Here be Monsters

CHAPTER 9

Quicker than the eye could see, a pseudopod shot out of the great jelly to swat the squirrel. There was one shocked squeal; then the little creature was completely enveloped in white protoplasm. The pseudopod drew back into the mound with a horrid sucking smack.

Allouette shuddered. “It is a Boneless!”

“It is quite clearly boneless.” Quicksilver frowned. “What of it?”

“Nay, a Boneless!” Cordelia repeated. “ ’Tis the name of the creature, not merely its state.”

Quicksilver gazed at the mound through slitted eyes. “What is its nature?”

“Ravenous,” Cordelia told her. “It will absorb anything living that comes near it, plant, animal, or human!”

“Then let us give it a wide berth.” Quicksilver turned her horse, then hesitated. “But it will not stay where it is, will it?”

“Nay,” Allouette confirmed. “We, at least, know what it is—but what will happen if a child comes upon it?”

Cordelia thought of the squirrel and shivered. “Dare we even let it stay upon this road?”

Allouette’s eyes widened. “Look behind it!”

Looking, Cordelia and Quicksilver saw a trail shining for ten feet before it began to grow patchy with evaporation, then gradually ceased.

“It comes toward us,” Quicksilver said with disgust.

“Slowly,” Allouette qualified. “Nonetheless, it moves.”

“We cannot have such a thing skating about the countryside,” Cordelia said with decision, then glared at the Boneless. It began to quiver, then spread out at the bottom, wider and wider as it sank into a puddle that spilled over the sides of the road into the grass.

“Well done,” Quicksilver said.

“But not enough,” Allouette amended. “Might it not pull itself back together?”

“Not if we divide it and give it other forms,” Cordelia answered. “Will you join in the game?”

Allouette smiled. “Gladly.”

Pieces began to break off the grayish-white puddle, pull themselves into balls, and go rolling off toward the roots of the roadside trees. There they stretched out thin, widened here and there, took on colors—and violets peeped over barky ridges, daffodils nodded in the shade, tulips opened their cups, roses bloomed, and more exotic flowers than had any business growing among oak and ash trees splashed garish color through the wood.

Quicksilver forced herself to nonchalance while she watched, though the prickling of dread spread up her backbone and across her neck and shoulders. She was a country girl who had been raised with the superstitions of her time and people, and living in constant contact with espers hadn’t really changed that. Her mind knew that there was really nothing supernatural here, that these were only the tricks people with strong and rare talents could play—but her stomach knew nothing of the sort, and was trying to climb up into her gorge. She tried to shake off the feeling, telling herself that these “witches” were only young women like herself—very much indeed, if Geoffrey was right about her having a touch of the gift of mind-reading herself—but her apprehensions refused to be banished. Soon the huge pancake had completely disappeared, the woodlot was ablaze with color and fragrant with perfume, and Cordelia nodded with satisfaction. “Well done.”

“But too easily.” Allouette frowned. “Why did not the fellow who crafted this Boneless resist our fragmenting of it?”

“Most likely he fled in fear of it,” Quicksilver said. “After all, he did not know he had made it.”

“There is truth in that,” Cordelia told Allouette, “and it was very crudely fashioned, after all.”

“Perhaps.” Allouette scowled at the place the monstrosity had been, then gave herself a shake. “No, I am seeing enemies where there are none! Most likely I shall soon see specters in the shadows at noontime!”

Cordelia and Quicksilver exchanged a doubt-filled glance. Then the warrior turned back to the former assassin. “What do you suspect?”

“It is a foolish notion, I am sure,” Allouette protested, “only an old habit of seeing enemies behind every bush, so that I should not be surprised if one of them were real.”

“That can spoil your day, when there really are no enemies near,” Cordelia admitted.

“But foes who really are there can spoil your day far worse!” Quicksilver said. “Indulge us, lady—share your fantasies. What manner of antagonist do you suspect?”

Allouette shrugged. “It only seems remarkable that we should come upon one after another of otherworldly creatures who are rare indeed, by all accounts.”

“There is truth in that,” Cordelia admitted.

