Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  It was not a leisurely tour of the castle. Bleys was impatient, and willing to pause only when he wanted a drink. Woodley was towed about willy-nilly, seldom catching a clear glimpse of anything.

  But he managed to form some sort of picture of the place.

  Built three stories high around a central courtyard, the castle came to a climax in the enormous donjon keep whose great square height dominated one angle of the building. Across the court from it was a barbican—two huge towers with the gateway recessed between them, guarded by a lowered portcullis through which an occasional fish swam lazily, and a futilely lifted drawbridge that had once spanned a vanished moat. Woodley saw this from the tower of the keep—the first time he had emerged from within the castle itself. And the ground was unpleasantly far down.

  The lake bottom, rather. What he wanted to find was a door—an exit!

  Water was like air to him, Woodley remembered. So a jump from the top of the keep would mean, in all probability, breaking his neck.

  “Come on,” said Bleys impatiently. “Let’s go down.”

  There were great bare halls with galleries, there were storerooms and kitchens and barracks and dormitories. The smaller apartments were few. They passed a cobwebby still room where sea spiders had veiled loaded shelves behind wavering curtains of web. Bleys remarked that Morgan le Fay once amused herself by distilling potions and poisons, but she never used such clumsy devices nowadays.

  An idea was beginning to stir in Woodley’s mind. He asked questions.

  “That? An alembic. That? Staghorn with gum Arabic. For childbirth, mostly. That jar’s got dried bedbugs in it. Mastic, snakeroot, fennel, mandrake, musk, medlar tree bark—”

  Mandrake. Remembering what Nurmala had told him, Woodley edged closer.

  “And that thing over there?”

  “That’s a Witch’s Cradle. It’s used—”

  Woodley deftly annexed the mandrake, slipping it into his tunic. So far, so good. All that now remained was to work out a method of using the root effectively. If only undines were afraid of mandrake, instead of being attracted to it! Well, if worse came to worst, he might distract the monster’s attention with the root, somehow, while he made his escape—

  “Come along. Bip.”

  Presently they were on a little balcony overlooking the courtyard. “There’s the dragon,” Bleys said. “Draedan. It’s an Anglo-Saxon name, and Anglo-Saxon was unpopular in our day—but so were dragons. See all that rubbish?”

  There were amorphous ruins rising from the silt at the edge of the courtyard, and a larger mound in the center.

  “Stables, falcon mews, cattle barns, a chapel—once. Not that anybody ever worshiped in that

  chapel. Morgan—you know. Air and Darkness. Bip!” Bleys stared reflectively into his jug. “Come along.”

  “Wait,” Woodley said rebelliously. “I want to look at the dragon,” Actually, he was hoping to find an exit from this vantage point.

  “Oh, Draedan. That worm. Very well.” The Druid slipped down to a sitting position and closed his eyes. “Bip.”

  Woodley’s gaze was inevitably drawn to the dragon—a truly startling spectacle. It looked vaguely like a stegosaurus, with waving hackles on its arched back, and a long, spiked tail with a knob at the end. The head, however, was not the tiny one of a herbivorous dinosaur. It was a mixture of crocodile and tyrannosaur rex, three horns atop the nose, and a cavernous mouth as large as a subway kiosk. It was as long as two streetcars, and twice as high. Glowing yellow eyes glared lambently. A gush of flame shot out from the horror’s mouth as Draedan breathed.

  Just then, the grimly monster was eating garbage, in a somewhat finicky fashion.

  Woodley wondered how its fiery breath could burn under water, and then remembered Morgan’s magic. If he could improvise a flame thrower to use against the undine—but how? He watched a gush of bubbles drift up each time the flame rippled out. Hordes of little fishes were trying to swipe Draedan’s dinner.

  Clumsy on its columnar legs, the dragon would retaliate by breathing heavily upon its tormentors, who fled from the fire. Bleys woke up to say, “That creature’s got its troubles. It hates cooked food, but by the time it chases those fish off, all the garbage is well roasted. I’d put its flame out for good, but a dragon needs fire in its stomach to digest its food. Something to do with metabolism. Wish I could put out the fire in my stomach,” he added, and, after drinking from the jug and bipping reflectively, went to sleep again.

