all you'll get is a rejection, probably as science fiction or because I’ve already read two dozen dragon stories this week and your story does not stand out in any way from all the rest.

One might say the same thing about elves; if your elves do not differ in any significant way from the elves in Tolkien, or the very good and different elves in Lackey and Norton’s ELVENBANE- they also have very different dragons—save me the rejection slip and find one of the Mercedes Lackey fanzines which may like it...or even print it.

Ihave now printed enough stories about unicorns, sea crea-

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

tures, dryads, and brute warriors to feel a bit disillusioned about them. I will probably give you a no-fault rejection, telling you I’ve chosen another story on the same theme and inviting you to submit again.

Another story I’m not eager to getand will probably reject out of hand is the pure ghost story. I will probably also reject stories - unless very well done — about adventuring sorceresses or wizards; so many people send these to me, being familiar only with my Sword and Sorceress volumes, and sure- you wouldn’t believe the letters I get, telling me in no uncertain terms that their story would be perfect for the magazine. I usually reject these stories out of hand as “too feminist”. I tolerate for the anthologies a little more feminism than in the magazine; after all, the whole point of the Sword and Sorceress anthologies was to present this kind of story without the male sexist bias which made the heroines bad-conduct prizes for the heroes. But notin the magazine, please. I’ve already been accused of being just another male-bashing feminist. (Yes, really.)

And don’tstart your story off witha computer; computers are hard technology. And for goodness sake skip the story —I get iteven more often than the clone dragon story—about the writer whose computer writes better than he or she does. Judging by the ones I (all too often) get, the story is autobiographical.

Writers Talk Back

Prose and Cons: Rejection Slips

Name Withheld

I feel that you cheated your readers by not publishing (my story). Itisa very good story, better than many I've read in your magazine. As for it being based on romance rather than fan- tasy? Well, I think that “Stand By Me” suffers from the same failing.

You’re entitled to your opinion, but sour grapes won't get you very farasa professional writer. Ido publish romance, IF ILIKE IT. Submit your story to other markets; if it really is good, someone will buy it eventually. — MZB

Thelma Anderson, Santa Barbara, CA

Thank you for your (rejection) letter of February 1. Your postscript states itis a form letter. It certainly doesn’t read like one; your phrasing lets a writer land ona bed of down! ...follow- ing your suggestion of resubmitting the piece, I will send it out again. No, I won't send (it) back to you, but when I’ve had the opportunity to read several issues of your magazine and think Ihave something you might consider, I'll give you another try. Believe it or not, your letter made my day!

This is the best way to react to rejection —as a learning experience. Not incidentally, this sort of response makes me happy to see your name on the next story you send, and leaves one less bias for me to overcome on the way to a fair evaluation of your work. —MZB

Wendy Simpson, Wilmington, DE

Some years ago I submitted a short story to an installment of SWORD AND SORCERESS. Although it was rejected, my name somehow got on your list of fully paid-up subscribers for

Winter 1992, Issue #15

FANTASY Magazine (I learned this from your previous editor)...At first Ichose not to subscribe because I was upset over the rejection. (What new writer isn’t?) But the issue impressed mea great deal, so this past October I made the subscription as a sort of birthday present to myself.

The best way to know what I LIKE (as opposed to what the guidelines say I want) is to read the magazine. This doesn’t guarantee a sale, but it certainly improves your chances. — MZB

Per your instructions...[am writing this letter to your column. First, thank you for reading my story...Second, the only reason I wrote the “cute, chatty cover letter” was so you wouldn’t think I was one of those writers who sends you stories even though they’ ve never read your magazine. With every submission you send me guidelines and a subscription order form. I was simply trying to save you the trouble of doing so, since I am already a subscriber and have several copies of the same guidelines.

Don’t take it personally; we automatically send guidelines and subscription forms with rejected stories. Give the extra subscription forms to your friends; leave our guidelines at your favorite bookstore. Or, just recycle the paper — JAR

TICKY-TACKY TECHIE-TALKIE

Brent Sasley, Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

You might not be able to recall my story, but there was one comment you made which I didn’t fully grasp. You said my tale used too much language of technology. What IS the right language for fantasy? I have read extensively in fantasy...and I guess my writing style is a combination of all those I’ve read, plus my own...Are you referring to a certain type of wording? The use of long words? What makes a story fantasy, if not for swords and sorcery, dragons and demons? I was always under the impression that science fiction dealt with starships and distant planets and parsecs and lasers...I would really appreci- ate a clarification.

First, remember that I read dozens of stories every day, and have been doing so for many years; I’ve seen a LOT of stories. When I read througha story for the first time, I get a general impression of what it’s about, and whether I like it or not. I reject stories for many reasons, including what they're about (i.e. your story gave me the impression of too much technological language). Often, I reject because the story is trite or I simply didn’t like the way it was written. Almost always, it is some combination of the two; because if I REALLY likea story, I'll publish it, even if it’s got technical language, romance, horror, or whatever. I do not have the time to analyze in detail why I don’t like each story I reject, so your rejection slip indicates the result of my overall impression. — MZB

TOOLS OF THE TRADE

Priscilla Armstrong, Timonium, MD

I am happy to see you talking about the “lie-lay”, “sit-set” confusion. How about a word or two about “for he and I” or “less-fewer” and “good-well”. How about that really tricky one, “further-farther” which I see confused in many books, not justin television speech. You mightalso givea warning to those who depend on their computer spell-check. Computers cannot tell which “to-too-two” is correct; “affect-effect” must also be checked by eye, and there are others...