“It may still be an accident,” Quicksilver said, “but it would behoove us to assume it is not. How do you think these monsters came to be, damsel?”

“It would almost seem as though someone rides ahead of us crafting monsters,” Allouette said hesitantly.

“There is some sense in that,” Cordelia said, frowning, “but if such a one does ride before us, why did he let us dismantle the Boneless so easily?”

“To lull our suspicions, of course,” Quicksilver snapped.

Allouette shook her head. “My apprehension smacks of sickness. To suspect malice where there is none is to destroy all pleasure in life. This was a foolish notion. I should not have troubled you with it.”

“It will do us no harm to bear the possibility in mind,” Cordelia protested.

“And might do us great harm to ignore it, then discover it is true,” Quicksilver said darkly. “Do not lose that habit of devious thought, Allouette—it may be the saving of us yet.”

Allouette blinked, as surprised and pleased to hear Quicksilver call her by name, as she was affronted to be reminded that the warrior was still very much aware of Allouette’s treacherous past. “I must keep the impulse under control, for it can destroy happiness to ever be suspecting enemies where there are none. Nonetheless, there is one other thing that does worry me . . .”

“Finish the thought!” Quicksilver demanded. “What else can you guess as to the cause of so many monsters in so short a space?”

Allouette sighed and asked, “Is it riding before or after our men?”

“Would it were so simple as an enemy riding ahead of us crafting monsters to waylay us!” Alain said with a sardonic smile. “Surely, though, you would read his thoughts if he were there.”

“If he is so powerful an esper as to be able to do so,” Gregory protested, “surely he could shield his thoughts so well that even Geoffrey and I could not hear them.”

“It may be,” said Alain, “but what of this ‘zonploka’ the hobyahs hailed? And the wall of mist from which the ogres came?”

“ ‘When several explanations present themselves, choose the simplest,’” Gregory quoted.

“Do not seek to shave him with Occam’s Razor, brother,” Geoffrey said, grinning. “I begin to realize that Alain’s sense of judgment is not a matter of logic alone, but also of intuition.”

“I do not think these matters through before I speak of them,” Alain admitted. “It is simply clear to me that your notion of a rider ahead of us does not account for all we have seen and heard.”

“Well, it was only a notion,” Gregory said, miffed, “but you cannot deny the possibility of an intelligence behind this sequence of creatures.”

“Nor do I,” Alain said. “I simply doubt that it rides ahead of us.”

“Where could it be, then?”

“Why, behind the wall of mist, brother.” Geoffrey returned a cheerful grin for the daggers Gregory glared at him.

“The sun is low.” Alain looked over his shoulder at the orange orb nearing the tops of the trees. “Where shall we pass this night?”

“Yon!” Geoffrey pointed at an orchard beside the road ahead. “Soft beds and fresh food both! How fortunate!”

“Suddenly I mistrust good fortune.” Alain smiled, though.

“Oh, be not so dour, Alain! We have hard biscuits and beef jerky; now we shall have apples for dessert!” Geoffrey turned his mount off the road and in among the trees. “In truth, I am so hungry I shall start where I should end! But there is someone else more hungry, and who must be served first.” He dismounted, unbuckled the bridle and took it off his mount’s head, then reached up, plucked an apple, and held it out to his horse.

“Well thought!” Alain dismounted and unbridled his horse, too, then plucked an apple and offered it to the stallion. Gregory followed suit, plucking his horse’s apple even as Geoffrey pulled a second off the tree and bit into it.

A swelling roar shook the whole orchard.

Geoffrey and Alain dropped the apples and spun, drawing their swords. Behind them, Gregory rested his hand on his hilt, but with an abstracted gaze, paying more attention with his mind than with his eyes.

The man who approached them looked like a tree come to life. His hair stood out in springy fronds, his jerkin and hose were rough and brown as bark, his fingers knobbly as twigs, his feet long and pointed as roots. He wore a crown of apple leaves that came down to frame his face like a beard. His mouth was a gash, his nose a burl; his eyes burned with anger as he stormed toward them, shaking his fist and bellowing, “Who are you who steal my apples?”

Geoffrey’s answer was a wolfish grin, but Alain asked mildly, “Are you the farmer, then?”