  Woodley leaned upon the balcony and examined the dragon with fascinated horror. The slow movements of the saurian—all dragons are saurians—gave it a peculiarly nightmare appearance. It looked like a Hollywood technician’s creation, rather badly done, and far from convincing.

  At that moment, someone seized Woodley about the knees, lifted him, and hurled him bodily over the balcony.

  He fell with a thud in cushioning soft ooze. A cloud of silt billowed up as Woodley sprang to his feet. Not a yard from his nose, a lake trout hung suspended with waving motions of its fins, eying him thoughtfully. Other fish, attracted by the commotion, swam toward Woodley, whose heart had prolapsed into his sandals.

  As the silt-cloud cleared, Draedan became visible. The dragon had turned his head to stare straight at Woodley.

  Draeden yawned fierily.

  He lifted one tree-trunk leg and began to move ponderously forward.

  “Bleys!” Woodley roared. “Bleys! Help!”

  There was no answer—not even a bip. “Bleys! Wake up!”

  Then he ran. There was a closed door in the wall near Woodley, and he fled toward it. Draedan was not far behind, but the saurian moved slowly and clumsily.

  “Bleys!”

  The door was locked, quite firmly, from the inside. Woodley groaned and dodged as Draedan lumbered on, resistless as an army tank.

  “Bleys!”

  There was another door across the courtyard. Woodley sprinted toward it. He could hear lumbering footsteps behind him.

  But this door, too, was locked.

  Flattened against it, Woodley looked back with narrowed, calculating eyes. A trail of silt hung wavering in the water to mark his trail. Through it Draedan came, yellow eyes shining like fog lamps, flame bursting from his mouth.

  “Bleys! Wake up!”

  Still no response. Springing away, Woodley tripped over a stone buried in the mud, and a cloud of ooze leaped up around him. As he hastily rose, an idea flashed into his mind.

  A smoke screen—

  He ran, scuffing his feet. Silt billowed up. Draedan’s behemothic progress helped, too. Yelling occasionally at Bleys, Woodley circled the courtyard and then crossed his own trail, stirring up a murky barrage. Within a few minutes the water was as opaque as pea soup.

  Yet Draedan did not give up. His feet thumped on, and his glowing disks of eyes swam out of the dimness with horrifying frequency. Woodley was too winded now to shout. But if he could keep on dodging long enough—Draedan could not possibly see him now—

  The dragon had other ideas. Abruptly a long tongue of flame flashed out murkily. Almost immediately it came again. Woodley ran.

  Draedan breathed heavily. Fire trails lanced through the silt fog. Apparently the dragon had realized that there was more than one way of skinning a cat—or getting his dinner. Once one of those fiery gusts found him, Woodley knew, he would be reduced to cinders. It was ridiculous to be incinerated under water, he thought moodily as he sped on his frantic way.

  The silt particles made him cough. He crashed against the grilled metal of the barbican and hung there, gasping. Iron, rusty and weak, bent under his weight, leaving a gap in the barrier.

  Draedan’s headlight eyes glowed out of the murk. With grim desperation Woodley wrenched at more bars. They, too, were fragile and corroded, and came away easily. As the dragon charged, Woodley dived head first through the hole he had made in the barbican. Flame singed his drawers.

  He seemed, however, to be still cornered. The drawbridge was
raised, and hung like a slightly slanted wall above him. But the difficulty was only an apparent one, as Woodley found when he slipped sidewise past the edge of the bridge. He was in the open, outside the wall—and there was no moat to keep him from escaping.

  He was on the lake bottom. Behind him and above, the castle of Morgan le Fay rose like a crag. It was no longer a prison—

  Woodley listened. Draedan had apparently given up the chase. And Bleys was presumably still asleep. Best of all, the way to freedom was open. That tumble into the courtyard had been a blessing in disguise.

  Well—fair enough! Woodley sighed with relief. He would not have to face that unpleasant testing involving the undine. Instead, he hurried away from the castle.

  Rounded stones felt hard through the leather soles of his hose. The ground slanted up sharply. And, as he went on, he realized that the lake was, as well as he could tell, bowl-shaped, and very deep. The castle was in the deepest part.

  He wondered where the Shaking Rock lay. Not that he wanted to go there—now!

  Briefly he found himself regretting Vivienne, who had been quite lovely. Her face in his mind was vivid, but not enticing enough to slow down his steady climb. He went through a forest of water weeds—no great hindrance—and was trailed by a school of inquisitive minnows. From above, a cool blue light drifted down.

