The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter

by Natelson, D. J.

“Certainly, no one would hire an elderly enchanter.”

  “Indeed,” Stephen said. “But how can you have read about magic? All the books have been destroyed, except those in the king’s private library—and you haven’t left these woods.”

  “The books in this land have been destroyed,” Robin agreed, nimbly hopping over a log, “but in the Fairy Queen’s library there is a copy of every book ever written. Before returning to these woods, the Fairy Queen allowed me to read many of her books—and, indeed, take some with me. You have seen them. The Fairy Queen is wonderfully accommodating.”

  “That is quite possibly a unique impression of her,” said Stephen, who was having rather more difficulty with the log. Robes, while impressive, were otherwise entirely useless.

  “Many find fairies cold-hearted and frivolous,” said Robin, “and those that do think the same of me. Here we are.”

  They had come to a short, flat wooden bridge. There was no water under it, only a deep pillow of snow.

  “The second bridge? Have we come that far?”

  “The distances between the bridges are not equal. Listen closely: there is only one way through these woods, and that is to follow this path. The third bridge is in four miles, the edge of the woods two miles beyond that. There are, of course, obstacles.”

  “But you’ll lead me past them, won’t you? That was our deal: that you’d guide me safely through these woods in return for Dog.”

  “‘Through these woods,’ yes—and I have. Not all the way through these woods, though. But I have given you directions, and six miles is not such a very great distance. You might make it to the edge. It is possible.”

  “And what about the others?”

  “You’ll know their fate before two days are gone. Dog and I will pursue them to the woods’ end and no farther; if they make it that far—if you make it that far—you will survive. So many of them, so little time. But I will have traveled a full fourteen miles before the race begins, and that is not nothing. But even so, Enchanter—I bet I win!” With a final, bedazzling smile, Robin disappeared into the trees.

  Stephen stood motionless, a number of things occurring to him. There were ‘obstacles.’ His remaining companions were about to die. Most importantly, when Robin returned, Dog would be his, and there would be nothing to prevent Robin from killing Stephen. Stephen had instructed Dog to obey any orders from Robin and none for anyone else. And he knew just how strongly he had constructed Dog. If his own creation turned against him—

  Stephen forgot his dignity, picked up his robes, and ran.

  Two minutes later, he slowed to a walk, panting. The sun was warm and had made the snow heavy and wet. The snow was not particularly deep on the trail, but to the sides it sank three or four feet.

  Then there were the obstacles. What form would they take? Presumably at least some of them were on the path, or Robin would not have found it necessary to warn Stephen against them.

  What were they, then? Some form of booby trap?

  Stephen stopped short. He could have been narrowly avoiding his death all this time, but that was no reason to walk blithely on. If there were traps hidden under the snow, he needed a way to uncover them.

  Wait. Maybe there weren’t traps yet. Robin needed Stephen to stay alive at least until he had returned to Dog. How quickly could Robin travel seven miles?

  I bet I win.

  Stephen looked wildly around and spotted what he needed. Not far off the path was a tree with a perfect branch: almost straight, an inch and a half in diameter, living wood. An ideal walking stick.

  Stephen packed a snowball and tossed it toward the tree. It thumped down. Stephen continued throwing snowballs until he was sure there were no traps between him and the tree. He stepped gingerly off the path.

  Nothing attacked him.

  Another step—two more. Stephen pulled his enchanted knife, grasped the branch firmly, and sliced through it. He rotated it and slid the knife along it, smoothing the wood and removing twigs.

  Stephen pulled off a glove, ran one bare hand down the wood to make sure there were no lingering enchantments he couldn’t see—there weren’t—replaced his knife, and went to pull his glove back on.

  His bare hand brushed against the tree trunk, and stuck.

  Under his fingers, the tree was bleeding stinkbug yellow sap. Drops of it were raining from the stump from which he had severed the walking stick, and globs were sliding down the crevices of the bark. As Stephen watched, the bleeding increased, oozing over Stephen’s hand, covering it in alarming quantities of sap that dried into a hard crust. It didn’t sting or burn, but it didn’t need to. If it glued Stephen to the tree, that would be enough.

  No. No, he was not going to lose to a tree. It simply wasn’t dignified.

  Leaning the walking stick in the crook of his elbow, Stephen fumbled in his robes for the knife. He held it downward in his hand and slashed the tree. The knife cut easily through the living wood and released yet more sap.

  Stephen ignored it. He was working the knife around in the tree, carving out a chunk around his hand. Sap dribbled on his glove at one point, but did not stick; apparently, it was only adhesive to bare skin.

  Good thing he’d happened to come in winter.

  Stephen finished cutting and used his knife to pry the wood under his hand out of the tree. He stepped quickly back, freed. The sap continued flowing, filling up the hole he’d left behind, healing the tree. He flexed his stuck hand and sap flaked away, harmless.

