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Synopsis
A new and truly awesome collection of comic fantasy masterpieces!
It isn't often you find a posse of Greek goddesses putting down insurrection among unruly classical mortals, stranded aliens escaping earth in a church converted into a rocket, or a light-fingered time-traveller attempting to steal the universe - but here they all are, in another selection of bizarre comic fantasies.
Release date: April 11, 2014
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages: 160
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The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy
Mike Ashley
My thanks to Alan Ashdown, Judith Higgins and Dennis Lien for helping me with copies of some of the stories. My thanks also to all of the contributors (well, the living ones) for their help, encouragement and, oh yes, the stories. All of the stories are copyright in the name of the individual authors as follows. Every effort has been made to trace the holders of copyright. In the event of any inadvertent transgression of copyright the editor would like to hear from the author or their representative via the publisher.
“The Absolute and Utter Impossibility of the Facts in the Case of the Vanishing of Henning Vok” © 1991 by Jack Adrian. First published in New Crimes 3 edited by Maxim Jakubowski (London: Robinson Books, 1991). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Ferdie” by F. Anstey. First published in The Strand Magazine, December 1907. Copyright expired in 1985.
“Crispin the Turnspit” © 1930 by Anthony Armstrong. First published in Pearson’s Magazine, December 1930. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Broadway Barbarian” © 2001 by Cherith Baldry. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Pale Assassin” © 2001 by James Bibby. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Peake Associates.
“Nothing in the Rules” by Nelson Bond © 1943 by the McCall Corporation. First published in Blue Book, August 1943. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Nasty” © 1959 by Fredric Brown. First published in Playboy, April 1959. “Rope Trick” © 1959 by Fredric Brown. First published in Adam, May 1959. “The Ring of Hans Carvel” © 1961 by Fredric Brown. First published in Nightmares and Geezenstacks (New York: Bantam Books, 1961). Stories reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency.
“The Diplodocus” by Porter Emerson Browne. First published in The New Broadway Magazine, August 1908. Copyright expired in 1985.
“The Byrds” © 1983 by Michael G. Coney. First published in Changes edited by Michael Bishop and Ian Watson (New York: Ace Books, 1983). Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, the Dorian Literary Agency.
“Milord Sir Smiht, the English Wizard” © 1975 by Avram Davidson. First published in The Enquiries of Doctor Esterhazy (New York: Warner Books, 1975). Reprinted by permission of Grania Davis.
“Math Takes a Holiday” © 2001 by Paul Di Filippo. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone” © 2001 by Scott Edelman. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Dragonet” © 1985 by Esther Friesner. First published in Amazing Stories, January 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Gunsel and Gretel” © 2001 by Esther Friesner. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Mother Duck Strikes Again” © 1988 by Craig Shaw Gardner. First published as Chapter 2 of An Excess of Enchantments (New York: Ace Books, 1988). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How Much Would You Pay?” © 2001 by Craig Shaw Gardner. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Strawhouse Pavilion” © 1969 by Ron Goulart. First published in Coven 13, January 1970. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Swords and the Stones” © 2001 by E.K. Grant. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s estate.
“A Case of Four Fingers” © 2001 by John Grant. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Touched by a Salesman” © 2001 by Tom Holt. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Attack of the Charlie Chaplins” © 1997 by Garry Kilworth. First published in New Worlds #222, edited by David Garnett (Clarkston: White Wolf Publishing, 1997). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Not Ours to See” © 1997 by David Langford. First published in The Fortune Teller, edited by Lawrence Schimel & Martin H. Greenberg (New York: DAW Books, 1997). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Caliber of the Sword” © 1999 by Larry Lawrence. First published on the Web in the e-zine Fantasy, Folklore and Fairytales, September 1999. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“‘Put Back That Universe!’” © 2000 by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre. First: published in Analog, October 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Fair-Weather Fiend” © 1990 by John Morressy. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1991. Reprinted by permission of the author;s estate.
“Polly Put the Mockers On” © 2001 by Stan Nicholls. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Frog” © 2001 by Tina Rath. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Winds of Fate” © 2001 by Tony Rath. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Blackbird” © 1959 by Jack Sharkey. First published in Fantastic, September 1959. Reprinted by permission of Samuel French, Inc., agents for the author’s estate.
“Bad Day on Mount Olympus” © 2001 by Marilyn Todd. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Queen’s Triplets” by Israel Zangwill, first published in The Idler, December 1892 and included in The King of Schnorrers (London: Heinemann, 1894). Copyright expired in 1977.
Garry Kilworth
You might know Garry Kilworth better for his wonderful animal fantasies, such as Hunter’s Moon (1989) and Midnight’s Sun (1992). Or maybe his horror books, like Angel (1993) or Archangel (1994). Or his children’s books, The Wizard of Woodworld (1987) or The Rain Ghost (1989). Or his historical novels set in the Crimean War, starting with The Devil’s Own (1997) under the pen name Garry Douglas. Or–well, anyway, you get the picture. Garry Kilworth is prolific but his work is hard to define as he is always varied and original. So, although you might not automatically associate him with humorous fiction, it’s yet another of his many talents. Just sample the following.
SCENE 1
A subterranean bunker somewhere in South Dakota. Feverish activity is taking place within the confines of the bunker. In the centre of it all a middle-aged general is musing on the situation which unfolds before him.
Reports are coming out of Nebraska that the state is under attack from heavily armed men dressed as Charlie Chaplin. My first thought was that a right-wing group of anti-federal rebels was involved. It seemed they were using irony to make some kind of point. After all, Charlie was eventually ostracized to Switzerland for having communist sympathies.
