Lyonesse

by Jack Vance

  Grofinet next gave himself to the study of the Egyptian pyramids. "They are extraordinarily fine and a credit to the pharaohs!" declared Grofinet.

  "Exactly so."

  On the next morning Grofinet spoke farther on the subject. "These mighty monuments are fascinating in their simplicity."

  "True."

  "I wonder what might be their scope?"

  Shimrod shrugged. "A hundred yards to the side, more or less, or so I suppose."

  Later Shimrod observed Grofinet pacing out dimensions along Lally Meadow. He called out: "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing of consequence."

  "I hope you are not planning to build a pyramid! It would block the sunlight!"

  Grofinet paused in his pacing. "Perhaps you are right." He reluctantly suspended his plans, but quickly discovered a new interest. During the evening Shimrod came into the parlor to light the lamps. Grofinet stepped from the shadows. "Now then, Sir Shimrod, did you see me as you passed?"

  Shimrod's mind had been elsewhere, and Grofinet had stood somewhat back past his range of vision. "For a fact," said Shimrod, I utterly failed to see you."

  "In that case," said Grofinet, "I have learned the technique of invisibility!"

  "Wonderful! What is your secret?"

  "I use the force of sheer will to put myself beyond perception!"

  "I must learn this method."

  "Intellectual thrust, pure and simple, is the key," said Grofinet, and added the warning: "If you fail, don't be disappointed. It is a difficult feat."

  "We shall see."

  The following day Grofinet experimented with his new sleight. Shimrod would call: "Grofinet! Where are you? Have you gone invisible again?" Whereupon Grofinet would step from a corner of the room in triumph.

  One day Grofinet suspended himself from the ceiling beams of the workroom, on a pair of straps, to hang as if in a hammock. Shimrod, upon entering the room, might have noticed nothing, except that Grofinet had neglected to put up his tail, which dangled into the middle of the room, terminating in a tuft of tawny fur.

  Grofinet at last decided to put by all his previous ambitions and to become a magician in earnest. To this end he frequented the workroom, to watch Shimrod at his manipulations. He was, however, intensely afraid of fire; whenever Shimrod, for one reason or another, excited a tongue of flame, Grofinet bounded from the room in a panic, and at last put by his plans to become a magician.

  Midsummer's Eve drew near. Coincidentally a series of vivid dreams came to disturb Shimrod's sleep. The landscape was always the same: a terrace of white stone overlooking a beach of white sand and a calm blue sea beyond. A marble balustrade enclosed the terrace, and low surf broke into foam along the beach.

  In the first dream Shimrod leaned on the balustrade, idly surveying the sea. Along the beach came walking a dark-haired maiden, in a sleeveless smock of a soft gray-brown cloth. As she approached, Shimrod saw that she was slender and an inch or so taller than medium stature. Black hair, caught in a twist of dark red twine, hung almost to her shoulders. Her arms and bare feet were graceful; her skin was a pale olive. Shimrod thought her exquisitely beautiful, with an added quality which included both mystery and a kind of provocation that, rather than overt, was implicit in her very existence. As she passed, she turned Shimrod a somber half-smile, neither inviting nor forbidding, then went along the beach and out of sight. Shimrod stirred in his sleep and awoke.

  The second dream was the same, except that Shimrod called to the maiden and invited her to the terrace; she hesitated, smilingly shook her head and passed on.

  On the third night, she halted and spoke: "Why do you call me, Shimrod?"

  "I want you to stop, and at least talk with me."

  The maiden demurred. "I think not. I know very little of men, and I am frightened, for I feel a strange impulse when I pass by."

  On the fourth night, the maiden of the dream paused, hesitated, then slowly approached the terrace. Shimrod stepped down to meet her, but she halted and Shimrod found that he could approach her no more closely, which in the context of the dream seemed not unnatural. He asked: "Today will you speak to me?"

  "I know of nothing to tell you."

  "Why do you walk the beach?"

  "Because it pleases me."

  "Whence do you come and where do you go?"

  "I am a creature of your dreams; I walk in and out of thought."

