The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

“Not so fast, young lady. Come back here.”

  “Very well, your majesty.”

  “Did you tell me everything?”

  She hesitated. “Not quite.”

  “Set that water pitcher down. It’s all absurd.” The king began to pace. Now Sondra knew how much her words had disturbed him, and she saw the color of rage filling his face. “Why should you have such a dream? Why should you think that Randall must be killed? Is he a criminal?”

  “In my dream you were afraid he would regain the throne,” Sondra said simply. “The people would favor him.”

  Levaggo beat his fists on the desk. He paced back to the window and beat his fists on the sill.

  “It’s a poison lie. Utterly false. Utterly false.” He seized her arms and shook her. “I suppose you’ve been telling it around. Have you? Have—you?”

  “I haven’t breathed a word your majesty. Why should I?”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “You invited him in. You made him believe he was welcome. As a guest. He was very tall and handsome. And very kind, like his father, the late King Randello. I wanted to warn him that he was about to be murdered. But you and Whiteblock—”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “You and Whiteblock had everything planned.”

  “Shut up!” Levaggo leaped at her. His brutal fingers went for her throat. He was choking the breath out of her. Her arms flailed, she caught the pitcher and dashed the water in his face. He let go, then, and she saw him mopping at his rage-filled cheeks and black beard. Terrorized by her own boldness, she backed away from him, toward the door. He followed her, roaring.

  “Go oh, tell the rest. Say that we murdered him and I’ll hang you.”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  “You were about to.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Then what?” A glow of savage satisfaction filled his eyes, and he drew out his words as if now he knew.

  “Ahhh! You dreamed he was killed by accident. That’s it! By accident!” He barked with a demand to make her admit it. “By accident! That’s how he was killed! Do you hear?”

  He was coming toward her again. Then he stopped. The sight of the calendar on the wall caught him. NOVEMBER. His puffy white hand reached out, tore the sheet off and crumpled it.

  At that moment a fanfare of trumpets sounded from the palace gates. Someone was arriving. Sondra snatched the pitcher and fled.

  CHAPTER III

  The Red Door Gets a Goat

  From the palace gates the news spread through the court, through the drawing rooms, the kitchen, the stables, the power plant, and on to the village at the rear of the p a lace grounds. This was an event. A husky tramp with a whiskered face and ragged clothes was being ushered into the king’s palace. Why? Because he claimed he had seen the king’s cousin Randall in battle.

  Ornamental iron doors swung open, trumpets blared, guards moved briskly, ushering their guest into the king’s brightly lighted reception hall.

  Sondra and the other servants watched from behind doors, pillars, and chairs.

  “What shall we do?” the king whispered to Whiteblock.

  “I told you we should have tested this Red Door before. Now we’re caught for time,” Whiteblock retorted. “You’re quite aware, I trust, that this ragged man entering our palace did not come here by mere chance.”

  “I’ll talk with him at once. The Captain of the Guards believes he is a man of some importance.”

  “The goat is ready,” said Whiteblock.

  “Not now. Later. During the dinner hour.”

  Whiteblock shrugged and watched the massive king stride across the Arena floor to be joined by six gold-braided guards at the stairs.

  Within a few minutes, history was being made in the reception hall. The whiskered stranger was standing before the king, doing his best to answer all the questions that were being so nervously fired at him. What was known of Randall? Had he proven himself in the battle of the Pacific? Had he fought with the American troops or the British? Was he a fighter, now that he had grown up, or was he a coward?

  “Is there any likelihood that he might have been wounded—or killed?”

  “Well, the last time I saw him,” said the wayfarer, “was the last time I shaved. In India. Several days ago, as you might guess.” He laughed, delighted with his own mischief.

  “Then you—you are Randall yourself?” The king’s jaw sagged. “Are you? Of course you are. I’d know you anywhere. You’ve grown up since I saw you. But you’re the prince. You’d just as well admit it.”