As more accurate reports come in, however, it becomes apparent that these are not just men dressed as Charlie Chaplin, they are the real McCoy – they are he, so to speak.
“It’s clear,” says Colonel Cartwright, of Covert Readiness Action Policy, and the Army’s best scriptwriter, “that these are aliens. What we have here, General, is your actual alien invasion of Earth. Naturally they chose to conquer the United States first, because we’re the most powerful nation on the planet.”
“Why Nebraska, Colonel?” I ask. I am General Oliver J.J. Klipperman, by the way. You may have seen my right profile next to John Wayne’s in The Green Berets. I was told to look authoritative, point a finger in the direction of Da Nang, but on no account to turn round and face the camera. I have this tic in my left eye and apparently it distresses young audiences. “Nebraska isn’t exactly the most powerful state in the Union. Why not New York or Washington?”
Cartwright smiles at me grimly. “Look at your map, General. Nebraska is slap bang in the middle of this great country of ours. It has one of the smallest populations. You get more people on Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve than live in Nebraska. You simply have to wipe out a small population and you control this country’s central state. Expand from there, outwards in all directions, and you have America. Once you have America, you have the world. It’s as easy as that.”
I nod. It all makes sense. Nebraska is the key to the control of the US of A. The aliens had seen that straightaway.
“What do we know about these creatures?” I ask next. “The President will expect me to sort out this unholy mess and I want to know who I’m killing when I go in with my boys.”
The colonel gives me another tight smile. “These creatures? Nothing. Zilch. But we have a trump card. We’ve been preparing for such an invasion for many, many years and our information is voluminous.”
“It is?” I say. “How come?”
“Hollywood and the Army connection,” says the colonel. “Army money, personnel and expertise have been behind every alien invasion movie ever made.”
“It has?” I reply. “I mean, I knew we had fingers in Hollywood pies – I’ve been an extra in over a dozen war movies – but every alien invasion movie? Why?”
[Zoom in on colonel’s rugged features.]
“Training,” the colonel says, emphatically. “Preparation. If you cover every contingency, you don’t get surprised. We’ve been making films of alien invasions since the movie camera was first invented. We’ve covered every eventuality, every type of attack, from your sneaky fifth-column stuff such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers to outright blatant frontal war, such as Independence Day. We know what to do, General, because we’ve done it so many times before, on the silver screen. We know every move the shifty shape-changing bastards can make, because we’ve watched them in so many films. Alien, War of the Worlds, The Day the Earth Stood Still, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, you name it, we’ve covered it. On film.” He pauses for a moment, before saying to himself, “That speech is a little long – I’ll have to think of some way of cutting it when we make the actual movie of this particular invasion.”
[Back to middle-distance shot.]
Something is bothering me. I put it into words.
“Weren’t they friendly aliens in Close Encounters?”
“No such thing, General. What about those poor guys, those pilots they beamed up from the Bermuda Triangle in December 1945? They kept them in limbo until their families were all dead and gone, then let ’em come back. Is that a friendly thing to do?”
“I guess not. So, Colonel, we’ve had all these exercises, albeit on celluloid, but what have we learned? What do you suggest we do with them?”
“Blast them to hell, General, begging your pardon. If there’s one thing we’ve learned it’s that if you give ’em an inch, they’ll take a planet. They’ve got Nebraska. That’s almost an inch. We need to smash them before they go any further. Blow them to smithereens before they take Kansas, Iowa or Wyoming or, God forbid, South Dakota.”
I always err on the side of caution. That’s why I’m still a one-star general, I guess.
“But what do we actually know about these creatures? I mean, why come down here looking like Charlie Chaplin?”
The colonel’s eyes brighten and he looks eager.
“Ah,” he says, “I have a theory about that, sir. You see, we send crap out into space all the time. I don’t mean your hardware, I mean broadcasts. They must have picked up some of our television signals. What if their reception had been so poor that the only thing they picked up was an old Charlie Chaplin movie? What if it was one of those movies in which he appears on his own – just a clip – and, here’s the crunch, they thought we all looked like that?”
The colonel steps back for effect and nods.
“You mean,” I say, “they think the Charlie Chaplin character is representative of the whole human race?”
“Exactly, sir. You’ve got it. We all look alike to them. They came down intending to infiltrate our country unnoticed, but of course even most Nebraskans know Charlie Chaplin is dead, and that there was only one of him. The dirt farmers see a thousand lookalikes and straightaway they go, ‘Uh-huh, somethin’s wrong here, Zach . . .’
“So they did what any self-respecting Midwestern American would do – they went indoors and got their guns and started shooting those funny-walking little guys carrying canes and wearing bowler hats.”
“I see what you mean, Colonel. They’re ‘not from around here’ so they must be bad guys?”
“Right.”
“Blow holes in them and ask questions later?”
“If you can understand that alien gibberish, which nobody can.”
“I meant, ask questions of yourself – questions on whether you’ve done the right and moral thing.”
“Gotcha, General.”
I ponder on the colonel’s words. Colonel Cartwright is an intelligent man – or at least what passes for intelligent in the Army – which is why he is a senior officer in CRAP. He has obviously thought this thing through very thoroughly and I have to accept his conclusions. I ask him if he is sure we are doing the right thing by counter-attacking the aliens and blowing them to oblivion. Have they really exterminated the whole population of Nebraska?
