The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  He was no longer so sure that it would be safe to bed the fair Zanya Kliedervaust.

  But he could not get her out of his mind.

  Ten days after his ordeal at sea, Drake decided to discuss his problem with his sister.

  'I'm in love,' he said.

  'Then demonstrate it,' she said tartly. 'Lean on your elbows! Stop dribbling!'

  'I'm not in love with you, stupid,' said Drake.

  'Watch your language,' said his sister, with danger in her voice, 'or I'll spit in your eye!'

  And Drake thought; Women! They're so emotional!

  'Well,' said his sister, shortly afterwards, 'who are you in love with?'

  'A woman from Ebrell,' said Drake, dreamily, staring up at the ceiling. 'Red skin, red hair . . . she's gorgeous.' 'Is she a good lay?'

  'I haven't been able to find out,' said Drake. And he explained.

  'This is a hopeless case,' said his sister. 'You'd better see a pox doctor.' 'For what?'

  'For a cure for love. We've got a pox doctor working in the temple now. He's quite nice.'

  'Is he good in bed?' said Drake.

  'He's a wizard, stupid. They don't go in for that kind of stuff.'

  'Oh,' said Drake. 'Somehow . . . somehow I don't think a pox doctor would help me.'

  But, that night, he endured grim dreams of blue leprosy. He dreamed of Zanya, of her body studded with blue sores, just as King Tor's leather clothing was studded with iron. He dreamed of Zanya suffering long, slow months of decay, eventually becoming ulcerated, blind, gangrenous. Then dead. He woke in a sweat.

  And, that very morning, he fronted up to the temple for an interview with their pox doctor, who was a wizard of the order of Nin, one of the weakest of the eight orders of wizards. His name was Miphon. The temple of Hagon, hoping to end an unpleasant outbreak of gonorrhoea, had lately imported him to Stokos to advise on sexual hygiene. Miphon had given much valuable advice with respect to the use of condoms, and was almost ready to leave the island.

  On being admitted to Miphon's presence, Drake saw the wizard was fairly old - maybe aged about thirty. He wore businesslike leathers and a broad-brimmed hat which sported a single feather. Being nervous, Drake started the interview by being rude.

  'Why are your eyes green?' he said.

  Miphon was unsurprised by this brusque demand for information. Guessing at Drake's unease, Miphon made allowances for it.

  'My eyes are green,' said he, 'because I am descended from the elven folk. My great-grandfather was of the People.'

  So he spoke. But, as the Book of Wisdom puts it: 'Much is spoken, but little is truthed.' Drake, who knew as much, took Miphon's claim with a grain of salt.

  T see from your face that you disbelieve me,' said Miphon. 'But I can prove myself. Thanks to my elven ancestry, I am fay. I can read minds. I can tell who you are, what you are, and what you want.'

  'Tell, then,' said Drake, disbelieving.

  'You are Drake Douay, a swordsmith's apprentice,' said Miphon. 'You love the fair Zanya Kliedervaust, who resides in the leprosarium on the outskirts of this town of Cam.'

  Drake had never had his mind read before.

  He was shocked. Startled. Stunned. Awed.

  'My . . . my lord,' said Drake. 'I... I did not mean to be rude. I have never met an elven lord before. It was - the clothes confused me. I thought great people to dress greatly. Man, if you dressed with more style you'd get much more respect.'

  'The leathers serve,' said Miphon. 'Would you seek to embellish wisdom with gaudy silks and golden baubles? Do the postures of fashion improve veracity?'

  'Embellish?' said Drake. 'Veracity?'

  He had learnt a great many very long words and complicated ideas in his theory classes, but there were still enormous gaps in his education.

  'To embellish is to decorate,' said Miphon patiently. 'Veracity is another word for truth.'

  'Great is the wisdom of the elven lords!' said Drake.

  T did not say that I was an elf,' said Miphon, 'only that I am of elven descent. Not all of the powers of the People are mine. Only some.'

  Actually, there is less magic in the world than most folk think, and certainly less magic than Miphon claimed. For - regardless of the truth or otherwise of his claim to elven descent - the wizard Miphon was most certainly not fay. He was not telepathic. (Well, he could read the minds of rocks, stones and the lesser animals - such as the mole, phoenix, basilisk, badger, rat, mouse, dragon, gryphon, rabbit, cow and codfish - but such skill is of very little practical use.)

