The Wizard in the Tree

by Llyod Alexander

  "Damn you, Bolt," cried Scrupnor. "I told you, never let anyone in my counting room."

  "Squire, I didn't," protested the gamekeeper, astonished at the sight of Mallory and even more bewildered by the presence of Arbican. "I don't know how these two got by. And this old crock here, I don't even know who he is."

  Without lowering his pistol, Scrupnor swung to face Arbican. "What's your name? What are you up to?"

  "This is Mr. Arbican," Mallory put in hastily, afraid the enchanter and his sharp tongue might worsen matters for both of them. "He's a-traveler. He's lost his way. He stopped to ask directions-"

  "I'll give him directions," returned Scrupnor. "He can go to the devil, if he hasn't been there already. Traveler, is he? Where to? The gallows?"

  Despite Mallory's warning tug at his robe, Arbican stepped forward, looking Scrupnor squarely between the eyes, and tartly answered:

  "If your courtesy is any measure of your conduct, you'll reach that destination sooner than I."

  "Hold your tongue, old weasel!" Bolt shook his fist under the enchanter's nose. "I'll take care of him for you, Squire. Gallows bird he is. You can read it in his face."

  "Wait a moment, Bolt," said Scrupnor, squinting thoughtfully at Arbican. "It seems to me I recognize this fellow. Yes, it comes back to me now. I've seen him. Oh, indeed I've seen him, on the very day the dear departed was murdered."

  "That's a lie!" Mallory burst out. "You couldn't. He's been in a tree."

  "A tree?" said Scrupnor. "Yes, he was. Lurking behind one, in the woods beside the highway."

  The gamekeeper's jaw dropped. "The killer himself? Why, so he must be. For here he is back again after the rest of his loot."

  Scrupnor nodded in growing satisfaction. "The ways of justice are strange, Bolt, very strange. But they come round, soon or late. I've searched high and low for this brute. I'd have given all I owned to the one who caught the beast. And now it turns out that I myself am the one to apprehend him; I, who suffered most from that hideous crime. There you see the hand of providence at work. Ah, Bolt, if only the dear departed could be with us at this moment, how it would warm his heart. Now fetch some rope and we'll take this villain to the notary so I can make my sworn statement. The wench must be in this, too, somehow. Otherwise, what's she doing in company with a known criminal? There's more than meets the eye; but I'll have the truth out of her, every bit of it; I'll stop at nothing less."

  CHAPTER 7

  Bolt hurried from the counting room. Arbican, meantime, had been studying Scrupnor with a mixture of curiosity and contempt; now he turned calmly to Mallory:

  "Ordinarily, I would resent this fellow's implication that I am a robber and a murderer. In present circumstances, I think it wiser to ignore him. Come along, we have work to do."

  "He'll kill you!" exclaimed Mallory. "Don't you see he's got a pistol?"

  "Whatever that is," replied Arbican, unimpressed. He gave Scrupnor a cold glance. "If that implement you're waving at me has any destructive capabilities, put it away immediately."

  In answer, Scrupnor muttered a curse through his teeth and leveled the weapon at Arbican's head. The enchanter shrugged:

  "Very well. Since you won't lay it down, your clumsy device is now a serpent, and a very angry one."

  At $at, Arbican made coiling motions with his fingers. To Mallory's dismay, the firearm stayed as it was. Scrupnor laughed:

  "Not only a murderer, you're a madman!"

  "No!" cried Mallory. "Look, look! The snake! Crawling out the barrel!"

  Startled by Mallory's warning, and without a pause for thought, Scrupnor turned the weapon to squint at the muzzle, from which no snake whatever was emerging.

  Mallory's trick, however, had given her the moment she needed. Snatching up her basket, she flung it with all strength at Scrupnor's head. Taken unawares, the squire lost his balance and stumbled back on his heels. The pistol went spinning out of his hand and discharged into the air.

  "Come on! Run!" Mallory urged the enchanter while Scrupnor, on hands and knees, groped for his weapon. Arbican did not move, but only stared horrified by his encounter with firearms. Mallory seized the enchanter and hauled him so quickly from the counting room that he nearly lost his footing, and hustled him along a corridor, through the first door she came to. It led to the kitchen where, at sight of intruders, the cook dropped the meat she was setting over the fire, the serving maid flung away the stack of dishes, and both began screaming at the top of their voices.