“Farmer forsooth!” the man thundered. “He who planted these trees is dead and gone these fifty years! I am the Apple-Tree Man, who cares for limb and root and nurses the fruit from bud to ripeness!”

“Do you watch them fall and rot, then, too?”

“That I do, for such is the fullness of their destiny!”

“Is there no more?” Alain asked. “Surely they have grown in vain if none but you has ever scented their perfume, no one tasted of their pulp.”

“Well said,” Gregory agreed, though his voice seemed abstracted. “You made no protest when we fed them to our horses.”

“That animals should eat when they are a-hungered, that is right and proper! That people should pluck more than they need is wasteful!”

“Come now, surely not.” Alain frowned. “If people store the apples away to see them through the winter, that is no waste of your charges—and surely it is a nobler fate for a farmer to plant the seeds in the spring, than for them to rot away.”

“Plant them? Will you do so?” the Apple-Tree Man demanded.

“No, but we shall take no more than will satisfy our hunger, either,” Geoffrey answered. “Where is there more harm in our eating of them, than in our horses?”

“You do not carry the seeds away to begin another orchard, as the horses do!” the Apple-Tree Man exclaimed. “And you seek to take the fruit before its time!”

“If it is not fully ripe, it is quite close.” Alain held up the apple he had taken. “Its color is full, though perhaps not quite so deep a red as it may become—and its aroma is rich and sweet.” He held the apple under his nose, then breathed a sigh of delight.

“Still, I will not take what is not freely given.” Geoffrey held the second apple out to his horse, who took it eagerly. He turned back to the Apple-Tree Man, spreading his hands wide to show they were empty. “Even so.”

“I too.” Alain held the apple out on his palm; his mount took it with relish.

“Well . . . I suppose the trees will not mind your eating of the fruit, if you promise to carry the seeds away as your horses do,” the Apple-Tree Man grumbled. “Eat, then, for you seem to be men of good heart—but mind you, no more than you need!”

“Nor will we,” Alain promised. “What say you, gentlemen?”

“One or two will satisfy me,” Geoffrey said.

“I, too,” Gregory agreed, “though my horse may seek more.”

“He is welcome to them—they all are,” the Apple-Tree Man grunted, “for such is the way of Nature. Eat, then, and sleep in peace—but mind you take the cores with you!” He whirled and went stamping off among the leaves, pausing now and then to examine a branch or a puckered apple.

Alain watched him go, muttering out of the side of his mouth, “Was he truly here fifty years ago, Gregory?”

“He thinks he was,” the scholar answered, “and he has memories of those years—here and there.”

“Bits and pieces, then?”

“Aye, with more holes than patches. Either he is what he seems and has very poor recollection, or whoever crafted him was careful to plant some scenes of his past.”

“Can you test authenticity?”

“Not really,” Gregory confessed. “One day walking among apple trees swelling with pride in their progress is quite like another. There are a few pictures of the farmer who planted this grove, at his work when young, then middle-aged, and at last limping about with a staff, smiling with pride at his handiwork full grown.”

“Such could be manufactured,” Geoffrey pointed out.

“Aye, but how should I tell that they were?”

“Is there nothing of his substance to tell you?”

Gregory shook his head. “There is no way to tell how old the witch-moss is, once it has been crafted into a being.”

“But you are sure he is of witch-moss.”

“Oh, aye. This is no ordinary man dressed up in a most elaborate costume, no. He is truly false.”

“Or well and truly crafted,” Geoffrey argued.

“True or false, he has told us all he can.” Alain turned back to unsaddle his horse and take a curry comb from the saddle bag. “Perhaps he is really as old as he claims, for why would a monster-maker set him here astride our path?”

The brothers were silent a moment, thinking over the question as they unsaddled their horses. Then Geoffrey offered, “A temptation?”

“To what?’ Alain asked. “To forgo the eating of apples?”

“No, to arrogance and injustice.”

The prince was quiet, thinking. Gregory nodded with approval. “Well thought, brother. When the Apple-Tree Man came storming up, we might well have taken his outrage as attack and turned upon him.”