  "Dream-thing or not, come closer and stay with me. Since the dream is mine, you must obey."

  "That is not the nature of dreams." As she turned away, she looked over her shoulder, and when at last Shimrod awoke, he remembered the exact quality of her expression. Enchantment! But to what purpose?

  Shimrod walked out on the meadow, considering the situation from every conceivable aspect. A sweet enticement was being laid upon him by subtle means, and no doubt to his eventual disadvantage. Who might work such a spell? Shimrod cast among the persons known to him, but none would seem to have reason to beguile him with so strangely beautiful a maiden.

  He returned to the workroom and tried to cast a portent, but the necessary detachment failed him and the portent broke into a spatter of discordant colors.

  He sat late in the workroom that night while a cool dark wind sighed through the trees at the back of the manse. The prospect of sleep brought him both misgivings and an uneasy tingle of anticipation which he tried to quell, but which persisted nevertheless. "Very well then," Shimrod told himself in a surge of bravado, "let us face up to the matter and discover where it leads."

  He took himself to his couch. Sleep was slow in coming; for hours he twitched through a troubled doze, sensitive to every fancy which chose to look into his mind. At last he slept.

  The dream came presently. Shimrod stood on the terrace; along the beach came the maiden, bare-armed and bare-footed, her black hair blowing in the sea-wind. She approached without haste. Shimrod waited imperturbably, leaning on the balustrade. To show impatience was poor policy, even in a dream. The maiden drew near; Shimrod descended the wide marble stairs.

  The wind died, and also the surf; the dark-haired maiden halted and stood waiting. Shimrod moved closer and a waft of perfume reached him: the odor of violets. The two stood only a yard apart; he might have touched her.

  She looked into his face, smiling her pensive half-smile. She spoke. "Shimrod, I may visit you no more."

  "What is to stay you?"

  "My time is short. I must go to a place behind the star Ach-ernar."

  "Is this of your own will where you would go?"

  "I am enchanted."

  "Tell me how to break the enchantment!"

  The maiden seemed to hesitate. "Not here."

  "Where then?"

  "I will go to the Goblins Fair; will you meet me there?"

  "Yes! Tell me of the enchantment so that I may fix the counter-spell."

  The maiden moved slowly away. "At the Goblins Fair." With a single backward glance she departed.

  Shimrod thoughtfully watched her retreating form... From behind him came a roaring sound, as of many voices raised in fury. He felt the thud of heavy footsteps, and stood paralyzed, unable to move or look over his shoulder.

  He awoke on his couch at Trilda, heart pumping and throat tight. The time was the darkest hour of the night, long before dawn could even be imagined. The fire had guttered low in the fireplace. All to be seen of Grofinet, softly snoring in his deep cushion was a foot and a lank tail.

  Shimrod built up the fire and returned to his couch. He lay listening to sounds of the night. From across the meadow came a sad sweet whistle, of a bird awakened, perhaps by an owl.

  Shimrod closed his eyes and so slept the remainder of the night.

  The time of the Goblins Fair was close at hand. Shimrod packed all his magical apparatus, books, librams, philtres and operators into a case, upon which he worked a spell of obfuscation, so that the case was first shrunk, then turned in from out seven times to the terms of a secret sequence, so a
s finally to resemble a heavy black brick which Shimrod hid under the hearth.

  Grofinet watched from the doorway in total perplexity. "Why do you do all this?"

  "Because I must leave Trilda for a short period, and thieves will not steal what they cannot find."

  Grofinet pondered the remark, his tail twitching first this way then that, in synchrony with his thoughts. "This, of course, is a prudent act. Still, while I am on guard, no thief would dare so much as to look in this direction."

  "No doubt," said Shimrod, "but with double precautions our property is doubly safe."

  Grofinet, had no more to say, and went outside to survey the meadow. Shimrod took occasion to effect a third precaution and installed a House Eye high in the shadows where it might survey household events.

  Shimrod packed a small knapsack and went to issue final instructions to Grofinet, who lay dozing in the sunlight. "Grofinet, a last word!"

