by Mike Ashley
Wuntvor began to despair of ever getting any real answers out of the large fellow. He gazed down the path at the distant bridge. It certainly looked peaceful enough. Just what was this big fellow trying to warn him about? Wuntvor decided he would try to gain a definite answer one more time.
“Indeed,” he began, for there was something reassuring to Wuntvor about beginning sentences in this way, “you tell me that my doom waits on yon bridge?”
The large fellow nodded again, smiling that Wuntvor had understood his plea.
“And yet,” Wuntvor continued, “there is no way that you might explain to me what that doom is?”
The large fellow shook his head sadly.
“Doom,” he agreed.
“Why not?” Wuntvor demanded, upset with this turn of events.
The large fellow looked all around. When he was convinced they were all alone he spoke to Wuntvor in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I am here as a warning,” was all he said.
Wuntvor bit his lip so that he would not scream. After he had regained his composure, he asked:
“But can’t you at least inform me what you are warning me about?”
“Doom,” the large fellow replied sadly.
“Why?” Wuntvor demanded.
“Because that is the way fairy tales work,” the large fellow answered.
Wuntvor blinked. Fairy tales? What was this about fairy tales? The lad felt some faint memory stirring at the back of his brain. A word floated toward his consciousness. Mother. Mother what? Of course, now he remem—
“Once upon a time.” Wuntvor’s lips moved, saying words he could have sworn he never thought. “Once upon a time.”
He shook his head violently and stared at the large man again. “Can you tell me nothing about the bridge?”
“Doom,” the immense fellow pondered. “Perhaps I can ask you a question or two. Would you by any chance have a good deal of gold?”
At last! Wuntvor thought, I shall get some information.
“No,” he answered. “I am but a penniless traveller, out to seek my fortune in the world.”
“Doom,” the other responded. “Still, all is not yet lost. Are you good at riddles?”
What was this large fellow talking about? “Riddles?” Wuntvor demanded. “What do riddles have to do with anything?”
“Doom,” the immense one replied, nodding to himself as if he had confirmed something he’d known all along. “I suggest you turn around and go the other way, unless you fancy yourself as troll fodder.”
And with that, the large fellow turned and disappeared behind a sizeable hedge.
“Indeed,” Wuntvor mumbled to no one in particular. Somehow, he did not feel he had gained much information at all.
But after a moment’s thought, Wuntvor decided to go to the bridge anyway. After all, hadn’t he left his native land to seek adventure? He had the feeling that this bridge he was approaching, as small and innocent-looking as it was, might contain so much adventure that he could return home immediately after crossing it.
He was not a dozen paces from the bridge when he heard a voice.
“Ho, young traveller!
We have advice:
If you want to cross,
You will pay a price.”
And with that, a horrible creature leaped from beneath the bridge and landed less than a dozen paces away from the startled Wuntvor. The creature’s skin was a bright shade of yellowish green, but that was nowhere near as startling as the horrible fact that it wore clothing filled with purple and green checks, not to mention that it held a brown, smoking thing between its teeth.
The creature removed the brown, smoking thing (which was quite foul-smelling besides) from between its jaws, and spoke again.
“Now that you’re here
You won’t get old,
Unless you give
This troll some gold.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor replied. So this, at last, was what he was being warned about. Wuntvor thought, somehow, that he should feel more cheered by finally learning the truth. The truth, though, left something to be desired.
The hideously garbed creature smiled with even more teeth than a creature like that should have, and sauntered toward the lad. Wuntvor decided that what he mostly wished at this precise moment was that the large fellow he had so recently spoken with had been more specific in his details of the danger’s exact nature, so that Wuntvor might be currently pursuing his adventures in an entirely different location from where he was at present.
The creature pointed at Wuntvor. More specifically, its sharp yellow claws pointed at Wuntvor’s belt as it spoke again.
“Gold need not be
My only reward,
I’ll take instead
Your meagre sword!”
Wuntvor looked down at his belt. He had a sword? It came as a total surprise to him. Shouldn’t a person remember if he was wearing a sword?