  Higher he went, and higher. Far above, he could see a flat shining plate—a bright sky rimmed by a circular horizon. It was the surface.

  His head was almost above water now. He could see a rocky shore, and trees—oddly distorted, with fantastic perspective. A water bug dived to look at him, and then departed hastily.

  Then Woodley’s head broke the surface, and he started to strangle.

  Air gushed into his nostrils, his mouth, his lungs, carrying little knife blades of agony. He coughed and choked, lost his balance, and fell, the water closing over his head. It was pure ecstasy. Woodley sat where he had fallen, gasping, watching air bubbles cascade from his mouth and nostrils. Presently there were no more, and he felt better.

  Of course. He might have expected this. But—

  Good Lord!

  Morgan had changed him, so that water was now his natural element. Air was as fatal to him now as it would be to a fish.

  The thing was manifestly ridiculous and horribly logical. Woodley shut his eyes and thought hard. Eventually he remembered that, normally, he could inhale above water and exhale below. He reversed the procedure, taking a deep breath of water and standing up, dribbling slowly.

  He was near the steep, rocky bank of a lake, surrounded by high mountains. Not far away a stream rushed through a gorge to lose itself in the mere. Save for this canyon, the craggy walls were unbroken and seemed unscalable.

  Woodley inadvertently breathed air, and had to dive for relief. A familiar voice pierced through his coughs.

  “Oh, there you are,” Bleys said. “What a time I had finding you. Why didn’t you wake me up when you fell in the courtyard?”

  Woodley regarded the Druid bitterly, but said nothing. Obviously his plan of escape had failed. He couldn’t leave the lake. Not unless the wet magic spell was reversed.

  Morgan could do that. Probably she wouldn’t, though. Vivienne certainly wouldn’t if she could. But Bleys was a magician. If he could be induced to reverse the enchantment—

  “Well, come along,” the Druid said. “I left my jug at the castle, and I’m thirsty. Bip!”

  Woodley followed Bleys. His mind was working at top speed. It was necessary to return to Morgans stronghold, but—what then? The testing at the Shaking Rock? Woodley thought of the undine, and bit his lip. Not pleasant—no.

  “Draedan can’t get out of the yard, you know,” Bleys presently remarked. “What possessed you to fall off the balcony anyway? It seems a stupid thing to do.”

  “I didn’t fall,” Woodley snapped. “I was pushed. Probably by Sir Bohart.”

  “Oh?” said Bleys, and puffed at his floating white beard. “Anyhow,” he remarked at last, “you can’t breathe out of water. It’s dangerous to try.”

  Woodley said slowly, “When I met Vivienne, she was on dry land.”

  “Morgan taught her the trick,” the Druid grunted. “It’s beyond me—I never learned it. Any time you want to walk dry again, go see Vivienne.” He grinned unpleasantly. “Or Morgan. It’s my opinion that Vivienne is Morgan’s daughter. That would explain a lot of things. However, here we are back at the castle, and we go in this way.” He paused by a door in the outer wall, fumbled with the latch, and stepped across the threshold. “Come along!” he urged. “Don’t let the fish in.”

  He headed along a corridor, Woodley at his heels. Soon they were back in Bleys’ apartment, and the Druid was selecting a new jug from his assortment. “Camelot Triple-X Brand,” he murmured. “Ninety proof. It isn’t, of course, but I label the bottles for old times’ sake.” He drank, and burst into a furious string of archaic oaths. “Damned self-deception, that’s all it is. Ninety proof, hah! Magic never made good liquor, and there’s no use arguing about it. Bip!” He glared malevolently.

  Woodley was brooding. So Bleys didn’t know the wet magic spell. Well, that left Vivienne and Morgan. How he could worm the secret out of either of those two, he had no idea. But he’d have to do it somehow, and soon. When would it be time for the testing? He asked Bleys.

  “Now,” said the Druid, getting up stiffly. “It’s nearly sundown. Come along!” He peered at Woodley with bleary eyes. “Vivienne will have a sword for you. It’s not Excalibur, but it will serve.”

  They went to a hall where Vivienne and Sir Bohart were waiting. The knight’s jaw dropped at sight of Woodley, but he rallied valiantly. “You’ve come tardily, messire,” he managed to say.

