by Tom McGowen
Simon looked pleased. “Well, that’s one test I won’t have to make,” he said, almost to himself. “Your programming regarding the sanctity of human life is certainly in order. But see here, robot. I tell you there is no danger to humanity from these demons. They may not even exist. And your own logic should tell you that there is no such thing as magic. It contradicts the laws of physics. This man Merlin’s story is impossible.”
“Your own logic is faulty,” replied the robot. “You have formed a judgment without evidence. With my own sensors, I viewed the monster from which I freed Merlin. Within my memory bank is the evidence of two journeys through the air on what appeared to be an ordinary broom. If these portions of Merlin’s story are true, you must admit the rest may well be true also.”
The physicist stared at his creation and fingered his chin. “You say you flew on a broom?” he asked at last.
“Affirmative,” stated the robot.
“Well, in the first place, that’s aerodynamically impossible,” commented the physicist. “But what’s more important, there wouldn’t be any propelling force. This can be proved mathematically.” He glanced about. “Say, have you got a blackboard or some paper handy? If I could work out some equations I could show the impossibility of—”
Merlin gave one of his booming laughs, and striding across the room placed a hand on the physicist’s shoulder. “I know exactly how you feel. Many is the time when spent hours and even days on a problem which I was determined to either solve or disprove. We have much in common, you and I, whether you think so or not. And I ask you—is it not possible that what I call magic, and you call science, are simply two different ways of solving certain problems?”
Smith found himself suddenly liking this big, hearty man. He reminded him greatly of a professor who had been a favorite of his during his undergraduate days at college. Nevertheless he grumbled, “Not when your magic contradicts physical laws. Science isn’t based on mumbo jumbo.”
“Well, whatever you think of it,” said Merlin gently, “will you not join us? I have the feeling that there may well be things which I cannot do with my mumbo jumbo, as you put it, that you may be able to do with your science.”
Simon shrugged. “I don’t seem to have much choice. My own robot refuses to come with me, and I’ll be darned if I’ll let him out of my sight again.”
Sergeant Major Small cleared his throat and took a step forward. “Sir,” he said, “may I join ye too? I’m not a young man I know, but I was a soldier, and a gude one, for twenty-five years. I could help, I know I could.” His gray moustache bristled as he thrust his chin forward and drew himself to attention. “I can still fight!”
Merlin regarded him, thoughtfully. “You remind me of someone I knew long ago,” he said, “only he was a younger man. His name was Lancelot. Of course you may join us.”
Now the constable stepped forward. “As Her Majesty’s representative in this area,” he said, “I think I should come too. I’m sworn to uphold the peace and the law and if the Wee Folk are aboot to disrupt it. ‘tis ma duty to oppose them.”
“Our wee army is growin’,” observed Maggie.
Simon Smith shook his head in wonder. “I still think you’re all a bunch of nuts.” he commented.
Chapter
9
“Now then,” said Merlin briskly, “we have much to do. First,” he turned to the two Scotsmen, “your absence from the town of Strathgow will have to be explained somehow. Otherwise, search parties will be out looking for you and that could draw Urlug’s attention to us here.”
“I’ll take care o’ that,” said the Sergeant Major. “I’ll go back and tell the folks that the constable and I are stayin’ at the castle wi’ the professor. Anyway, there’s a few things I want to get from my home.” He snapped a salute, spun on his heel, and they heard his footsteps marching briskly down the hall.
“Is he safely past the barrier?” asked Merlin after a moment.
“Yes,” said the bearded painting. Simon jumped as did Constable Wier. Then the physicist hurried to the painting and stared at it. Experimentally, he tugged at its beard.
“Ouch!” said the painting. “Stop that or I’ll bite your finger!”
Simon grinned at Merlin. “You’re quite a ventriloquist too, I see,” he remarked. Strolling back to the wizard, he looked him in the eye. “Now, what about this sword you say you must have? You say it’s buried at Stonehenge under the protection of a bunch of evil ghosts? How do you plan to get it?”