“Every last mother’s son,” answers the colonel, sadly, “there’s not a chicken farm left.”
[Gratuitous shot of a dead child lying in a ditch.]
“And we can’t get through to the President for orders?”
“All lines are down, radio communications are jammed.”
“The Air Force?” I ask, hopefully.
“Shot down crossing the State line. There’s smoking wrecks lying all over Nebraska. Same with missiles. We were willing to wipe out Nebraska, geographically speaking, but these creatures have superior weapons. We’re the nearest unit, General. It’s up to us to stop them.”
“How many men have we got, Colonel?”
“A brigade – you’re only a brigadier general, General.”
“I know. Still, we ought to stand a chance with four to five thousand men. They . . . they destroyed our whole Air Force, you say?”
[Zoom in on TV screen showing smoking wrecks.]
The colonel sneers. “The Air Force are a bunch of Marys, sir. You can’t trust a force that’s less than a century old. The Army and the Navy, now they’ve been around for several thousand years.”
There had never been much call for the Navy in Nebraska.
[Back to half-frame shot.]
“Are we up to strength?”
“No, sir, with sickness and furlough we’re down to two battalions.”
“Okay,” I state emphatically. “We go in with two thousand, armour, field guns and God on our side.”
“You betcha!”
[Enter Army corporal carrying sheet of paper.]
“Yes, Corporal?” I say icily, recognizing her as the extra who upstaged me in the remake of The Sands of Iwo fima by obscuring my right profile with her big knockers. “I’m busy.”
“I thought you ought to see this message, sir.” She offers it to me. “Just came through.”
“From Washington?” I ask, hopefully.
“No, sir, from the alien.”
“The alien?” I repeat, snatching the signal. “You afraid of plurals, soldier?”
“No, sir, if you’ll read the message, sir, you’ll see there’s only one of him – or her.”
The message is: YOU AND ME, OLIVER, DOWN BY THE RIVER PLATTE.
“Looks like he’s been watching John Wayne movies, too,” I say, handing Cartwright the piece of paper. “Or maybe Clint Eastwood.”
The colonel reads the message. “How do we know there’s only one?” he asks, sensibly. “It could be a trick.”
“Our radar confirms it, sir,” the corporal replies. “He’s pretty fast, though. It only looks like there’s multiples of him. He seems to be everywhere at once. He’s wiped out the whole population of Nebraska single-handed.”
“Fuck!” I exclaim, instantly turning any movie of this incident into an adult-rated picture. “What the hell chance do I stand against an alien that moves so fast he becomes a horde?”
“Fifty per cent of Nebraska was asleep when they got it,” says the colonel, “and the other half wasn’t awake.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Some of ’em actually do wake up a little during daylight hours.”
“You think I stand a chance?”
The colonel grins. “We’ll fix you up with some dandy hardware, sir. He’ll never know what hit him.”
“But can I trust him to keep his word? About being just one of him? What if he comes at me in legions?”
“No sweat, general,” says the colonel. “This baby—”
[Close-up of a shiny gismo with weird projections.]
“—is called a shredder. Newest weapon off the bench. One squeeze of this trigger and it fires a zillion coiled razor-sharp metal threads. Strip a herd of cattle to the bone faster than a shoal of piranha. You only have to get within ten feet of the bastard and you can annihilate him even if he becomes a whole corps.”
“Can I hide it under my greatcoat?”
“Nothing easier, sir. And we’ll wire you with a transmitter. He’s only jamming long-distance stuff. You can tell us your life story. Oh, and one more important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We have to give him a nickname, General.”
I stare at the colonel. “Why?” I say at last.
“Because that’s what we’re good at. We always give the enemy a nickname. It demeans them. Makes them feel self-conscious and inferior. It’s our way of telling them that they’re the lowest form of human life.”
“Or, in this case, alien life.”
“Right, General. So we have to give him a humiliating nickname – like Kraut, Slopehead, Raghead, Fritz, Dink or Charlie . . .”
“We can’t nickname him Charlie, he’s already called Charlie.”
“Okay, I take that on board. How about we call him Chuck?”
“Doesn’t sound very demeaning to me. My brother was called Chuck.”
“Depends on how you say it, General. If we’re talking about your brother, we say ‘Chuck’ in a warm kind of tone. But if we’re talking about Chuck, we use a sort of fat, chickeny sound – Chuck – like that.”
“I think I understand, Colonel. Well, let’s get me armed and wired. It’s time I taught Chuck a lesson.”
Stardom, here I come. A part with lines. My part. A lone, courageous part, if they let me play myself in the movie – providing I live to rejoice in it, of course.
SCENE 2
Somewhere out on the plains of Nebraska. A man is walking down towards the River Platte. The night is dark but studded with bright stars, giving the impression of vast distances and emphasizing the insignificance of the brave lonely figure. The brave lonely figure is apparently talking to himself.
Are you listening, back there in the base? The moon is gleaming on my path as I reach the banks. Here in the humid Nebraskan night I wait for my adversary. Single combat. Mano a mano. The old way of settling differences in the American West.
Hell, what am I saying, we didn’t invent it. The old, old way. The chivalric code of the knights. A tourney. A duel. An affair of honour. Rapiers at dawn. Pistols for two, coffee for one.
[Aside: We’re kind of mixing our genres here with Westerns and Science Fiction, but I think we can get away with it since the two have always had a close relationship, being drawn from the same source – the conquest of frontiers by American pioneers.]