There is definitely room for further/farther discussion of these matters, so that less/fewer writers will confuse them. Marion and me/ Marion and I agree that affective/effective language is important to telling a story good/well, and it’s obvious that you do, to/two/too. Their/there/they’re will be more discussion in future columns of “MZB Tanks to Writhers”. — JAR

33

The Sea-King’s Harp

by Mary K. Frey

drat} king’s palace and that a the ee kipt s harp come the notes of the most beautiful music ever created. I would have that harp.”

Because the woman who made the re- quest wasas lovely as the musicof which she spoke, the young man who gazed at her with his heartin his eyes decided that if any brought her the sea-king’s harp, it would be he. Perhaps then she would let herself be wooed.

Aren travelled west. The road grew narrower with each town he passed un- til, at last shrunk to scarcely more than two ruts, it ceased to exist at all in the fishing village called Land’s End. As bluntly descriptive as that name was, there wasstill land aftera sort to the west: marshy, tidal channels in which the solid land ran like an old man’s arthritic fin- gers splayed out across a counterpane of tall, wind-worn grasses. It must have been possible to wrest a living from the higher ground, since many years ago someone had built a small stone house and an even smaller barn on one of the “fingers”. Perhaps it was a fisherman who had traps in among the gray- green grasses which clogged the channels; perhaps it was simply someone who had preferred his own company to that of others. Whoever, he had been gone for more years than the villagers of

34

Land’s End could recall, and the isolated stone buildings had stood empty, cold, and bare until Aren came from the light, warmth, and luxury of the royal court.

Although he had put off his wine-red velvets and glittering gems, the villagers were not fooled into taking Aren for one of their own kind, come west in search of fortune or adventure. Yet, they were too polite to ask the handsome youth out- right what had brought him to Land’s End. He might have been amused if he’d ever chanced to overhear the histories with which he’d been endowed by his new neighbors: he was suffering from unrequited love and a broken heart; he had been exiled for a treasonous sire’s deeds; he’d been deprived of his true birthright by an unscrupulous sibling.

Aren settled into the small stone house, his days occupied with the planting of a vegetable garden and watching the tide’s ebb and flow. At night, he closed the wooden door and shutters tightly, lit a lamp, and studied the aged volumes he’d brought with him, old writings filled with the ways and means of dealing with the sea-folk. He would lift his head from the yellowed pages and listen to the rattling of the wind and the pounding of the waves, straining to catch the strange melodies woven between them by inhu- man voices. The sea-folk were clever, of that there was no doubt. He knew he would have to outwit them if he was going to steal the sea-king’s harp and give it to his lady love.

There was an old man who drove a small pony-cart who began to make a habit of coming out the single track through the marshlands, bringing with him whatever he thought the stranger might want to purchase. Aren never asked the fellow’s name although in his mind he thought of him as Wyckel since the stooped, balding figure reminded him of a gardener in the palace who was called that. From this western Wyckel, he found himself purchasing firewood, a carefully wrapped packet of tea, alength of blue checked cloth with which to brighten his simple dining table. Unless he made an effort to go into the village, Wyckel was his limit of social contact.

“Ye should be having a dog,” the old man declared one early summer day as the two of them worked to unload the cart of Aren’s latest acquisitions.

“I don’t mind being alone,” Aren re- plied.

“Tt’snotthecompanionship I was think- ing of.” Wyckel paused to study the west- ern horizon. “Though it’s true ye might be finding it lonely out here when the winter storms come. A dog would keep ye safe from the wiles of the kelpie.”

“The kelpie?” Aren asked, even as his heart began to beat faster. He had not spoken of his mission to the old man, but he did know that kelpie was one of the words people in this part of the kingdom used for a woman of the sea-folk. Per- haps Wyckel would tell him something that wasn’tin the old books. “You mean, one of the sea-maids?”

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

ZaJJEIND uejy Aq yomy

QO . Dafiosnon

ite) = oh o = wn ww — av roy ron bel i~] a ~ i= =

“Aye. The kelpie, she be scared of the dogs. And ye ought to be on the watch for the kelpie, all alone out here as ye be. Once the kelpie takes afancy to yeand gets her claws into ye, she will steal yer heart.”

Aren chuckled. “I’m not worried about what some sea- creature might try to do with my heart, since I’ve already pledged it to the most beauti- ful woman in the world.” He did not add that it was his love for that woman which had brought him to Land’s End in the first place.

“Ye must not discount the charms of the kelpie should she choose to woo ye. Thenext timeI come here, Ibe bringing ye a dog,” Wyckel insisted.

s it happened, on | the very day that

===) Aren and the old man held this conversation, there wasa kelpie listening to every word they said. She had ridden the high tide up the channel nearest the little stone house and secreted herself among the tall marsh grasses in order to see with her own eyes the handsome newcomer she and her sisters had overheard talk of among the land-folk who ventured out onto the ocean in their fishing boats. The kelpie’s name was Bethshima, and she was every bit as vain as being one of the sea-king’s daughters gave her a right to be.

