The Green Pearl

Chapter 6

DURING A PERIOD IN THE PAST, not long after Shimrod had taken up residence at Trilda, in the Forest of Tantrevalles, his sleep had been disturbed by a series of dreams. They came night after night, in a sequence which obsessed Shimrod's attention, despite a cadence to the events which suggested that their resolution might be fateful, and perhaps even tragic.

The dreams were extraordinary for several reasons. The locale, a white beach with the ocean to one side and a white villa to the other, never altered. There were neither illogical nor grotesque elements to the events; indeed, their most startling quality was the haunting beauty of a woman who, alone with Shimrod, inhabited the dreams.

In the first of the sequence, Shimrod found himself standing by the balustrade in front of the villa. The sunlight was warm; the sound of low surf came with languid regularity. Shimrod waited in a mood of expectation. Presently, looking up the beach, he saw approaching a dark-haired woman of middle height, slender, almost slight. She walked barefoot and wore a white gown, knee-length and sleeveless. Without haste she approached, and passed in front of Shimrod. With a single side-glance, she continued on her way and Shimrod was left to look after her with pangs of wonder and yearning.

The dream faded and went its way, to whatever place dreams go when their time has passed, and Shimrod awoke, to lie staring into the dark.

On the next night the dream returned, and again on the next, and so it went. On each occasion the woman deigned a trifle more warmth, and at last she paused and listened as he spoke. He tried to learn her identity and why she came this way; and finally she specified a time and place outside the confines of the dream where they might meet. A pulse of exultation surged through Shimrod, even though he knew that the occasion must almost definitely be intended for his misfortune. He therefore took counsel with Murgen, at the castle Swer Smod, on the flanks of the Teach tac Teach.

Murgen laid the plot bare. The woman was Melancthe, and she worked at the command of Tamurello. What was their purpose? No mystery here. Tamurello intended to confuse and weaken Murgen by destroying his scion Shimrod.

A single question remained, the age-old cry of anguish: "How could one so beautiful be so base?"

In this regard Murgen could offer no explanation.

Shimrod kept the rendezvous, but the plot had been vitiated and Shimrod retained his life. Later, when he first visited Ys, he discovered the beach on which Melancthe had walked, and, half a mile to the north, the white villa where in his dreams he had awaited the coming of Melancthe.

Shimrod could now remember the episode with dispassion and even a flicker of curiosity. There was another matter: an obligation which had never been fulfilled. How Melancthe might deal with this obligation was a question which, in due course, prompted Shimrod to slip quietly away from Ys and saunter up the beach.

He arrived at the front of the villa and halted beside the balustrade; deja vu hung heavy in the air. Looking up the beach, as if in a reprise of his dreams, he observed the approach of Melancthe.

As before, she wore a knee-length white gown and walked barefoot. If she felt surprise at the sight of Shimrod, she gave no such indication and her pace neither slowed nor quickened.

Melancthe arrived at the gate. Her eyes flickered a single instant toward Shimrod; then, ignoring his presence, she climbed the steps to the terrace and disappeared into the shadows of the colonnade.

Shimrod followed behind her and so entered the villa, which he had never before visited.

Melancthe crossed the hall and went into a chamber with an arcade of windows overlooking the ocean. She seated herself on a couch beside a low table, and leaning back stared out toward the horizon.

Shimrod quietly drew up a chair and sat at the end of the table, where he could watch her without turning his head.

A maid entered with a tall silver ewer, and poured for Melancthe a goblet of wine punch, fragrant with the juice of oranges and lemons. Melancthe, paying no heed to Shimrod, sipped from her goblet, and again looked out over the sea.

Shimrod watched with head cocked at a quizzical angle. He considered lifting the ewer in both his hands and drinking from the side, but concluded that such an act, with its hint of vulgarity, might compromise his already fragile acceptance. Instead he worked a small spell. Into the room flew a blue and red bird, to circle Melancthe's head and settle on the rim of her goblet. It chirped a time or two, committed a nuisance into the goblet and flew away.

With studied deliberation Melancthe leaned forward and placed the goblet on the table.

Shimrod spoke another quiet spell. A small Moorish slave-boy wearing an enormous blue turban, a red and blue striped shin and pale blue puff-breeches, appeared in the doorway. He carried a tray with a pair of silver goblets. He proffered the tray to Melancthe, and stood waiting.

With a still face Melancthe took one of the goblets and set it on the table. The boy approached Shimrod, who graciously accepted the other goblet and drank of its contents with satisfaction. The slave-boy departed the room.

With lips thrust forward at the center and drooping dolefully at the corners, Melancthe continued to study the sea.

Shimrod thought: ‘How she schemes! In her mind she formulates plan after plan, then discards each in turn as ineffective, or crass, or not in accord with her dignity. She can discover no words which will not leave her vulnerable to whatever reproaches or demands I choose to make. So long as she is silent, she commits herself to nothing and thinks to hold me at bay! But pressure builds inside her; at some point she must undertake an initiative.' Shimrod noticed a twitch at the corners of Melancthe's mouth. ‘She has come to a decision,' he told himself. ‘Her least graceful but most effective course is to rise to her feet and leave the room; naturally, I can not follow her into the lavatory and still retain my reputation for gallantry. Well, then, let us see! Her conduct will reveal much in regard to her mood.'

Melancthe tilted her head back and seemed to go to sleep. Shimrod rose and went to look about the room. There was little furniture and an odd lack of personal belongings: neither articles of skill and craftsmanship nor curios, nor yet scrolls, books, librams or portfolios. On a side-table a green faience bowl held a dozen oranges; nearby a group of water-washed pebbles which had given Melancthe pleasure were spread at random. Three Mauretanian rugs lay on the floor, woven in bold patterns of blue, black and red on a buff background. A heavy candelabra of black iron hung from the ceiling. On the table in front of Melancthe a bronze bowl displayed a bouquet of orange marigolds, no doubt arranged by the maid. Essentially, thought Shimrod,'the room was neutral and reflected nothing of Melancthe.

Melancthe spoke at last: "How long do you intend to stay here?"

Shimrod returned to his chair. "I am free for the rest of the day, and the night as well, if it comes to that."

"You have a most casual attitude toward time."

" ‘Casual'? I think not. It is a subject of great interest. According to the Esqs of Galicia, time is a pyramid of thirteen sides. They believe that we stand at the apex and overlook days, months and years in all directions. This is the first premise of Thudhic Perdurics, as enunciated by Thudh, the Galician god of time, whose thirteen eyes ring his head so that he may perceive in all directions at once. The visual capability, of course, is symbolic."

"Has this doctrine any immediate effect?"

"I would think so. Novel ideas exercise our minds and enliven our conversation. For instance, while we are still discussing Thudh, you might be interested to learn that each year the Esq magicians alter a hundred human fetuses, hoping that one may be born with thirteen eyes in a circlet around its forehead, and thus would they know Thudh's avatar! So far, nine eyes is their limit of capability, and these become priests of the cult."

"I find no great interest in such things, nor in the conversation as a whole," said Melancthe. "You may leave as soon as you feel that courtesy makes this demand upon you."

"At that time I will do so," said Shimrod. "As for now, if you permit, I will call your servant that she may bring us more wine, and perhaps prepare a pot of mussels cooked with oil and garlic. Served with new bread, this is a hearty dish, consumed by folk of good conscience."

Melancthe turned away from the table. "I am not hungry."

"Are you tired?" asked Shimrod solicitously. "I will come rest with you on your bed."

Melancthe turned him a slow golden glance from the side of her eye. She said presently: "Whatever I do, I prefer to be alone."

"Really? It was not so in the old days. You sought me out with regularity."

"I have changed completely since that time. I am in no way the same person."

"Why this metamorphosis?"

Melancthe rose to her feet. "By living quietly alone, I had hoped to avoid intrusions into my privacy. To some extent I have succeeded."

"And now you have no friends?"

Melancthe shrugged and, turning away, went to the window. Shimrod came to stand close behind her. The odor of violets came to his nostrils. "Your response is ambiguous."

"I have no friends."

"What of Tamurello?"

"He is not a friend."

"I hope he is not your lover."

