Swarming Disenchantments
Bruce Hesselbach
“And how was your journey?” asked the Abbess. For a moment the squire was unsure whether or not this was a propitious time to voice his grievances, but he thought better of it, and merely commented on the gorgeous views that the Abbey commanded from its heights of the vast Mummelsee below. After dinner will be better, the squire supposed. We don’t want to spoil anyone’s digestion.
“When I first heard that you were representing the Kennaquhair in this region, I was naturally quite surprised,” the Abbess admitted, trying to be tactful. He was not up to her expectations. A short man in his forties, with a large protruding belly, and a rather elfin expression framed by a brown beard, Gloigin Ffargameg seemed too, well, too earthly for her liking. He reminded her of a bartender or an innkeeper more than a wealthy squire.
“I could say the same thing myself,” Gloigin added, trying to force a smile. This was not his picture of what an Abbess should be. Elliville Dnalland was short and very thin, with three times the amount of hair on her head that one would expect for one her size. Her vast quantities of seemingly windblown, uncombed red hair made her seem more a child of the forest than a woman of the cloth. She had a large nose, somewhat shaped like an arrow pointing downwards, and her complexion was very pale, offsetting brilliant blue eyes. When she spoke, her voice reminded him of a tinkling bell, more like that of a teenager than a responsible woman of 40 or so.
Originally, the planet of Yxongo was designed by the Kennaquhair’s predecessors as a living museum of cultures, animals and plants that had existed in the past on other worlds. The secret society of the Kennaquhair continued to refine and perfect this treasured planet, but in so doing they usually tried to keep from getting in each other’s way.
“I suppose that, given two people working on this area for the Kennaquhair, we ought to be able to finalize things pretty quick,” Gloigin said. “I mean, the region doesn’t need all that much work.”
Elliville raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said. “The region is scenic and beautiful, but that doesn’t mean we can’t improve on it and make it better.”
Fearing that he might be heading into dangerous waters, Gloigin changed the subject. “How much have you told the nuns about your mission here? Do they know about the Kennaquhair?”
She smiled. “Oh yes, I have told them and they are a great help to me. I can’t speak too highly of their spirituality, their love, their learning, their enthusiasm. They understand that the general populace cannot be informed about the Kennaquhair, because it would create all sorts of disruptions to our valuable work. They think of us as being a species of angels, but of course we know that’s totally wrong. It’s just the best way they can cope with our abilities and our beneficent intentions. And how about you?”
“My retainers all know and they are as loyal as can be. They are practical men, and their common sense can be very helpful in seeing what will work and what won’t.”
“Quite.”
Dinner was actually better than Gloigin expected. They started with chamomile tea with barley cakes and honey, followed by a salad including fenugreek, endives, mushrooms and olives. The main course was salmon with lemon, hazelnuts and yams. They had milk, tea, or water to drink with it.
After dinner, the nuns entertained them by playing the lute and singing. Elliville had composed a poem, and the nuns put it to music and sang it for their guest.
My heart is like a sturdy tower
Above a windy sea
Where blazing sun and driving shower
Attack and buffet me,
But joys or sorrows lack the power
To quell my constancy.
The yellow moss like old age clings
Upon my rocky side.
Alike I gaze on clowns and kings
In failure or in pride.
The waves are full of echoings;
The moon melts in the tide.
The only certainty is love,
The vines sing in the sand.
We don't know what the stars above
Or fortune may command.
The only certainty is love
Above a windy land.
After some further entertainments, the nuns retired and Gloigin felt that the time was ripe for him to broach the purpose of his visit.
“Abbess,” he began, “I hope we will be able to work together, but there is one matter that has caused me some concern which I would like to discuss with you.”
She gazed on him with big, blue innocent eyes and it was hard for him to be as angry with her as he otherwise might be.
“As you may be aware, there is a traditional game in these parts known as gwithslog. I myself have become quite a devotee of this game. Originally it was played on a new-mown hayfield and was a wonderfully relaxing entertainment. But you changed all that.”
“I know,” she said. “I made it better.”
“Now,” he continued, “instead of playing it on a nice, small level field, you changed the public conception of this game and everyone thinks that you have to play it in the forest, over hill and dale, through raging streams and cataracts, on glowering cliffsides, along windswept coasts. You’ve turned it from a mild pastime after a busy day into a, a strenuous, a... a... into an epic, if you catch my drift.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Elliville said.