  Spying an open window, Mallory pushed Arbican over the sill and sent him tumbling into the stable yard. She would have followed but the cook, regaining some of her wits, seized Mallory by the scruff of the neck; and the serving maid picked up a long-handled spoon to flail away at the struggling girl.

  The pair, however, proved no match for Mallory, determined at all cost to rejoin the enchanter. Heedless of the blows, she tore loose from the hands of the cook and went pitching headlong into the yard.

  She scrambled to her feet. There was no sign of the enchanter. She glanced hurriedly in all directions, at a loss where to turn. The stables were close by and she raced toward them, thinking Arbican might have hidden in one of the stalls. At the same time, waving a pitchfork, the stable boy, Wakeling, came pelting around the corner.

  Mallory turned sharply aside. Wakeling, however, paid no heed to the fleeing girl. Instead, he ran to the back of the house, where he collided with the two women and Scrupnor.

  "Squire, there's a great stag in the paddock," Wakeling cried. "Come and see!"

  "Damn the stag!" bellowed Scrupnor, trying to disengage himself from the excited stable boy. "Where's the old man?"

  "Never saw none," answered Wakeling. "But what a stag!"

  "Out of my way!" roared Scrupnor, shoving the boy aside. "Find him! Stop the girl!"

  By now, Mallory had reached the nearest outbuildings and headed for the stables. From the kennels she heard the frantic yelping of Scrupnor's hunting pack and she changed her course, afraid the enchanter had blundered into the dog runs.

  Suddenly, from behind a shed sprang the tallest stag Mallory had ever seen. The creature bounded across her path, reared on its haunches and shook its antlered head:

  "Jump! On my back!"

  Dumbfounded for the instant, Mallory could only stare at the animal, who stamped impatiently: "Do as I say! Climb on!" Not daring to waste another moment questioning Arbican, Mallory clambered astride. Scrupnor, with wakeling following, pounded across the stable yard but stopped short at seeing her clinging to the prancing stag.

  "There he is!" cried Wakeling. "And the cookshop girl riding him! Now that's a sight for you, Squire!"

  Sharing none of the stable boy's wonder, Scrupnor brought up his pistol and pulled the trigger. In his rage, however, he had forgotten to reload and the hammer snapped on an empty chamber. With a curse, Scrupnor flung away the useless firearm, snatched the pitchfork from the astonished wakeling, and heaved it straight at Mallory.

  The stag wheeled, and the pitchfork, nearly skewering its target, clattered to the dust. The huge animal then lowered its head and bounded for Scrupnor. Seeing the sharp antlers driving toward him, Scrupnor threw himself to the ground, yelling in terror. The stag, veering at the last moment, sped across the yard and into the pasture. Clearing the fence in one leap, it streaked for the woods.

  Mallory, heart in her mouth, clamped arms and legs around the stag as it crashed through the underbrush, plunged into a thicket, and at all speed pressed deeper into the tangle of branches and vines.

  Only when the Holdings were far behind them did the stag halt and let Mallory slide off. Still breathless and shaken by their narrow escape, and amazed at Arbican's new transformation, Mallory threw her arms around the animal's neck.

  "You saved us! Your power's come back. That's wonderful!" The stag snorted. "Wonderful! I meant to change myself into a horse."

  "You came close," Mallory said. "You had most of it right: four legs, hooves-"

&
nbsp; "And these ridiculous branches growing out of my head. Good luck I didn't turn into a cow. No, I still don't have the hang of it. My power isn't working well at all. I certainly didn't foresee appearing under the very nose of your squire. You did better than I," the enchanter admitted. "Very clever. I wish I had thought of it. If you hadn't tricked him so neatly, there's no telling what he might have done."

  "I know what he'd have done," said Mallory. "He'd have shot you."

  "No doubt. Yes, the pistol, that infernal machine. Leave it to you mortals to turn a harmless concoction to some nasty purpose."

  "Gunpowder? You know about that?"

  "If that's what you call it, of course I do. All of us enchanters did. A little pinch here and there, sprinkled over a fire-a childish amusement. But we had better sense than to give you humans the secret. Apparently you learned it for yourselves. Well, you're ingenious, I'll say that much. Which, alas, is not quite the same as intelligent. Why that crude oaf insisted I had anything to do with some sordid local crime is altogether beyond me. From the very look of him, I should say it was more his sort of thing than mine."