When Bethshima heard the delectable young man with the windblown, dark hair say he’d already given his heart to the most beautiful woman in the world, she clenched her fists and twitched her fishy tail. “How dare he speak so, when he has yet to lay eyes on me?” she hissed, and began to constructa plan of her own. It must be done quickly, though, if that dried out old shell of aman was planning to bring her quarry a dog, since it was quite true that her kind feared dogs.

Bethshima’s first task was to intrigue her target. The rest of her afternoon was spent observing the man. While she had no doubts about her charms, Bethshima saw no point to wasting time and effort casting out lures which did not speak

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directly to this one’s psyche. She waited patiently while he tended to his veg- etable rows, brought his horse into the barn for the night, and repaired a wind- damaged shutter on the ocean-facing side of the house. When the sun had swollen to a great, reddish ball and sunk halfway into the sea, she began to sing.

Bethshima had determined her voice was the best way to seduce this one. As she watched him, she had noticed how alert he was to every tweet and peep that came from the little creatures living in the marshlands although he scarcely no- ticed their movements. Many land-folk had been drawn into the ocean’s depths when they heard one of the sea-king’s daughters sing, of course. Bethshima did not create that sort of music on this first day though, since she had every inten- tion of capturing his spirit as well as his body. Before he met his watery end, she would have this man admitting to her that his heart had not been so safe after all.

He heard the music almost immediately, pausing as he gathered his tools from the repair of the shutter and just slightly turning his head in the direction of Bethshima’s hiding place among the reeds. She hesitated; her voicealmost faltered. Thisone was remark- ably handsome! The thought flashed in her mind that she must not tell her sisters every- thing abouthim, lest someone else decide to come see what he looked like and set other traps for him. She knew then that having this one all to her- self was the most important thing in the world.

Aren had not spoken to the old man about how he spent his evenings. When the kelpie began tosing—and Arenknew that was exactly what the new sound on the evening breeze had to be —he had his confir- mation that the arcane spells from the books he'd studied were still valid. He had spent no small sum on rather costly, exotic ingredients before he left the civilized world for the wilds of Land’s End. It was good to know they had ac- complished their purpose of piquing the sea-maid’s inter- est in him.

The singing seemed to be coming from the stretch of tidal water just beyond the house. He did not go to look for the singer this time, of course. It was impor- tant the sea-woman did not have her curiosity or her desires satisfied too quickly or too easily if he was going to drive her to the compulsion to bring him what he wanted.

Besides, it was enjoyable music. The next morning, Aren heard a slight differ- ence in the waves as they lapped against the sea grass nearest the house which suggested his visitor had returned. Or was still there? His ancient volumes had little to say about the eating and sleeping habits of the sea-folk. He could only sur- mise the authors had been too busy dis- agreeing with each other about the true appearance of the sea-folk. According to one, sea-women were vile hags, with sea snakes for hair and eyes whose gaze would stop a man’s heart moments be- fore the claws Wyckel had mentioned ripped open his chest so that she could

Artwork by Alan Guiterrez

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

sink her fangs into it. Another claimed sea-women were far more beautiful than any who'd ever walked on land. Yet a third stated that their looks were as var- ied as those of human females.

Although he was becoming anxious to see for himself, Aren refused to let his steps take him down to the channel just yet. All the information he possessed told him that was the intent of the sea- woman's song. He would never succeed if he allowed her to think she had caught him so easily. Each night after supper he continued to recite the spells from the old books so that she would not become too frustrated and swim away.

He waited until the fifth sunset to ap- proach her, and even then he carried a fishing pole with him so that he could pretend he’d come to the water’s edge for some other reason and that his attention was focused on something else entirely. A large rock was there on which he could sit to cast out his fishing line and admire the shifting hues of the western horizon. The kelpie was clever enough to vary her song, so that he seemed no closer now to where she was hidden, but he knew that if he were to look back over his shoulder, she would be there. If hejust happened to lethisleft hand drop into the water along- side where he sat on the rock, he would be able to touch her.

Thatnight, he dreamed of thesea-maid, a luridly erotic dream from which he awoke with a start, somewhat embar- rassed by unmistakable evidence that his body wasnotimmune to the effects of his imaginings even though he was unable to recall whether he’d dreamed of her as beauty or hag. When sleep failed to re- turn, he rose, lit the lamp, rested his elbows on the checkered cloth which cov- ered his simple dining table, and leafed through the old books.

It was a moonless night, and so the thin, telltale border of light around the cottage’s wooden door and shutters was impossible to miss. Bethshima smiled to herself, rearranged the artful drape of her fishtail over the edge of the rock upon which the man had sat, and resumed drawing her mother-of-pearl comb through her long, unplaited golden hair. She knew precisely why the man did not sleep, since it was one of her songs which had woven its way into his dreams.

Sucha stubborn man! Perhaps ina day or two, she would speak to him when he came down to the water. Maybe in as soon asa week, she would let him see the source of tonight’s dream. Bethshima

Winter 1992, Issue #15

toyed with the end of the lock of hair which had fallen forward to curl over her right breast. That, naturally, would be the end of his resistance to her.