  Grofinet raised his head. "Speak; I am alert."

  "1 am going to the Goblins Fair. You are now in charge of security and discipline. No creature wild or otherwise is to be invited inside. Pay no heed to flattery or soft words. Inform one and all that this is the manse Trilda, where no one is allowed."

  "I understand, in every detail," declared Grofinet. "My vision is keen; I have the fortitude of a lion. Not so much as a flea shall enter the house."

  "Precisely correct. I am on my way."

  "Farewell, Shimrod! Trilda is secure!"

  Shimrod set off into the forest. Once beyond Grofinet's range of vision, he brought four white feathers from his pouch and fixed them to his boots. He sang out: "Feather boots, be faithful to my needs; take me where I will."

  The feathers fluttered to lift Shimrod and slide him away through the forest, under oaks pierced by shafts of sunlight. Celandine, violets, harebells grew in the shade; the clearings were bright with buttercups, cowslips and red poppies.

  Miles went by. He passed fairy shees: Black Aster, Catterlein, Feair Foiry and Shadow Thawn, seat of Rhodion, king of all fairies. He passed goblin houses, under the heavy roots of oak trees, and the ruins once occupied by the ogre Fidaugh. When Shimrod paused to drink from a spring, a soft voice called his name from behind a tree. "Shimrod, Shimrod, where are you bound?"

  "Along the path and beyond," said Shimrod and started along the way. The soft voice came after him: "Alas, Shimrod, that you did not stay your steps, if only for a moment, perhaps to alter events to come!"

  Shimrod made no reply, nor paused, on the theory that anything offered in the Forest of Tantrevalles must command an exorbitant price. The voice faded to a murmur and was gone.

  He presently joined the Great North Road, an avenue only a trifle wider than the first, and bounded north at speed.

  He paused to drink water where an outcrop of gray rock rose beside the way, and low green bushes laden with dark red riddleberries, from which fairies pressed their wine, were shaded by twisted black cypresses, growing in cracks and crevices. Shimrod reached to pick the berries, but, noting a flutter of filmy garments, he thought better of such boldness and turned back to the way, only to be pelted with a handful of berries. Shimrod ignored the impudence, as well as the trills and titters which followed.

  The sun sank low and Shimrod entered a region of low rocks and outcrops, where the trees grew gnarled and contorted and the sunlight seemed the color of dilute blood, while the shadows were smears of dark blue. Nothing moved, no wind stirred the leaves; yet this strange territory was surely perilous and had best be put behind before nightfall; Shimrod ran north at great speed.

  The sun dropped past the horizon; mournful colors filled the sky. Shimrod climbed to the top of a stony mound. He placed down a small box, which expanded to the dimensions of a hut. Shimrod entered, closed and barred the door, ate from the larder, then reclined on the couch and slept. He awoke during the night and for half an hour watched processions of small red and blue lights moving across the forest floor, then returned to his couch.

  An hour later his rest was disturbed by the cautious scrape of fingers, or claws: first along the wall; then at his door, pushing and prying; then at the panes of the window. Then the hut thudded as the creature leapt to the roof.

  Shimrod set the lamp aglow, drew his sword and waited.

  A moment passed.

  Down the chimney reached a long arm, the Color of putty. The fingers, tipped with little pads like the toes of a frog, reached into the room. Shimrod struck with his sword, severing the hand at the wrist. The stump oozed black-green blood; from the roof came a moan of dismal distress. The creature fell to the ground and once again there was silence.

  Shimrod examined the severed member. Rings decorated the four fingers; the thumb wore a heavy silver ring with a turquoise cabochon. An inscription mysterious to Shimrod encircled the stone. Magic? Whatever its nature, it had failed to protect the hand.

  Shimrod cut loose the rings, washed them well, tucked them into his pouch and returned to sleep.

  In the morning Shimrod reduced the hut and proceeded along the trail, which stopped short on the banks of the River Tway; Shimrod crossed at a single bound. The trail continued beside the river, which at intervals widened into placid ponds reflecting weeping willows and reeds. Then the river swerved south and the trail once more north.

