Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

by Tom Holt

  My plan, then, was running smoothly. Once I had seen King Hroar safely aboard the boat, I made my own way to Bersa Island to watch the contest. I did so only out of curiosity, as I had no doubt whatsoever concerning the outcome. My researches had revealed that, for the duel, Hroar’s opponent King Hring had chosen the axe Battle-Troll, a fine weapon of the very highest quality and one with which he was most proficient. But it was no match whatsoever for a living blade. However, I had never actually seen a Viking duel, and my scientific interest was piqued. Rendering myself invisible by means of a simple Sobieski’s Glamour, I made myself comfortable and waited for the fight to begin.

  It was only when King Hring unloaded his equipment from the boat that I realised that something was badly wrong. The goatskin sack was the wrong shape for an axe; somehow, he had acquired a sword instead. Nor was it just any sword. As soon as the cover was removed, I recognised it as Tyrving, another of Weyland’s living blades.

  As the fight began, I knew intuitively that I was not the only one seeking to meddle with history that day. Furthermore, I realised, as Tyrving parried Skofnung with an ear-splitting peal of harmonics, the substitution of Tyrving for the axe could only represent a counter to my own act of interference. Someone had figured out what I’d done, and was seeking to redress the balance. Furthermore, whoever it was lacked my knowledge and insight - to a disastrous degree. It is a property of the living blade that it never gives up; once it has begun a fight, it must inevitably finish it and achieve victory, even if it means that the fight lasts a thousand years. However, the two swords, Skofnung and Tyrving, were exactly matched. Neither could overcome the other. In consequence, neither Hroar nor Hring could possibly win the fight; they would be condemned to fight it out for all time, their lives indefinitely extended, while the entire history of Canada, the New World and therefore, by implication, all humanity would be suspended - on hold, to use the modern expression - until the duel was over. In other words, thanks to the incompetent bungling of some wretched meddler, I had unwittingly brought about a temporal paradox of the greatest possible magnitude.

  I was appalled. I simply could not understand how such a thing could have happened, for the simple reason that nobody except myself could possibly have known what I had been intending to do. Naturally I had taken the very greatest precautions to ensure security, both at the time and retrospectively. In fact, there was only one possible explanation; and although it was so hopelessly improbable that the very thought revolted me, I had no alternative but to accept it. Since nobody but myself could possibly have known that King Hroar would be wielding Skofnung that day, nobody but myself could have arranged for King Hring to wield Tyrving. The criminally incompetent bungler could only be me.

  ‘Um,’ said Paul.

  The professor looked at him.

  ‘By “Um”, Mr Carpenter,’ he said, ‘you mean to imply that it would surely have been impossible for me to have made such a mistake, knowing as I quite obviously did that arming King Hring with Tyrving would not rectify my interference but would in fact turn it into an insoluble disaster.’

  Actually, that wasn’t what Paul had meant at all. What he’d been trying to express, but they didn’t make words big enough, was a subtle combination of ‘I don’t understand a word of this’ and ‘The other one’s got bells on.’ He couldn’t be bothered to explain, though.

  ‘You are,’ the professor went on, ‘essentially correct. I couldn’t have made such a crass error; not unless I had, at some point in the interim, forgotten what I’d done originally, or unless I had some reason, albeit hopelessly bizarre and far-fetched, for wanting to create a catastrophic temporal anomaly. Neither explanation, however, applies. This is the twenty-first century; if I’d forgotten something back in the eighth century, I would by now have remembered forgetting it. As to the other hypothesis, all that needs be said in that regard is that there are penalties for making disgusting messes in Time, and those penalties are rigorously, even sadistically enforced by an individual of whom even I am afraid. But—’

  I am getting (the professor said) ahead of my story. At the point when you interrupted me, I was watching the opening stages of the duel, standing open-mouthed with horror at the scenario unfolding before me. I knew that immediate action was called for. I had no viable options to pursue at that time. My only hope lay in prevarication, delay and obfuscation. Also, I panicked.

  The duel could not, I decided, be allowed to continue. Accordingly, I caught hold of the nearest combatant to me - by chance it happened to be King Hring - and dragged him with me through the Portable Door, away from the eighth century and into the twentieth.

  Even as I did it, I knew that unless I was extremely careful, this initiative could only make things worse. Both living blades, Skofnung and Tyrving, had been unlawfully cheated of their victory. Accordingly, neither sword would rest until the duel was resumed. Once that happened, the duel could never end, since neither sword could beat the other. Until the duel was resolved - not only that, resolved in the eighth century - the history of Canada would be in a state of flux, with both alternative versions existing simultaneously in real time and real space.

  The implications of these things were clearly both infinite in number and monumental in scope. Only one of them, however, commanded my immediate attention at that point. By causing the anomaly I had, as I mentioned just now, broken the most basic laws of my craft and thereby made myself liable to a most unattractive series of punishments at the hands of the only entity in all time and space that I have reason to be afraid of. Clearly, then, my first priority was my own safety. I had to run, and then I had to hide. But where?

  It was at this juncture that a mystery that had puzzled me for some time suddenly became clear.