Thinking of that moment was so plea- surable that she forgot all about watch- ing for the sunrise and returning to her hiding place among the reeds. She fell asleep stretched out on the rock, with her fishtail trailing into the water and her hair spread out like a golden fan over the human parts of her body. She did not wake when the first rays of sunlight stretched out across her silvery scales. She did not wake when someone’s shadow fell across the rays of sunlight as he stood there, silently, watching her sleep. She did not wake until something cold and wet brushed against her hand with a snuffling noise. Her eyes blinked open and her whole body went rigid with fear.

A dog! A black and white, spotty, floppy-eared dog who was so excited at the idea of having caught himself a crea- ture of some sort, he could scarcely keep his tail from wagging all the rest of him. Even as Bethshima eyed her enemy, she could hear the voices of two human men somewhere in the distance and she re- membered what the old one had said several days before. She muttered a curse word, knowing that if the dog became part of her target’s household, she might as well abandon her plans. Even a small dog would have sharp teeth and claws. Dogs werealwayshungry, and they were not very discriminating in their diets. She shivered with dread and rued the curiosity which had brought her here to see the handsome young man.

The dog barked, a sharp sound which hurt her ears. That was bound to bring the men. Bethshima could hear their voices and the sound of their booted feet approaching even though she did not dare raise her head to look in that direc- tion. The slightest movement on her part might be the signal the dog thought he needed to attack.

Someone whistled. The dog turned away from her toward the unexpected sound. His tail wagged with pathetic eagerness.

As quick as the blink of an eye, Bethshima slid off the rock into the wa- ter, forcing herself down into the mud of the channel’s bottom. There was nothing todonowbuttry tostill the franticthump- ing of her heart and hope the water was deep enough to discourage the men and the dog from attempting to find where she had gone.

t had been a near thing with | Wyckel’s dog. Aren shud-

==ve==t) dered to think what would have happened if the dog had taken a bite out of the kelpie. As likely as not, he would have lost forever all chance of getting his hands on the sea-king’s harp, for she would have made certain that all sea-folk avoided this place from then on. There had been no song from her at sun- set this evening, the first time in many days that she had not sung for him. He did not know whether the sea-maid had merely taken refuge from the dog in the deepest part of the tidal channel or if she had fled as far as the open sea.

What if he had to begin the process all over again? He had used up all of some of the rarer substances required for the spells which had drawn her to himin the first place. He had no money left to buy more, assuming they were even to be had. He worried that the woman for whom he was doing all this might take a fancy to someone else if he stayed away from her too long on this errand. Also, the human portion of what he had seen on the rock this morning had been more beautiful than he could have ever imag- ined. If it weren’t for her fishtail -

Aren shook his head to drive out such disloyal thoughts. He’d given his heart to another already. Besides, how in the names of all the gods could a man anda sea-maid express their love foreach other, given the total impossibility of any nor- mal culmination of love? He supposed one must discount what the two of them had done in his dream the night before. He sat down on the rock, drew his knees up to wrap hisarms around them, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. He envi- sioned returning to the capital empty- handed and those whom he’d consid- ered his friends laughing at him. What if this whole business was nothing more than a fool’s errand with himself in the role of the fool?

“You must notbeso sad,” a voice whis- pered below and to the right of his perch on the rock. “I have not gone away yet.”

He lifted his head and turned to lookat the face staring up at him from the water. It was critical at this moment that he not betray his knowledge of her kind, for fear she suspect how much control he could exert over her. She would only cooperate if she believed she held the upper hand. “You...you are real,” he exhaled shakily. “You were not merely a dream.” The scintillating smile she deigned to bestow

ye

upon him was proof that he had her fooled.

They talked. All that evening, until he began to shiver from the night damp- ness, and all the next day, they talked. He found it remarkably easy to direct the conversation in the ways he wished it to go because she had no notion he already knew the answers to most of the ques- tions he asked about the world beneath the sea. Hope flourished inside himagain that he would succeed in obtaining the sea-king’s harp from her before long.

It was not possible for Aren to spend allhis time with Bethshima, of course. He had the horse and the vegetable garden to attend to. There were days when old Wyckel came to talk to him, trying to peddle some bit of merchandise. Aren found he was reluctant to say anything at all to the old man about the sea-maid. Each time, he regretfully refused to take the dog and hoped he sounded sincere. Each time the dog visited, Bethshima swam away in terror and it took the better part of the rest of the day tolure her back. Aren wished he dared tell Wyckel not to bring the animal with him at all.

One morning he found himself weav- ing a daisy chain as he sat on the wooden bench outside his cottage, waiting for the familiar splashing from the tidal channel which indicated Bethshima was ready for their daily chat. He stared at his fin- gers, wondering what he was doing. According to the schedule he had worked out with the help of the ancient books, it still lacked a week before he was to make her a small, insignificant gift as a “token of his affection”, and yet he knew he was fashioning the wreath of white and yel- low flowers for her hair.

He found that she was enchantingly amazed and grateful for the circlet of flowers. For just a fleeting moment, he found himself wishing that the woman to whom he’d promised his heart could be so contented with such a simple offer- ing.

It was important to instill a feeling of obligation in the sea-maid, so that even- tually honor would compel her to in- quire if there was something she might give him in return. At that point, it was essential that his gifts to her have in- creased in value. When he made his re- quest, it must not seem unreasonable in light of what she had received from him.