  Two hours into the afternoon he arrived at the iron post which marked that intersection known as Twitten's Corner. A sign, The Laughing Sun and The Crying Moon hung at the door of a long low inn, constructed of rough-hewn timber. Directly below the sign a heavy door bound with iron clasps opened into the common-room of the inn.

  Entering, Shimrod saw tables and benches to the left side, a counter to the right. Here worked a tall narrow-faced youth with white hair and silver eyes, and—so Shimrod surmised—a proportion of halfling blood in his veins.

  Shimrod approached the counter. The youth came to serve him. "Sir?"

  "I wish accommodation, if such is available."

  "I believe that we are full, sir, owing to the fair; but you had best ask of Hockshank the innkeeper. I am the pot-boy and lack all authority."

  "Be so good, then, as to summon Hockshank."

  A voice spoke: "Who pronounces my name?"

  From the kitchen came a man of heavy shoulders, short legs and no perceptible neck. Thick hair with much the look of old thatch covered the dome of his head; golden eyes and pointed ears again indicated halfling blood.

  Shimrod responded: "I spoke your name, sir. I wish accommodation, but I understand that you may be full."

  "That is more or less true. Usually I can supply all grades of accommodation, at varying prices, but now the choice is limited. What did you have in mind?"

  "I would hope for a chamber clean and airy, without insect population, a comfortable bed, good food and low to moderate rates."

  Hockshank rubbed his chin. "This morning one of my guests was stung by a brass-horned natrid. He became uneasy and ran off down the West Road without settling his account. I can offer you his chamber, along with good food, at moderate cost. Or you may share a stall with the natrid for a lesser sum."

  "I prefer the room," said Shimrod.

  "That would be my own choice," said Hockshank. "This way, then." He led Shimrod to a chamber which Shimrod found adequate to his needs.

  Hockshank said, "You speak with a good voice and carry yourself like a gentleman; still, I detect about you the odor of magic."

  "It emanates, perhaps, from these rings."

  "Interesting!" said Hockshank. "For such rings I will trade you a high-spirited black unicorn. Some say that only a virgin may ride this creature, but never believe it. What does a unicorn care about chastity? Even were he so nice, how would he make his findings? Would maidens be apt to display the evidence so readily? I think not. We may dismiss the concept as an engaging fable, but no more."

  "In any case, I need no unicorn."

  Hockshank, disappointed, took his departure. "

  Shimrod shortly retu
rned to the common-room, where He took a leisurely supper. Other visitors to the Goblins Fair sat in small groups discussing their wares and transacting business. Little conviviality was evident; there was no hearty tossing back of beer, nor jests called across the room. Rather, the patrons bent low over their tables muttering and whispering, with suspicious glances darted to the side. Heads jerked back in outrage; eyeballs rolled toward the ceiling. There were quivering fists, sudden indrawn breaths, sibilant exclamations at prices considered excessive. These were dealers in amulets, talismans, effectuaries, curios and oddments, of value real or purported. Two wore the blue and white striped robes of Mauretania, another the coarse tunic of Ireland. Several used the flat accents of Ar-morica and one golden-haired man with blue eyes and blunt features might have been a Lombard or an Eastern Goth. A certain number displayed the signals of halfling blood: pointed ears, eyes of odd color, extra fingers. Few women were present, and none resembled the maiden Shimrod had come to meet.

  Shimrod finished his supper, then went to his chamber where he slept undisturbed the night through.

  In the morning Shimrod breakfasted upon apricots, bread and bacon, then sauntered without haste to the meadow behind the inn, which was already enclosed within a ring of booths.

  For an hour Shimrod strolled here and there, then seated himself on a bench between a cage of beautiful young hobgoblins with green wings, and a vendor of aphrodisiacs.

  The day passed without notable event; Shimrod returned to the inn.

  The next day also was spent in vain, though the fair had reached its peak of activity. Shimrod waited without impatience; by the very nature of such affairs, the maiden would delay her appearance until Shimrod's restlessness had eroded his prudence—if indeed she elected to appear at all.