“Aye, Merlin,” piped up Angus. “Ye were aboot to tell me that when these mortals came to the door. If we canna face these things because o’ their power, how can we fight them? For that matter, how do ye fight a ghostie at all? Ye canna cut it wi’ a sword. Ye canna bash it wi’ a club.”
“He has a point there,” observed Simon with a grin. “As I understand it, a ghost is a nonmaterial being that can walk through walls and all that sort of nonsense. Therefore, theoretically, it can’t be harmed by any material object. So how are you going to fight these nasty, evil spirits, wizard?”
Merlin’s eyes twinkled. “With other ghosts,” he replied calmly.
The physicist closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked,” he murmured. Rubbing his nose, a gesture which for him indicated amused disbelief, he said, “No doubt you have a number of ghostly friends?”
“Several, as a matter of fact,” smiled the wizard. “But they’re not what I have in mind. My plan is to raise an army of ghosts—ghosts of men who, when they lived, were fierce and courageous fighters. Fortunately for us, the country of Scotland has been filled with such men throughout its history.”
Angus grunted in assent. “Aye, that’s the truth. Why, when they couldna find any ootsiders to fight wi’, they’d even fight each other. I think I see what ye mean, Merlin; an army o’ stout-hearted ghosties will not be afeared o’ other ghosties.”
“This is an academic question,” put in Simon, “but can these ghosts injure one another? I mean, if one ghost punches another in the nose, can he cause a ghostly nosebleed?”
Merlin shook his head. “They are as immaterial to one another as they are to us.”
“Well then it’ll be like fighting a duel with two flashlight beams,” exclaimed Simon, rumpling his already tousled hair. “Theoretically they’ll simply go right through each other! I don’t see how—”
“I’m relying upon the power of courage to overcome terror,” Merlin broke in. “I believe that if I can raise an army of the right sort, their very love of battle and desire to win will prevail and drive off the dark guardians of the sword.”
Simon shrugged. “That’s as logical as anything else about this illogical mess,” he commented. “When will you raise this ghostly army? I suppose it has to be done after midnight, with all the proper spells and incantations?”
“As a matter of fact, you’re quite right,” grinned Merlin. “As soon as the sun sets, which should only be a few hours from now, I shall begin my preparations. You may help if you wish.”
“Gladly,” said Simon. “Do I sprinkle the powdered unicorn horn or stir the bubbly cauldron with the shinbone of a giant?”
Merlin chuckled and turned to Maggie. “May we prevail upon your hospitality for some food, Maggie MacMurdoch?” he asked. The witch inclined her head, hobbled from the room, and returned a short time later with a huge platter heaped with slices of home-baked bread, oatcakes, cheese, and cold duck. Setting this on the table, she hurried off again and was quickly back with four, large mugs of foaming ale, and a thimble into which a bit of the drink was poured for Angus. In her corner Bathsheba slurped noisily at a saucer of thickly creamed milk.
They had finished their simple but excellent supper and settled back with satisfied sighs, when the bearded painting spoke again.
“The other mortal has returned,” it announced.
“Let him in,” said Maggie.
After a moment, into the room came an utterly transformed Sergeant Major Small. He
was wearing his full dress uniform of World War II. On the right sleeve of his khaki-colored tunic were four chevrons, and a double row of battle ribbons blazed above his upper left pocket flap. His kilt was that of the 42nd Regiment of Highlanders, the Black Watch, most famed regiment in the Scottish Division of the British army. Under his arm was a British Sten gun—a type of light machine gun—and slung across his shoulder was a bulging canvas bag.
“Still fits,” he chortled, patting the waist of his uniform. “I have not put on an ounce o’ fat since ‘45.”
“What’s in that bag?” demanded Constable Wier, suspiciously.
“Seven ammunition clips fur the Sten and three o’ these,” replied Small, reaching into the bag and pulling forth a hand grenade.
“What is that?” asked Merlin curiously.