There was a sonnet he had been com- posing in the evenings when darkness and damp drove him indoors. He planned to present it to his ladylove along with the sea-king’s harp. He might even have

38

time to set it to music. She would play and he would sing it to her. In the mean- time, he would recite the poem for Bethshima, telling her that she was the source of his inspiration. The sea-maid would be flattered, and she would never even guess that it was meant for some other female since it did mention the sea and beautiful music as well as his own deepening passion for the woman to whom it was addressed.

Bethshima was speechless when she heard it, and Aren felt inordinately pleased that she had liked it. Even if it wasn’t truly meant for her.

“] think I would like to hear it set to music,” she suggested, flicking her tail so that a series of ever widening ripples spread outacross the tidal channel. She’d refused to come out of the water to join him on the rock, claiming that such be- havior was immodest.

He protested. “I would never dare to attempt that for you. Nothing Idid would come even close to the beauty of the music I’ve heard from you. And I re- member you telling me just the other day that there are many in your father’s pal- ace who claim to be far more musical than you.” He strove fora wistful expres- sion.

For the first time, she mentioned the sea-king’s harp. Aren folded the paper on which he’d written the sonnet and tucked it inside his shirt. “Perhaps set to music produced by the sea-king’s harp, even this poor poem would become a thing of beauty,” he agreed. “But since I will never set my fingers to the instru- ment, I can only hope you will accept my meager gift as it is now.”

It was two days before Bethshima said to him, “If you would be willing to dare all, there isa way you could play the sea- king’s harp.”

Aren chuckled. “If I could breathe water, as your kind does, then you might be right.”

“There isa way,” she suggested witha coy smile and a toss of her head so that her golden hair floated out on the mild current. He knew she was teasing him witha glimpse of her bare breasts, and he allowed her to think he relished the sight as she meant him to. “If you are a brave man.”

He cleared his throat. “Brave or not, I must be leaving here ina day or so. I have friends who are expecting me, and Iam not particularly anxious for them to come here looking for me. I don’t think they would understand about you and me.” Let her interpret that as she wished, so

long asit drove her to bring the harp here to him.

The next day he began to clean up about the house and barn as if he really were leaving. The morning after, he saddled his horse, bid the sea-maid a moderately emotional farewell,and rode off toward the village.

An hour later, he returned, re-stabled his mount,and strode down to the water’s edge to enact a scene of great heartbreak and melancholy. If his suspicions were correct, Bethshima had not yet fled to the open sea.

“T cannot bear the thought of the rest of my life without you,” he declared when she had surfaced. He did not mean what he said, but he knew that it was what she expected to hear. The words were simply ones he had memorized from one of the old books which related the tale of a young man who had been lured into the sea by the seductive ways of a kelpie. “I do notknow that Ihave the courage todo what must be done if I am to join you in your father’s watery realm. What I do know is that I do not want to live away from you.” Dramatically, he tore off his clothes and leaped into the water along- side her. “Whatever the price to be with you, I will gladly pay it.” Aren was not worried what that price might be since his true intention, of course, was not to succumb to her, but to force her to bring him the sea-king’s harp.

The sea-maid did not seem the least bit surprised by. this performance. If any- thing, she looked as pleased asa cat with a dish of cream.

Humans were so ungainly when they tried to swim, despite how magnificent they appeared when they used their legs to strideacross dry land. Her own refusal to join him on the rock when they talked stemmed not froma sense of modesty, as she claimed, but from her reluctance to appear as awkward as he did to her now.

“It is not as simple as you make it sound,” she told him. “You cannot breathe water just because you think it would be a handy thing to do. You must undergo a sea-change, and for that, I must bring you a special potion brewed by my father’s sister, the sea- witch. If you promise to wait for my return, I will let you get out of the water for now.”

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

There was no harm in lead- ing him to think he'd lost any ability to act of his own voli- tion. Besides, although he had said a bunch of nonsense aboutnot wanting to live with- out her, there had been noth- ing from him about surren- dering his heart to her, and that was what she had to hear before he was no longer able to say anything at all.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked, moving his arms and legs as if he were a frog. “I wasn’t gone from here an hour before I missed you so much, I thought my heart would break if I did not re- turn. Please hurry, so that we can be together foreverassoon as possible.”

That was some improve- ment, Bethshima decided. At least he’d mentioned his heart. “T will bring what you want by the next sunrise,” she as- sured him. If only he weren’t thrashing about like a netted fish, making her afraid that he might inadvertently hurt her, she would have put her arms around him and kissed him before she left.

She went then, before she had to endure watching him climb back onto the shore, and swam out into the open sea. There was no time to dally if she was to reach her father’s palace and speak to her aunt before dark. It occurred to her that as a reward for Aren’s prompt sub- mission, she could take the sea-king’s harp to him as well and let him play it just once. She smiled at the thought of how much he would enjoy that.

Thesea-witch wasnot surprised when Bethshima arrived witha tale of a hand- some male two-legs and a request for one of her special brews. She grinned, showing her jagged fangs, and sent for Bethshima’s sisters, since all would en- joy hearing the intimate details of the human’s seduction. She wasted no time in breaking off the heads from two of the numerous sea snakes which comprised her hair to toss into her cauldron, and she stirred the bubbling mixture with the talon on her long, crooked index finger. In a few minutes, Bethshima’s sisters were gathering around her to hear about the brazen egotism of the human she’d seduced.