"Such relationships are of no interest to me."

"What sort of relationship is of interest?"

Melancthe, glancing over her shoulder and finding Shimrod uncomfortably close, moved a step to the side. "I have given the matter no thought."

"Do you wish to learn magic?"

"I do not care to be a witch."

Shimrod returned to his chair. "You are something of a puzzle." He clapped his hands, and the servant appeared. "Melancthe, will you ask for the wine to be served?"

Melancthe sighed and gave a signal to the servant, and went back to the couch in a manner of strained resignation.

The maid returned with wine and a pair of goblets, and served both Shimrod and Melancthe.

Shimrod said: "Once I thought of you as a child in a woman's body."

Melancthe smiled a cool smile. "And now?"

"The child seems to have wandered away."

Melancthe's smile became a trifle wistful.

"The woman is as beautiful as the dawn," said Shimrod. "I wonder if she realizes this. She seems to be clean; she uses a certain degree of effort to tend her hair. She carries herself like a woman who is well aware of her charm."

Melancthe spoke in a colorless voice: "You insist upon boring me."

Shimrod paid her no heed. "It would seem that you are content with your life and yourself. Still, when I try to enter your mind I am lost as if in a jungle."

Melancthe responded flatly: "That is because I am not truly a human being."

"Who taught you this? Tamurello?"

Melancthe gave an indifferent nod. "These are dull topics. When will you leave?"

"Soon. But tell me this: why did Tamurello teach you such extraordinary folly?"

"He taught me nothing. I know nothing. My mind is empty, like the dark places behind the stars."

Shimrod asked: "Do you consider me human?"

"So I would guess."

"I am Murgen's scion."

"This is something I do not understand."

"At a time now far in the past, Murgen went abroad in this guise, that he might act and do and see as someone other than the fabulous Murgen. I know nothing of those times; Murgen controlled my deeds and the memories are his. Eventually, through usage, Shimrod took on substance and became real, and no longer was he connected with Murgen.

"Now I am Shimrod. Should I not think myself a man? I look like a man. I hunger and thirst; I eat and drink and in due course void the dross. I am gladdened by joy and I weep tears for grief. When I see your beauty I feel a wistful longing which is both sweet and hurtful. In short, I am all too human, and if not, I notice nothing of the lack."

Melancthe looked back to the sea. "My shape is human; my body like yours performs its functions; I see, I hear, I taste. But I am empty. I have no emotion. I do nothing but walk the beach."

Shimrod moved to sit on the couch beside her. He put his arm around her shoulders. "Let me fill the emptiness."

Melancthe showed him a sardonic side-glance. "I am well enough as I am."

"You will be better when you are different. Far better."

Melancthe pulled away and went to stand by the window.

Shimrod, with nothing more to say, chose this moment to depart, and did so without words of farewell.

On the following day Shimrod went back to the white villa, calculatedly at the same time. If Melancthe followed her routine of yesterday, he would learn something of her mood. He waited beside the terrace for an hour but Melancthe failed to appear. At last he went thoughtfully back to Ys.

During the late afternoon the fine weather failed before a fresh breeze from the west; a high mesh of cirrus flew at speed across the sky, and the sun sank into a purple bank of nimbus.

In the morning brightness and gloom struggled to control the landscape. Shafts of sunlight burst down through rents in the clouds, only to be constricted and shut off. So it went until afternoon, when black walls of rain swept in from the sea.

Late in the day Shimrod, on impulse, threw a cloak around his shoulders and, after making a purchase at the market, strode down the beach to the white villa. He climbed the steps, crossed the terrace and made his presence known by rapping upon the carved wooden door.

He discovered no response and rapped again. At last the door opened a crack and the serving maid looked out. "Lady Melancthe is receiving no guests."

Shimrod pushed through the door. "Excellent; we will not be disturbed by intruders. I will be staying for supper; here are some excellent cutlets. Broil them properly with herbs and serve a good red wine. Where is Melancthe?"

"In the parlour with the fire."

"I will find my way."

The maid went dubiously to her kitchen. Shimrod, looking from room to room, presently discovered the parlour: a chamber with white walls and an oak-beamed ceiling. Melancthe stood warming herself by the fire. As Shimrod came into the room, she looked over her shoulder, then turned moodily back to look down into the flames.

Shimrod approached. Without looking at him she said: "I knew that you would come tonight."

Shimrod put his arm around her waist and drawing her close, kissed her. He found no response; he might as well have kissed the back of his hand. "Well then—are you pleased to see me?"

"No."

"But neither are you trembling with anger?" "No."

"I kissed you once before; do you remember?" Melancthe turned to face him. Shimrod understood that he was about to hear a well-rehearsed statement. "I remember almost nothing of that occasion. Tamurello instructed me exactly. I was to promise you anything and, if need be, accede to any demand you might make of me. It proved not to be necessary."

"And the promises: are they to be broken?"

"They were'spoken through my mouth, but they were Tamurello's promises. You must look to him for their satisfaction." And Melancthe smiled down into the fire.

Shimrod, still with his arm around her waist, pulled her close and put his face to her hair, but she detached herself and went to sit on the couch.

Shimrod came to sit beside her. "I am not the world's wisest man, as well you know. Still, there is much which I can teach you."

"You pursue an illusion," said Melancthe, almost contemptuously. "How so?"

"You are affected by the look of my body. If you looked at me and saw a wrinkled yellow skin and a crooked nose with warts, you would not be here tonight, and even if you were you would not kiss me."

"There is no denying any of this," said Shimrod. "Still, I am hardly unique. Would you choose to live in such a body?"

"I am accustomed to this one; and I know it is beautiful. Still, what lives inside the body is something which is probably not at all beautiful."

The serving maid entered the room. "Shall I lay supper in here by the fire?"

Melancthe looked around in puzzlement. "I ordered no supper."

"This gentleman brought out some fine cutlets and commanded that they be properly cooked, and so they are: broiled over vine cuttings, with garlic and lemon and a whiff of thyme, and there is a new loaf, some nice fresh peas and the good red wine is ready to drink."

"Serve us in here, then."

During the meal Shimrod worked to achieve an atmosphere of warmth and ease, with little encouragement from Melancthe. Immediately after the supper, she announced that she was tired and intended to retire to her bed.

"There is rain," Shimrod observed. "I will stay tonight."

"The rain has stopped," said Melancthe. "Go now, Shimrod; I want no one in my bed save myself."

Shimrod rose to his feet. "I can depart as graciously as the next man. Melancthe, I wish you good night."

II

A STEADY GRAY RAIN DISCOURAGED SHIMROD from new Ventures up the beach. Tactical considerations also gave him pause: an excess of zeal might do his cause more harm than good. For the moment enough had been done. He had brought the unique flavor of his personality to Melancthe's attention; he had shown himself to be gentle, steadfast, entertaining and considerate; he had demonstrated a reassuring degree of ordinary human lust: more might have been considered coarse; less would have demeaned Melancthe's charm and caused her to wonder about both herself and him.

Shimrod sat in the common room of the Rope and Anchor, his favorite of the dockside taverns, drinking ale, watching the rain, and musing upon Melancthe.

She was, beyond question, a fascinating case. Her beauty was a vast treasure; her body seemed too slight to support so urgent a weight. Shimrod wondered: could this beauty alone be the source of her attraction? Where else was her charm?

Looking out across the rain-swept water, Shimrod listed those endearing traits common to all lovable and beloved women. Melancthe lacked them all, including the mysterious and indefinable quality of femininity itself.

Melancthe had asserted the emptiness of her mind; Shimrod saw that he had no choice but to believe her. Conspicuously absent were curiosity, humour, warmth and sympathy. She used that total candor which was not truly honesty so much as indifference to the sensibilities of those who heard her. He could remember no trace of emotion other than boredom and the mild repugnance she seemed to feel for him.

Shimrod ruefully drank his ale and looked up the beach, but the white villa could not be seen for the rain... . He. nodded slowly to himself, awed by the profundity of a new concept. Melancthe represented the witch Desmei's last act and her final revenge on Man. Melancthe in her present state was a blankness upon which every man might project his idealized version of ultimate beauty, but when he tried to possess this beauty and make it his own, he would discover a void, and so, according to his capacity, suffer as Desmei had suffered!