“And then there is the matter of the tobacco field near Crimp Harbor which was overrun by unicorns,” Gloigin continued.
“A noxious weed. You should be glad it was eradicated.”
“It’s a matter of sociability. Some little vices now and then are pleasant enough....” He could see that Elliville was not buying it. He decided to give it one more try.
“And then,” he said, raising his index finger in the air significantly, “there was the inn at Bottelaria, which was totally destroyed by a slide from a nearby mountain.”
“How can you complain about that? No one was killed, and the inn was blocking a scenic view.”
“Blocking a scenic view? Why, the inn was the most scenic part of the view. In fact, it’s a well-known proverb that the most magnificent view in the world is greatly improved by a large comfortable inn in the foreground. That inn was a home away from home, a place for fellowship, a refuge...”
Gloigin’s voice trailed off as he saw he was not going to get anywhere. Inwardly, he felt that he was being belittled. He fumed and had a strong urge to lose his temper. However, what could he do? He was at a loss. Squires don’t command Abbesses, nor does one Kennaquhair command another. But he would not take this lying down, oh no! If his visit was a failure, at least he knew what he was up against, and he would fight back.
Actions speak louder than words, and he would show her a thing or two.
Two months later it was Elliville’s turn to visit Gloigin’s manor, and this time it was she who had a grievance, or, more accurately, a litany of grievances. She came with four yeomen and two nuns, but the squire’s large, sprawling manorhouse had plenty of room for all of them, and the table in his dining hall could seat twenty with ease.
Looking around at the walls, Elliville noticed with much disapproval the trophies of a moose, boar, elk, and stag. No attempt was made to keep the gurdlehounds away from the dining area. To the contrary, their function seemed to be that of an all-purpose trash receptacle. Gloigin’s table groaned with hearty fare. His men brought out helpings of venison stew as well as ham, devilled eggs, sausages, with mounds of potatoes and many loaves of bread and bowls of butter and cheese, all to be washed down with tankards of beer and whisky. Water was not to be found among the offerings set out.
For entertainment, four of Gloigin’s retainers sang a few traditional songs a cappella, including a poem that Gloigin had composed, which they set to music and which went like this:
But maybe all the birds that sing
Don’t know much about anything.
Maybe their happy morning chirps
Are like the noises made by twerps.
The snow’s still standing three feet deep
And yet these winged ones chirp and cheep.
Where do they find their food or nests?
Is this a time for fragile guests?
If instinct is a kind of trust,
The birds have faith, and even lust,
Despite the winter’s fluctuations.
They’re here in joyful congregations.
This winter’s left me sorely battered.
From shoveling snow, my pants are splattered.
How come in winter’s stagnancy
These little ones exude such glee?
Perhaps if I could fly aloft
This crusty earth might shimmer soft.
My fellow birds would persevere
To change the face that’s now austere.
Perhaps my heart could sing a bit
If I’d escape this snowy grit
And change my thoughts of frozen dregs
For life and love and laying eggs.
After some congratulations and thanks to the singers, most of the retainers retired to a separate room to play cards. The Abbess took Gloigin aside, ostensibly to view a large hunting tapestry, but really to speak to him privately.
“I’m sure you know by now,” she began, “this summer has been a perfect nightmare!” She trembled as she spoke.
The squire had a twinkle in his eye. “Really?” he said.
“I had the most charming well in Lledlwm,” she continued in an angry whisper. “When people would look in it, they would see airy castles, palaces, exotic cities, pagodas, and other wonders. But you, you, you,” she said, choking. “You had some horrible vulgar old washerwoman wash her dirty linen in it!”
Gloigin bit the side of his lip and said nothing.
“You disenchanted my well! Now you can’t see anything in it. It’s that hideous old woman who did it.”
“That would be Old Fustilugs,” Gloigin said. “One has to do one’s laundry somewhere, and generally noblewomen aren’t interested in doing it.”
“Fine, one well. I also had a holy spring. The waters had curing properties. At least they did until you got up a company of barbers, tinkers and glassblowers, who put the water up in kegs and sold it to hospitals.”