Well, he reasoned, as long as he had a sword, he might as well defend himself.
“What are you doing?” the sword screamed as Wuntvor yanked it from the scabbard.
The sword spoke! Wuntvor almost dropped the weapon. He definitely should have remembered a sword that could talk. The lad frowned. Something, he thought, is not as it seems.
“I would like an answer,” the sword insisted. “As your personal weapon, I think it’s the least I deserve.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor responded, wishing to grant the magic sword’s wishes. “I was merely drawing you forth to slay yon horrible creature.”
“Merely?” the sword began, but whatever it had to say next was lost beneath the creature’s new rhyme.
“Ho, young traveller,
Your valour growing.
Sad to say,
I must be going.”
And with that, the garishly garbed creature dived under the bridge.
“Merely?” the enchanted blade repeated.
Wuntvor glared at the sword. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Is that a trick question?” the sword responded, a suspicious edge to its voice.
“Nay,” Wuntvor insisted, although he doubted, under the circumstances, that he would know a trick question even if he spoke it. “I fear I am under a spell of forgetfulness, and hoped that a magic sword might know the truth.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” The sword brightened perceptibly. Wuntvor had to shield his eyes not to be blinded by the glow.
“That’s exactly what we magic swords are for,” the blade continued. “My name is Cuthbert, and I’m a first-class example of sorcerous weaponry. What else do you need to know? Your name is Wuntvor. You do remember that? Good. Do you recall that you are on a quest for your master – Hey!”
The sword screamed as it fell from Wuntvor’s hand, which had gone suddenly numb. But the lad had no more thought for his discarded weapon. All he could think of were the words upon his lips.
“Once upon a time,” he said. “Once upon a time.”
And, as if in answer, he heard a second voice come from beneath the bridge.
“Ho, young traveller,
No need to fiddle!
You’ll simply die
If you miss this riddle.”
And with that a second creature leaped onto the path, less than a dozen paces from Wuntvor, who was nowhere near as startled this time, having come somewhat to expect such occurrences. The second monster was a bit different from the first, a tad shorter and more of a putrid grey-green in colour. Its clothing was more conservative as well, as it wore dark, almost monastic-looking robes that ballooned around its short body in great folds.
“Riddle?” Wuntvor inquired. This must be the second thing the large fellow had warned him about. A riddle that, according to this creature, he could simply die from. Wuntvor suspected the creature was not speaking metaphorically.
The sickly green thing smiled broadly and pulled a piece of parchment from beneath its robes. It read in a clear, high, annoying voic
e:
“With this riddle,
The seeds are sowed:
Why did the chicken
Cross the road?”
The monster licked its chops, obviously intending a quick and tasty meal. The lad had a difficult time even thinking about the riddle.
Wait a second. Wuntvor stared hard at the riddling horror. A chicken crossing the road? That wasn’t difficult at all. His aged grandmother had told him the answer to that one a thousand times.
“To get to the other side!” Wuntvor shouted triumphantly.
“Get to the other side?” the green thing mused. “Well, I suppose that’s possible. Just a moment.” The creature reached within its voluminous robes and pulled forth a sheaf of parchment.
“No, no, I’m afraid the answer is as follows—” It cleared its throat and announced portentously:
“A newspaper.”
What? Wuntvor thought. What was a newspaper?
“It is not!” the lad insisted angrily. “Everyone knows that chickens cross the road to get to the other side!”
The creature shook its head sadly, reaching within its robes with its free hand to draw out a knife and fork. “Perhaps that sort of thing happens wherever you come from,” it answered as it scanned the sheaf of parchments. “I do remember seeing that answer somewhere. Ah, here it is: ‘To get to the other side.’ I’m afraid though, that it’s the answer to another riddle entirely. Uh – here it is – ‘What’s black and white and read all over?’”
“What’s black and white and red all over?” Wuntvor repeated.