  Just now I glossed over, in a rather facile manner, my motives for creating my synthetic universe. I suggested to you that it was mere idleness and intellectual curiosity; that it was, in essence, a good idea at the time. I had been asking myself that question for several centuries - because idleness and intellectual curiosity were by no means a sufficient reason for undertaking such a monumental task, and accordingly I was entirely unconvinced. Now, quite suddenly, I knew the answer. I had built my synthetic universe as a place of refuge in anticipation of this very crisis. Somehow I had known - retrospectively, I can only assume - that one day I would need a place where nobody, not even my deadly enemy, could reach me.

  I couldn’t help but take a certain degree of pride in the foresight that I would one day have already exhibited. It would have been helpful, I admit, if at the same time I could have transmitted to myself a warning or some simple instructions, but I realised that it would have been extremely hazardous to do so, and that I would have been and would in the future be entirely justified in having complete confidence in my own ability to figure out the chain of causalities, if need be from first principles. That I have not yet done so is no reflection on my intellect or abilities. All I need is a little more time, and perhaps one or two clues which I am certain I have left for myself, secreted in some safe place where I will be sure to find them.

  ‘Um,’ said Paul again.

  This time the professor raised his eyebrows. ‘Excuse me?’ he said

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Paul said, ‘but I still haven’t got the faintest idea what all that’s got to do with me. Or why I’m here. Or why I just saw myself beating twelve kinds of shit out of Ricky Wurmtoter with a bloody great sword. Was I not paying attention, or haven’t we got to that bit yet? And also,’ he added, as the professor opened his mouth to answer, ‘is there really a Great Cow of Heaven, or was that bit just, you know, symbolic and stuff? Because if it turns out that the universe - the real one, I mean - is really made out of yogurt, I think I’d rather go and join Mr Dao’s bridge club right now, and screw the lot of you.’

  The professor gave a long, sad sigh, plaintive as gypsy violins and rich with sincerity. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is probably just as well. Strange as it may seem, Mr Carpenter,
in one respect I envy you. There is one place where you have been and I have not. You have seen what lies beyond death. Of course, I know all there is to know about it, but only second-hand, from report and rumour carefully scrutinised and analysed using the finest protocols of scientific scholarship. You, by contrast, were little more than a tourist. But you have been there and seen it, and that is a different matter entirely. And very soon,’ he added, with an almost wistful expression, ‘you will be there again, except that this time you will not be coming back. To answer your question: there is indeed a Great Cow of Heaven. She most closely resembles a Jersey/Charolais cross, but with a faint suggestion of Hereford around the jawline and upper shoulders. And yes, I suppose that in a sense the universe is in its most basic form made up of - not yogurt precisely, but dairy products of a sort. You should not, incidentally, place too much confidence in Mr Dao when he leads two no trumps or one club. Frequently he bluffs, with unfortunate consequences for his partner. If you are ready, we may as well proceed with your termination.’

  Too many long words can make your head spin. It took Paul maybe as long as half a second to translate ‘termination’ into his kind of English, by which time the professor had pulled a pin out of the lapel of his coat and was just about to stick it into Paul’s arm.

  With a yelp like an ironed dog, Paul jumped back, or tried to. No dice: his feet stayed where they were, as though they’d been set in concrete by a very discreet gangster. The professor frowned. It was the sort of frown Paul had come across when he was a kid, and terrified of injections. This won’t hurt, the professor’s expression was telling him. Don’t be such a cry-baby. It’s for your own good. You’ll like it once you get there.

  ‘Just a fucking minute,’ he heard himself whimper. ‘What harm did I ever do you?’

  ‘I could of course explain,’ the professor replied. ‘But what would be the point? Please keep still. I have a great many things to do once I’ve finished with you, and a little cooperation would be most welcome. Nothing you can do could possibly alter the outcome, and it’s churlish to cause inconvenience for others simply for the sake of being difficult.’

  The pin. How many angels could dance on the head of it, and would any of them survive if they tried? Paul tried wriggling out of the way, but his arms and legs didn’t seem to be working. Just a pin: what possible harm could it do? The Chinese have used them for acupuncture for thousands of years. Above all, it probably wouldn’t hurt. Would it? And did he really want to waste any more time in a universe where there could possibly be such a thing as a Great Cow of Heaven? Seen from that angle, Mr Dao and his evening classes seemed positively inviting.

  Of course, he’d miss Sophie quite a lot.

  The professor jabbed at Paul with the pin. He swerved - a touch of flamenco dancing, rather more of the unexpected beetle down the back of the neck - and the point missed him by fractions of a millimetre. The professor tutted, as though he’d caught him passing notes in class. Would he be required to do a hundred lines before he was killed?

  ‘One last thing,’ he gasped (breath was being rationed, apparently). ‘What exactly is it with that needle thing? Is it poisoned, or what?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ the professor said wearily. ‘You may safely assume that it is sufficient for the job in hand.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Paul said. ‘Don’t be such a misery. Besides, I think I’ve got a right to know, especially if it’s poison. I might be allergic, or something.’