  Randall laughed, and his white teeth gleamed. “I’ll shave one of these days to be sure.” He thrust his hand into the king’s, as if meeting him on an equal plane. It was all happening too suddenly. The king hadn’t time to collect his wits. His hand went limp. His face went white. Randall, devilishly handsome within his rags and whiskers, strong of face and solid of jaw, was taking him by storm. “How is our kingdom, cousin?”

  “Why did you come?” the king uttered weakly.

  “To see my father’s picture in the south hall. Do you mind? Come along.”

  Abruptly the prince whirled and started at a brisk stride into the south hall, toward the wide graystone fireplace whose lively blazes seemed to invite him.

  To the guards the king snapped an order. “Accompany him. See that he stays in the south hall until I rejoin him. I must attend certain other affairs of state that are more urgent.” Heels clicked, and the gold-braided, white-uniformed guards marched in double file into the south hall, where each took his place to guard all exits.

  From pillars, chairs, and doorways, members of the court and servants shifted their positions to keep within view of this bold young wayfarer. Sondra, who had chosen the south hall as a safe place from which to watch the king and the stranger confer, had meant to conceal herself in one of the two large tapestry-covered chairs before the fireplace. She was now caught directly in his line of march. He whirled suddenly to discover her trying to scramble away.

  “Hold on. What’s this? An eavesdropper?”

  He caught her by the hand, and his dark eyes burned at her fiercely, with a hint of a smile. He noted the neatness of her brown hair, her round arms, her trim figure. The simple blue and white servant’s uniform had never looked so well on anyone else, he thought, and he wondered how she would look in the jeweled gown of a queen.

  The pretty little creature appeared to be frightened, he thought. Could those marks across her cheek mean that someone had cuffed her?

  “Let me go. Please.”

  “What are you trying to get away with?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  She looked at him with such a curious brightness in her eyes that he tightened his grip on her hand. She started to whisper.

  “I must warn you—”

  She stopped, looking around at the cluster of court people who were gathering around at a discreet distance. “What are you saying?”

  “Later. They mustn’t hear. Just—be careful! ” Her lips trembled a little.

  Randall, struck by her beauty as much as by her mysterious manner, put her at arm’s length and pointed at her accusingly. “Secrets, eh? Do you see that picture of my father?” He pointed to the huge gold-framed portrait of Randello that hung above the fireplace mantle. “My father has his eyes on you, young lady. He has sharp eyes.

  I should know. He never missed any of my mischief when I was a boy. I could tell you stories about his scientific experiments—”

  A stern cough from one of the court dignitaries cut his reminiscences short. Everyone was glaring much too fiercely at him, he thought. Perhaps they were embarrassed. It was not what they expected of a prince’s return, that he should so suddenly be deserted by the king and left to converse with a servant girl. But no one knew what to do. He took matters in his own hands. He gave a gesture that took the whole group of twenty or more starchily dressed persons who had gathered around.

  “So all of you want to watch me
pay respects to my father? That’s very interesting.” A hint of sarcasm was in his voice as he saluted the portrait. “Father, the court stands here to pay its respects. I only wish you could take a bow. You were a great king. And kind. And never once dishonest, or treacherous or grasping. Take a bow, Father.”

  All the whispering in the south hall ceased. Those courtiers who played their loyalties to King Levaggo in exchange for his favors were stung by this act of sincere devotion to the memory of Randello.

  Sondra broke the silence.

  “I knew your father very well,” she said. “He was a great king.”

  “A great king and a great man,” Randall smiled at Sondra. “Thank you for your kind words, young lady. I’ll see you after I shave—if these guards will let me shave.”

  Meanwhile, King Levaggo made haste to examine the mysteries of Whiteblock’s latest and most treacherous invention.