  So how did he know about Drake?

  Simple.

  Drake's sister had already seen Miphon to brief him in depth regarding her brother's name, appearance and mission.

  'Have no fear,' said Miphon, 'for I will do you no harm, even though I am mighty in power. Instead, I will tell you how to resolve your problem.'

  'You will cure me of love?' said Drake.

  'Yes,' said Miphon, handing Drake a little tablet. 'Dissolve this in water to make a philtre which is a certain cure for love. Drink the philtre by the light of a full moon. Turn round widershins. Kneel down. Kiss the ground three times, each time saying the name of the woman you love. Then work as hard as you can for the next thirty days, doing every task your master sets you - or twice as much, if possible. That will cure you of love, for certain.'

  'Does the moon have to be full?' said Drake.

  'Oh yes,' said Miphon. 'For this magic is animated by the power of the moon herself. Only by the full moon can such power be conjured.'

  Drake was very impressed.

  This was great magic indeed!

  In truth, the tablet contained nothing but a little salt and sugar. But Miphon, who was a great believer in the power of the placebo, had found he could cure a truly staggering

  range of conditions with such little tablets. 'Happy?' said Miphon.

  'Well ... if you can give me this kind of pill . . . why not a philtre to make the lady love me?'

  'If you must have the lady,' said Miphon, 'then woo her. Pledge your love with poetry and flowers. Visit her daily. Let her know the sincerity of your devotions. Speak to her prettily, and persist. To destroy is easier than to create. Magic can destroy your love easily - but cannot create love for you in her.'

  'It's all very well to talk of wooing,' said Drake. 'But how can I? She's in the leper colony. It's death to enter - particularly with that blue leprosy on the loose.'

  'Leprosy is hard to catch,' said Miphon. 'As for blue leprosy - that's a different disease entirely. A kind of pox, only to be caught when man lies with woman. It's slow to develop, sometimes taking years to appear. That's why the nature of the disease is seldom properly understood.'

  'I see,' said Drake.

  'Trust me,' said Miphon. 'If you visit the leper colony, you'll likely come away unscathed. Yes, even if you visit a hundred times. Do you have any other questions?'

  'Only this,' said Drake. 'Do wizards pork women? Or do they go for men?'

  Miphon refused to be upset by this rudeness.

  'We limit every indulgence,' said Miphon gravely. 'We must, because of the demands of the Balance.'

  'What is this Balance?' said Drake.

  'Many have asked,' said Miphon, 'but few have been answered. You know your future now. You have magic to cure you of love, if you wish. If not - then woo the lady.'

  And with that, Drake had to be content.

  That very evening, Miphon quit Stokos on a dirty, wallowing brig taking coal from Cam to Narba. The next morning, Drake was discussing the wizard with his sister, and saying what a marvellous mind-reading elf he was, when she broke into peals of laughter.

  'He's no elf!' she said. 'There's no such thing as elves.' ' Then how did he know who I was?' said Drake.' How did he know what I wanted?' 'How do you think?' said she. Drake put his mind to it.

  And, since his mind had been rigorously trained in logic (and rhetoric, debate, analysis, and half a dozen other useless things besides) he soon
came up with an answer which was claw-sharp and correct.

  'Well,' saidDrake, 'sothatwizardwasatleastthree-parts sham. So what about his tablet? What about his advice?'

  ' The answer to the tablet is easy,' said his sister.' See what an alchemist makes of it.'

  So Drake went looking for an alchemist. He should have known better. After all, as part of his apprenticeship theory he had already learnt that there is no truth in alchemy, astrology, poetry, politics, paternity or weather forecasts. But Drake was young - and there is much the young can only learn the hard way.

  Drake found an alchemist soon enough: a muttering, gnomish old man named Villet Vate, who had a dark narrow shop which he shared with moths, woodlice and a multitude of spiders.

  ' Come in, come in!' said Vate.

  And Drake entered the shop; breathed its mysterious atmosphere of menthol, cajuput oil, cloves and camphor; breathed dust as well, and sneezed; gazed, open-mouthed, at mysterious stills, alembics and antique devices of unknown function.