  Stephen smiled smugly. Not a bad trap—for ordinary people. But for an enchanter who carried an enchanted weapon, it was child’s play. If all Robin’s “traps” were this simple, he’d have no trouble escaping the woods.

  Stephen brushed off the remaining sap, pulled on his glove, grasped his walking stick, and returned to the path. He walked on, tapping the stick in front of him like a blind man, searching for traps. If any spot looked suspicious, he stood back and threw a snowball at it.

  Strange, how badly he’d missed this sort of thing—walking along with a stick in his hand, without companions, mission, horse, or dog. He had whined to himself about the restrictions on enchanters and the difficulty of being a traveling enchanter for so long that he had forgotten how much he enjoyed his work, and the long hours of solitary thinking that accompanied it.

  Stephen absentmindedly threw a snowball and uncovered a gaping pit. He leapt over it, sidestepped a bear trap, and bashed in a mirror with his walking stick. Foolish Robin, to think an enchanter would be caught by his tricks. Why had Stephen ever been afraid of him?

  The trail widened and leveled out. Trees grew more sparsely, and Stephen felt sure he could have gone in any direction he liked without much difficulty. It wouldn’t be hard to forge a shortcut.

  He stuck to the trail. Feeling superior was one thing; being stupid was quite another.

  After about two miles, the earth sloped sharply downhill. The slope itself was barren of snow, but cluttered with fist-sized rocks. Some were smooth, some sharp, some firm, some loose. None of them looked welcoming. One misstep on that hill, and he’d tumble all the way down.

  “I don’t like this,” Stephen muttered. “Maybe there’s another path.”

  “There is no other path!” gurgled a chorus. “One path only to the third bridge!”

  “Is the bridge far?

  “We don’t know—we’ve never seen it!”

  “Then how do you know—”

  “Always the same! People run—they go bridge to bridge to bridge—no one ever stops to chat!”

  “I see,” said Stephen, “only, I don’t. Who are you? Where are you?”

  “Who—what—where—where not?—We’re here—you’re there, Enchanter—we like enchanters.”

  “Why can’t I see you?”

  “You can—you can!”

  And, of course, he could. He had been looking at them all that time without realizing. All the hundreds of rocks on the slope were turned toward him, their eyes like s
pecks of dust. Several of them oozed underneath, settling into more comfortable positions.

  Ah. That would explain why they liked enchanters. Odd that he couldn’t see any magic on them.

  “I beg your pardon—I thought you mere rocks. I realize now that enchantment has brought you life.”

  “Enchantment? Injury! Outrage!—Enchantments? We never heard such a thing!—We are not enchanted!”

  “Then what are you?” Stephen asked, bewildered.

  “We are Robin’s Children!”

  “His children? He turned you into rocks?”

  This sent another frenzy of arguments and complaints and explanations rocketing through the rocks.

  “All right, all right! I’m sorry I called you rocks—I didn’t mean to offend you. I hadn’t looked properly. You are, of course, Robin’s Children; it was a terrible mistake to think you otherwise. Please forgive me—and please excuse me; I must be on my way.”

  “Of course you must—naturally he must!—always hurrying around, these enchanters—terribly important enchanter business—come on down, Enchanter, come on down—don’t slip!”

  “You won’t trip me?”

  “Trip you?—Trip him?—Us?—What fun!—how jolly—trip, trip—roll all the way down—down, down, down—how they splatter—how they break—how they crunch and thump and bleed—how they scream as they are eaten—how amusing!”

  Fairly warned, then. Stephen gripped his stick and grimly stepped onto the slope. Robin’s Children oozed politely out of the way, oohing at the size and shape of his boots and loudly wondering what deformity afflicted his feet.

  Stephen sped up, and suddenly Robin’s Children were everywhere—sliding under his feet, tripping him, making him stumble—”

  He stopped just in time. Robin’s Children tittered “Enchanter—Enchanter—are you going to fall?—We won’t catch you,” and formed dizzying geometric designs to distract him.

  Stephen began again, slowly. Again, Robin’s Children presented him with a clear path. Again, the moment he sped up, Robin’s Children darted under his feet, squealing reproachfully when he stepped on them.

  Stephen slowed down and apologized. After that, despite his desire for haste, he went slowly. He found that he couldn’t dislike Robin’s Children, not really. They might want him to die horribly for their amusement, but it wasn’t maliciousness that prompted them; it was pure silliness. This was all a game to them. Indeed, he realized, they were equally interested in showing off the pretty patterns they could make as they were in tripping him to his death. After that, things were easier. He marveled aloud at their cleverness, and they preened and let him go a little faster without harm.

  “Look at us—look over here!—have you seen this one?—oops, don’t fall, Enchan—” Robin’s Children’s voices cut off and they ceased all movement. Stephen experimentally jogged forward, and not a single one tried to trip him.

  “Ooh—did you feel that?” several of the Children whispered, and they came alive again, exchanging hushed comments and making one or two lazy moves under Stephen’s feet. Stephen hurriedly returned to his earlier, sluggish pace. “Did he feel that?—We feel lots, in the ground—but what to do—trip her too!—No, let her pass—no!—trip her? Do we dare? Ought we?”