  The king, unattended, had hurried down the steps to the Arena. It was a wide, barn-like room, roofed over with skylights. Its walls were banked with tiers of seats to accommodate the largest crowds that ever gathered in the mountains of Askandia. American visitors to the palace had remarked that this level floor was spacious enough for football games or a rodeo. King Levaggo knew that the next crowd that gathered here would come expecting to hear the Old Lady read a message that had lain, for the past ten years, in a chest in the Vault.

  Randello had constructed the Vault shortly before his death. He had blasted the rocky mountainside at the rear of the Arena, and walled the room with steel, so that there was only one entrance—the twenty stone steps in the east end of the Arena, and the Red Door at the top of those steps.

  Until a few weeks ago, the Red Door had been closed. The plates of steel that Randello had placed across it had not been moved—not until Whiteblock had at last won the right to have them removed.

  Now Whiteblock stood at the foot of the twenty steps, with hands on hips, head lifted. He was watching the carpenters remove the last of the scaffolding around the rebuilt doorway. At the left of the stairs, a white mountain goat was tied to the carpenters’ workbench.

  “All right,” said the king. “We haven’t much time. Dismiss those fellows and show me what you’ve done.”

  Whiteblock was ready. Everything went like clockwork. The carpenters went out. Six members of the Council walked in. All of the numerous Arena doors were closed at the touch of a button. This was a strictly private party, and when the doors were closed, Levaggo and Whiteblock were satisfied that no one in the world would know what happened here—no one but themselves, their six confidential yes-men, and the goat.

  Strictly speaking, the goat would be the only one to know the sensation of what was about to happen. But if the experiment worked—and Whiteblock was sure it would—the goat would never blat the secret.

  “We’d better have a janitor before we start,” said the king. Two or three of his Council members echoed, “Yes, a janitor.”

  “What do we want with a janitor?” said Whiteblock. The Council members looked to the king for an answer.

  “Those knives you’ve hung in the doorway,” said the king, “make a pretty design. But if you have some scheme, for making them whirl when the goat goes through, you should be prepared to take care of the blood. And the flesh. We don’t want goat hamburger sprayed all over the door.”

  Whiteblock gave a cocky toss of the head. “I will personally mop up any part of that doorway that needs cleaning after the goat goes through.”

  “You will? With your handkerchief?”

  “With the white silk shirt you gave me for my birthday. And another thing. If you see those knives move in any way to threaten the life of the goat, I’ll tear them down and cut them into medals for your guards. Are you ready?”

  The king studied the sight before him. The Red Door was much redder than before. The steel plate that had closed this entrance for the past ten years had been red with paint. The new open doorway was deep red with a blaze of concealed lights. The full arch above the twenty steps was marked with two bold concentric circles of glowing red. A curved steel V reached down from the top of the arch. Its point, precisely at the center of the circular arch, exactly seven feet above the level of the top step, held the axle to which the two seven-foot knives were attached.

  The knives stood out horizontally, like a two-bladed propeller. Apparently, the knives were intended to rotate like a propeller. They were wide, flat glistening blades, curved slightly like two immense scimitars. A vertical slit in the edge of the V that supported them seemed intended for them to swing through when they spun into motion. But, as Whiteblock had observed, no motion whatever was apparent. They appeared to be set, frozen in a horizontal balance, two dangerous outspread arms guarding the doorway.

  But if they did not move, wherein lay the danger? A giant of six and a half feet could walk under them without scraping his head.

  “Watch close,” said Whiteblock. He led the goat up the steps.

  With a steel tool he gave the goat a sharp jab just before they reached the twentieth step. The goat bleated and ran hard. Over the twentieth step. Across the stone platform into the doorway. Running hard. Under the arch—

  The king thought the knifeblades trembled just a trifle, yet certainly they remained rigid, horizontal, motionless. But the goat, rushing beneath, was being magically sliced into nothing.

  Apparently not being touched by anything, yet somehow being sliced. The king went tense, and his eyes bugged.