Winter 1992, Issue #15

Bethshima did not understand why she felt compelled to embroider the truth of her encounters with Aren so that what her sisters and her aunt heard was not precisely what had really happened. She did not even reveal his whereabouts to them, telling herself that this was merely a wise precaution to keep those who might covet him away until she'd fin- ished with him. She did mention the sonnet he had written for her, although she adamantly refused to repeat any of its phrases for as unappreciative an audi- ence as her sisters. Their persistent ques- tions, demanding to hear over and over again what all of him looked like, an- noyed her.

“Leave me be!” she exclaimed at last, trying to blink away the tears of her anger before anyone noticed. “I have al- ready told you, and that’s all there is to say.”

The sea-witch rose up to her full height and stretched out one green, glistening arm. “Go away now all of you except

Bethshima!” And when they had gone, since one did not disobey the sea-king’s sister, except at peril of one’s life, the sea-witch siphoned some of her brew into a puffer fish’s bladder and held it out to her niece. “Take it, for as much good as it will do you. You haven't the courage to give it to him, you know, for you have fallen in love with your prey.”

Bethshima denied the accu- sation, although she could not look directly at any of her aunt's seven eyes as she spoke the words and there was a growing, empty place in the pit of her stomach. The thought of Aren lying paleand still on one of the coral cata- falquesin the sea-king’s throne room had become quite un- bearable.

“Tt is nothing of which you should be ashamed,” the sea- witch said more gently. “When such things happen, nine times out of ten it is because the "s human is using some | © magician’s spells to enthrall §6 you.”

8 Bethshima told herself that

= thing. If she had fallen in love $ with him, it was because he < was good and braveand hand-

some. And because he loved her as muchas she had come to love him.

“T think, from what you have told me, what this human wants is the sea-king’s harp,” her aunt went on. “He shall have it, but before you take it to him, letme dip it in my brew.” She laughed, a bone- chilling cascade of notes that echoed across the floor of two or three seas. “Fetch me your father’s harp now. Thisman you fancy shall have it, but unless his love for you is genuine, he shall wish that he had never wanted to put his fingers to its strings at all.”

“What...what will happen to him?” Bethshima dared to ask when she had returned with it. “I would sooner die than harm him.”

“That,” the sea-witch announced as she dipped the gem-studded curve of whalebone into her steaming cauldron, “can be arranged. Now go, before I de- cide not to be so generous to you, child. If the human who plays the sea-king’s harp truly loves you, all will be well. If not —” She shrugged and waved her niece away

39

with a gesture of dismissal. “You may regret your vow to die rather than bring him any harm.”

Bethshima put her arms around the harp and, with the fish bladder of poison clutched in the fingersof onehand,swam back toward the tidal channel where she had left Aren. Out the corner of one eye, she saw that some of her sisters were following at a distance. She would have taken the time to shoo them away, but she had promised Aren to return by the next sunrise, and there was no time to spare if she was to keep her word.

As for the sea-witch’s dire warning, Bethshima was not in the least bit wor- ried, for as soon as she saw the two- legged figure standing on the shore watching for her and could make out his handsome profile and his dark hair just slightly ruffled by the morning breeze, she knew that he could never have de- ceived her about his feelings.

“Aren! Look what Ihave brought you!” she cried outand held theharp up to him. “Now you can turn your poem into a song as beautiful as you want it to be.”

b e had the harp in his own | hands! Aren could scarcely

exe) believe how easy ithad been. He ran his fingers over the frame, won- dering that the thing was not more beau- tiful. What had looked like costly gems when the sea-maid held the instrument now appeared to be nothing more than bits of colored rock. But this was undeni- ably what he had come so far and spent so much to obtain.

Without another thought for the crea- ture in the water, he turned and ran to the horse which stood saddled and waiting beyond the cottage. He slid the harp into asack hanging from thesaddle, mounted, and galloped away toward the road which led home. Now he could count the

days, nay the very hours, until the beau- tiful woman he loved would be so im- pressed with his gift to her that she took notice of him.

As night fell, he stopped to take his rest at a humble inn. He brought the harp, safe inside the burlap sack from curious eyes, up to his small chamber with him. For a long time before he lay down to sleep, he stared at the harp, wondering if he dared satisfy the itching in his fingers to try just a few notes on it. At last he decided against this, convinced that an instrument that could produce only beau- tiful sounds deserved to be touched only by someoneas beautiful as the woman he loved.

And yet, when Aren had finally lain down to sleep and pulled the coverlet up to his chin, one nagging doubt persisted. He had never heard a single note from the harp. Whatif the Bethshima was play- ing some trick on him? The ancient sto- ries he’d read were filled with incidents in which a sea-maid played her human lover false. More than half the spells he’d found and used were intended to keep her from being able to betray him in the end. He must continue to put his faith in the spells.

At the end of three days riding, Aren reached the capital. No one in the palace appeared to have noticed that he had been away, not even the other young men he thought of as his friends. When he had washed the dirt of the road from his body and decked himself out in his finest wine-red velvet tunic, he picked up the harp in its rough burlap sack and went to seek out his ladylove and present it to her.