  'What's. . . what's this?'he said, touching a huge contraption of strangely-wrought metal.

  'Ah, that,' said Vate, rubbing his hands together. 'That's a telescope. Very ancient, very ancient. All the best things are old.'

  'A telescope?'

  'A device for looking on the faces of the stars,' said Vate. 'I can't quite make it work yet. But I'll get there, I'll get there.'

  (He was over-optimistic, for what he thought was a telescope was in fact an electron microscope. And the device with which he hoped to transmute lead to gold was a zymometer. And his latest purchase - a curious metal sphere washed out of the sea by a storm - was not the magical treasure chest he imagined it was, but a bomb powerful enough to blow Stokos right off the map.)

  'And what's . . . what's this?' said Drake, pointing to a very intricate device of interlocking wheels, arcs, crescents, levers and slides.

  'That?' said Vate. 'Ah, that's an astrolabe. It tells sun, moon, tide and time. It's elven work. Very ancient. Very rare. But for sale, if you've gold sufficient.'

  'No thanks,' said Drake. 'What I want is an assay.'

  'Of what?'

  'This tablet. But - mind! - I want some left when you've finished with it.'

  'Break the tablet in half, then,' said Vate. 'Half is all I'll need.'

  Drake did as he was bid, then watched with intense interest as Vate dropped the sample into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, added seawater and sulphur and the urine of a rabbit, stirred the mixture with the feather of a white owl, decanted it, weighed it, adulterated it with snuff, stared at it through a magnifying glass, sniffed it, then pronounced:

  'This tablet contains horn of unicorn, ground-up ginseng and essence of oyster, plus talcum powder, soap and a trace of cocaine.'

  'Will that cure me of love?' said Drake.

  'Nay, man,' said the alchemist. 'It's an aphrodisiac!'

  'Then what cure is there for love?' said Drake.

  'This!' said Vate, holding up a sharp knife. 'Come into the back room. I'll cure you for life in a moment.'

  'No thanks,' said Drake.

  And went away severely disillusioned with wizards and the world. But, since half the tablet remained, he took it. And, while that half a tablet contained no more than salt and sugar, Drake's faith in its qualities was such that he raged in lust for a week.

  At this point it should probably be pointed out - in defence of the poor unicorn, which is increasingly rare these days - that there is no true aphrodisiac known to either man or woman (with the sole exception of propinquity, which does not come in tablet form).

  In the end, Drake's lust diminished to normal levels (high, but not high enough to please him) and life itself returned to something close to normal.

  Once more his main concern was his first sword. When was he going to get to make it? He dared not pester Gouda Muck, for fear the old man's temper would turn sour. But, in a frenzy of impatience, he watched Muck's slow but steady progress through his order list.

  Just by watching, Drake began to learn a surprising amount. He was amazed at how much had escaped his notice in the last four years. Well, as the saying goes: 'One can achieve either perfection of the religious life or perfection of the practical life.'

  Drake, till now, had always chosen religion over practicalities. But, if he had to go easy on religion in order to bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion, then he would make the necessary sacrifice.

  'Come on, Muck,' muttered Drake to Drake, morning and night. 'Finish those swords! I want to get started on mine!'

  5

  Name: Gouda Muck. Birthplace: Cam. Occupation: swordsmith.

  Status: taxpayer; senior citizen; second-best swordsmith on Stokos.

  Description: old and ugly (Drake's opinion); wise and dignified (his own opinion); a waste of skin (his mother's opinion). .

  Residence: Hardhammer Forge, Ironbird Street, Cam, Stokos.

  Gouda Muck was an atheist.

  He was, quite possibly, the only atheist in the city of Cam.' Most citizens enjoyed the practice of religion - indeed, for many devout souls, its consolations were all that made life worth living. But Gouda Muck was born to be a dissident. He refused to believe in the demon Hagon, far less to worship that formidable eater of souls.

  He also avoided those sacred religious duties usually accepted even by unbelievers, viz:

  T patronizing the temple casinos;

  t copulating with the temple prostitutes;

  t playing the temple numbers game;

  t going to the temple cockfights;

  f participating in the human sacrifices.

