Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  So did Sir Bohart, who was visibly nervous. “I go no farther.”

  “O.K.,” Woodley nodded, his throat dry. “Just wait here, then. I’ll be back in a minute. Uh . . . you wouldn’t care to lend me that cuirass of yours, would you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t. Well . . . adios.” Woodley lingered a moment longer, eying the cave mouth; but there was no way to turn back now. Anyhow, his trick should work. Nurmala had said that undines were strongly attracted by mandrake juice—

  He left Sir Bohart leaning on his sword, and plunged ahead into the shadows that lurked behind the Shaking Rock. He felt the ground slant down steeply, and moved with more caution. There was, after all, little to see. It was too dark.

  Something moved in the green gloom. A huge ball of hair that drifted past, paused, and then came with unerring accuracy toward Woodley. It was the undine.

  Fifteen feet long, shaped like a fat submarine, it was surrounded by a haziness where the filaments grew finer and vanished. It had no definite edges. It simply faded into the green darkness.

  It swam by wriggling its filaments, like a ciliate. Woodley miscalculated its speed, and before he could turn, the undine was shockingly close. A tendril whipped across his cheek, burning like a bare wire overcharged with electric current.

  Automatically Woodley whipped out his sword, but sanity held him back from using it. Steel would be no good against this creature. Besides, he had a safer plan. If it wasn’t too late—

  He turned and ran at top speed around the base of the Shaking Rock. Sir Bohart was still standing there, but at sight of Woodley he, too, whirled and made off, forgetting that he was presumably invisible. But the undine was a sight fearful enough to drive any man to flight.

  The mouth of the little cave gaped like a friendly mouth. Woodley went into it headfirst, losing his sword and rolling over several times before he came to a halt. Hastily he twisted about and looked at what was happening. Would the undine follow him? Or would it catch the scent of the mandrake juice—the effluvium hanging in the water where Sir Bohart had stood?

  The cloud of wriggling filaments was following the trail. The undine torpedoed in pursuit of the knight—

  Woodley sighed deeply. He found his sword, went cautiously toward the mouth of the cave, and watched. Now the undine had caught up with Sir Bohart. Those dangerous filaments couldn’t harm the man, of course, protected as he was by his magic cuirass. But it must be definitely uncomfortable to be surrounded and smothered by an undine—

  A sword flashed. Sir Bohart was fighting at last. Woodley grinned.

  He hoped the undine wouldn’t last long. He was getting hungry. But, of course, he’d have to wait till . . . er . . . till he had passed the testing Morgan le Fay had set him.

  He was presently roused from his reverie by Bohart’s yells. “You tricked me! You lickspittle knave! I’ll split you from pate to groin! You made me a cat’s-paw—”

  “Hold on!” Woodley said, nimbly dodging. He still held his bare sword, and automatically countered Bohart’s blow. The undine, he noticed, was quite dead about twenty feet down the slope. Small fishes were already approaching it.

  “You craven cur!”

  “Wait! What’ll Vivienne say if I’m found dead with my head lopped off by a sword? What’ll Morgan say?”

  That sobered Sir Bohart. He paused, his brand held motionless in midair, the red mustache wriggling with fury. His face was beet-purple.

  But he didn’t renew the attack. Woodley lowered his own weapon and talked fast.

  “Don’t forget I was there when Vivienne said she’d sick Morgan on you. I still remember how scared you looked. Vivienne wants me alive, and if she found out you killed me—and she’d certainly find it out—”

  “You warlock,” Sir Bohart snarled. “You warlock devil!” But there was a betraying mottled pallor in his no longer purple cheeks.

  Woodley put his sword away. “What are you kicking about? You didn’t get hurt, did you? You’ve got that magic cuirass. Look at me!” He ran his forefinger over the livid welt that ran from temple to jaw. “The undine put its mark on me, all right. You weren’t even scratched.”

  “You made me your cat’s-paw,” Bohart said sulkily.

  Woodley persuasively slipped his hand through the other’s crooked arm. “Forget that. We can be plenty useful to each other, if you’ll play along. If you won’t—I’ve got lots of influence with Vivienne. Want me to use it?”