The creature nodded triumphantly. “To get to the other side!” It paused, waiting for some sign of recognition from the traveller. “You see now, don’t you?” it prompted at last. “You see, because it’s black and white and read, it has to cross—” The thing paused and stared for a moment at the parchment. “Well, perhaps it is a little difficult to explain. It has to be correct, though. I assure you, Mother Duck uses nothing but the very latest equipment. So there’s no chance for a mistake.” The thing blinked, as if it couldn’t quite believe what it was saying. “Well, not that much of a chance.”
Mother Duck? The lad frowned. Where had he heard that name before? And why did he have an almost uncontrollable urge to say “Once upon a time?”
“Other side?” the thing said, more to itself than to Wuntvor. “What kind of stupid—” The creature stopped itself and, after a moment, coughed discreetly. “Well, perhaps, in the very slight chance there was an error, we should give you another opportunity. It’s your life at stake, after all.” The green thing riffled through the pile of parchment. “Oh, here’s the old chestnut about four legs, two legs, three legs. She’s got to be kidding. There must be something with a little more verve than that.” The creature turned the page. “Let’s try this one.”
The monster cleared its throat and spoke in a loud, even more annoying voice: “How many elephants can you get into a Volkswagen?”
It paused, staring at the parchment in disbelief. “Where did she get these questions, anyway?” The creature flipped another page, frowning as it quickly read the text. “Let’s see. I don’t suppose you have any idea what a – ‘light bulb’ is? I thought as much.”
The thing crumpled the parchment in its green claws. “I’m sorry, this is ridiculous. What am I doing in a stupid fairy tale, anyway?”
Fairy tale? Wuntvor remembered the Brownie. And that woman the thing had mentioned. What was her name? Mother something. It was on the tip of his tongue. Mother—
He had it!
“Once upon a time!” Wuntvor cried in triumph. Wait a second. That wasn’t the point he was going to make. Was it?
“Once upon a time,” he said again for good measure.
And again, as if in answer, a third voice, far gruffer than either of those that spoke before, came from beneath the bridge.
“Ho, young traveller,
Not yet beaten;
Prepare yourself now
To be ea—”
But instead of completing the rhyme, the third creature began to sneeze.
“Are you just going to leave me here?” the sword demanded.
The sword? The sword! He looked down to where he had dropped it. Somehow, Wuntvor had forgotten all about the magic weapon again.
“Yeah!” the green thing shouted at Wuntvor. “And just what are we doing in this stupid fairy tale when we’re supposed to be on a quest?”
A small brown fellow appeared by the lad’s foot. ‘I couldn’t agree more! Fairy tales! Just think how much better it would be if it were a Brownie tale!”
The green thing had recoiled at the very sight of the little fellow. “Don’t ever agree with me!” he shouted, then looked back to Wuntvor. “There are simply certain things I cannot cope with.”
“I suppose I’m just going to lay in the dust for ever,” the sword moaned, “left here to rust, forgotten by my owner—”
The checkered monster was suddenly in their midst. “Are you tired of your lot in life, enchanted sword? Well, come with me, and I’ll offer you foreign sights, adventure—”
“It’s ruined! It’s ruined!” a woman’s voice called from somewhere far up the hill.
Wait a second, Wuntvor thought.
There was something about all this chaos that was disturbingly familiar. He looked around and remembered that the robed creature was Snarks, a demon who was forced to speak nothing but the truth, no matter how unpleasant that truth might be. And there, in his checkered suit, was Brax the traveling Salesdemon, purveyor of previously owned enchanted weapons, “Every one a Creampuff!” And the sword was Cuthbert, a weapon that was unfortunately a bit of a coward. And he had seen Tap the Brownie during his last fairy tale.
His last fairy tale?
That’s right! He was a prisoner of Mother Duck, who was currently storming down the hill toward them, pursued by a hairy fellow who looked rather like a wolf standing on his hind legs, sporting a green cap. Hadn’t he seen this fellow before somewhere, too? Wuntvor shook his head and wondered what else he didn’t remember.