  Maybe it was simply the sheer reverse swing of the logic in that last statement. In any case, the professor hesitated, frowned. Quite possibly, after all those years associating with the finest intellects in history, he simply couldn’t cope with a mind like Paul’s. ‘Since you insist,’ he said, ‘it is not poison. Now, if you’d be so kind as to stop wriggling.’

  ‘In a second,’ Paul said firmly. ‘So, if it’s not poison, what is it?’

  The professor was starting to look downright grumpy. ‘Magic,’ he replied. ‘Really, Mr Carpenter, I must insist.’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought you said that you’re a scientist.’

  Just the tiniest patch of raw nerve, apparently. ‘I believe I have established my credentials quite adequately, Mr Carpenter. Now, unless you stop prevaricating in this blatant manner, I shall have no option but to sedate you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘How do you reckon,’ Paul said, and it took a lot of his remaining stamina, ‘on doing that? Injection? No offence, but you don’t strike me as all that hot when it comes to needle-work. ’

  The professor paused, his brow furrowed. ‘I shall cause the entire area to be flooded with anaesthetic gas,’ he said. ‘That would be a perfectly simple operation.’

  ‘Quite,’ Paul said. ‘Fine. By all means. Go ahead.’

  Ting! went the falling penny. If the professor filled the place with gas, he’d zonk himself out too. ‘Alternatively,’ he said, ‘I can conjure a rope to tie you up with.’

  ‘Bet you can’t.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr Carpenter. I can adjust the trajectory of a comet to within a sixteenth of a minute of angle. Conjuring ropes—’

  ‘Ought to be child’s play, fine. Except, I don’t think you can. Otherwise, you’d have done it already. I think you’re too, what’s the word I’m after, you’re too highly specialised. It’s like hiring a brain surgeon to pull a tooth. Admit it, you’re screwed.’

  ‘Certainly not. All I have to do,’ said the professor, as though persuading himself, ‘is wait until you fall asleep, as you inevitably must. However, since it would prolong the traumatic experience of waiting for the inevitable, I would prefer to dispense with futile attempts at resistance.’

  Paul dredged up a grin from somewhere. It was a bit soft round the edges and it had that forced air you get in old photos where the sitters have had to keep exactly still for ten minutes, but it was the best he could do. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘You’d fall asleep first.’

  ‘I most certainly would not.’

  ‘Says you.’ Paul sniggered. ‘It’s whatsisname, subliminal suggestion. The moment I started talking about you falling asleep, your eyelids suddenly started getting heavy. Any second now, you’ll be zizzing away like a buzz-saw. You want to be careful you don’t stick yourself with your own pin while you’re at it. Or are you immune to, er, magic?’

  He partnered the last word with a sort of ultra-snide sneer, with lots of top lip in it. The professor shook his head again, but this time there was rather more energy in the gesture. ‘You are playing for time by seeking to engage me in fatuous arguments and discussions, hoping that something will intervene and distract or incapacitate me. Such a strategy is doomed to failure. Your left shoelace is undone, and your television licence expires today. Let me put you out of our mutual misery, Mr Carpenter. Both of us will feel better for it.’

  There was an urgency in the professor’s voice that Paul hadn’t ever heard before; also a very reluctant admission of uncertainty, just as if God had paused in the middle of handing down the Ten Commandments to ask if Moses had the right time. He needs my permission, Paul suddenly realised, in a flash of intuition that didn’t come from anywhere inside him. He needs my permission before he can kill me.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ he said, forcing his eyelids apart. ‘Look, you may be a partner in the firm and the cleverest man who ever lived and practically immortal and who gives a shit what else, but you can’t hurt me. Not here,’ he hazarded, trying to sound as though he had the faintest idea what he was talking about. ‘Anywhere else, but not here, not unless I give in. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘No,’ the professor snapped. He was a pathetic liar.

  ‘Yes,’ Paul corrected him. ‘It’s because there’s no such thing as death here, isn’t it? That’s how come you’re nearly immortal here, and why I couldn’t bash your face in earlier when I tried. There’s no such thing as deat
h or getting hurt here, not unless—’ He hesitated. Sophie had given him the most terrific smack round the face earlier; he’d been convinced she’d cracked his jaw, because it had hurt so much. But a few minutes later it was perfectly all right again, and he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought since. All right; when Sophie had thumped him, he’d believed; therefore his mind had provided him with the pain he’d expected to feel. Then he’d got sidetracked, the purported busted jaw had slipped his mind, and now it was completely better. And if that wasn’t good enough, what about Ricky and the psychotic athlete with the uncanny resemblance to P. Carpenter? Lots of hacking and slashing with big scary swords, completely one-sided fight, but not a drop of blood anywhere. Maybe Ricky didn’t know the rules, which was why he’d been fighting back instead of just standing there sticking his tongue out while the blood-crazed loon carved him like a virtual Christmas turkey. Nevertheless. ‘Not unless,’ Paul repeated, ‘you’re dumb enough to believe you can be hurt. Like, say, if I was to give up and hold still so you could jab me with that stupid pin thing. If I really thought it could kill me, it would. But I know better, so it can’t. Right?’