  “Better tardy than not at all,” Woodley returned, and had the satisfaction of seeing Bohart’s eyes flicker. Vivienne moved forward, holding a great sword.

  “My lord! With my own hands I shall arm you. And when you return from Shaking Rock, I shall be waiting.” Her eyes promised much, and Sir Bohart gnawed his ruddy mustache.

  Woodley touched his tunic where he had concealed the mandrake root. His lips twisted in a grim smile. He had an idea—

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  Vivienne clapped her hands. “Gramercy, a valiant knight! I shall summon Nurmala to guide you—”

  “Don’t bother,” Woodley interrupted. “I’d rather have Sir Bohart show me the way.”

  The knight made a gobbling sound. “I am no lackey!”

  “Fie,” Vivienne reproved. “ ‘Tis a simple request to make.”

  “Oh, well,” Woodley shrugged. “If Sir Bohart’s afraid, never mind. I can understand how he feels. Even with that magic cuirass, accidents might happen. No, you stay here by the fire, Bohart. You’ll feel safer.”

  Bohart turned purple. There was, of course, only one answer he could possibly make. So, ten minutes later, Woodley walked beside the red-mustached knight through the ooze of the lake bottom toward a towering pinnacle of stone in the green distance.

  Sir Bohart preserved a furious silence. Once he rattled his sword in its scabbard, but Woodley thoughtfully didn’t hear. Instead, he remarked, “I wonder what it is behind the Shaking Rock. Got any ideas?”

  “Morgan does not tell me her secrets.”

  “Uh-huh. Still, it must be pretty dangerous. Eh?”

  Bohart smiled toothily at that. “I hope so.” Woodley shrugged. “Maybe I’d better use some magic. A sword might not do the trick.”

  The knight turned his head to stare. “Goety?”

  “Sure. I’m a magician. Didn’t you know?”

  “Vivienne said . . . but I did not think—” There was more respect in Bohart’s eyes now, and a touch of fear. Woodley chuckled with a lightheartedness he scarcely felt.

  “I know a few tricks. How to make myself invisible, for instance.”

  “With fern seed? I have heard of that.”

  “I use mandrak
e juice,” Woodley explained. “Come to think of it, that gag would come in handy now. In view of what may be behind the Shaking Rock—yeah.” He moved his hands in intricate gestures. “Saskatchewan, Winnipeg, Mauch Chunk, Philadelphia, Kalamazoo,” he added, and deftly slipped the mandrake from his tunic. To the staring Bohart, it seemed as though the gnarled little root had been snatched out of thin water.

  “By Atys!” the knight said, impressed. “ ‘Swounds!”

  Woodley lifted the mandrake toward his head, and then hesitated. “Wait a minute. Maybe I’d better make you—”

  “Make me invisible also?” Bohart jumped at the bait, after one apprehensive glance ahead at the Shaking Rock. “Yes—that would be wise.”

  “O.K. Let’s have your helmet. Uh . . . maybe you could help me out against this . . . monster . . . if I need help. Though I don’t think I will.”

  Bohart’s red mustache did not entirely conceal his sardonic smile. “Well, we shall see. My sword is sharp.”

  But Woodley’s apparent attempt to propitiate him had disarmed the knight’s suspicions. He handed over his helmet and watched as Woodley inverted it and used the haft of his dagger to mash the mandrake root into pulp, mortar and pestle fashion.

  “There. That’s all. Put the helmet back on—keep the mandrake in it—and you’ll be invisible.”

  Sir Bohart obeyed. He looked down at himself.

  “It doesn’t work.”

  Woodley stared around blankly. “Where are you? I . . . Sir Bohart!”

  The knight was taken aback. “I . . . I’m here. But I can see myself as clearly as ever.”

  “Of course,” Woodley explained, not looking at the other, “you can see yourself, but nobody else can. That’s the way the mandrake spell works.”

  “Oh Well. Make yourself invisible now.”

  “Too much bother,” Woodley said casually. “I don’t want all the odds on my side. It takes the fun out of a fight. If I get into trouble, I’ll use magic, but I think my sword will be enough. Here we are at the Shaking Rock.”

  Far above them, a boulder balanced on the stone pinnacle rocked slowly in the lake currents. Woodley noticed a small cave a few yards away. He stopped.