Assuming these conjectures to be correct, mused Shimrod, how would they affect Melancthe, were she to learn of them? If she knew her condition, how ardently might she wish to change it? Could she change, even if she wished to do so?

Aillas came into the tavern. He went to dry himself by the fire, then he and Shimrod took their supper in an alcove to the side of the common room. Shimrod inquired as to the new Ulf army and Aillas declared himself not at all discouraged.

"Indeed, taking all with all, I could expect no better progress. Every day I get a new influx of recruits and the number grows. Today there were fifty-five: strong young lads down from the moors and mountains, each as brave as a lion and each prepared to teach me the lore of warfare, which is hiding in the gorse until a sufficiently small group of the enemy happens to pass, after which throats are cut, purses are ransacked, and swift retreat is made; that is all there is to it."

"And what of your nine recalcitrant barons?"

"I am happy to report that all presented themselves before the appointed time. None were precisely humble, but the point has been made and I was not forced to march up into the moors—not yet, at any rate."

"They still watch and wait, and wonder how best to circumvent you."

"True, and sooner or later I will be forced to hang a number of incredulous Ulfs, when I would much prefer that they kill themselves fighting the Ska, and even these young Ulf firebrands talk in subdued voices when the Ska are mentioned."

"This should encourage them to learn Ska discipline."

"Unfortunately they are convinced that the Ska can eat them alive, and the battle is lost before the armies so much as face each other. I will have to bring them to it very gradually and rely upon my Troice troops until we win a few victories. Then their pride and manhood will be called into question, and they will be anxious to outdo the Troice outlanders."

"Assuming, of course, that you can beat them with your Troice army."

"I have few fears on that score. The Ska are military experts, no question as to this, but they are relatively few, and each man must fight like five. On the obverse, each Ska casualty is like five, and that is my plan: to bleed them white."

"You seem resigned to a war with the Ska."

"How can it be avoided? In the Ska program, South Ulfland must necessarily be next on the list. As soon as they feel strong enough they will try us out, but not before I am ready for them, or so I hope."

"And when hostilities occur?"

"I will not attack their strength, that is certain. If I had the full support of the barons, my way would be easier." Aillas drank from his goblet. "Today I heard a strange report, from Sir Kyr, who is second son to Sir Kaven, of Black Eagle Keep. Three days ago a knight, purportedly Daut from Dahaut's Western March, stopped by Black Eagle Keep. He named himself Sir Shalles and reported in all seriousness that soon there will be a war and that King Casmir will conquer Troicinet, so that all those who ally themselves with King Aillas now will be driven from their castles. Better, he says, to organize a secret cabal of resistance in the defense of Ulf liberties."

Shimrod chuckled. "I assume that you are looking for Sir Shalles."

"Most definitely. Sir Kyr himself rides at speed for the moors, that he may track down Sir Shalles, capture him and bring him here."

III

THE RAINS DEPARTED; dawn was clear and soft. In the square Shimrod noticed Melancthe's serving maid arriving at the market with a basket. Shimrod went to speak to her. "Good morning to you! It is I, Shimrod!"

"I remember you well, sir; you have a fine taste in cutlets."

"And you have a fine hand in their broiling!"

"That is true, if I myself must admit it. Part of the virtue lies in the vine cuttings; nothing does so well for pork."

"I could not agree more. Was your mistress appreciative?"

"Ah, she is a strange one; sometimes I doubt if she knows what she eats, and cares much less. I notice that she picked the bones of the cutlets, and I will buy some more today, and perhaps a pair of plump fowl. These I like to cut small and fry in olive oil with much garlic, and turn out the whole dish, oil and all, over bread."

"You have the soul of a poet. Perhaps I will—"

The maid interrupted him. "I am sorry to say that I am no longer allowed to admit you to the house. This is a pity, since the lady is in need of someone to admire her. She is so sad that I suspect an enchantment."

"Not impossible! Does Tamurello come to call?"

"In truth, I know of no one who visits her, save yourself and yesterday certain factors from the town, that they might mark her on their rolls."

"Surely a most solitary life!"

The maid hesitated. "Perhaps I should not say this, but tonight is the night of the half-moon waning, and when the weather is fine Lady Melancthe leaves the house an hour before midnight, and returns somewhat later; after moondown. Truly, I fear for her, since this is not altogether a kind coast."

"You are wise to tell me this." Shimrod gave the maid a gold crown. "This will help when you marry."

"Indeed it will, and my thanks to you! Please do not take it to heart if I say that you may not come again to the house."

"I wonder why."

"The lady evidently finds nothing in you to amuse her, and that is the truth of it."

"Most strange!" said Shimrod despondently. "I have sueceeded with ladies of every degree, from high to low. A fairy damsel at one time became my lover; the Duchess Lydia of Loermel conferred significant favors upon me. Yet here, on this barren and almost forgotten coast a maiden living alone in a villa bars me from her sight. Is it not a farce?"

"Very strange, sir!" The maid dimpled. "Were you to come knocking on my door, I would not turn you away."

"Aha! We must look into that!" Shimrod seized the maid, kissed her soundly on both cheeks, and sent her smiling away to market.

IV

SHIMROD PREPARED WITH CARE for the night's adventure. He donned a black cloak and arranged the hood so as to cover his sandy-brown hair and to shadow his face. At the last minute, almost as an afterthought, he rubbed the soles of his sandals with water-spite, that he might be enabled to walk on water. Tonight he doubted if the facility would be needed, though at other times it had served him well, except in heavy surf when the charm tended to be a nuisance.

Afterglow gave way to dark night and the waning half-moon started down the sky. At last Shimrod set off up the beach. Approaching the villa, Shimrod climbed the shore dune and settled himself where he could watch in comfort.

From within the villa yellow lamplight outlined a row of high windows. One by one the lamps were snuffed and the villa went dark.

Shimrod waited while the moon descended the sky. From the villa came a shape, conspicuous only as a blot moving across the sand. The size of the blot and the rhythm of its motion identified Melancthe. Shimrod followed at a discreet distance.

Melancthe walked purposefully, but without haste; so far as Shimrod could determine, she showed no interest in the possibility of someone following.

She walked half a mile, just above the reach of the glimmering surf, and presently arrived at a ledge of dark stone which, thrusting into the sea, created a rough little peninsula something over a hundred feet long. In bad weather, waves would break over the ledge; in the calm of the dying moon, the waves merely flowed over the low areas with intermittent sucking and gurgling sounds.

Arriving at the ledge, Melancthe paused a moment and took stock of her surroundings. Shimrod halted, crouched and pulled the hood about his face.

Melancthe took no heed of him. She climbed up on the rock and picked her way out toward the end, where a smooth wave-washed shoulder of stone created a vantage a man's height above the water. Melancthe seated herself on the stone and looked out to sea.

Crouching low, Shimrod scuttled forward like a great black rat and crawled up on the ledge. With great care, testing each step for loose footing, he moved forward. ... A sound behind him: the pad of slow steps!

Shimrod threw himself to the side and huddled into black shade under a jut of rock.

The steps shuffled close; peering up from under the hood Shimrod saw a creature half-lit by moonlight: a squat torso, massive legs, a distorted head with a low crest. The air disturbed by the creature's passage carried a reek which caused Shimrod to hold his breath, then exhale slowly.

The creature shuffled out toward the end of the ledge. Shimrod heard a muffled conversation, then silence. He raised himself to a crouching position and went cautiously forward. Melancthe's silhouette blotted out the stars to the west. Nearby huddled the creature who had come after her. Both stared out to sea.

Minutes passed. A dark shape rising from below broke the surface with a hiss and a soft coughing sound. It floated to the end of the ledge and pulled itself up to squat beside Melancthe. Again there was a conversation, which Shimrod could not overhear, then the three sat in silence.

The half-moon settled low, into a long frail wisp of cloud. The three creatures moved somewhat closer together. The sea-thing produced a soft contralto tone. Melancthe uttered a sound somewhat higher in register; the land-thing sang a vibrant deep note. The chord, if such it might be called, persisted for ten seconds, then one after the other the singers changed their tones and the chord altered, then dwindled into silence.

