A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  She waved them both goodbye.

  That afternoon she took the bus down to the hospital to see Mrs. Perkins, who was still in with her hip, poor love. Mrs. Whitaker took her some homemade fruit cake, although she had left out the walnuts from the recipe, because Mrs. Perkins's teeth weren't what they used to be.

  She watched a little television that evening, and had an early night.

  On Tuesday, the postman called. Mrs. Whitaker was up in the box-room at the top of the house, doing a spot of tidying, and, taking each step slowly and carefully, she didn't make it downstairs in time. The postman had left her a message which said that he'd tried to deliver a packet, but no one was home.

  Mrs. Whitaker sighed.

  She put the message into her handbag, and went down to the post office.

  The package was from her niece Shirelle in Sydney, Australia. It contained photographs of her husband, Wallace, and her two daughters, Dixie and Violet; and a conch shell packed in cotton wool.

  Mrs. Whitaker had a number of ornamental shells in her bedroom. Her favourite had a view of the Bahamas done on it in enamel. It had been a gift from her sister, Ethel, who had died in 1983.

  She put the shell and the photographs in her shopping bag. Then, seeing that she was in the area, she stopped in at the Oxfam shop on her way home.

  “Hullo, Mrs. W,” said Marie.

  Mrs. Whitaker stared at her. Marie was wearing lipstick (possibly not the best shade for her, nor particularly expertly applied, but thought Mrs. Whitaker, that would come with time), and a rather smart skirt. It was a great improvement.

  “Oh. Hello, dear,” said Mrs. Whitaker.

  “There was a man in here last week, asking about that thing you bought. The little metal cup thing. I told him where to find you. You don't mind, do you?”

  “No, dear,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “He found me.”

  “He was really dreamy. Really, really dreamy,” sighed Marie, wistfully. “I could of gone for him. And he had a big white horse and all,” Marie concluded. She was standing up straighter as well, Mrs. Whitaker noted approvingly.

  On the bookshelf Mrs. Whitaker found a new Mills & Boon novel—Her Majestic Passion—although she hadn't yet finished the two she had bought on her last visit.

  She picked up the copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry, and opened it. It smelled musty. Ex Libris Fisher, was neatly handwritten at the top of the first page, in red ink.

  She put it down where she had found it.

  When she got home, Galaad was waiting for her. He was giving the neighbourhood children rides on Grizzel's back, up and down the street.

  “I'm glad you're here,” she said. “I've got some cases that need moving.”

  She showed him up to the box-room in the top of the house. He moved all the old suitcases for her, so she could get to the cupboard at the back.

  It was very dusty up there.

  She kept him up there most of the afternoon, moving things around while she dusted.

  Galaad had a cut on his cheek, and he held one arm a little stiffly.

  They talked a little, while she dusted and tidied. Mrs. Whitaker told him about her late husband, Henry; and how the life insurance had paid the house off; and how she had all these things but no one really to leave them to, no one but Ronald really and his wife only liked modern things. She told him how she had met Henry, during the war, when he was in the A.R.P. and she hadn't closed the kitchen blackout curtains all the way; and about the sixpenny dances they went to in the town; and how they'd gone to London when the war had ended, and she'd had her first drink of wine.

  Galaad told Mrs. Whitaker about his mother, Elaine, who was flighty and no better than she should have been and something of a witch to boot; and his grandfather, King Pelles, who was well-meaning although at best a little vague; and of his youth in the Castle of Bliant on the Joyous Isle; and his father, whom he knew as “Le Chevalier Mal Fet,” who was more or less completely mad, and was in reality Lancelot du Lac, greatest of knights, in disguise and bereft of his wits; and of Galaad's days as a young squire in Camelot.

  At five o'clock Mrs. Whitaker surveyed the box-room and decided that it met with her approval; then she opened the window so the room could air, and they went downstairs to the kitchen, where she put on the kettle.

  Galaad sat down at the kitchen table.

  He opened the leather purse at his waist and took out a round white stone. It was about the size of a cricket ball.