  "He lied," agreed Mallory, "and I can guess why." She quickly explained what had happened to Sorrel, adding: "For all his tears about avenging his dear departed master, he's never found the one who did it."

  "And seizes on me as a convenient scapegoat," put in Arbican. "Yes, if I judge him rightly, that's how his mind would work Crude, but unfortunately not unusual, even in my day."

  "Emmet and some others in the village think it was Scrupnor himself," Mallory said, "and after what happened now, so do I. But no one can prove it, I certainly can't. If you'd given me my wishes, I know how I'd use one of them."

  "Admirable," replied the enchanter. "But if you really mean that, I'm sure you can manage it yourself. You're a brave girl, and a goodhearted one. That should be enough magic for anybody."

  The stag's mouth shut abruptly, in a manner exactly like Arbican's, as the enchanter considered the matter closed. His words, however, had given Mallory neither confidence nor comfort. At the same time, to her dismay, she heard the baying of hounds. Scrupnor had loosed his hunting pack.

  The stag, too, heard the dogs and jumped to its feet. "Climb on. They're far behind us. I can outrun them easily."

  "If they catch your scent," warned Mallory, "they'll stay on your trail. Can't you change yourself back again?"

  "If I could," returned Arbican, "don't you think I would? These antlers are giving me a headache. I don't see how stags put up with them. Habit, I suppose. Well, come on, come on, stop chattering."

  "Where shall we go?" asked Mallory, once again clambering to the stag's back.

  "To the oak. A boat is still my best chance of reaching Vale Innis. How I shall build one with these hooves instead of hands, I have no idea. What about those tools?"

  "I'll try to get them for you," said Mallory as the stag trotted swiftly through the deepening shadows. "It won't be easy. Scrupnor's bound to raise a hue and cry. He'll set the whole village after you. And me, too, for that matter. I don't know what to do."

  "You don't have much choice," Arbican replied. "You can help me if you want, or we can part company here and now."

  "Of course I want to help you," answered Mallory. Then she added painfully, "Once you're on your way to Vale Innis, I don't know what I'll do. If I go back to the village, Scrupnor's likely to have me in prison, or worse. Even if he doesn't, I hate to think what Mrs. Parsel will do to me."

  "Then it's still simpler," the enchanter said. "Either you go back to the village and take your chances, or you don't. If you don't go back, then obviously you must go somewhere else. Don't complain. I have less choice than you. Either I find my way to Vale Innis or I die here."

  "How can you be so coldblooded about it?" Mallory burst out. She had been hoping for more comfort, or at least sympathy from Arbican. "Doesn't anything matter to you? Don't you even care what happens to you?"

  "Whether I care or not has nothing to do with the facts of the matter. I told you before: I create illusions, I don't mistake them for the way things are."

  "If only you'd given me my wishes when I asked you," Mallory said, half angrily. "I could have helped both of us."

  "Wishes again!" the stag snorted. "Next, you'll be at me again to take you to Vale Innis."

  "I will not!" cried Mallory. "I wouldn't go there even if you begged me! You're selfish, heartless, bad tempered the whole world could tumble down, for all the difference it makes to you. If that's the way enchanters are, I'd rather stay here. I don't care about your wishes, either," she sobbed, too exhausted to keep back her tears. "I don't want them and I don't need them. I'll look after myself."

  "At last you're showing some sense," Arbican calmly replied, halting as Mallory jumped from his back. "A little rest and you won't be so edgy. I find myself somewhat weary in the legs; disappointing, as I expected rather more vigor from a stag. There's no use going further tonight. I intend to have a nap. I suggest you do the same."

  Mallory did not answer. She had turned away from the enchanter, and when at last she ventured a glance over her shoulder she saw the stag had folded his legs on the ground and shut his eyes. The rising moon turned the great antlers to silver; the animal's powerful neck and haunches were dappled in the pale light washing over them. Even if she had not known the stag's shape held Arbican within it, she would have sensed nonetheless a magical creature.

  But it was a magic, she realized, she could never share. Drudging for Mrs. Parsel, she had dreamed of wishes coming true. Arbican had made it clear that her hopes were vain. "I was happier before I met a real enchanter,".Mallory admitted to herself. "Then, at least, I could make believe something marvelous would happen to me. I can't even do that any more."