Shivers ran along Shimrod's skin. The sound was of a strange desolate nature, of a sort unfamiliar to Shimrod. Silence held at the end of the ledge as the three brooded upon the quality of their music. Then the land-thing produced its deep throbbing sound. Melancthe sang: "Ahhhh—ohhhhh" in a descending pitch across an octave. The sea-thing uttered a contralto tone like the chime of a far sea-bell. The sounds altered, in timbre and pitch; the chord dwindled into silence, and Shimrod, skulking low in the shadows, returned to the beach, where he felt less vulnerable to whatever magic might be latent in the sounds.

Fifteen minutes passed. The half-moon became yellow-green and sank into the sea. In the dim light the three at the end of the ledge were almost invisible... . Once again they sang their chords, and Shimrod wondered at the melancholy sweetness of the sounds and their ineffable loneliness.

Silence again. Time passed: ten minutes. The land-thing padded across the rock to the shore. Shimrod watched it mount the slope and disappear into a gully. ... He waited. Melancthe came along the ledge of rock, jumped down to the sand and set off down the beach. As she came to the spot where Shimrod sat, she halted and peered through the dark.

Shimrod rose to his feet, and Melancthe turned to go her way. Shimrod fell in step beside her. She said nothing.

Finally Shimrod asked: "For whom are you singing?"

"No one."

"Why do you go there?"

"Because I choose to do so."

"Who are those creatures?"

"Outcasts like myself."

"Do you talk? Or do other than sing?"

Melancthe laughed, a strange low laugh. "Shimrod, yoii are ruled by your brain. You are as calm as a cow."

Shimrod decided that silence gave him better credence than hot denial, and so they returned to the villa.

Without a word or a backward glance Melancthe turned through the portal, crossed the terrace and was gone.

Shimrod continued back to Ys, dissatisfied and convinced that he had conducted himself incorrectly: in what fashion, he could not say. Also, what might have been gained by proper deportment? Perhaps a seat in the choir?

Melancthe: hauntingly, strangely, beautiful!

Melancthe: singing across the sea while the waning moon sank low! Perhaps in sheer passion he should have seized her as they returned along the beach and taken her by force. At least she would not have criticized him for intellectuality!

Even in this program, so superficially attractive, definite flaws existed. Even while repugning the charges of intellectuality, Shimrod still comported himself by the precepts of gallantry, which were uncompromising in such cases. Shimrod decided to think no more of Melancthe: "She is not for me."

In the morning, the sun rose into another fine day. Shimrod sat brooding at a table in front of the Rope and Anchor. A falcon swerved down from the sky and dropped a willow twig upon the table before him, then flew away.

Shimrod looked at the twig with a grimace. But there was no help for it. He rose to his feet and sought out Aillas. "Murgen has summoned me and I must go."

Aillas was not pleased. "Where must you go and why? And when will you be back?"

"I have no answers for these questions; when Murgen calls, I must respond,"

"Farewell then."

Shimrod tossed his few belongings into a sack, crushed the twig in his fingers and called out: "Willow, willow, take me now where I must go!"

Shimrod felt a rush of wind and the ground whirled beneath him. He glimpsed upland forests, the peaks of the Teach tac Teach ranked in a long line to north and south; then he slid down a long chute of air to the deck beside the entry to Murgen's stone manse Swer Smod.

A black iron door eleven feet tall barred his way. The central panel displayed an iron Tree of Life. Iron lizards clinging to the trunk hissed and, darting iron tongues, scuttled to new vantages; iron birds hopped from branch to branch, first peering down at Shimrod, then avidly inspecting the iron fruit which none dared taste and occasionally producing small chiming sounds.

Shimrod spoke a cantrap, to soothe the sandestin who controlled the door: "Door, open to me, and let me pass unscathed. Heed only my true wishes, without reference to the mischievous caprices of my dark under-minds."

The door whispered: "Shimrod, the way is clear, though you are over-fastidious in your stipulations."

Shimrod forebore argument and advanced upon the door, which swung aside and allowed him access to a foyer illuminated by a glass dome of green, golden-yellow and carmine-red panes.

Shimrod selected one of the passages leading away from the foyer and so entered Murgen's private hall.

At a heavy table sat Murgen, legs outstretched to the fire. Today he appeared in the semblance which so long before he had conferred upon Shimrod: a tall spare form with a gaunt bony face, dust-colored hair, a whimsical mouth and a set of casual mannerisms.

Shimrod stopped short. "Must you confront me as myself? It is distracting to be instructed or, worse, chided under these circumstances."

"An oversight," said Murgen. "Ordinarily I would not work this prank upon you, but now, as I think of it, the exercise of dealing with unfamiliar concepts from your own mouth may be of ultimate value."

"With due respect, I consider the point far-fetched." Shimrod advanced into the room. "Well then, if you will not change, I will sit with my back partially turned."

Murgen gave an indifferent wave of the hand. "It is all one. Will you take refreshment?" He snapped his fingers and flasks of both mead and beer appeared on the table, along with a platter of bread and cold meats.

Shimrod contented himself with a mug of beer, while Murgen elected to drink mead from a tall pewter tankard. Murgen asked: "Have the priests at the temple dealt courteously with you?"

"You refer to the Temple of Atlante? I never troubled to pay them my respects, nor have they sought me out. Is any gain to be had from their acquaintance?"

"They have long traditions which they are willing to recite. The steps leading down from the temple are impressive and perhaps merit a visit. On a calm day, when the sun is high, a keen eye can look down through the water and count thirty-four steps before they disappear into the murk. The priests claim that the number of steps above the surface is dwindling: either the land is sinking or the sea is rising: such is their reasoning."

Shimrod reflected. "Either case is hard to credit. I suspect that their first count was made at low tide; then later, when the tide was at flood, they made their second count, and so were misled."

"That is a practical explanation," said Murgen. "It seems plausible enough." He glanced toward Shimrod. "You drink only sparingly. Is the beer too thin?"

"Not at all. I merely wish to keep my wits about me. It would not do if both of us became addled, and later woke up in doubt as to who was who."

Murgen drank from his pewter tankard. "The risk is small."

"True. Still, I will keep my head clear until I learn why you have summoned me here to Swer Smod."

"Why else? I need your help."

"I cannot refuse you, nor would I if I could."

"Well spoken, Shimrod! I will come to the point. Essentially, I am irked with Tamurello. He resents my authority and obtrudes his force on my own; ultimately, of course, he hopes to destroy me. At the moment his work is ostensibly trivial or even playful, but, if left unchallenged, it could become dangerous, after this analogy: a man attacked by a single wasp has little to fear; if ten thousand wasps attack him, he is doomed. I cannot give Tamurello's activity the care it deserves; I would be diverted from other work of great importance. Hence, I assign this task to you. At the very least, your vigilance will distract him exactly as he hopes to distract me."

Shimrod frowned into the fire. "It might be wiser to destroy him, once and for all."

"That is easier said than done. I would be perceived as a tyrant, so that the other magicians might decide to form a concert of defense against me, with unpredictable consequences."

Shimrod asked: "How, then, shall I watch him? What must I look for?"

"I will instruct you in due course. Tell me how things go in South Ulfland."

"There is nothing much to report. Aillas trains an army of lummoxes, and has had signal success; now, when he cries out ‘March right!', most of them do so. I have attempted a social relationship with Melancthe, to no avail. She feels that I over-intellectualize. No doubt I could win her approval if I chose to sing a fourth part with her choral group."

"Interesting! Melancthe then is musical?"

Shimrod related his experiences on the night of the waning moon. Murgen commented: "Melancthe is woefully confused as to her identity, which Desmei purposely left empty, in derision and revenge against the masculine race."

Shimrod glowered into the fire. "I will think no more about her; she is as she is."

"A wise decision. Now, in connection with Tamurello ..." Murgen issued his instructions, after which Shimrod was once again sent whirling through the sky, this time south and east to Trilda, his manse at the edge of Forest Tantrevalles.