“Why should the benefits be restricted to a privileged few?” Gloigin said.
Elliville could not restrain herself. “You ruined my spring!” she shouted. Then she turned around and whispered,“You ruined my spring!”
“Well, the magic failed and the company went out of business, so...”
“Of course it failed! How magical is it to open up a keg somewhere? It’s ridiculous! It’s stupid!”
“Well, don’t get so upset. It’s only one spring.”
“Then,” Elliville said, breathing deeply to calm herself. “Then, I had a dragon.”
“Very dangerous, that.”
“Granted, but I also had a dragonslayer. He was a bold and trusty knight, with a burnished shield and a magic sword. What a sight he was, going forth to do battle on his white courser! I can see him now. He arrives at the foot of Draco Mountain, and scrambles up on foot to the dragon’s cave. Up and up he goes, where there are sheer cliffs, a breeze coming up from the lake far below, and the crying of hawks in the air. Higher and higher he goes, almost to the dragon’s lair, and do you know what he sees?”
“What?”
“A large sign, recently installed, which proclaims: ‘Public notice. Dragon (draco draconis) is an endangered species. Dragonslayers strictly prohibited by order of the King. 500 Ducats fine for disturbing dragon.’”
“Well, yes, I suppose, that’s true. But it was a good thing to save the dragon from needless disturbances.”
“Save him? Save him? Dragons are supposed to be slain! Without the dragonslayer, I had to move the dragon to another region where he could fulfill his rightful destiny.”
“Don’t you think it’s for the best? It could have been quite dangerous, and cause a loss of life.”
“Alright, so you didn’t like my dragon because he might cause a loss of life. What about the centaurs? They weren’t planning to kill anyone.”
“I didn’t put up a sign about the centaurs.”
“No, you didn’t. You hired a crew of fat men with bushy mustaches to go in the enchanted Tserof Forest with big barrels on wheels and big sweepers, and you had them follow the centaurs around their village and clean up after them.”
“A little cleanliness never hurt anyone.”
“Cleanliness? These centaurs are proud creatures! You made them look ridiculous! You insulted their pride! No wonder they left the forest. You ruined everything!”
“I’m sure there’s no real harm done,” Gloigin tried to argue. “We really don’t need centaurs competing for game in our forest and taking away all our food.”
“What about the sea serpent? Was he competing?”
“Er, not too much, I suppose.”
“You brought in tourists to view him, organized boat rides to watch for him. You had artists sell little figurines of him!”
“Why not? It was a good local industry. I rather liked the sea serpent. When his neck was crushed between the two boats of sea serpent watchers, I was just as sad as anyone.”
“That’s not the way to treat sea serpents. And my ogres. Look what you did to my ogres.”
“Yes, I turned them into giant porcupines.”
“Porcupines! Are you mad? Why would anyone in their right mind do such a thing?”
“Well, ogres are dangerous. And I wanted the north part of the forest cleared for pastures, so the porcupines seemed a logical move.”
“You idiot! You’ve spoiled all my hard work! You’ve disenchanted every good enchantment I worked up. But don’t think you’re going to get away with this. I’m not going to give up so easily. I have an enchantment so big, so powerful, it’ll make all the others seem small and puny by comparison.”
Gloigin looked surprised at the degree of outrage he had caused. Elliville looked him in the eyes and said, clenching her teeth, “Don’t try to stop me. This time, this time, I’m going to create an enchantment that will live for all the ages. It will be invincible. You hear that? Invincible.”
And she stormed off to go to bed.
Invincible, eh? Gloigin thought. I wonder what she’s got up her sleeve.
After the Abbess departed, Gloigin’s days and nights were full of ominous forebodings. There were rings around Eeli, the greater moon. Stalks of foxglove bent when there was no breeze. The fire on the hearth often flickered mysteriously. Sometimes the beer seemed flat for no evident reason. And the clouds seemed to rush across the sky, as if the region were so dangerous they wanted to get past it before something horrible happened.
Gloigin sent out scouts, who returned with unsettling news.
Lothar Zamok, the deerhunter, reported: “It is said that she spends so much time in the forest that mushrooms grow on her.”