  “My lady,” he said, “this is for you, and you give me the San-grail.”

  Mrs. Whitaker picked up the stone, which was heavier than it looked, and held it up to the light. It was milkily translucent, and deep inside it flecks of silver glittered and glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. It was warm to the touch.

  Then, as she held it, a strange feeling crept over her: deep inside she felt stillness and a sort of peace. Serenity: that was the word for it; she felt serene.

  Reluctantly she put the stone back on the table.

  “It's very nice,” she said.

  “That is the Philosopher's Stone, which our forefather Noah hung in the ark to give light when there was no light; it can transform base metals into gold; and it has certain other properties,” Galaad told her, proudly. “And that isn't all. There's more. Here.” From the leather bag he took an egg, and handed it to her.

  It was the size of a goose egg, and was a shiny black colour, mottled with scarlet and white. When Mrs. Whitaker touched it the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her immediate impression was one of incredible heat and freedom. She heard the crackling of distant fires, and for a fraction of a second she seemed to feel herself far above the world, swooping and diving on wings of flame.

  She put the egg down on the table, next to the Philosopher's Stone.

  “That is the Egg of the Phoenix,” said Galaad. “From far Araby it comes. One day it will hatch out into the Phoenix Bird itself; and when its time comes, the bird will build a nest of flame, lay its egg, and die, to be reborn in flame in a later age of the world.”

  “I thought that was what it was,” said Mrs. Whitaker.

  “And, last of all, lady,” said Galaad, “I have brought you this.”

  He drew it from his pouch, and gave it to her. It was an apple, apparently carved from a single ruby, on an amber stem.

  A little nervously, she picked it up. It was soft to the touch—deceptively so: her fingers bruised it, and ruby-coloured juice from the apple ran down Mrs. Whitaker's hand.

  The kitchen filled, almost imperceptibly, magically, with the smell of summer fruit, of raspberries and peaches and strawberries and red currants. As if from a great way away she heard distant voices raised in song, and far music on the air.

  “It is one of the apples of the Hesperides,” said Galaad, quietly. “One bite from it will heal any illness or wound, no matter how deep; a second bite restores youth and beauty; and a third bite is said to grant eternal life.”

  Mrs. Whitaker licked the sticky juice from her hand. It tasted like fine wine.

  There was a moment, then, when it all came back to her—how it was to be young: to have a firm, slim body that would do whatever she wanted it to do; to run down a country lane for the simple unladylike joy of running; to have men smile at her just because she was herself and happy about it.

  Mrs. Whitaker looked at Sir Galaad, most comely of all knights, sitting fair and noble in her small kitchen.

  She caught her breath.

  “And that's all I have brought for you,” said Galaad. “They weren't easy to get, either.”

  Mrs. Whitaker put the ruby fruit down on her kitchen table. She looked at the Philosopher's Stone, and the Egg of the Phoenix, and the Apple of Life.

  Then she walked into her parlour and looked at the mantel-piece: at the little china basset hound, and the Holy Grail, and the photograph of her late husband, Henry, shirtless, smiling, and eating an ice cream, in black and white, almost forty years away.

&nbs
p; She went back into the kitchen. The kettle had begun to whistle. She poured a little steaming water into the teapot, swirled it around, and poured it out. Then she added two spoonfuls of tea and one for the pot, and poured in the rest of the water. All this she did in silence.

  She turned to Galaad then, and she looked at him.

  “Put that apple away,” she told Galaad, firmly. “You shouldn't offer things like that to old ladies. It isn't proper.”

  She paused, then. “But I'll take the other two,” she continued, after a moment's thought. “They'll look nice on the mantelpiece. And two for one's fair, or I don't know what is.”

  Galaad beamed. He put the ruby apple into his leather pouch. Then he went down on one knee, and kissed Mrs. Whitaker's hand.

  “Stop that,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She poured them both cups of tea, after getting out the very best china, which was only for special occasions.

  They sat in silence, drinking their tea.

  When they had finished their tea they went into the parlour.