  His main objection to all the above activities was that they cost an exorbitant amount of money.

  'Religion,' said Muck, 'is a racket.'

  He could get away with talk like that, for he was the second-best swordsmith on Stokos, where metalworkers were valued highly.

  Gouda Muck lived with three boys, but slept with none of them. One was a deaf mute who shovelled coal, worked the bellows, and exorcised the minor demons of puberty by raping chickens. The other two, Drake and Yot, were older, virgins no longer though beardless still.

  The fair-haired Drake had, till now, been very religious: he loved to drink, gamble, fight and swear, and relished the privileges which came with having a sister in the temple. Unfortunately, there had been times when he had overdone things somewhat - and the people of Stokos, like people elsewhere, frowned on religious mania.

  'Balance,' said Drake to himself, 'that's the thing. I've got to find a balance between the pleasures of religion and the demands of the world of work.'

  Yot, on the other hand, had no such problems to grapple with, for he was a spiritless fellow, a lank pale stripling with a runny nose (an allergy to coal dust made his life miserable with rhinitis) and warts.

  And it was with Yot that the trouble began. It began only nine days after Drake saw the wizard Miphon - that is, just twenty days after Drake's ordeal at sea. It began when Yot, refusing to accept expense as excuse sufficient, demanded the real reason for Muck's dissent.

  T only believe in the Flame,' said Muck, peering into the furnace.

  'The Flame?' asked Yot.

  'Aye, boy,' said Muck, amused by Yot's wide-eyed attention. 'The living presence of the High God of All Gods, which purifies as it witnesses.'

  Drake, who was working in the forge at the time, heard that, but kept himself from sniggering. He wanted to hear more. So did Yot.

  'How does it purify?' asked Yot.

  'It burns, boy,' said Muck. 'Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Stick a hand in, if you doubt me - it'll do more than clean your fingernails. It burns, and I can see that it burns. Ocular proof, aye, that's the thing.'

  'But what's this business about gods?' asked Yot. 'How did you find out about that?'

  The Flame spoke to me,' said Gouda Muck. 'And it speaks to me still.'

  And, seeing Yot's jaw drop, he continued the joke. At length.
r />   Afterwards, Drake teased Yot for believing in fairy tales. But Yot, stubborn in belief, refused to concede that Muck's dogma was a load of tripe and codswallop, conjured up for the whim of the moment. They fought. Drake, as usual, won - but Yot still made no intellectual concessions. He went on asking for tales of the Flame, and Muck went on telling them.

  Well, all was fine at first. Then, after Muck had been telling these fairy tales for three days, the Flame did speak to him. It roared up out of the furnace, hung purple in the air, and shouted in a voice of drums and cymbals:

  'Muck! Thou art who thou art!'

  Then left, even as Muck fainted.

  On recovery, Muck decided he had experienced a true religious revelation. Actually, the syphilis scrambling his brain had made him hallucinate. The syphilis, by the way, was a souvenir of his riotous youth - Muck had been solemnly celibate these past thirty-five years or more.

  The Flame spoke often thereafter, bringing Faith to Gouda Muck; those gnawing spirochaetes had a lot to answer for. Muck listened to the Flame as he laboured in the forge; he heard it as he ate his meals or walked by the dockside; the Flame gave him fresh revelations in his dreams.

  How long does it take to create a religion? Inspired by syphilis, Gouda Muck took precisely two days to lay down the foundations of his own faith.

  The revelations of the Flame elevated Muck's personal quirks to the status of divine law: no drink, no gambling, no fighting and no loose women. What's more, thrift became an absolute virtue. Muck immediately began to help his apprentices be good by banking half their paltry wages into trust accounts managed by the Orsay Bank.

  Drake had till then been happy enough as a sword-smith's devil, since all his hardships had been sweetened by the compensations of religion. With these denied to him - the confiscation of half his wages made certain of that - life went sour.

  'Endure,' said Drake to Drake.

  He must live for the day when he was a master swordsmith, yes, with his own forge and apprentices.

  'Muck,' said Drake, one evening. 'How about setting a definite date for me to start making my first sword?'

  'Why should I do that?' said Muck.

  'Because it will give me something to look forward to,' said Drake.