  Sliced like cheese—no, like paper—no, like film. So thin were the slices, so rapid in succession, that to the king’s bleary eyes there was no answer. At once it was all over. The goat had run through, and there was no more goat.

  The slices? They seemed to have disappeared in the same instant that they were cut. The king ran up the steps to see.

  “Come back!” the Council members shouted.

  But Whiteblock was on the twentieth step, ready to catch the king and hold him back at a safe distance. It was an unnecessary precaution. The king gazed through the Red Door into the darkness of the vault beyond. There were no slices of any goatly protoplasm on the stone floor.

  Whiteblock sniffed the air. “Not even a smell left.”

  “Obliterated,” said the king.

  “A journey from which there is no return,” said Whiteblock.

  The king jogged down the steps thoughtfully, and faced his six Councilmen. “Gentlemen, it works.”

  The six yes-men bowed and murmured, “It works, your majesty.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Old Lady Smells a Storm

  King Levaggo glanced back. The slightest hum had played upon his ears during the recent minutes, like an electric fan. He wondered. He saw the twinkle of satisfaction in the eyes of his cocky little adviser, watching the mystified faces of the six Councilmen.

  “Don’t worry about it, men,” Whiteblock quipped. “Everything’s under control. But just remember, don’t yield to the temptation to walk into the Vault, even if those blades do appear to be stationary.”

  “We won’t,” the Councilmen said. “Don’t forget! If you do, you’ll be a sliced goat.”

  “I’ll give the decree to the court at once,” said the king, swelling with authority. “No one will dare defy this order—not even the Old Lady.”

  “Not anybody—except some dashing young hothead prince.”

  The king chuckled evilly and the six Councilmen chuckled in the same key. “Tonight,” said the king.

  “Tonight,” said the Councilmen under their breath.

  It was a wonderful banquet, as everyone agreed. The moment the king appeared, dressed in one of his finest green and white dinner suits, fairly bursting with cordiality and good fellowship, the whole court knew that he had decided to welcome the returned prince with open arms.

  In the presence of all the dinner guests the king rose and pronounced his official greetings.

  “Randall, my own cousin! This is indeed a historic
moment. We are honored. Indeed, indeed.”

  Randall raised his eyebrows in frank surprise at this change of mood. “Indeed? Well, thank you.”

  “Forgive us, Randall, if we were slow to recognize you in your—your travelling costume.”

  “My rags and whiskers!” Randall laughed. “I’m surprised you let me in. A few miles down the road I ran across some of your subjects in rags and whiskers who had been beaten within an inch of their lives.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. I think they had been unable to pay their taxes and so your guards had used clubs—”

  “Ah-ah-ah! How unfortunate,” said the king, suddenly reddening. “Some stupid guards are always taking matters in their own hands.”

  “These people declared it was a very common practice. King’s orders, they said.” Randall faced the king coolly.

  “What an unpleasant lie. Let’s not mar this festive occasion with anything disagreeable.” The king gave a generous wave to all the lords and ladies around the tables. “Come, let us feast. A feast in honor of our prince!”

  Everyone stole glances at the returned prince during the feasting hours that followed. He was unquestionably a dashing figure, very handsome in the black and gold uniform the court had furnished him. His eyes were deep, his features clean cut, his teeth gleaming with a bold smile. He tossed some rather roughshod remarks into the ring of conversation—some quips that might have stuck as insults if the mood had been less gay. It was obvious that he had a line on the king’s cruel treatment of the lower class Askandians.

  Two events occurred during the feast, one of them causing everyone o sit up and take notice, the other passing almost entirely unnoticed.

  The first was an announcement by Whiteblock, speaking for the king.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” Whiteblock boomed into the microphone, “and subjects of Askandia, wherever you are, please give me your attention. The king has asked me to announce an important decree.

  “As you. all realize, the tenth anniversary of the death of our late King Randello is at hand. This week we observe that anniversary by reading the documents which have been preserved in the Vault. During all these years the Vault has been closed. At last it has been opened.”