  “You devil,” the knight growled, but he was licked and knew it. “I’ll let you live. I’ll have to. Provided you shield me against Morgan.” He brightened. “Yes. Tell Vivienne that I am your friend. Then—”

  Woodley grinned. “Suppose I told her you pushed me into Draedan’s courtyard this afternoon.”

  “But—messire!” Bohart gripped the other man’s shoulders. “Nay! I did not! You cannot prove it was I—”

  “It was, though, wasn’t it? And Vivienne would take my word against yours. But cool off. I won’t tell. If you’ll remember something.”

  Bohart licked his lips. “What?”

  “That I killed the undine.”

  “Oh, a thrice thousand curses! But I suppose I must. If I do this, you will use your influence with Vivienne, though. She is capricious, and Morgan has often asked her to . . . to—” The knight swallowed and began again. “Morgan wishes to destroy me. So far, Vivienne has not permitted that. Now you and I can strike a bargain. You get the credit for this testing, and in return you insist that I remain free from Morgan—should that danger arise.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But if Morgan should learn of this deceit we have practiced upon her, we will both die—quite terribly. She is unforgiving.”

  “She won’t find out.”

  “If she should, not even Vivienne could save us.”

  Woodley frowned slightly. The risk wasn’t alluring. Yet it would have to be taken. Besides, Morgan would never find out—

  “It is a bargain,” Sir Bohart said. “But remember this: if you should ever seek to betray me, it will mean your own downfall. Your life and mine are one now. If I go down, I drag you with me—because then I shall speak. And Vivienne will weep for you, if not for me.”

  Woodley shivered. With an effort he threw off his intangible fears. “Forget it,” he said. “Dinner’s waiting. And we’ve got to tow the undine back to the castle.”

  That wasn’t difficult, since the dead monster floated easily. Plodding along the lake bottom, Woodley felt his spirits rise. Once he touched the hilt of his sword. Wielding a weapon like that was oddly satisfying. Suppose he had not tricked Bohart into aiding him? Suppose he had battled the undine with bare steel alone? Briefly Woodley half regretted that he had not attempted the dangerous deed.

  It would have been dangerous, though. Far too much so. And there had been no real need to risk his skin, as he had proved. Calm logic was better. Eventually that would get him out of the castle, and back to dry land, free from Morgan’s perilous enchantments.

  He had passed the testing. So he was safe for a while. The next step was to learn the wet magic spell that would make it possible for him to breathe air again.

  Woodley tugged at the bunch of undine filaments in his fist. Behind him, the lake monster floated slowly in his wake, a comet tail of small fishes veering after it. The castle loomed ahead—

  “Remember!” Sir Bohart warned. “Our lives are one now. Here is Bleys. No more talk—it is not safe in the castle.”

  The lake bottom was shrouded in night shadows. It must be past sunset in the world above. Sir Bohart slipped away and was gone. The brown-robed figure of Bleys was visible ahead, by a door in a tower’s foot.

  “Here’s the prize,” Woodley called. “Come and get it!”

  The Druid plowed forward through the ooze. His eyes gleamed through the waving net of white beard.

  “An undine. And you have slain it—”

  Woodley felt an extraordinary sense
of shame as he met the wizard’s gaze. But that was ridiculous! Why the devil should he feel embarrassed because he had hesitated to commit suicide? Hell!

  Bleys said slowly, “I told you that courage was both sword and shield. Magic cannot stand against it. Now I—” He paused, his hand going out in a queer fumbling gesture. “Age is heavy upon me. When I saw you bringing your booty toward the castle just now, it seemed to me I was standing beneath the wall of Camelot, watching Arthur Pendragon—”

  The low voice tailed off into silence. Bleys said, “He was and will be.”

  Nurmala’s murmur broke the spell that held Woodley silent. The naiad rippled through the door in the tower, carrying a lighted lamp.

  “Oh! Messire Arthur of Woodley has slain the monster! My lord!” She curtsyed low. “There will be feasting tonight. The table is laid.”

  Bleys seemed to relapse into his usual drunken self. “All right,” he snapped, and the girl turned and went back into the tower. Woodley noticed that the lamp flame shone through the translucent emerald of her body. It looked rather pretty, or would have, had it not been so disturbing.