THE BLACKBIRD
Jack Sharkey
Since the death of Jack Sharkey in 1992 his work has become all but forgotten, which is a great shame as he was a gifted writer, especially of short stories. In fact, he spent the last twenty or so years of his life working in the theatre, writing over eighty stage plays and musicals, so his output of fiction was curtailed. So far as I know, none of his short stories has been collected into book form, so here is another rare and forgotten treat.
THE Turk, true to traditions established by writers of Arabian adventure stories, was a giant. The villagers of East Anchorville – named from its geographic relation to the larger town of Anchorville – were sure from the moment he’d first appeared in town that no good would come of it. No one would admit to being actually afraid of him, but everyone was of the mind that caution was the prime consideration when dealing with him. So it was only natural that, when the horrors began, all minds should arrow like iron filings to the magnet of the Turk’s mysterious nature.
The horrors began in the autumn, when the dry leaves clogged the irrigation ditches of the hinterlands, and cold grey dust sifted underfoot on the nubbly dirt roads about the town, and nightfall was an occurrence to be watched from inside one’s home, with door bolted and fireplace glowing with burning logs.
Harriet Cord, the belle of the village (and bane of the womenfolk) had gone out for a buggy ride with Marvin Sply, son of the late village blacksmith, toward sundown. Old folks in the town could be seen to purse their lips and cluck their tongues as the couple clattered out of town on Marvin’s buckboard, an heirloom from his father, Marvin with one hand on the horse’s reins and the other quite definitely on Harriet.
Two hours later, Marvin had come back into town alone, his eyes wild, clothing awry, and lips spouting a dreadful tale. The rattle of the buckboard entering the main street with the horse at full frantic gallop had brought out a cu
rious crowd, including the town sheriff, who, on hearing Marvin’s hysterical tale, had turned at once into Grogan’s Saloon to round up some help, and was seen no more that night.
Villagers, men and women alike, had gotten aboard wagons, horses, and into the few automobiles the town boasted, and taken off for the scene of the crime, for such they were already convinced it was.
It was a terrible sight that met their eyes.
Harriet lay by the side of the road, stone-cold dead, her face for ever frozen into a bewildered sneer. There was not a mark upon the body, but clutched in the left hand they found a single black feather, large and shiny . . .
The coroner’s verdict was, “Death of an unknown and mysterious nature, at the hands of person or persons unknown.”
Suspicion immediately fastened upon the Turk.
His landlady, who “ran a respectable place,” was of a mind to put him out at once. Mrs Balsam didn’t want “no truck with monsters” in her boarding house. But she somehow felt that walking up the three flights to his attic room alone was not the easiest of tasks, and could find no one to accompany her upstairs – her husband suddenly decided to mow the lawn although the grass was yellowed and sere, and “didn’t ask to have that fellow room there in the first place” – so she thought she’d bide her time and wait.
Thelma Bracy, her next-door neighbour, was of the opinion that Mrs Balsam should dope his food and call the police to take him, and it was then for the first time that the odd fact came to light that the Turk had never taken a meal in Mrs Balsam’s establishment, though dinner and supper were included with the room rates. Within an hour after Thelma heard this bit of information, the word was out all over town, and the even more amazing fact came to light that no person in the town had ever seen the Turk take a meal, anywhere.
The sheriff (who had eventually arrested Marvin Sply for want of any other suspects) was informed of this turn of events at once. Or, rather, as soon as he was located, in Grogan’s Saloon. And he informed Mrs Balsam that the best thing to do under the “circumstances” – the Turk was seven feet tall and about 250 pounds – was to wait and watch.
Marvin, when he awoke the next morning in his cell at the East Anchorville jail, had demanded that he be let out at once, denying any knowledge of the means or motive of Harriet’s death. His story was that they’d taken a stroll across a field, and it had grown too dark for Harriet to navigate the field back to the buckboard without turning a well-turned ankle, so Marvin had cut across to the other side of the field after their transportation, and driven the buckboard back to where she should have been standing. He’d at first thought she’d gone, till he espied a pale white hand upon the edge of the roadside ditch, and, on investigating the hand, located Harriet on the other end of it.