V

THE ANCIENT ROAD KNOWN AS OLD STREET traversed Lyonesse from Cape Farewell in the west to Bulmer Skeme in the east. At a place halfway along its length, not far from the village Tawn Twillett, a lane branched off to the north. Up hill and down dale went the lane, by hawthorn hedges and old stone fences, past drowsy farmsteads and across the River Sipp by a low stone bridge. Entering the Forest of Tantrevalles, the lane wound through sun and shadow for another mile, then broke out into Lally Meadow, passed by Shimrod's manse Trilda, and ended at a wood-cutter's dock on Lally Water.

Trilda, a stone and timber cottage at the back of a flower garden, was notable for its six dormers in a high gabled roof: two to each of the upstairs front bedrooms. The ground floor included a foyer, two parlours, a dining saloon, four bedchambers, a library and work-room, a kitchen with an attached pantry and buttery, and several rooms of convenience. Four bays with diamond-paned windows overlooked the front garden, and all the glass of all the windows had been enchanted by spells of low magic, so that they remained at all times sparkling and clear, with no trace of dirt, fly-speck, streak, nor the dimness of dust.

Trilda had been designed by Hilario, a minor magician of many quaint notions, and built overnight by a band of goblin carpenters who took their pay in cheeses. Some time later Trilda became the property of Murgen who eventually gave it to Shimrod. An old peasant couple tended the gardens and ordered the chambers during Shimrod's absences; they avoided the work-room as if demons stood waiting behind the doors, which was the conviction Shimrod had been at pains to fix into their minds. The creatures who in fact stood there, fangs glistening, black arms raised on high, while resembling demons, were merely harmless phantasms.

Arriving at Trilda, Shimrod found all in order. The housekeepers had maintained full cleanliness, with not so much as a dead fly on the window-sills. The furniture glowed to the use of bee's-wax and patient rubbing; in the chests and presses the linens lay crisp and smelled fragrant with lavender.

Shimrod's only complaint was over-tidiness. He threw open doors and casements so that air from the meadow might banish the fust of stagnant days and silent nights, then went from room to room shifting this and moving that, to disturb the unrelenting exactitude imposed by his house-keepers.

Arriving in the kitchen, Shimrod kindled a fire and brewed a pot of tea, using horehound for heart, penny-royal for savor and lemon verbena for zest, then took the tea into his day parlour.

Trilda seemed very quiet. From across the meadow came the chirrup chi chi chi of a lark. At the end of the song, the silence seemed more profound than ever.

Shimrod sipped the tea. At one time, so he remembered, solitude had been an adventure, to be enjoyed for its own sake. Since that time events had altered him; he had found within himself a capacity for love, and of late he had become accustomed to the merry company of Dhrun and Glyneth, and, more recently, to that of Aillas.

Melancthe? Shimrod made an ambiguous sound. In connection with Melancthe, the word ‘love' would seem to have a most dubious application. Beauty compelled admiration and erotic yearning; such was its organic function. But never by itself could it command love: so Shimrod assured himself. Melancthe was a shell, empty inside. Melancthe was no more than a warm breathing symbol of great power, but no more than this. Over-intellectualization? Shimrod made a sound of disgust. Did she expect him not to think?

Shimrod continued to drink tea. The time had come when he must put aside his obsession and address himself to the program defined by Murgen: work which might embroil him in more excitement than he had bargained for, so that he would think back upon this placid interlude with longing. Murgen had so warned him: "You will be impinging yourself upon Tamurello's notice! You will be rudely interrupting his work and arousing his anger! These are not trivial acts: make no mistake! He will find a means, crude or subtle, to retort, and you must be prepared for amazement!"

Shimrod put aside the tea, which no longer soothed him. He went to his work-room, dismissed the guardians and entered. The room was aptly named. Everywhere, work cried out for sympathetic attention. The center table supported stuffs and articles confiscated from Tintzin Fyral: thaumaturgical equipment, materia magica, books and paraphernalia—all to be inspected, classified, then either retained or discarded.

First and most urgently, Shimrod must set out monitors to scrutinize Tamurello and his conduct, as required by Murgen. These devices, when they came to Tamurello's notice, as they inevitably must, would dissuade him from other bold and arrogant mischiefs: so went Murgen's theory, and Shimrod had no reason to fault it, save that it put him in the position of a goat staked out in the jungle for the purpose of enticing a tiger. Murgen had waved aside Shimrod's misgivings. "Tamurello's bravado must be curbed, and this will be the effect of our program."

Shimrod had proposed another objection: "When he feels the scurch,* he will merely use new tactics, or a clever subterfuge."

"Still, he will be inhibited from truly grandiose ventures, and these are the efforts I fear the most."

"And meanwhile he will take pleasure in wreaking a multitude of small harms in such a way that they cannot be imputed to him."

"We will estimate his crimes and punish him accordingly, and soon Tamurello will be acclaimed the meekest of the meek!"

"Tamurello is not one to turn the other cheek," grumbled Shimrod. "More likely he will send a sandestin** with a plague of stag-beetles for my bed."

*Scurch: untranslatable into contemporary terms; gernerally: ‘susurration along the nerves', ‘psychic abrasion', ‘half-unnoticed or sublimated uneasiness in a mind already wary.' ‘Scurch' is the stuff of hunches and unreasoning fear.

**Sandestin: a class of halfling which wizards employ to work their purposes. Many magical spells are effected through the force of a sandestin.

"Anything is possible," Murgen agreed. "Were I you, I would maintain double vigilance. Dangers which can be imagined can be refuted!"

With Murgen's dictum in mind, Shimrod surrounded Trilda with a network of sensitive tendrils, to achieve at least a modicum of security. Then, once more in his work-room, he cleared the clutter from one of his work-tables and spread out a sheet of buff-colored parchment provided by Murgen.

The substance of the parchment merged into the oak, so that the table-top became a great map of the Elder Isles, with each of the domains tinted a different color. At Faroli, Tamurello's manse, a point of blue light glittered, to indicate Tamurello's presence. Should Tamurello travel near or far, the blue light would trace his movements. Shimrod had solicited other lights from Murgen, that he might know the movements of other folk; Murgen would hear nothing of this. "You must concentrate your attention upon Tamurello and nowhere else."

Shimrod continued to argue. "We should use the instrument to its full scope. Assume that a red light marked your whereabouts. Assume further that one of your lady-loves seduced you into a dungeon, I could find you easily and release you from the cell, to your minimum inconvenience."

"The contingency is remote."

In such a fashion the map was arranged, and, by the evidence of the blue light, Tamurello remained in residence at Faroli.

Days passed. Shimrod refined the techniques of his surveillance, using unobtrusive methods which Tamurello, if he so chose, could ignore and still maintain his dignity.

Tamurello, however, refused to tolerate the inspection gracefully, and attempted several artful mischiefs upon Shimrod, which were vitiated by Shimrod's protective system. Meanwhile Tamurello worked to blind Shimrod's optical wisps and shatter his listening shells with concentrations of sound.

Shimrod, warming to his task, introduced a whole new order of sensitive devices, to cause Tamurello a new set of vexations. Murgen's strategy, to monopolize Tamurello's energies with trivial annoyances, seemed generally to be successful.

The lunar month approached the night of the waning half-moon, and Shimrod's thoughts irresistibly went to the white villa beside the ocean. For the briefest of moments he contemplated a second visit by midnight to the rocky ledge which thrust into the ocean; as quickly as the idea came it went, and once again Shimrod was left with unwelcome images and the haunting fragrance of violets.

Shimrod tried to exorcise the visions: "Go! Away! Depart! Dissolve into the void, and never return to disturb me! Were it not absurd, I might think you another of Tamurello's tricks, as he does to me what I try to do to him!"

On the night itself, Shimrod became restless, and went out to observe the moon. The meadow was quiet; nothing could be heard but crickets and a few far frogs. Shimrod wandered across the meadow to the old dock on Lally Water, where the moon already had started its decline down the sky. The water was calm and dark; when Shimrod threw a pebble, the expanding ripples gleamed silver. ... A watch-wisp floating over his head issued a sudden warning: "Someone stands near; magic has come and gone!"