“Run him through?’ Geoffrey shuddered. “An unarmed old fellow whose only crime is care for his trees?”

“There are many who would have done such,” Alain said grimly. “What harm could that arrogance have done to us, though?”

“It would have inclined us toward intolerance,” Gregory told him, “and toward the unjust use of force.”

“Becoming bullies, you mean.” Alain scowled. “Hazardous indeed, if we are on a quest to defend the land from those who would take it unjustly and for no better reason than that they are brutal enough to succeed.”

“Which means,” Gregory said softly, “that they are not so strong as to be able to triumph by force of arms alone.”

“No—they must corrupt folk here to become their allies in some fashion.” Geoffrey smiled. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“ ’Tis an old pattern,” Gregory said. “The Saxons might never have taken England if King Vortigern had not invited them to come and aid him against his rival Uther.”

“A legend only.” But the prince clearly found it unsettling.

“Other kings have found it expedient to ask for soldiers from a neighbor,” Geoffrey told him, “and found that when the war was done, the neighbor’s army would not leave.”

“I have heard of such.” Alain’s scowl was becoming darker and darker. “Some stayed to conquer. Others stayed only long enough to suck the lifeblood from the land, then marched triumphantly home, laden with spoils and captives.”

“Lifeblood!” Gregory stared at him. “How very like a vampire—who cannot enter a dwelling unless he is invited!”

The three young men stared at one another in horror. Then Alain asked in a low voice, “Is that the purpose of these monsters, then? To demoralize the peasants until one of them seeks to curry favor by inviting in whatever sorcerer lurks in the fog?”

“A sorcerer who can send his thoughts into our land to craft witch-moss monsters,” Gregory added, “but whose body cannot come without invitation?”

“His body, and his armies!” Geoffrey finished currying his horse and caressed the animal’s neck thoughtfully. “I think we must find this cloud of fog and put an end to this eruption of monsters quickly.”

“Quickly indeed, ere some greedy fool asks aid of the very ones who seek to slay him!” Alain shook his head. “I find myself yearning to travel onward this very night!”

“We cannot fight if we are tottering with fatigue and weak from hunger,” Geoffrey objected. “Every soldier knows he must rest and eat while he can.”

“So we shall, then.” Alain sighed. “But can we rise with the mist and ride with the sunrise, my friends? We may not have much longer to seek!”

• • •

They did indeed ride as the sun was rising. The first two hours passed without incident; the countryside looked peaceful and prosperous, the fields of grain ripe and ready for harvest. Then they came upon a covey of quail and Geoffrey took out his sling. He fitted a stone into the cup and whirled it around his head, but even as he did, a fox pounced from the underbrush and the birds scattered.

“Blast!” Geoffrey resisted the temptation to do just that to the fox and caught the sling-pouch with his left hand. “Ten seconds more and we would have eaten fresh fowl for lunch!”

“How can it be fresh if it be foul?” Alain asked, amused.

Geoffrey stared at him, for he’d never heard Alain make a joke before. Then he recovered and cried, “A riddle! How say you, Gregory—can foul be fresh or fresh be foul?”

“So said Shakespeare.” Gregory frowned. “No, that was fair and foul. May it be an apple that rots upon the tree?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “If it rots, it cannot be fresh even if it has not been picked.” He cocked an eye at Alain. “I do not suppose you know the answer.”

“Answer? Me?” Alain grinned. “I scarcely knew the question!”

So, chatting amiably about possible solutions to a paradox, they rode on through the morning. They found themselves riding uphill, so they weren’t too surprised when the trees grew smaller and smaller until they ceased completely, and the plowed fields gave way to a broad rolling expanse of land covered with heather and bracken.

Gregory breathed deeply, tilting his face up to the sun. “So much room, so wide a sky! I had not realized how the forest and fields can press in on one.”

“If you feel that way, brother, why did you build your ivory tower in the woods instead of out here on the moors?” Geoffrey asked.

“You know well—because I built where my site of power is. Besides”—Gregory grinned—“I would not want to dwell amid such a wide expanse of earth and sky forever.”

Alain nodded. “It is lonely, and a man here would feel very much isolated.”

“ ’Tis very refreshing, though,” Gregory said.