And I am ready. You didn’t send me out unprimed, Colonel. You made me submit to brainstorming. Masses of data has been blasted into my brain in the form of an electron blizzard. Every extraterrestrial invasion movie ever filmed is now lodged somewhere inside my cerebrum, waiting to be tapped. Any move this creature makes, I’ll have it covered. Hollywood, under secret Army supervision, has foreseen every eventuality, every type of Otherworlder intent on invading and subduing us Earthlings. They’re all in my head.
[A solitary charred and wounded chicken crawls silently across the landscape.]
Swines! Uh-huh. More movement up there.
Chuck’s coming up over the ridge! Thousands of him doing that silly walk with the cane and twitching his ratty moustache. This is really weird. A swarm of Charlie Chaplins. Did he lie? Is he going to come at me in hordes? Boy, can he move fast. They’re all doing different things. One’s swinging his cane and grinning, another flexing his bow legs, yet another pretending to be a ballet dancer. Multitudes of him, pouring over the ridge now, like rats being driven by beaters.
“Don’t let him get to you with the pathetic routine,” you warned me, Colonel. “You know how Chuck can melt the strongest heart with that schmaltzy hangdog expression. Don’t look at him when he puts his hands in his pockets, purses his lips, and wriggles from side to side.” Well, don’t worry, I hate Charlie Chaplin. That pathos act makes me want to puke, always did. If he tries that stuff, I’ll shred him before he can blink.
He’s getting closer now, moving very slowly. He’s suddenly become only one, a single Charlie Chaplin. I can see the white of his teeth as he curls his top lip back.
My fingers are closing around the butt of the shredder. I’m ready to draw in an instant. The bastard won’t stand a chance. Wait, he’s changing shape again. Now he’s Buster Keaton. I never liked Buster Keaton. And yet again. Fatty Arbuckle this time. I detest Fatty Arbuckle. Someone I don’t recognize. Now Abbot and Costello. Both of them. The Marx Brothers.
Shit, he’s only eleven feet away, and he’s changing again. He’s gone all fuzzy. He’s solidifying. Oh. Oh, no. Oh my golly gosh. God Almighty. It’s . . . it’s dear old Stan Laurel. He’s got one hand behind his back. I guess he’s holding a deadly weapon in that hand.
“Hello, Olly.”
Did you hear that, Colonel? Just like the original. He . . . he’s beaming at me now, the way Laurel always beams at Hardy. And I . . . I can’t do it. I can’t shoot. He’s scratching his head in that funny way of his. Of all the comic actors to choose. I loved Stan Laurel. I mean, how can you shoot Stan Laurel when he’s beaming at you? It’s like crushing a kitten beneath the heel of your boot. I can’t do it. The flesh may be steel, but the spirit’s runny butter.
Tell you what I’m going to do – I’ll threaten him with the shredder. That ought to be enough for Stan Laurel.
Oh my gosh, he’s burst into tears.
“Don’t point that thing at me, Olly. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be your chum.”
I’ve put the weapon away. He’s smiling again. He’s offering me a cigar. Hey, you should see this, Colonel. He’s done that trick, you know, flicking his thumb out of his fist like a lighter? There’s a flame coming from his thumbnail.
He’s still smiling. He’s friendly after all, though he’s still got one hand hidden from me. Maybe he’s realized he’s made a mistake? I have to show willing. I’m taking a light for the cigar. Hell, he could be a really nice guy.
I don’t know what this thing is, but it’s not a Havana cigar. Tastes kinda ropy, like the cigar that producer of a low-budget B-movie once gave me, when I played Young Ike. What was his name? Ricky Hernandez, yeah. Good movie that. Pity it was never released.
Jesus, this thing is playing havoc with my throat. Can you still hear me? It has a familiar smell – now where did I – oh yes, in the Gulf. Shit, it’s nerve gas! The bastard has given me a cigar which releases nerve gas into the lungs.
Oh fuck, oh fuck – I’m getting dizzy. I feel like vomiting. There’s blood coming from my mouth, ears and nostrils. He’s reaching forward. He’s taken my weapon. I’m . . . I’m falling . . . falling. Oh God, my legs are twitching, my arms, my torso, my head. I’m going into a fit spasm. I’m dying, Colonel. I’m a dead man.
Wait, he’s standing over me. I think he’s going to speak. Are you listening, Colonel?
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley’, and play with your tie.”
Hollywood, damn them. He’s speaking again. Listen.
“I suppose you think I lied to you, Olly?”
Yes I do, you freak, you murdering shape-changing bastard. I do think you lied to me.
He’s giving me one of those smug Stan Laurel smiles, showing me his other hand, the one he’s had behind his back all the time. He’s . . . he’s got his fingers crossed.
“Sorry, Olly.”
Hollywood covered every contingency except one. In all the alien-invasion movies they ever made, the attacking monsters are always as grim as Michigan in January. As I lie here dying, the joke is on you and me, Colonel. There’s one type of extraterrestrial we didn’t plan on. An offworlder just like our own soldiers.
An alien with a sense of humour.
FADE OUT
Craig Shaw Gardner
I am a dedicated fan of the adventures of the apprentice Wuntvor and his master, the wizard Ebenezum, who is allergic to magic. I have reprinted two of their tales in the previous two anthologies, and I don’t apologize for presenting a third. If you want to track down the full corpus of Ebenezum and Wuntvor then you’ll need to find six books: A Malady of Magicks (1986), A Multitude of Monsters (1986), A Night in the Netherhells (1987), A Difficulty with Dwarves (1987), An Excess of Enchantments (1988) and A Disagreement with Death (1989). In An Excess of Enchantments, from which the following episode comes, Wuntvor has travelled to the far Eastern Kingdoms in search of a cure for Ebenezum’s allergy but has fallen foul of the witch, Mother Duck, who robs Wuntvor of his memory and casts him into a series of fairy tales, of which this is the first.