Shimrod turned and, not altogether to his surprise, discovered by the shore a slight figure in a white gown and a black cloak: Melancthe. She stood looking up at the moon and seemed not to see him.

Shimrod, turning away, paid her no heed.

She came down the dock and stood beside him. "You do not seem surprised to find me here?"

"I only wonder how Tamurello could induce you to come."

"He found no difficulty; in fact, I came of my own volition."

"Strange! Tonight you were to sing with your friends on the rocks."

"I decided to go there no more."

"How so?"

"It is simple enough. I had a choice: to live or to die. I chose to live, which brought me to new choices. Should I continue as an outcast and sing on the rocks, or should I simulate the ways of the human race? I decided to change."

"You do not regard yourself as human?"

Melancthe said softly: "Tamurello has informed me that I am a neutral intelligence of no great vigor in a female mask." She looked up into Shimrod's face. "What do you think?"

"I think that Tamurello listens and smiles. Wisp: look sharp, high and low: what listens and what watches?"

"I apprehend nothing."

Shimrod gave a dubious grunt. "And what were Tamurello's instructions to you?"

"He said that humanity in the main was crass, stupid, boorish and vulgar, and that I could learn at least this much from you."

"Some other time. Now, Melancthe, I will bid you good night."

"Wait, Shimrod! You told me that I was beautiful, and you took pains to kiss me. Tonight I have come to Trilda and you are the one who now backs away. That is a curious contradiction."

"Not at all. I am taken aback, and cautious. Tamurello's motives are clear enough, but yours are in doubt. I believe that you exaggerate my crassness and stupidity. And now, Melancthe, if you will excuse me—"

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Trilda; where else?"

"And you will leave me alone in the dark?"

"You have been alone in the dark before."

"We will go to Trilda together, since I have no other place to go. And, as I have already mentioned, I came here of my own volition."

"You show little overt warmth. It is more as if you had steeled yourself to a great challenge.,"

"It is a new experience for me."

With an effort Shimrod controlled his voice. "I might have welcomed you more gladly had you not told your maid to bar the door in my face. When one is judging the disposition of another, this sort of act would seem a significant straw in the wind."

"Possibly so, but the inference might be wrong. Remember, you had intruded into my life and had troubled my mind with your persuasions. At length I was swayed and now I am here, at your behest."

"At Tamurello's behest."

Melancthe smiled. "I am I and you are you. How does Tamurello concern us, one way or another?"

"Is your memory so short? I have reason for concern."

Melancthe looked off across the water. "He gave no orders. He said that you were here at Trilda making a nuisance of yourself. He said that if not for Murgen, he would have long since sent you riding to the far side of the moon on a saw-horse. He said he would be pleased if I beguiled and besotted you until your eyes looked like boiled eggs and you fell asleep at breakfast with your face in the porridge. He said that you had a low-order mind and could deal with no more than one thought at a time, and that if I were at Trilda you would completely forget your meddling, to his great satisfaction, and now you know all of it."

"Just as well." Shimrod looked moodily out over the water. "I wonder what calumnies another five minutes might have brought."

Melancthe moved a step back. "Well then, here I am. What is it to be? Shall I go away? Consult the factions of your brain, and perhaps you will find a consensus."

"I have already decided," said Shimrod. "You shall come to Trilda." And Shimrod, with grim emphasis, added: "There we shall discover who most notably distracts whom, and every morning Tamurello will receive a cheerful greeting... . Notice the waning moon; already it declines into the west. Time that we returned to Trilda."

The two went silently back along the lane, and as they walked a new and disturbing possibility entered Shimrod's mind: might this creature beside him which used the name Melancthe be a guise for another, of a different sort, which at some delicate moment might reveal itself in its true form, and so punish Shimrod for his impudent surveillance?

The concept was not on its face improbable. Luckily, the trick could readily be detected.

Once in the parlour at Trilda, Shimrod took Melancthe's cloak and poured two goblets of pomegranate wine. "The flavor, like yourself, is at once sweet and tart, haunting, mysterious and by no means obvious... . Come! I will show you around Trilda."

Shimrod first took her into the dining saloon ("The oak is cut from a tree which grew on this very site."), across the formal parlour ("Notice the tapestries in the cartouches; they were woven in ancient Parthia."), then into the work-room. Shimrod immediately went to look at his map. The blue point of light glittered from the site of Faroli, far to the north in Dahaut: so much for one of his suspicions, that the woman at his side might even be a guise of the epicene Tamurello; this was clearly not the case.

Melancthe looked here and there without great interest.

Shimrod described two or three pieces of his paraphernalia, then took her before a tall mirror, which reflected her image in clear detail, and another of Shimrod's misgivings was put to rest. Had she been a succuba or a harpy, the creature's true image would have reflected from the mirror.

Melancthe studied the glass with absorbed interest. Shimrod said: "The mirror is of magic. You see reflected the person you think yourself to be. Or you may say: ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Shimrod!' or, ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Tamurello!' and you will see these versions of yourself."

Melancthe moved away without undertaking the trials Shimrod had suggested. Shimrod surveyed the mirror from the side. "I could easily confront the mirror and say: ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Melancthe!' but, in all candor, I lack the courage."

"Let us leave this room," said Melancthe. "It reeks of the brain."

The two returned to the small parlour, where Shimrod brought fire to the hearth, then turned to inspect Melancthe.

She spoke in her soft voice: "You are pensive. Why is this?"

Shimrod stood looking down into the flames. "I find myself with a dilemma. Do you care to hear it?"

"I will listen, certainly."

"At Ys, only a few weeks ago, Shimrod visited Melancthe, to renew their acquaintance and perhaps to discover some mutuality of interest which might enhance their lives. In the end Melancthe scornfully barred the door to him.

"Tonight Shimrod strolls beside Lally Water, watching the moon-set. Melancthe appears, and now, instead of Shimrod pursuing Melancthe, it is Melancthe who pursues Shimrod, that she may beguile and befuddle him in his manse Trilda, that he may desist from molesting her friend Tamurello.

"With perhaps disingenuous frankness she reports Tamurello's unflattering opinion of Shimrod, so that now Shimrod must throw self-esteem to the winds if he obeys his impulses and succumbs to Melancthe's allurements. If he proves steadfast and expels Melancthe from Trilda with the rebuke she deserves, he shows himself to be pompous, inflexible and foolish.

"His dilemma, then, is not whether, or how, or if, to retain pride, dignity and self-respect, but in which direction to cast them aside."

Melancthe asked: "How long do you intend to ponder? I have no self-esteem whatever, and I can make up my mind instantly, according to my inclinations."

"Perhaps that is the best wisdom, after all," said Shimrod. "My character is intensely strong, and my will is like iron; still, I see no reason to demonstrate their strength needlessly."

Melancthe said: "The fire blazes hot, and the room is warm. Shimrod, help me from my cloak."

Shimrod stepped close, parted the clasp at her neck, and took her cloak; in some way her gown also fell to the floor, so that she stood nude in the firelight. Shimrod thought that never had he seen a sight so beautiful. He embraced her and her body first stiffened, then went flexible.

The fire had burned low. Melancthe said in a husky voice: "Shimrod, I am frightened."

"How so?"

"When I looked into the mirror, I saw nothing."

VI

THE DAYS GLIDED BY, easy and quiet, without untoward incident to mark one day from the next. Shimrod occasionally thought that Melancthe attempted to tease and provoke him, but he maintained at all times a manner of imperturbable composure, and in the main all went smoothly. Melancthe seemed at least passively content, and was at all times accessible, or even more than accessible, to Shimrod's erotic inclinations. With dour amusement Shimrod recalled events of the past: her distrait conduct as she walked through his dreams; her boredom during his visits to her villa; her barring of the door against him—and now! His most far-fetched amorous fantasies had become real!

Why? The question constantly came to perplex him. Somewhere there was mystery. Shimrod could not understand how Tamurello profited from the arrangement; according to the blue glint, he never strayed from Faroli.

Melancthe herself volunteered no information, and pride prevented Shimrod from putting aside his pose of urbane equanimity and placing sharp questions.