Wolfred Crimp, the trapper, reported the purchases of many wagons of linen and wool. Uthred Chromo, the kennel keeper, reported that several seamstresses had been staying in the abbey and were evidently at work night and day.
Then Gloigin took matters in his own hands, and went for a trip to the mountains of Bezoar to visit King Gordabadrog, the ruler of the dwarves. When Gloigin returned he seemed a bit more confident about his chances to weather the coming storm.
Finally the news broke. Gloigin was in his favorite local tavern, the Piebald Duck, with a large company of friends. In a rather jolly mood, Gloigin himself was playing the fiddle for them, while his friend Terrence played the tin whistle. Suddenly, in burst Sir Durwood Werrick, huffing and puffing.
“We’re under attack!” he said. “The Abbess has summoned a monstrous giant named Raxxar. He’s devastated two hamlets and a cornfield just by walking through them. And he’s heading this way.”
The bartender, in a fit of panic, declar
ed, “Drinks at half price for everyone!”
Gloigin had to stop his fiddling, since everyone had assembled at the bar and he had lost his audience. Oh well, he thought, it’s time to bring up my defenses, and may Wyrd be done.
At a field just south of the village of Cynan the two antagonists faced each other. To the south was Raxxar, a giant the likes the world had never seen. He seemed to be at least 100 feet tall, possibly 120 feet. In view of his frightening size, few people noticed the fact that he was impeccably and fashionably dressed with a rakish hat, a beautiful blue tunic with marvelous needlework and a beautiful blue clasp, and shoes of the finest cordofan. Moreover, he was a handsome young man, with a bright smile, dimples, laughing eyes and an impressive bronzed tan.
To the north of the field stood Gloigin with a resolute army of dwarves. Concealed with spruce branches was a giant cannon which had been loaded with all the metal shot they could get their hands on, including iron, copper, silver, gold, uranium, and lead.
“Surrender, Raxxar!” Gloigin exclaimed, but the giant had been lost in deep thought and failed to notice that his way was being contested. Gloigin then gave the word and the cannon fired a monstrous volley, the likes had never been heard before.
It was a good thing that Gloigin had placed a disintegration enchantment on the ammunition, because the highest that the cannon could reach was Raxxar’s thighs. However, due to the enchantment, when the cannonade of shot hit his thighs, the giant began to disintegrate.
“I’ve got her now,” Gloigin thought. “How invincible is that?”
However, his exultation soon turned to fear as the giant began to disintegrate into millions and millions of swarming, angry killer bees.
“Run for your lives!” the dwarves proclaimed and fled for their mountain homes. The bees created a dark and terrifying cloud.
Out of the forest came Elliville Dnalland, and she was in tears. “Oh my poor giant. My poor giant. What have they done to you?” she sobbed. The bees heard her crying and turned in her direction. They seemed to hover over her. After some time, they went back south towards the abbey.
Gloigin felt relieved and yet mystified by the strange turn of events.
In the days after the battle, Gloigin learned that the abbess had survived and had, in fact, become friends with the bees. The swarm had created many great hives in her land, and it was all she could do to keep busy conjuring up enough flowers to satisfy them and prepare them for winter.
Summer passed on into the chilly brisk days of autumn. Gloigin and his friends were holding court at the Piebald Duck, which had become even more popular than ever since its owner had discovered “half-price Wednesdays.” Some muleteers walked into the bar and said, “Bartender, we have a special delivery for you and all your customers, a present from the Abbess.”
Gloigin looked up and to his great surprise in walked Elliville Dnalland. “Yes, it’s true, Gloigin,” she said. “Let there ever be peace between us. I’ve brought you a peace offering. Just open one of the kegs.”
The men in the bar, sensing free drinks, were quick to comply. “What do you call this stuff?” Gloigin asked.
Elliville said, “The mead of poetry. Drink up.”
He did so, and never before had he experienced such a delightful beverage.
“This is the gift of the bees that came from the giant Raxxar,” Elliville explained. “He was enchanted with the spirit of poetry so that his essence would live on in song and story forever. Truly, he was indestructible, as I promised.”
Finishing his tankard of mead, Gloigin looked up with a smile and said, “Let the two of us be friends from this day hence. As long as there is poetry, there will be no end of enchantment.”
A Turn of the Wheel Page 6