Once upon a time, a young lad named Wuntvor travelled far from his native land, seeing the sights and having many adventures. So it was that he came over a hill and saw a bright and verdant valley spread before him. Brilliant sunlight shone down on green trees and golden crops, and Wuntvor thought that he had never seen a place as beautiful as this in all his travels.
He left the hilltop and began his descent into the valley. But he had not gone a dozen paces before he saw a hand-painted sign hanging from one of the beautiful, green trees. And on that sign, in large red letters, someone had painted a single word:
DANGER.
Wuntvor paused for a moment, and stared at the sign. Was someone trying to warn him? But danger of what? And where could any danger be on such a fine day as this?
So Wuntvor continued upon his way, whistling merrily as he studied the wild flowers that bordered the path on either side. He came to a broad field of wild grass and clover, and saw that on the far side of that field wound a lazy blue river.
Wuntvor looked along the trail he followed, and noted that in the distance it led to a narrow bridge that crossed the wide expanse of water. Well then, he thought to himself, that is the way that I must go. But he had not walked a dozen paces before he found that a giant boulder blocked his way. And on that boulder was painted a single word, in red letters three feet high:
BEWARE.
Wuntvor paused for a long moment to regard the message on the boulder. This was the second warning he had received since he had entered the valley. But what were these messages trying to tell him? What, or whom, should he beware of?
At length, Wuntvor decided that it was much too fine a day to beware of anything. Let the fates do what they must, he thought. On a sunny afternoon like this, he could best whatever was thrown in his path!
And with that, Wuntvor skirted the boulder and continued down the trail to the bridge. He had not gone a dozen paces, however, before a large man stepped out from behind a concealing hedge. Wuntvor studied the newcomer with some surprise, since he was the largest man the young lad had ever seen, being massive in girth as well as height. The large fellow was dressed in a bronze breastplate, which was somewhat dented and tarnished, and wore an elaborate winged helmet on top of his massive head. He raised a giant club above his head, and uttered but a single word:
“DOOM.”
Wuntvor took a step away, being somewhat taken aback by this new turn of events. Was this the danger that the first sign spoke of? Was this what he had to beware of, as the boulder had cautioned? Yet the large man did not attack. Instead, he simply stood there, the giant club still raised above his massive head.
“Pardon?” Wuntvor said after a moment.
“What?” the large man asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Wuntvor expanded.
“Oh,” the large man answered. “Doom.”
“Yes,” Wuntvor prompted. “But what kind of doom?”
“Oh,” the large man answered again. “Down at the bridge.”
Wuntvor smiled. Now he was getting somewhere! “What about the bridge?”
“Doom,” the large man replied.
But Wuntvor wasn’t about to give up. “At the bridge?” he prompted again.
The large man nodded his head and lowered his club.
“That’s where the danger is?” Wuntvor added. “That’s where I have to beware?”
The large man continued to nod.
“But what is the danger?” Wuntvor insisted. “What do I have to beware of?”
“Doom,” the large man insisted.
Wuntvor began to despair of ever getting any real answers out of the large fellow. He gazed down the path at the distant bridge. It certainly looked peaceful enough. Just what was this big fellow trying to warn him about? Wuntvor decided he would try to gain a definite answer one more time.
“Indeed,” he began, for there was something reassuri
“The Absolute and Utter Impossibility of the Facts in the Case of the Vanishing of Henning Vok” © 1991 by Jack Adrian. First published in New Crimes 3 edited by Maxim Jakubowski (London: Robinson Books, 1991). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Ferdie” by F. Anstey. First published in The Strand Magazine, December 1907. Copyright expired in 1985.
“Crispin the Turnspit” © 1930 by Anthony Armstrong. First published in Pearson’s Magazine, December 1930. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Broadway Barbarian” © 2001 by Cherith Baldry. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Pale Assassin” © 2001 by James Bibby. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Peake Associates.
“Nothing in the Rules” by Nelson Bond © 1943 by the McCall Corporation. First published in Blue Book, August 1943. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Nasty” © 1959 by Fredric Brown. First published in Playboy, April 1959. “Rope Trick” © 1959 by Fredric Brown. First published in Adam, May 1959. “The Ring of Hans Carvel” © 1961 by Fredric Brown. First published in Nightmares and Geezenstacks (New York: Bantam Books, 1961). Stories reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency.
“The Diplodocus” by Porter Emerson Browne. First published in The New Broadway Magazine, August 1908. Copyright expired in 1985.
“The Byrds” © 1983 by Michael G. Coney. First published in Changes edited by Michael Bishop and Ian Watson (New York: Ace Books, 1983). Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, the Dorian Literary Agency.
“Milord Sir Smiht, the English Wizard” © 1975 by Avram Davidson. First published in The Enquiries of Doctor Esterhazy (New York: Warner Books, 1975). Reprinted by permission of Grania Davis.
“Math Takes a Holiday” © 2001 by Paul Di Filippo. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone” © 2001 by Scott Edelman. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Dragonet” © 1985 by Esther Friesner. First published in Amazing Stories, January 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Gunsel and Gretel” © 2001 by Esther Friesner. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Mother Duck Strikes Again” © 1988 by Craig Shaw Gardner. First published as Chapter 2 of An Excess of Enchantments (New York: Ace Books, 1988). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How Much Would You Pay?” © 2001 by Craig Shaw Gardner. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Strawhouse Pavilion” © 1969 by Ron Goulart. First published in Coven 13, January 1970. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Swords and the Stones” © 2001 by E.K. Grant. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author’s estate.