“Something to give yer demons a bit o’ a shock.” replied the ex-soldier. “Ye see, ye simply pull this pin oot, count three, and throw it. When it comes doon it goes off wi’ a bang and throws bits o’ metal aboot like bullets. I knocked oot a German machine gun nest wi’ one o’ these in Africa. Blew ‘em to kingdom come.”
Merlin stroked his beard with an air of disapproval. “As I have noted, mankind’s ability to wreak destruction upon himself has grown greatly since the days when I helped Arthur wage his wars. However, these objects may be of considerable use in combating the demons, I must admit.”
“You’re just in time Sergeant,” Simon remarked jocularly. “The wizard here is about to raise an army.”
Sergeant Small looked perplexed. “Well, I dinna quite see where ye’ll get it from, sir,” he observed, staring at Merlin.
With a sigh, the wizard quickly repeated the story of the buried Sword of Power and its evil guardians, and his plans to combat them with an army of the ghosts of Scottish warriors. By the time he finished, Small was nodding vigorously.
“ ‘Tis a gude plan, sir,” he commented enthusiastically. “I can tell ye that if ye give a Scotsman the chance at a bonnie battle, he’ll be the best fightin’ man ye could want, whether he’s alive or a ghostie.”
“Apparently he believes you can do it, too,” Simon snorted. “Well it seems to be getting dark outside, and I am most anxious to observe how you go about materializing these nonmaterial ghosties who are going to fight a nonmaterial battle against a nonmaterial foe.”
“Come and observe then,” replied Merlin, rising to his feet. Silently, they all followed him outside into the clearing before the cave. The forest around them was already full of dark, looming shadows, and the sun was no more than a deep red ball, fast dropping out of sight.
By midnight a great roaring fire had been built by the magician with the help of Simon, the constable, Sergeant Small, Angus, and the other two brownies whom Simon had regarded with some surprise. Many branches had been cut and piled to form the shape of a five-pointed star; certain powders and herbs had been sprinkled atop them, and Merlin, with the help of Maggie, began the spell. Moving together, they began to walk around the fire in an intricate pattern that seemed almost like a dance, chanting softly in unison as they did so. To the three men and the brownies, watching from the forest edge, they appeared as black silhouettes when they passed in front of the fire and as eerie, red lit shapes when they reached the other side. The brownies, seated cross-legged, observed the procedure with calm, matter-of-factness. Constable Wier and Sergeant Small stared in unblinking nervousness, and Simon Smith frequently rubbed his nose and grinned.
Abruptly, the chanting stopped, and the two figures became motionless. The blaze died down and the smoke began to thicken and billow, becoming suffused with a rainbow of ever changing colors which writhed and swirled and soared up out of sight into the night sky. Merlin suddenly flung up both arms.
“William Wallace, awaken and come forth!” he called in a loud, commanding voice.
The smoke swirled as though blown by a sudden gust of wind, and abruptly a pale figure stepped forward from it into the clearing. It was a tall man dressed in chain mail, with a conical helmet upon his head and a great broadsword strapped to his side. Every detail of his body could be seen, yet the firelight and the smoke showed clearly through it.
From the forest’s edge there were three gasps, followed by a heavy thud.
“Ye’d best fan yer professor friend wi’ yer hat,” suggested Angus to Constable Wier. “I think he’s fainted.”
Chapter
10
The ghost of William Wallace stood with folded arms beside the guttering fire. His bearded face was grim and lined, and his eyes piercing. During his lifetime, six-hundred years before, he had devoted his life to keeping his country free, only to be captured and horribly tortured by his enemies. But his memory had united the Scottish people in their desire for freedom.
“Robert the Bruce, awaken and come forth!” called Merlin again.
A second pale and transparent figure stepped from the eddying smoke. He was clad much like Wallace, but in his mailed fist was a great battle-ax. This was Wallace’s successor who, as King of the Scots, had fought and won the great battle of Bannockburn and driven the enemy from Scotland’s soil.