Geoffrey nodded. “A change, and a good one. We all need that now and again—and there could surely be no greater change from your forest, than these moors.”

They rode across the uplands, studying everything they saw, for none of them had spent much time on the moors. Finally they came to a brook, and Geoffrey suggested, “Let us fill our waterskins.”

“Let us indeed,” Alain agreed, “for who knows how long it will be till we find open water again?”

“There is not very much of it, on these moors.” Gregory dismounted, too, and came after Geoffrey as the older brother pulled the stopper and knelt on the bank, pushing the water-skin under—but before it was filled, Alain laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hist! Look up, but slowly.”

Geoffrey whistled as he lifted the skin, pushed in the stopper, and just happened to glance across the brook—straight into the eyes of the stunted, large-headed man dressed in faded tan smock and leggins.

“What be you staring at?” the stranger growled.

He was worth the stare. It was hard to judge his height when he was sitting on his heels, but his legs didn’t look to be very long at all, nor his arms either. His shoulders were broad—too broad for his size, though just right for his head. His face was deeply tanned, his moustache and beard dark brown, as was his frizzled hair. His mouth was wide, his nose large, and his eyes great and glowing, like a bull’s.

“I might ask the same.” Geoffrey felt the wolfish grin pulling at the corners of his mouth but fought it. “Indeed, you were staring at me even as I looked up.”

“And well I might wish to study the loathly lads who trespass on my land!” the stranger said with simmering rage. “What! Have you no courtesy, no charity, but you must go tramping about my moors and crushing my bracken with your great iron-shod beasts? Have you no compassion, that you are scarcely come upon my moors but you must seek to slay my grouse?”

“I would say you grouse well enough without us,” Geoffrey retorted, and when the man’s face turned darker and darker, he added quickly, “It was the fox who seized the bird, not I—and who said the fowls were yours?”

“All things upon the moors are mine,” the stranger bellowed, “even as I am theirs! I am grown out of the moors, I have the wide lands within me! I am the Brown Man of the Moors, as much of them as they are of me! How dare you seek to trample upon me with shoes of Cold Iron and think to slay my fox with your leaden pellet?”

“I withheld my bullet from the fox,” Geoffrey said evenly, “even as I withhold my hand from you.”

“Oh, you would seek to slay me too, would you?” the stranger roared. “Will nothing sate your appetite for slaughter?”

“I do like a bit of meat now and then.” Geoffrey ignored his brother’s frantic shushing motions. “From the look of you, you’ve dined on a hen or two yourself now and again.”

The Brown Man leaped to his feet. “He lies who says so!”

Sure enough, he was short and square—too tall to be a dwarf, though it was his arms and legs that were short and his torso long. His limbs were thick with muscle, though, and Geoffrey looked willowy and frail in contrast.

“He slanders me who says I eat of meat!” the Brown Man stormed. “I dine only upon whortleberries, nuts, and apples!”

“How can a fellow sustain so much bulk as you have upon such a diet?” Geoffrey’s words dripped sarcasm.

“Thus does a bull, and so do I!”

“A bull grazes constantly, all the day long,” Geoffrey taunted. “Can you think of nothing but food?”

“Surely, Geoffrey, if the man says he eats only fodder, he does,” Alain said nervously.

Geoffrey turned on him, shocked. “Surely you do not fear the fellow!”

“Surely I do not,” Alain agreed, “but I understand what he means when he says that he is of the land and the land of him.”

Geoffrey stood frowning at him in thought while Gregory said, his voice low, “Even thus is a legitimate king. His ancestors fed from the land for generations; its elements are in his blood and bone.”

“But not its fungus.” Geoffrey turned back to the Brown Man. “So it comes once again to feeding, for thus are you made—of the substance of the land. No wonder you can think of nothing but food!”

“I think also of trespassers and murderers,” the Brown Man said in an ominous rumble.

“A murderer you must be, then, for as I’ve said, your bulk requires meat,” Geoffrey returned.

The Brown Man roared, “You would not dare insult me so if you stood upon this side of the river!”

Finally Geoffrey’s wolfish grin broke loose, and he stepped toward the water.