“A Case of Four Fingers” © 2001 by John Grant. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Touched by a Salesman” © 2001 by Tom Holt. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Attack of the Charlie Chaplins” © 1997 by Garry Kilworth. First published in New Worlds #222, edited by David Garnett (Clarkston: White Wolf Publishing, 1997). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Not Ours to See” © 1997 by David Langford. First published in The Fortune Teller, edited by Lawrence Schimel & Martin H. Greenberg (New York: DAW Books, 1997). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Caliber of the Sword” © 1999 by Larry Lawrence. First published on the Web in the e-zine Fantasy, Folklore and Fairytales, September 1999. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“‘Put Back That Universe!’” © 2000 by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre. First: published in Analog, October 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Fair-Weather Fiend” © 1990 by John Morressy. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1991. Reprinted by permission of the author;s estate.
“Polly Put the Mockers On” © 2001 by Stan Nicholls. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Frog” © 2001 by Tina Rath. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Winds of Fate” © 2001 by Tony Rath. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Blackbird” © 1959 by Jack Sharkey. First published in Fantastic, September 1959. Reprinted by permission of Samuel French, Inc., agents for the author’s estate.
“Bad Day on Mount Olympus” © 2001 by Marilyn Todd. New story, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Queen’s Triplets” by Israel Zangwill, first published in The Idler, December 1892 and included in The King of Schnorrers (London: Heinemann, 1894). Copyright expired in 1977.
Garry Kilworth
You might know Garry Kilworth better for his wonderful animal fantasies, such as Hunter’s Moon (1989) and Midnight’s Sun (1992). Or maybe his horror books, like Angel (1993) or Archangel (1994). Or his children’s books, The Wizard of Woodworld (1987) or The Rain Ghost (1989). Or his historical novels set in the Crimean War, starting with The Devil’s Own (1997) under the pen name Garry Douglas. Or–well, anyway, you get the picture. Garry Kilworth is prolific but his work is hard to define as he is always varied and original. So, although you might not automatically associate him with humorous fiction, it’s yet another of his many talents. Just sample the following.
SCENE 1
A subterranean bunker somewhere in South Dakota. Feverish activity is taking place within the confines of the bunker. In the centre of it all a middle-aged general is musing on the situation which unfolds before him.
Reports are coming out of Nebraska that the state is under attack from heavily armed men dressed as Charlie Chaplin. My first thought was that a right-wing group of anti-federal rebels was involved. It seemed they were using irony to make some kind of point. After all, Charlie was eventually ostracized to Switzerland for having communist sympathies.
As more accurate reports come in, however, it becomes apparent that these are not just men dressed as Charlie Chaplin, they are the real McCoy – they are he, so to speak.
“It’s clear,” says Colonel Cartwright, of Covert Readiness Action Policy, and the Army’s best scriptwriter, “that these are aliens. What we have here, General, is your actual alien invasion of Earth. Naturally they chose to conquer the United States first, because we’re the most powerful nation on the planet.”
“Why Nebraska, Colonel?” I ask. I am General Oliver J.J. Klipperman, by the way. You may have seen my right profile next to John Wayne’s in The Green Berets. I was told to look authoritative, point a finger in the direction of Da Nang, but on no account to turn round and face the camera. I have this tic in my left eye and apparently it distresses young audiences. “Nebraska isn’t exactly the most powerful state in the Union. Why not New York or Washington?”
Cartwright smiles at me grimly. “Look at your map, General. Nebraska is slap bang in the middle of this great country of ours. It has one of the smallest populations. You get more people on Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve than live in Nebraska. You simply have to wipe out a small population and you control this country’s central state. Expand from there, outwards in all directions, and you have America. Once you have America, you have the world. It’s as easy as that.”
I nod. It all makes sense. Nebraska is the key to the control of the US of A. The aliens had seen that straightaway.
“What do we know about these creatures?” I ask next. “The President will expect me to sort out this unholy mess and I want to know who I’m killing when I go in with my boys.”
The colonel gives me another tight smile. “These creatures? Nothing. Zilch. But we have a trump card. We’ve been preparing for such an invasion for many, many years and our information is voluminous.”
“It is?” I say. “How come?”
“Hollywood and the Army connection,” says the colonel. “Army money, personnel and expertise have been behind every alien invasion movie ever made.”
“It has?” I reply. “I mean, I knew we had fingers in Hollywood pies – I’ve been an extra in over a dozen war movies – but every alien invasion movie? Why?”
[Zoom in on colonel’s rugged features.]
“Training,” the colonel says, emphatically. “Preparation. If you cover every contingency, you don’t get surprised. We’ve been making films of alien invasions since the movie camera was first invented. We’ve covered every eventuality, every type of attack, from your sneaky fifth-column stuff such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers to outright blatant frontal war, such as Independence Day. We know what to do, General, because we’ve done it so many times before, on the silver screen. We know every move the shifty shape-changing bastards can make, because we’ve watched them in so many films. Alien, War of the Worlds, The Day the Earth Stood Still, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, you name it, we’ve covered it. On film.” He pauses for a moment, before saying to himself, “That speech is a little long – I’ll have to think of some way of cutting it when we make the actual movie of this particular invasion.”