Now and then, during the course of conversation, Shimrod made an idle inquiry or two, but Melancthe commonly returned only a blank stare, or sometimes an evasion or at worst accused him of overintellectualization. "When something needs to be done I do it! When my nose itches, I scratch it, without an agonizing analysis of the situation."

"Scratch at will, so long as it pleases you," said Shimrod in a voice of austere courtesy.

As time passed, the novelty of Melancthe's presence diminished, but not so her amorousness, which, perhaps through boredom, actually increased until it quite exceeded Shimrod's competence, causing him guilt and sheepishness. Remedies were available, had he chosen to use them: for instance, an elixir known as "The Bear', in jocular reference to the constellation Ursa Major, always aloft by night and by day. Shimrod also knew of a magical spell which worked to the same effect, known popularly as "The Phoenix'.

Shimrod refused to consider such adjuncts, for several reasons. First, Melancthe already took up more of his time than he cared to reckon, and absorbed a large fraction of his energies in the process, leaving him often in a state of lasstitude, so that his surveillance over Tamurello was at times desultory. Secondly—and here was a contingency which Shimrod could never have anticipated—the unadorned copulations, lacking humour, sympathy and grace, gradually came to lose much of their charm. Finally, a suspicion occasionally seeped into Shimrod's mind that Melancthe found him wanting, in quality as well as quantity. Shimrod at all times pridefully dismissed the idea; what had sufficed for his other partners in dalliance must do equally well for Melancthe.

A month passed and another. Each morning, after one or more erotic episodes, Shimrod and Melancthe took a leisurely breakfast of porridge with cream and fresh red currants, or perhaps griddle-cakes, butter, cherry conserve or honey, with ham, water-cress and boiled eggs, and usually either a half-dozen broiled quail or a brace of fresh trout, or poached salmon in dill sauce, along with new bread, fresh milk and berries. A pair of pale falloys* prepared and served the meal, and cleared away the soiled plates, cups and trenchers.

*falloy: a variety of halfling. much like a fairy, but larger and far more gentle of disposition.

After breakfast Shimrod might take himself to his workroom, though more often he dozed for an hour or two on the couch, while Melancthe wandered about the meadow. Sometimes she sat in the garden plucking the strings of a lute, contriving sounds in which Shimrod discovered no pattern but which nonetheless seemed to please Melancthe.

After two months Shimrod found her moods as enigmatic as on the day of her arrival. He fell into the habit of squinting at her sidelong, in wonder and speculation. The mannerism evidently vexed her, so that one morning she gave a sudden grimace and demanded: "You watch me as a bird watches an insect: why do you do so?"

Shimrod finally gathered his wits and said: "For the most part I watch you out of sheer pleasure! You are certainly the most beautiful creature alive!"

Melancthe muttered, as much to herself as to Shimrod: "Am I alive? I may not even be real."

Shimrod responded in that whimsical manner which also annoyed Melancthe, though not as much as an alternative style of logical exposition: "You are alive; otherwise you would be dead and I would be a necrophile. This is not so; hence you are alive. If you were not real, your clothes—" Melancthe now wore pale buff peasant breeches and a peasant smock "—would find no support and would fall into a heap on the ground. Are you satisfied?"

"Then why did not the mirror show my image?"

"Have you looked into it recently?"

"No. I dread what I might see. Or might not see."

"The mirror gives you back your self-assessment. You have no personal image because Tamurello has denied it to you, to keep you subservient. That, at least, is my guess. Since you refuse to confide in me, I cannot help you."

Melancthe looked away across the meadow, and caught unawares, perhaps said more than she wanted: "The advice of a man would only weaken me."

Shimrod frowned. "Why should that be?"

"Because that is how things are."

Shimrod said nothing and presently Melancthe cried out: "You are looking at me again!"

"Yes. In wonder. But now at last I am beginning to guess what you will not tell me, and I wonder not so much any more; in fact I think I know."

"Do you ever do aught but think? You keep the whole world under your forehead: a queer dead Shimrod-shaped illusion! But what do you truly know?"

"For convenience, let us restrict our remarks to your presence at Trilda. Tamurello sent you here to distract me. This is so clear as to be rudimentary. Am I wrong?"

"You would never believe otherwise, no matter what I told you."

"You are clever. Of course I am wrong. You evade my question in order to fool me. Why should I be surprised? You have fooled me before; now I know you well."

"You know me by not so much as an inkling! By not even the inkling of an inkling! You think, you ponder, even while we lie engaged I hear your thoughts clicking together!"

Astonished by Melancthe's vehemence, Shimrod could only say: "Nevertheless, I understand you at last!"

"You are a prodigy of pure reason."

"Your ideas are absolutely wrong! It is proper that you should realize your error. I have not the heart to tell you the whole of it, especially now, while you are angry. You have won the erotic war; the Female Principle has defeated the Male! You are welcome to the victory; it is empty. I will say no more."

"No!" cried Melancthe. "You have gone too far; you must say more!"

Shimrod shrugged. "You decided to sing no longer with the outcasts; you chose to join the human society, but here, willy-nilly, you were forced to obey the function Desmei imprinted upon you. I had come to your villa and there aroused your hostility. I suspect that it was a queer bittersweet emotion: you both liked and disliked me. In any event I became your first antagonist. Did you defeat me? Think as you like. And now I will say no more, except only this: you can tolerate Tamurello because he is not truly masculine; hence he is not an antagonist." Shimrod rose to his feet. "Excuse me; I have neglected much of late, and I must see to my duties."

Shimrod went to his work-room. The tables had been ordered; again the room was a pleasant place in which to work, though Shimrod had done precious little of this during the last two months.

Today his first business concerned the wizard Baibalides, who lived in a house of black rock on Lamneth Isle, a hundred yards off the coast of Wysrod.

Shimrod opened a cabinet and extracted a case from which he took a mask representing Baibalides. Next he brought out a skull on a pedestal and arranged the mask in place over the skull. Instantly the mask seemed to come alive. The eyes blinked; the mouth opened to allow a tongue to moisten the lips. Shimrod called: "Baibalides, can you hear me? It is Shimrod who speaks."

The mouth of the mask responded using Baibalides' voice. "Shimrod, I hear you. What is your business with me?"

"I have here an article which I took from Tintzin Fyral. It is an ivory tube carved on one side with odd runes and on the other with characters spelling out your name. I wonder what might be the purpose of the tube, and whether you claim it as your property, or whether it might have been a gift, either to Tamurello or to Faude Carfilhiot."

Baibalides answered: "I know the tube well: it is Gantwin's Millenial Spectator; it depicts events of the last thousand years anywhere within its purview. I lost it at wager to Tamurello, who evidently gave it to Carfilhiot. If you have no need for it, I will gladly resume ownership. It is invaluable when one wishes to locate buried treasure or to learn the deeds of dead heroes, or, on a more practical basis, to determine paternity. As I recall, the activating spell is of three resonances and a quaver."

"The article is once more yours," said Shimrod. "If ever I require its use, perhaps you will allow me this favor."

"With pleasure!" said Baibalides heartily. "I celebrate the return of this article with special satisfaction since I believe that Tamurello cheated me during the course of the wager."

"Not impossible," said Shimrod. "Tamurello is a man of peculiar predilections. From sheer perversity, he prefers evil to good. Someday he will press Murgen too far."

"That is my own opinion. Only last week I attended a conclave on Mount Khambaste in Ethiopia, where Tamurello was already in residence. During the important business he offended a Circassian witch who began to corrode Tamurello with Blue Ruin, and Tamurello was forced to make concessions, though later he cursed the witch with footlong toenails, so that now and forever she must wear special boots."

Shimrod's attention had been caught. "Last week, you say? And where did Tamurello go after leaving the conclave?"

"Perhaps he returned to Faroli; I am not sure."

"It is no great matter. I will see that you receive your tube in short order."

"Shimrod, I thank you!"

The mask lost its vitality. Shimrod replaced both mask and skull in the cabinet. He went to his map and inspected the blue point of light which so definitely had placed Tamurello in residence at Faroli over the previous two months.

Peering close, Shimrod discovered the source of the error. A small section of adhesive membrane had been applied to the map, immobilizing the blue glint in place.