  “Worse than pyromaniacs, those naiads,” Bleys remarked, producing a jug and drinking from it. “Can’t leave fire alone. Silly to carry a lamp in the castle at night—the place is lighted by magic. Blood and fire, that’s all a naiad thinks of. Horrid wet oozy things,” he finished, in an outburst of Senile fury. I hate ’em all. I hate everybody. Come along! Leave your undine here; it’ll be safe.”

  Woodley noticed the sharp glance the Druid cast at him, though, and wondered if Bleys was as drunk as he seemed. Apparently so, for his progress along the passage was punctuated by oaths, groans, and bips. He led the way to Woodley’s apartment, where the latter made a hasty and inadequate toilet—for one couldn’t wash, under the lake—and then hobbled off to the great hall of the castle. Woodley had not seen this room before.

  It was very large indeed, and had a gallery halfway up one wall. There were tapestries, dozens of them, rushes on the floor—presumably weighted, since they didn’t float up—and a dais at the farther end. There, seated by a fairly small table, was Vivienne. She looked strikingly lovely, in a gown of applegreen satin embroidered with pearls. Her hair was in braids, plaited with pearls, and she wore a jeweled belt. She, at least, was the essence of magic.

  “My lord!” She ran to Woodley. “They told me you were safe. But your poor cheek . . . oh! That horrible undine.”

  “It’s nothing. Doesn’t hurt.”

  “Nothing! To slay an undine . . . yet I knew you would prove yourself a great knight. Come, sit by me here, my love, and we can talk as we sup.” Her gaze devoured Woodley, who felt slightly ill at ease.

  Grumpily Bleys found a bench for himself and greedily eyed the linen-draped table. “I don’t want fish again,” he snapped. “Sick of it.”

  “It’s roast pig,” Vivienne said, in a glancing aside. “Sea pig. Fowl and pasties . . . ah, my lord! Now that you have passed Morgan’s testing, you and I will dwell here forever.”

  Before Woodley could answer, there was an outburst of music. Slow in tempo, it came from the gallery across the hall, but there was no sign of any musicians. Vivienne followed Woodley’s gaze.

  “That? Morgan keeps the musicians invisible. They’re elementals, and ugly enough to spoil your appetite. The queen will join us later. She does not eat.”

  A drapery at the back of the dais was pulled aside, and several naiads appeared, each of them, as far as Woodley could make out, exact duplicates of Nurmala. They carried trenchers and trays, serving in complete silence. The food, for the most part, was familiar to Woodley, but some of it tasted strange. The stewed fruit had a definitely uncanny flavor. Nor did he especially like the omnipresent almond-milk flavoring.

  Yet he ate heartily, for he was ravenous. And he would need all his energy to carry out his plan—securing the wet magic spell from Vivienne or, perhaps, Morgan. How—

  Bleys drank steadily, and Vivienne picked at her food and languished at her self-chosen lover. She insisted that he learn the proper etiquette of Arthurian times.

  “We eat from the same trencher, Messire,” she said, with a demure twinkle. “You must cut the choicest portions and offer them to me on the point of your knife. I . . . oh, dear. Here is Sir Bohart.”

  It was indeed the knight, advancing through the rushes. His eyes, fixed on Woodley’s, held a warning message.

  “Forgive me for my tardiness, my lady,” Bohart said. “I did not think Messire Arthur would return so soon from slaying the monster.”

  With a certain air of coldness, Vivienne welcomed the knight, and soon Sir Bohart was gnawing on a mutton bone and casting furtive glances at Woodley. The supper went on in silence, broken only by the playing of the unseen musicians. At last it was over, with nuts, highly spiced fruit, and wine which Woodley found mild and tasteless. Still, after those spices, vitriol would have seemed like milk, he mused, nursing his tongue. He felt rather like Draedan.

  The naiads whisked away the cloth, leaving a smooth-topped table inset with a chessboard. Replete, Woodley settled back. He had earned a rest. Presently he could begin to work on the next problem—the necessary spell that Vivienne held—but not yet. Better to play along with the girl, get in her good graces, as she laid her burnished head on his shoulder.

  “Oh, I was telling you about Uther,” she said. “And. that widow. Ten children, as I said. What a rogue Uther was, to be sure. It seems—”

  And she was off, in a cloud of scandal. Bleys drank. Sir Bohart moved uneasily, as though nervous and worried. Woodley dozed. Vivienne unfolded the secrets of the hoary past, and the band played on.