  She crouched on the turf and hunched down amid the drift of fallen leaves. The dogs had stopped baying, but she was sure Scrupnor had not given up the hunt. She tried to force herself to stay awake; but her weariness overcame her fears, and her eyes closed as she huddled deeper into the leaves.

  She awoke with a start. Something was nudging her shoulder. The moon had vanished in a mottled sky. Arbican's voice was urging her to get up. Still drowsy, she raised her head. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Two beady eyes were squinting at her from the pink, plump-cheeked face of a half-grown pig.

  CHAPTER 8

  "Yes, it's me," Arbican grunted angrily. "It's happened again. A goose could have served some purpose. A stag at least has bearing and dignity. But a common swine?"

  The pig sank back and waved its forefeet in the air. Its jowls shook and the sleek body swelled with indignation. Despite her miseries, and Arbican's own plight, Mallory could scarcely keep herself from laughing; had she not been certain that the enchanter would be mortally insulted, she would have reached out and patted the fat, round cheeks.

  "If it makes you feel any better," Mallory said, "you're very handsome. You're the most beautiful pig I've ever seen."

  "What's that to do with anything?" snorted Arbican. "Don't you understand? I still can't get my powers back in hand. Who knows what next? A donkey? A goat? I might as well spend my life in a barnyard. Oh, they'll snicker over this in Vale Innis, if I ever get there. Pig, indeed! A laughingstock! An ignominious transmogrification!"

  "You might have changed your shape," said Mallory, "but that's no reason to change your plan. We'll go back to your tree, just as you meant to do. You'll have your boat, if I have to put together every stick of it myself."

  By way of thanks, the pig merely grunted. Disregarding Arbican's brusque manner, Mallory stood, shook the leaves and twigs from her dress, and beckoned for him to follow. Muttering to himself, the pig trotted after her as she set off in what she hoped was the shortest path to the oak. However, she had scarcely taken three paces when she cried out in alarm.

  In the bushes, so close she could almost have touched him, stood a lanky, red-faced young farmer, frozen in his tracks. He had dropped
the bundle of firewood he had been gathering; the ax had slipped from his hands; his jaw hung slack with astonishment. At first, Mallory feared the intruder had come from the Holdings; now she saw it was Burdick, the son of Farmer Tench. There was no doubt that Burdick recognized her, too. But how long he had been watching, and what he had seen or heard, Mallory could not guess. Deciding her only choice was to brazen it out, Mallory drew herself up, and declared:

  "Shame on you, standing there ogling people! Be off or I'll tell your father." Mallory's outburst-shook Burdick into movement.

  He slowly raised his arm and pointed a finger at the enchanter.

  "That," said Burdick, as if he had pondered the matter from all sides and made up his mind past any question, "that's a pig."

  "Of course it's a pig," retorted Mallory. "What did yon think it was?" "And you," Burdick went on, turning his gaze and his finger toward Mallory, "you were talking to it."

  "Why shouldn't I?" demanded Mallory. "Do you never talk to your cow when you milk her? I always talk to my pig. He keeps me company and he has better manners than somebody who hides in the bushes, eavesdropping on other folk."

  "Talk to him as you like," replied Burdick. "But here's the nub of it: that pig was answering." Mallory's heart sank as she realized Burdick had indeed overheard their conversation. Nevertheless, looking squarely at him, she insisted: "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as a talking pig." Burdick nodded. "None I ever met before. But my old dad told me once he heard a bird with a voice clear as a man. A greeny-yellowy creature with a beak all hooked out of shape and out of nature; but it talked as clever as a schoolmaster."

  "That's a poll-parrot," said Mallory. "They're supposed to talk; everybody knows that."

  "Right!" exclaimed Burdick, his face lighting up. "So this will be a poll-piggy!"

  "No!" cried Mallory. "It's no kind of pig at all."

  "If it isn't," replied Burdick, "then it's the ugliest, nakedest baby I've ever seen." He squatted in front of Arbican and peered into the bristly face. Arbican stared back with ill-concealed annoyance; then, snorting irritably, turned away. Burdick, however, determined to study this remarkable animal at closer range, seized the plump cheeks in both hands.