  “It will be more fun if you do,” Stephen said hopefully.

  “There is that—good point—he’s right—the Enchanter’s right—dreadfully rude, she is—but would Robin like it?”

  “Robin would never let an insult pass,” Stephen said, but not one of Robin’s Children answered—they had fallen silent a second time.

  She had arrived. Stephen gripped his walking stick in both hands and turned to face her.

  She was magnificent. In shape and expression she might have been a house cat, but no house cat ever stood two-and-a-half feet at the shoulder and six feet from nose to tail. Her coat was tawny, her eyes pale and gleaming, her tail twitching. She lay in a shrub at the top of the hill, watching Stephen.

  Mountain lion.

  Stephen had only seen a mountain lion once before, when he was a small child. For years it had been killing livestock around his town. But then one day it dragged off a child—a girl Stephen vaguely knew. They said it must have been crazed from hunger, but Stephen knew that wasn’t true. He had been there, although he hadn’t told anyone. They had been playing a little too far from home, and had spotted the mountain lion. She had gone up to the mountain lion, saying she was going to pet it. She had never believed that any animal would hurt her.

  Stephen had seen her remains when they had brought them back.

  After the mountain lion had been killed, they had stuffed and mounted it, and used it to teach the children what to do if they ever saw one: pretend to be large and ferocious. All cats were cowards, they were told, and if they could convince the mountain lion they could injure it, it wouldn’t attack.

  Somehow, Stephen didn’t think that’d work on a creature of Robin’s Woods.

  The mountain lion knew he had seen her. She rose to her feet and slunk gracefully downward. Her movements were sure and steady, and she did not zigzag to lessen the slope, as Stephen had.

  Stephen planted his feet shoulder-width apart and waited for her. He wished he were a battle-wizard and could use the stick to shoot fire at her. As it was, the stick was only a sturdy length of wood.

  That would have to do.

  And besides, he told himself, he’d rather die an enchanter than a battle-wizard. Wizardry was, on the whole, a lowly and unworthy branch of magic.

  Slowly, so as not to alarm the mountain lion, Stephen reversed his grip on the walking stick and raised it to his shoulder, ready to swing.

  The mountain lion paused and angled her head toward the movement. She was still some fifty feet away, but she crouched and sprang, faster and farther than Stephen would have believed possible.

  At the last moment, Robin’s Children clustered and danced beneath her feet, knocking her off-course. She twisted midair, correcting her trajectory, and—

  THWACK.

  Stephen’s walking stick smacked the mountain lion solidly across her shoulder, dashing her down the slope. The stick fell from his stinging hands and he gasped for air.

  The mountain lion climbed to her feet. She held her right foreleg gingerly, but stood her ground and snarled.

  He was not going to win this fight.

  The mountain lion bounded forward, powerful legs springing, propelling her forward, covering ten feet with every step . . . and not moving forward one inch. The ground beneath her had become a roiling mass of Robin’s Children, all of them, the rest of the slope laid bare.

  Now was his chance!

  Stephen found his walking stick and ran at her, swinging, bashing her legs, her flank, her face. He swung until the stick broke, and then speared her with its broken ends. She lunged at him, claws extended, but Robin’s Children made sure she couldn’t reach him but never made him stumble. She yowled until Stephen’s ears hurt, but she could do no more; she could barely manage to stay upright.

  Beneath her feet, Robin’s Children giggled uncontrollably, and rammed themselves against her, bruising her legs, bloodying the pads of her paws, running her against Stephen’s makeshift spears and—when they had had enough—throwing her down the slope.

  Stephen discarded the walking stick fragments for his knife. He ran down and leapt on the wounded mountain lion, stabbing her in the chest and neck, stabbing her until long after the light of life had faded from her eyes and the twitches that wracked her body were caused by the force of his arm as he forced the knife in again and again.

  When Stephen returned to his senses, he found himself kneeling by her corpse, in the field at the bottom of the slop. Above him, Robin’s Children were murmuring among themselves, a discomforted sort of murmur, not at all like their earlier cheerfulness. They were as clean and shiny as any rocks could be, not a smear of blood anywhere.

  Oh, right. That was because it was all around him. And on
him. He smelled awful.

  Stephen stumbled to his feet, dully realizing his hand was cramping and numb on the hilt of his knife. He wiped the knife in the snow and replaced it in his robes.

  “Thank you for your help,” he told Robin’s Children.

  “Help—no—no—we didn’t help you—not against her—don’t you tell Robin we did!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Go away, Enchanter!—Go away and don’t come back—(you’re welcome, by the way)—we don’t know you—hurry, before he arrives!”

  Stephen turned back to the remains of the mountain lion. It was no longer magnificent, and he found he didn’t want any part of it—no trophies. Not even its teeth. He wanted to forget it, and the way it laid there, limp, broken.