[Back to middle-distance shot.]
Something is bothering me. I put it into words.
“Weren’t they friendly aliens in Close Encounters?”
“No such thing, General. What about those poor guys, those pilots they beamed up from the Bermuda Triangle in December 1945? They kept them in limbo until their families were all dead and gone, then let ’em come back. Is that a friendly thing to do?”
“I guess not. So, Colonel, we’ve had all these exercises, albeit on celluloid, but what have we learned? What do you suggest we do with them?”
“Blast them to hell, General, begging your pardon. If there’s one thing we’ve learned it’s that if you give ’em an inch, they’ll take a planet. They’ve got Nebraska. That’s almost an inch. We need to smash them before they go any further. Blow them to smithereens before they take Kansas, Iowa or Wyoming or, God forbid, South Dakota.”
I always err on the side of caution. That’s why I’m still a one-star general, I guess.
“But what do we actually know about these creatures? I mean, why come down here looking like Charlie Chaplin?”
The colonel’s eyes brighten and he looks eager.
“Ah,” he says, “I have a theory about that, sir. You see, we send crap out into space all the time. I don’t mean your hardware, I mean broadcasts. They must have picked up some of our television signals. What if their reception had been so poor that the only thing they picked up was an old Charlie Chaplin movie? What if it was one of those movies in which he appears on his own – just a clip – and, here’s the crunch, they thought we all looked like that?”
The colonel steps back for effect and nods.
“You mean,” I say, “they think the Charlie Chaplin character is representative of the whole human race?”
“Exactly, sir. You’ve got it. We all look alike to them. They came down intending to infiltrate our country unnoticed, but of course even most Nebraskans know Charlie Chaplin is dead, and that there was only one of him. The dirt farmers see a thousand lookalikes and straightaway they go, ‘Uh-huh, somethin’s wrong here, Zach . . .’
“So they did what any self-respecting Midwestern American would do – they went indoors and got their guns and started shooting those funny-walking little guys carrying canes and wearing bowler hats.”
“I see what you mean, Colonel. They’re ‘not from around here’ so they must be bad guys?”
“Right.”
“Blow holes in them and ask questions later?”
“If you can understand that alien gibberish, which nobody can.”
“I meant, ask questions of yourself – questions on whether you’ve done the right and moral thing.”
“Gotcha, General.”
I ponder on the colonel’s words. Colonel Cartwright is an intelligent man – or at least what passes for intelligent in the Army – which is why he is a senior officer in CRAP. He has obviously thought this thing through very thoroughly and I have to accept his conclusions. I ask him if he is sure we are doing the right thing by counter-attacking the aliens and blowing them to oblivion. Have they really exterminated the whole population of Nebraska?
“Every last mother’s son,” answers the colonel, sadly, “there’s not a chicken farm left.”
[Gratuitous shot of a dead child lying in a ditch.]
“And we can’t get through to the President for orders?”
“All lines are down, radio communications are jammed.”
“The Air Force?” I ask, hopefully.
“Shot down crossing the State line. There’s smoking wrecks lying all over Nebraska. Same with missiles. We were willing to wipe out Nebraska, geographically speaking, but these creatures have superior weapons. We’re the nearest unit, General. It’s up to us to stop them.”
“How many men have we got, Colonel?”
“A brigade – you’re only a brigadier general, General.”
“I know. Still, we ought to stand a chance with four to five thousand men. They . . . they destroyed our whole Air Force, you say?”
[Zoom in on TV screen showing smoking wrecks.]
The colonel sneers. “The Air Force are a bunch of Marys, sir. You can’t trust a force that’s less than a century old. The Army and the Navy, now they’ve been around for several thousand years.”
There had never been much call for the Navy in Nebraska.
[Back to half-frame shot.]
“Are we up to strength?”
“No, sir, with sickness and furlough we’re down to two battalions.”
“Okay,” I state emphatically. “We go in with two thousand, armour, field guns and God on our side.”
“You betcha!”
[Enter Army corporal carrying sheet of paper.]
“Yes, Corporal?” I say icily, recognizing her as the extra who upstaged me in the remake of The Sands of Iwo fima by obscuring my right profile with her big knockers. “I’m busy.”
“I thought you ought to see this message, sir.” She offers it to me. “Just came through.”
“From Washington?” I ask, hopefully.
“No, sir, from the alien.”
“The alien?” I repeat, snatching the signal. “You afraid of plurals, soldier?”
“No, sir, if you’ll read the message, sir, you’ll see there’s only one of him – or her.”
The message is: YOU AND ME, OLIVER, DOWN BY THE RIVER PLATTE.
“Looks like he’s been watching John Wayne movies, too,” I say, handing Cartwright the piece of paper. “Or maybe Clint Eastwood.”
The colonel reads the message. “How do we know there’s only one?” he asks, sensibly. “It could be a trick.”
“Our radar confirms it, sir,” the corporal replies. “He’s pretty fast, though. It only looks like there’s multiples of him. He seems to be everywhere at once. He’s wiped out the whole population of Nebraska single-handed.”
“Fuck!” I exclaim, instantly turning any movie of this incident into an adult-rated picture. “What the hell chance do I stand against an alien that moves so fast he becomes a horde?”
“Fifty per cent of Nebraska was asleep when they got it,” says the colonel, “and the other half wasn’t awake.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Some of ’em actually do wake up a little during daylight hours.”
“You think I stand a chance?”
The colonel grins. “We’ll fix you up with some dandy hardware, sir. He’ll never know what hit him.”