Shimrod, turning slowly away from the map, examined each of the other instruments which, so he believed, kept a vigilant watch upon all phases of Tamurello's activities. Each, by one means or another, had been rendered useless, in such a way that a casual inspection might not reveal the failure.

Shimrod aroused Facque, the sandestin which, disguised as a gargoyle carved into the facing above the fireplace, guarded the workroom against intruders. "Facque, are you asleep?"

"Naturally not."

"Why have you not kept diligent watch?"

"If you please, I cannot properly answer negative questions. There are numberless acts which I have not performed; we could confer here forever while I detailed the deeds I have not done."

Patiently Shimrod asked: "Did you, then, keep vigilant watch over the workroom?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why did you not warn me of intruders?"

Facque made another peevish protest: "Must you again and again ask questions presuming non-existent facts?"

"Did you notice intruders, or better: who has during the past two months entered the workroom?"

"You, Murgen, and the female who has been sent here to bemuse and befuddle you."

"Has the woman come in alone, while I was not present?"

"On several occasions."

"Did she tamper with my map and my instruments?"

"She stilled the light in place, and interfered with other devices."

"Did she do anything else?"

"She made marks with a stylus in your Book of Logotypes."

Shimrod gave a startled exclamation. "Small wonder that my magic has lately been so flat! What more?"

"Nothing of consequence."

Shimrod removed the immobilizing film from the map; instantly the blue glint, as if to relieve pent pressures, darted in all directions back and forth, hither and yon, finally to settle once again upon the site of Faroli.

Shimrod addressed himself to his instruments, and after some difficulty restored their functions.

Once again he called out to Facque: "Awake!"

"I am awake. I never sleep."

"Has Tamurello, or anyone else, installed instruments of surveillance, or any other function, here at Trilda?"

"Yes. The woman may fairly be included into that category. Secondly, Tamurello has commissioned me to report upon your activities, and lacking instructions to the contrary, I have obliged him. Thirdly, Tamurello has attempted to use mayflies for purposes of espionage, but without any great success."

"Facque, I hereby instruct you, definitely and without qualification, to desist from reporting information of any sort to anyone save Murgen or myself: especially and specifically to Tamurello, or to any of his agents or instruments, or to the air at large, on the theory that it might by some means be collected and directed to the attention of Tamurello."

Facque said: "I am pleased that you have clarified this point. In short, Tamurello is not to receive information of any kind."

"Exactly so, and this includes both positive and negative information, or the use of coded silences, or the manipulation of any device, or signal, or musical selection from which Tamurello could elicit information. You must neither initiate, nor make response, in any wise whatever, and I include all types and permutations of communication I have overlooked.

"At last I understand your requirements," said Facque. "All is now in order."

"Not quite," said Shimrod. "I must decide how to deal with Melancthe."

"Spend no great effort in this regard," advised Facque. "It would be time wasted."

"How so?"

"You will find that the woman has left the premises." Shimrod rushed from the workroom, and looked everywhere, but Melancthe was nowhere to be seen, and Shimrod somberly returned to his workroom.

VII

TAMURELLO SELDOM APPEARED in his natural semblance, preferring an exotic guise for a variety of reasons, not the least of the which was sheer caprice.

Today, stepping out on a balcony above the octagonal garden court at Faroli, he was a frail and ascetic youth, somewhat languid, pale as new milk, with a coriolus of orange-red hair, the strands so fine and luminous as to be invisible. A thin nose, thin lips and blazing blue eyes suggested spiritual exaltation, as Tamurello intended.

Tamurello came slowly down a curving sweep of black glass steps to the courtyard. At the foot of the staircase he halted, then came slowly forward and finally, turning his head, chose to take notice of Melancthe, who stood to the side in the shade of a flowering mimosa tree.

The boy-man approached Melancthe, and it was she who seemed the more earthy and dank. She watched him with a still face; his ethereal but definite masculinity was a posture with which she could feel no possible sympathy.

Tamurello, halting, looked her up and down, then raised an indolent finger and turned away. "Come."

Melancthe followed him into a parlour and seated herself stiffly at the center of a sofa. From her point of view, Tamurello's guises were little more than clues to his mood. This boy-man puzzled rather than annoyed Melancthe. On the whole she cared not a pin as to how he showed himself, and now she put Tamurello's peculiar guise and its possible significance to the side of her mind. Other affairs were more important.

Tamurello again looked her up and down. "You seem none the worse for wear."

"Your tasks have been fulfilled."

"Even over-fulfilled! Ha hum, be it so! Now it seems that in my turn I must address myself to your concerns.

"As I recall, you are troubled because you cannot mesh yourself comfortably into the ways of the world. This is a legitimate source of dissatisfaction. You therefore want me to make changes in the world or, failing this, in you." The boy-man's lips curved in a thin smile, and Melancthe thought that never before had Tamurello affected so acrid a guise.

Melancthe said, simply: "You told me that my mind works at discord to the minds of other persons."

"So I did. Notably with persons of the masculine gender. This is Desmei's attempted revenge upon the cosmos, and particularly that segment with external genital organs. What a joke! It is only such innocents as poor Shimrod who must bear the brunt of Desmei's rage."

"In that case, remove her curse from my soul."

The boy-man studied Melancthe with grave attention. He said at last: "I fear that you crave the impossible."

"But you assured me—"

The boy-man held up his hand. "In all candor, I lack the skill, nor could Murgen himself do better."

Melancthe's beautiful mouth drooped at the comers. "Is not your magic useful in such a case?"

The orange-haired boy-man spoke with vivacity: "It is all very well to ordain tasks by magic, but some intelligent or skillful agency must ultimately do the specified work. In such remedial work as this no entity, be it man, sandestin, halfling, demon, or other creature of controllable power, understands all the intricacies. Therefore, it cannot be done on the instant."

"Still, this was your undertaking."

"I stated that I would do my best and so I shall. Listen, and I will describe your problems. Attend me carefully; the subject is dense."

"I am listening."

"Each mind is a composite of several phases in super-imposition. The first is aware, and is consciousness. The others are no less active but work for the most part in obscurity and away from the light of knowledgeable attention.

"Each phase uses its own tools. The first, or overt, phase of the mind purports to use the faculties of logic, curiosity, the differentiation of aptness from absurdity, with a corollary known as ‘humour,' and a certain projective kind of sympathy, known as ‘justice.'

"The second and third and other phases are concerned with emotions, reflexes, and work of the body.

"Your first phase would seem to be deficient. The second phase, the agent of emotional interpretations, with great travail and inconvenience tries to fulfill this function. Here would seem to be the nature of your debility. The remedy is to strengthen the first phase, by a regimen of usage and training."

Melancthe frowned in puzzlement. "How would I train?"

"Two methods suggest themselves. I can alter your guise to that of an infant and introduce you into a noble family where you can learn by ordinary processes."

"Would I retain my memory?"

"That is at your option."

Melancthe pursed her lips. "I do not want to be an infant."

"Then you must apply yourself to learning, in the fashion of a student: through books and study and discipline, and so you will learn to think with logic, rather than to brood in terms of emotion."

Melancthe muttered: "It would seem a horror of tedium. To study, to pore over books, to think, to intellectualize— these are the habits I derided in Shimrod."

The boy-man surveyed her with no great interest. "Make your decision."

"If I were forced to study from books, I would learn nothing and go mad in the bargain. Can you not collect a sufficiency of wisdom and experience and humour and sympathy into a node and imprint it upon the empty place in my brain?"

"No!" The boy-man responded so sharply that Melancthe wondered if he told all the truth he knew. "Make your decision!"

"I will return to Ys, and consider."

Tamurello instantly spoke a set of syllables, as if he had been waiting for nothing more. Melancthe was whirled aloft and carried high through clouds and dazzling sunlight. She glimpsed the ocean and the horizon and then felt the soft sand of the beach under her feet.

Melancthe dropped to sit in the warm sand, with arms clasped around her knees. To the south the armies of King Aillas had departed; the beach lay empty all the way to the estuary. She watched the play of the waves. Surging and churning the surf advanced upon her in a gush of white foam Melancthe sat an hour, then, rising to her feet, she shook the sand from her clothes and entered her quiet villa.