  Galaad crossed himself, and picked up the Grail.

  Mrs. Whitaker arranged the Egg and the Stone where the Grail had been. The Egg kept tipping on one side, and she propped it up against the little china dog.

  “They do look very nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker.

  “Yes,” agreed Galaad. “They look very nice.”

  “Can I give you anything to eat before you go back?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Some fruit cake,” she said. “You may not think you want any now, but you'll be glad of it in a few hours' time. And you should probably use the facilities. Now, give me that, and I'll wrap it up for you.”

  She directed him to the small toilet at the end of the hall, and went into the kitchen, holding the Grail. She had some old Christmas wrapping paper in the pantry, and she wrapped the Grail in it, and tied the package with twine. Then she cut a large slice of fruit cake, and put it in a brown paper bag, along with a banana and a slice of processed cheese in silver foil.

  Galaad came back from the toilet. She gave him the paper bag, and the Holy Grail. Then she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You're a nice boy,” she said. “You take care of yourself.”

  He hugged her, and she shooed him out of the kitchen, and out of the back door, and she shut the door behind him. She poured herself another cup of tea, and cried quietly into a kleenex, while the sound of hoofbeats echoed down Hawthorne Crescent.

  On Wednesday Mrs. Whitaker stayed in all day.

  On Thursday she went down to the post office to collect her pension. Then she stopped in at the Oxfam Shop.

  The woman on the till was new to her. “Where's Marie?” asked Mrs. Whitaker.

  The woman on the till, who had blue-rinsed grey hair, and blue spectacles that went up into diamante points, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “She went off with a young man,” she said. “On a horse. Tch. I ask you. I'm meant to be down in the Healthfield shop this afternoon. I had to get my Johnny to run me up here, while we find someone else.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “Well, it's nice that she's found herself a young man.”

  “Nice for her, maybe,” said the lady on the till, “but some of us were meant to be in Healthfield this afternoon.”

  On a shelf near the back of the shop Mrs. Whitaker found a tarnished old silver container with a long spout. It had been priced at 60 pence, according to the little paper label stuck to the side. It looked a little like a flattened, elongated teapot.

  She picked out a Mills & Boon novel she hadn't read before. It was called Her Singular Love. She took the book and the silver container up to the woman on the till.

  “Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it. “Funny old thing, isn't it? Came in this morning.” It had writing carved along the side in blocky old Chinese characters, and an elegant arching handle. “Some kind of oil can, I suppose.”

  “No, it's not an oil can,” said Mrs. Whitaker, who knew exactly what it was. “It's a lamp.”

  There was a small metal finger-ring, unornamented, tied to the handle of the lamp with brown twine.

  “Actually,” said Mrs. Whitaker, “on second thought, I think I'll just have the book.”

  She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop. After all, Mrs. Whitaker reflected, as she walked home, it wasn't as if she had anywhere to put it.

  Firebearer

  Lois Tilton

  In those distant ages when gods made war on gods, the skies were shattered by thunderbolts, the seas were breached, the earth itself was laid open and brought forth flame. Mountains were broken and raised up as the immortals strove against one another, the old against the new, Titans and their rebellious brood. In the end Keraunos prevailed: the Thunderer, the Cloud-gatherer, hurling the Titans from heaven with his thunderbolts and binding them in chains beneath the weight of the mountains, where they lay groaning and lamenting their loss.

  Into a world newly remade humanity crept forth at last, trembling in fear and awe at the upheaval of the earth. But even as they crouched at their hearthfires, from the towering heights of a bare and desolate crag came the echo of ringing hammer-blows.

  There were mornings when a silence lay on the Scythian coast before the sun rose above the mountaintops to burn away the mist, a stillness that seemed to chill the human heart. On such mornings the harsh scream of an eagle could be heard as it circled lower, descending upon one cloud-piercing crag.

  The cry made Melas shudder. He stood in the doorway of his father's forge, which had been his father's before him. “Carrion bird!” he cursed the distant wheeling speck, but he spoke under his breath, for a man is rash who openly defies the gods.