One after another, Merlin called out the names of Scotland’s most famous fighting men and, one after another, ghostly figures stepped forth from the writhing smoke. There was Black Douglas, Bonnie Dundee, Rob Roy MacGregor, Red Douglas, MacGillivray of Dunmaglass, Ranald of Clanranald, and scores of other chieftains and officers who had fearlessly led men of Highlands and Lowlands in battles all over the world. There were hundreds of men of lesser fame and lower rank as well, who had fought in all the battles of Scotland’s history. The clearing became filled with pale figures in every variety of fighting garb from chain mail of the thirteenth century to khaki shirts and shorts worn by the men of the Highland regiments who had fought in the African desert in World War II. The majority of the figures wore kilts representing nearly every clan and regiment of Scotland.
Simon Smith, who had actually fainted from sheer surprise and not fear, strode grimly into the milling throng of spirits. He picked out a bearded, kilted Highlander and slowly circled the transparent figure, mumbling to himself, while the Scottish ghost watched him suspiciously. Coming to a halt in front of the spirit, Smith passed a hand slowly through its body.
“It’s impossible for you to actually exist, you know,” he remarked.
“I dinna ken ye, mon,” he growled. His voice was a thin, hoarse whisper.
“I mean,” said the physicist, “that you can’t possibly be alive.”
The ghost regarded him as he might regard a very young child who has just done something foolish, “O’ course I’m not alive,” he said petulantly. “I’m a ghostie.”
Simon pointed a finger at him. “You can’t really whisper that way,” he stated in a lecturing tone. “Sound is caused by vibrations emanating from a material source, and since you’re supposedly a nonmaterial being, there fore you cannot make a noise. You don’t even have any vocal cords. You simply cannot talk.”
The ghost bared his teeth in a nasty grin. “Well, if I canna talk,” he replied in his hoarse whisper, “then ye canna hear me say that yer a foolish, ignorant sassenach wi’ less sense than a half-witted donkey!”
Ignoring this jibe, the physicist shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled off, shaking his head and muttering. “Has to be a rational explanation. They could be gaseous, but that doesn’t explain their ability to make sounds. And even if they are gaseous, there has to be a binding force to hold them together—” He sat down and began scratching an equation in the dirt near the fire.
“Fighting men of Scotland,” cried Merlin in a great voice. The assemblage of ghostly eyes turned toward him.
Merlin began to speak and he weaved a spell with his words. He made the ghosts remember the joys of life; the sight of morning sunshine dappling the green leaves of a tree with gold, the touch of a soft breeze, the taste of good food. Then he told them of the demons and their plans, and of the m
isery and horror that faced the world if those plans succeeded. He spoke of the great battle he wanted the ghostly army to fight, and they seemed to hear the shrill of bagpipes. “Soldiers of Scotland!” he called, and held out his hands to them. “Only you can help us! Will you fight one last battle?”
The pale figures stirred. A single, thin, whispered shout came from their ranks. “Dinna fret yersel’, mon! Tell us who ye want cleaved and lead us to ‘em!”
The ghosts roared their agreement in a shout like far-off waves rolling in on a seashore. Merlin bowed gravely to them. He turned and beckoned to the robot which emerged from the shadows of the cave and clanked to him through the crowd of spirits.
“Across the border in the south of England is the ring of stones known as Stonehenge,” said the wizard, sweeping over the ghosts with his eyes. “If you can fight and drive off the evil spirits that guard the stones, we will be able to secure the weapon we need to defeat the demons. We will meet you then, at Stonehenge.” He straddled the broom and helped the robot clamber onto it.
But instead of forming ranks and transporting themselves to the place of battle, the ghostly Scotsmen were whispering to one another in obvious agitation. Merlin stared at them.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked in some surprise.
It was a red-coated ghost of a soldier, who had fought at Waterloo, who answered him. “We canna go into battle wi’ no bagpipes a’playin’,” he announced in rather shocked tones.
“Aye,” whispered Bonnie Dundee. “We must have a piper.”
Merlin tugged at his beard. “Of course,” he mumbled almost to himself. “I had forgotten how important that is to you. Very well, I shall raise the spirit of a piper. Whom shall it be?”
“The MacCrimmons are the best o’ all pipers,” said Bonnie Dundee.