She was seated in her favorite music room, an assortment of infatuated young men fawning over her. Aren paused in the doorway and frowned. Had helooked as foolish as her current admirers? For a moment, he even dared to think that she was not nearly as beautiful in real life as

she was in his memory. He shook his head to clear it. Why was he thinking of a mother-of-pearl comb being drawn through long, golden hair? Why did the voice of the woman in front of him seem harshin comparison to the one that called to him from the sea?

Quickly, he crossed the room to where she sat, went down on one knee before her, drew out the sea-king’s harp, and began to relate how his love for her had driven him to fulfill her wish to have it.

She looked down her nose at him and laughed. “Oh my, another sea-king’s harp?” She gestured to a servant. “Put it on the shelf over there with the rest. At the back, if you please, since this one is rather plain-looking.”

Aren turned then and saw her collec- tion of instruments. The finest of them gleamed golden and the costly gems along its frame glittered in the candle- light. He pulled the real harp against his chest to keep the servant from taking it. “My love, someone has played you false. This is the true sea-king’s harp, and it was put into my hands by one of the sea- king’s own daughters.” He asked him- self why he had never noticed until now the harshness of her eyes when she spoke to those who admired her. “If you will but play it, you will find that the most beautiful music in all the world comes from its strings.”

She sighed a bit impatiently. “Idoubta single true note could be coaxed from that bit of bone and cat-gut. Esteban, do you bring me the golden harp and sit here at my side while we show this poor fool what true beauty is.” A slender, soft- cheeked boy in palest sky-blue silk hur- ried to do her bidding.

“But, milady, you are my love, my heart, my very soul,” Aren protested. “If you will but let me strike a few notes for you on this harp, so that you may know that I speak only the truth”

She pushed her hand toward him ina

A. Hakewas,

Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine

Artwork by Alan Guiterrez

gesture of dismissal. “Your passionate declarations bore me. Someone remove this youngster from my sight until he can learn what will truly please me.”

As he rode toward the flaming colors of the sunset, Aren cursed himself for being several kinds of a fool. His fingers flexed impatiently on the reins as he imag- ined them closing around Bethshima’s neck. He could hardly wait to tell her what he thought of the trick she’d played on him in spite of the protective spells he'd uttered.

Jealousy. That was the only possible explanation for what she had done. Since he was not free to offer the sea-maid his heart, she had decided that he deserved to be made a fool of in front of his true love. He would show her what happened to those who sought to make him appear foolish! She would rue the day she had responded to the spells he had found out to draw her up the inlet to the cottage. She would pay the price for the mortifi- cation he’d experienced in front of his friends. No wonder not a one of them wanted to call him friend now.

When he reached the little fishing vil- lage called Land’s End, he urged the horse into a canter even though darkness had almost fallen. There would bean end to this whole business this very evening, he swore beneath his breath. He could not bear to wait another moment to see her, to tell her—damn it, he had come all this way to scold her for her heartless cruelty, hadn’t he?

He did not even take the time to stable his horse, sliding from its back as soon as he rode into the hardened dirt yard be- tween cottage and stable. Grasping the sea-king’s harpinone hand, herandown the grassy slope to the rock where he’d sat to talk to he. It was the very spot where he had seen her sleeping thatmorn- ing which now seemed another lifetime ago.

see stepped upon therockand looked out across the water in the inlet, seeking some telling ripple in the moonlight, straining his ears to catch even the tiniest splash or note of an alluring song. There was nary a sign of any living thing in the water.

“Bethshima!” he cried out. What if she had given up when he seized the harp and rode away? What if she was never going to come to this place again? What if he never saw her all the rest of his life? He felt more alone than he had when he'd slunk out of the palace in shame. “Bethshima, where are you?”

Winter 1992, Issue #15

There was no answer but the call of a sea owl carried on the night wind.

He waited and watched for some sign of the sea-maid although the night air was cold and set him shivering inside the luxurious wine-colored tunic he had not bothered to remove before riding away from the capital. At last, however, he had to admit to himself that she was not com- ing back to him. He went down on one knee and began to sob.

The fingers of his free hand touched something slippery lying atop the rock. He blinked away his tears and looked down at what seemed to be some sort of animal's digestive organ. A sticky sub- stance stuck to the tips of his fingers. Tentatively, he raised them to his lips and tasted. Poison! He spat it out and rinsed his hand quickly.

Oh gods, what if she had killed herself in despair, believing that he had aban- doned her forever? And if she had drunk ithere, would he find her rotting, bloated corpse nearby in among the sea grasses?

“Forgive me, Bethshima!” he cried up to the stars. “My heart has been yours all along, and I was too mucha fool to know it until it was too late to tell you.”

The sea-king’s harp was still clutched in his left hand. In one blinding moment of realization, Aren knew whata profan- ity it would have been if the harp had been played for any other purpose than to set the poem he had recited for Bethshima to music. He was glad that the woman he had mistakenly believed he loved had been a heartless bitch who refused his gift.

He balanced the whalebone frame on his knee and put his fingers to the harpstrings.