  Woodley became aware that Vivienne had stopped talking. He shivered, and, with a sudden sense of abysmal shock, sat bolt upright. Briefly he felt an extraordinary vertigo, and a ghastly sensation as though the flesh was crawling upon his bones.

  Then he saw a woman seating herself across the table.

  She wore a very plain white gown, with long, trailing sleeves, and there was a band of jeweled flowers about her slim waist. Star flowers glinted in her hair, where hints of bronze showed amid the cloudy darkness. Her face was young and very lovely. Woodley found it difficult to see her face, except as sidewise glances. Why?

  He—well, he could not meet her eyes.

  He could not look into them. He found it utterly impossible to meet her gaze. Why this was, Woodley could not in the least imagine. He forced himself to turn his head so that he could look into the eyes of Morgan le Fay.

  And his own eyes would not obey. On the very edge of obedience, they rebelled. It was as though Woodley’s flesh revolted against the commands his brain issued.

  Yet he could see her face, though not directly, and it seemed oddly familiar. Where had he seen it before?

  Of course! That tapestry with the tree and the serpent. Morgan had the face of Lilith—

  Woodley stood up, rather awkwardly, and bowed. “Your majesty—”

  “No,” Morgan said, her voice gentle and abstracted. “You need not rise. I am Morgan—call me that. As I shall call you Arthur.” The name lingered on her tongue, as though she were loath to relinquish it.

  Woodley sat down. There was a silence. He tried again to meet Morgan’s eyes and failed.

  She said, “You slew the undine? Because if you have not passed my testing fairly, nothing can save you. Especially since you are named Arthur. I mislike that name—”

  Woodley met Sir Bohart’s imploring gaze and swallowed, his throat dry. “I killed the undine. Fairly, of course.”

  “Very well,” said the Queen of Air and Darkness. “Let it be forgotten, then. It has been a long time since I saw anyone from above the lake. Sir Galahodin was the last, I believe.”

  Bohart coughed nervously. Morgan smiled at him. Her slim fingers tapped the table top.

  “He played at chess with me,” she added, half maliciously. “You see . . . Arthur . . . for a hundred years or so after I came
here, I invited occasional guests. I would play at chess with them. Then I tired of it, and only lately have I felt the . . . need again. It does not matter much; I would not leave the lake for such a slight whim. But Sir Bohart is here, and . . . Vivienne, have you not tired of him yet?”

  “I tired of him long ago,” the girl said frankly. “But I am used to Sir Bohart and his ways.”

  “You have a new lover,” Morgan murmured. “Will you not withdraw your protection from the old one?”

  Sir Bohart squirmed. Arthur said hastily, “Vivienne, I hope . . . I mean, Bohart’s promised to show me a lot of things, how to joust and so on. You wouldn’t—”

  Morgan’s slow, sweet voice said to Vivienne, “In time you will tire of this new lover, too, and you will not weep to see him play at chess with me.”

  Woodley gulped.

  “I shall always love Messire Arthur,” Vivienne contended stoutly. “When I first saw him, he reminded me of Merlin. Also, since Sir Bohart’s company pleases my lord—”

  Morgan laughed a little. “Merlin! Ay me! Well, I will not touch Sir Bohart without your permission, but—” She shrugged. “It is in my mind that I would prefer Arthur, indeed. Perhaps the name evokes old memories.”

  “Er—” said Woodley.

  Morgan watched him. “You are safe enough for now. As long as Vivienne is here—and she has no wish to leave the lake—she may have her playthings. But she is human, and a woman—therefore capricious. Sometime she will grow tired of you, Arthur, and then you will play at chess with me.

  “I . . . I’m not very good at it,” Woodley said, and paused, startled by the shrill cackle of laughter that came from Bleys. The Druid subsided immediately to gulp wine.

  “Who plays—chess—with Morgan—win or lose, he loses,” Bleys said.

  Woodley was unaccountably reminded of the Eden tapestry he had seen. Well, he’d have to pry the wet-magic spell out of Vivienne. Morgan was out of the question. She was too—disturbing.

  Vivienne said, “As long as I am here, Messire Arthur will not play at chess.”