  The eagle's cry echoed from the mountain, followed by a low moan, a sound of hopeless torment.

  The tale was old. Melas had heard it from his father by this very forge, when he had first asked as a boy, “Why does the mountain cry out in pain?”

  Then his father's hand had tightened around his hammer. “It isn't the mountain that cries out so, but the Firebearer, chained at the peak.”

  At the god's name, the smith's hammer struck the bronze he was working a ringing blow. He likewise was called Melas, and was well named, for his hair and beard were dark and the smoke of the forge had blackened his face. To his son, he seemed the image of Hephaistos himself. But there was yet another, older god of the forge, who had taught Hephaistos his craft. “Up there? The Fire-bearer?” the younger Melas asked.

  Again, hammer rang against bronze. “Aye, Pyrophoros, who brought the gift of fire to men and taught the crafts of metalwork, defying Keraunos,” his father said grimly. “He was fettered naked to the mountain for it. But this wasn't punishment enough to satisfy the Thunderer.”

  By this time the hammer-strokes were a rhythmic counterpoint to the ancient tale. “Every day he sends his eagle to feed on the Titan's flesh, so men and gods alike will hear his cries and learn the price of defiance.”

  Young Melas had raised his eyes in horror to the mountaintop where the Firebearer suffered for the crime of bringing fire and knowledge to mankind. He cried, “Is there no one who could set him free?”

  The hammer-blows paused briefly, then resumed their rhythm. “The gods themselves were afraid to speak out against his punishment, for fear they might end up sharing it.”

  And as young Melas had watched, the eagle rose from the crag, its crop heavy with flesh, wheeled in the air, and flew into the distance, back to its master.

  Melas had since grown to manhood, the muscles of his back and arm to a smith's strength. Soon the forge would be his, to be passed on to a son of his own. But on this morning he stood, the forge forgotten, and listened to the echoes of anguish from the mountain. Each time he saw the eagle descend upon the peak his heart would contract in pain and sympathy. His better sense argued that this was an affair
of gods, not men, but always his soul cried out that such suffering was a shame to mankind, for whose sake it was endured.

  On this morning he knew he could not bear it any longer. Grimly determined, he strode into the forge and began to throw his tools into a leather bag.

  The old smith followed him inside and asked in a worried voice, “Where are you going?”

  Melas's eyes turned to the mountain. “There.”

  “Fool!” his father groaned. “What do you think you can do against the will of the gods? Are you a hero? No! You're a simple bronzesmith, as your fathers were before you. Who is going to work this forge when you die on that mountain without leaving a son behind you?”

  “I know what I am,” Melas flung back. “But if it were you chained up there, by the will of the gods or no, how could I live day after day hearing your groans, doing nothing? How can I do less for the father of our craft?”

  The old smith said nothing while Melas packed the tools with which he hoped to free the Titan from his chains. Then he lifted his hammer, passed on to him from his own father, and his father before him. “Here,” he told his son, “take this. The tale has it that this hammer was forged in the very fire Pyrophoros brought from heaven. It may help.”

  Melas took the hammer reverently, stroked the face, felt the well-worn shaft in his hand. Tears stood in his father's eyes, and his hard calloused palms clasped his son's shoulders. “Perhaps a smith can breed a hero, after all,” he said at last.

  And tears rose in Melas, too, as he embraced his father, seeing him standing empty-handed by the cooling forge. Only the sight of the morning-lit peak behind him restored his resolve.

  News of his intentions had spread by the time he departed, and the villagers stood in silence watching him approach the foot of the haunted crag, bearing little more than his bag of tools and a bow across his back. To some, the ancient tales of the god chained at the peak were no more than a myth, and the dreadful moans were heard as only the voice of the wind. Surely no mortal man could find the Titan there, could free him. Yet the gifts of the Fire-bearer were known to all: not only smithcraft but pottery, medicine, and every craft that makes use of fire. Melas, if he were to succeed, would be redeeming a debt owed by them all.