S ren did not remember leav- | ing the water’s edge and go- = ® inginto thelittle stone house, but he must have done it, since when he awoke it was morning and he was lying on the narrow cot inside the building.

With a moan of despair, he threw one arm across his eyes, trying to bring back the dream which he had been enjoying. In the dream, Bethshima was not dead. She had lain with him on this very cot, and most wonderful of all, she had two legs instead of her fishy tail.

“When you rode away, my love,” she had explained in his dream, “I wanted to die and so I drank the potion which my aunt the sea-witch had prepared. But instead of killing me, it turned me into one of your kind. That

was to be my punishment for having fallen in love with you.”

“But what punishment is there, since we have discovered that we truly love each other after all?” he had asked moments before show- ing her what humans who loved each other did for pleasure.

When the sun rose, she slipped from the cot where they had slept entwined in each other's arms and legs and, wrapping the blue check- ered tablecloth around her for modesty’s sake, stepped outside the cottage with a promise to bring him sweet berries for them to eat to- gether as their morning —

Aren’s reverie was cut off by the famil- iar sound of Wyckel’s pony-drawn cart outside the cottage. He heard the frantic barking of the little black and white dog. He swore under his breath, for he did not want to let go of the paradise of hisdream just yet. “I would rather dream my life away, if thatis the only way I can be with you, my love,” he whispered. Outside, the dog’s sharp barking moved toward the stable. Aren threw his legs over the edge of the cot and sat up.

The blue checkered table cover was gone. He looked back at the bedcovers and saw a single long golden hair lying beside the indentation his own head had made in the pillow. It could not be! Aren leaped to his feet and ran to the open door of the cottage even as truth slid its ice-cold blade between his ribs to touch its point against his thudding heart.

The dog’s anxious yipping changed to alow, ominous growlasit finally reached its prey.

ae

Mary K. Frey lives in rural Pennsylva- nia near Gettysburg, and enjoys tennis and horseback riding. She has been a contributor to four anthologies, includ- ing the newest SWORD & SORCERESS. In addition, she hosts anextremely lively topic on Genie , the national computer network, where she entertains with Re- gency-era mysteries told several para- graphs a day until they are concluded. She has submitted a novel for publica- tion, but has not heard if it has sold.

ALAN GuTIERREZ lives in Sedona, Ari- zona, with his wife and young daughter, and is a well-known cover artist. He was recently Artist Guest of Honor at NorWesCon in Seattle; one of the pieces from this very story was published as the cover of the Pocket Program.

Marcaret Davis did the illuminated capitals for this story, with their sea- inspired backgrounds. She lives in Ber- keley, California, where she and her hus- band havea band called MAGIC FIRE.

41

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Changes

by David R. Addleman

Denny Laughton sat in his wheelchair looking through Zeiss binoculars, searching for the gray streak that had caught his attention. There, cutting through the waist-high green barley, was a dog, running all out. Every once ina while it leaped like an exuberant puppy. The dog angled closer and Denny saw it was full grown. Lean and thin, it re- sembled an oversized German Shepherd.

Suddenly the dog lurched sideways and skidded down into the grass. Denny heard the crack of a rifle. His breath stopped. A tightness formed in the pit of his stomach. He jerked up the glasses and saw amanrunning towards the dog. The dog stayed low and kept moving.

Denny saw the grass rippling in a straight line towards the hedge at the border of his yard. Looking at the point where the dog would exit the tall grass, he caught a flash of gray disappearing into the thick hedge. Smart dog, Denny thought, wiping away angry tears. Lie still, boy. He won’t find you in there.

Denny looked backand saw the hunter crisscrossing through the barley, appar- ently unable to find the trail.

_By the time Denny wheeled into his elevator and rode down to ground level, the hunter was gone. If he could reach the wounded dogintime, maybe he could help. For once he wished he weren't so isolated, or that Mrs. McCraken hadn’t already finished her cooking and clean- ing chores and gone home. Never mind, he’d do what he could.

The grass on his back lawn was cut

Winter 1992, Issue #15

shortand the ground wasdry. Hepushed down hard on the leading edge of his wheels, propelling the chair forward, his hands growing moist inside the leather gloves.

“Here, boy! Come on out,” he called. The only response was a faint rustling. “Come on, boy,” he crooned. “I won’t hurt you.”

The unexpected moan straightened him up. It sounded more human than canine. “Who’s in there?” he demanded. Silence lifted the hairs on his neck.

Finally, he wheeled back inside, rode upstairs, and repositioned himself at the upstairs window. He watched the sun drop into the foothills and the hedge become a dark smear in the gloom. Still, Denny waited. When it was too dark to see, he switched toinfra-red night glasses, quartering on the section of hedge where the dog had entered.

The movement, when it came, was so subtle he almost missed it. A shadowy figure crawled out of the hedge. No dog this. He strained to make out details as the figure stood on two legs, but the night scope’s resolution on its luminous green display wasn’t that sharp. The ghostly figure stumbled a few steps across his back lawn and collapsed. Denny rushed downstairs, remembering to grab the flashlight off its hook by the back door.

She lay where she’d fallen. The flash- light in her face brought no response. Naked, her skin was badly lacerated by the brambles, her body slick with blood.

Denny positioned the wheelchair

alongside her. The problem, as he sawit, was to pick up and carry her