“But can I trust him to keep his word? About being just one of him? What if he comes at me in legions?”
“No sweat, general,” says the colonel. “This baby—”
[Close-up of a shiny gismo with weird projections.]
“—is called a shredder. Newest weapon off the bench. One squeeze of this trigger and it fires a zillion coiled razor-sharp metal threads. Strip a herd of cattle to the bone faster than a shoal of piranha. You only have to get within ten feet of the bastard and you can annihilate him even if he becomes a whole corps.”
“Can I hide it under my greatcoat?”
“Nothing easier, sir. And we’ll wire you with a transmitter. He’s only jamming long-distance stuff. You can tell us your life story. Oh, and one more important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We have to give him a nickname, General.”
I stare at the colonel. “Why?” I say at last.
“Because that’s what we’re good at. We always give the enemy a nickname. It demeans them. Makes them feel self-conscious and inferior. It’s our way of telling them that they’re the lowest form of human life.”
“Or, in this case, alien life.”
“Right, General. So we have to give him a humiliating nickname – like Kraut, Slopehead, Raghead, Fritz, Dink or Charlie . . .”
“We can’t nickname him Charlie, he’s already called Charlie.”
“Okay, I take that on board. How about we call him Chuck?”
“Doesn’t sound very demeaning to me. My brother was called Chuck.”
“Depends on how you say it, General. If we’re talking about your brother, we say ‘Chuck’ in a warm kind of tone. But if we’re talking about Chuck, we use a sort of fat, chickeny sound – Chuck – like that.”
“I think I understand, Colonel. Well, let’s get me armed and wired. It’s time I taught Chuck a lesson.”
Stardom, here I come. A part with lines. My part. A lone, courageous part, if they let me play myself in the movie – providing I live to rejoice in it, of course.
SCENE 2
Somewhere out on the plains of Nebraska. A man is walking down towards the River Platte. The night is dark but studded with bright stars, giving the impression of vast distances and emphasizing the insignificance of the brave lonely figure. The brave lonely figure is apparently talking to himself.
Are you listening, back there in the base? The moon is gleaming on my path as I reach the banks. Here in the humid Nebraskan night I wait for my adversary. Single combat. Mano a mano. The old way of settling differences in the American West.
Hell, what am I saying, we didn’t invent it. The old, old way. The chivalric code of the knights. A tourney. A duel. An affair of honour. Rapiers at dawn. Pistols for two, coffee for one.
[Aside: We’re kind of mixing our genres here with Westerns and Science Fiction, but I think we can get away with it since the two have always had a close relationship, being drawn from the same source – the conquest of frontiers by American pioneers.]
And I am ready. You didn’t send me out unprimed, Colonel. You made me submit to brainstorming. Masses of data has been blasted into my brain in the form of an electron blizzard. Every extraterrestrial invasion movie ever filmed is now lodged somewhere inside my cerebrum, waiting to be tapped. Any move this creature makes, I’ll have it covered. Hollywood, under secret Army supervision, has foreseen every eventuality, every type of Otherworlder intent on invading and subduing us Earthlings. They’re all in my head.
[A solitary charred and wounded chicken crawls silently across the landscape.]
Swines! Uh-huh. More movement up there.
Chuck’s coming up over the ridge! Thousands of him doing that silly walk with the cane and twitching his ratty moustache. This is really weird. A swarm of Charlie Chaplins. Did he lie? Is he going to come at me in hordes? Boy, can he move fast. They’re all doing different things. One’s swinging his cane and grinning, another flexing his bow legs, yet another pretending to be a ballet dancer. Multitudes of him, pouring over the ridge now, like rats being driven by beaters.
“Don’t let him get to you with the pathetic routine,” you warned me, Colonel. “You know how Chuck can melt the strongest heart with that schmaltzy hangdog expression. Don’t look at him when he puts his hands in his pockets, purses his lips, and wriggles from side to side.” Well, don’t worry, I hate Charlie Chaplin. That pathos act makes me want to puke, always did. If he tries that stuff, I’ll shred him before he can blink.
He’s getting closer now, moving very slowly. He’s suddenly become only one, a single Charlie Chaplin. I can see the white of his teeth as he curls his top lip back.
My fingers are closing around the butt of the shredder. I’m ready to draw in an instant. The bastard won’t stand a chance. Wait, he’s changing shape again. Now he’s Buster Keaton. I never liked Buster Keaton. And yet again. Fatty Arbuckle this time. I detest Fatty Arbuckle. Someone I don’t recognize. Now Abbot and Costello. Both of them. The Marx Brothers.
Shit, he’s only eleven feet away, and he’s changing again. He’s gone all fuzzy. He’s solidifying. Oh. Oh, no. Oh my golly gosh. God Almighty. It’s . . . it’s dear old Stan Laurel. He’s got one hand behind his back. I guess he’s holding a deadly weapon in that hand.
“Hello, Olly.”
Did you hear that, Colonel? Just like the original. He . . . he’s beaming at me now, the way Laurel always beams at Hardy. And I . . . I can’t do it. I can’t shoot. He’s scratching his head in that funny way of his. Of all the comic actors to choose. I loved Stan Laurel. I mean, how can you shoot Stan Laurel when he’s beaming at you? It’s like crushing a kitten beneath the heel of your boot. I can’t do it. The flesh may be steel, but the spirit’s runny butter.
Tell you what I’m going to do – I’ll threaten him with the shredder. That ought to be enough for Stan Laurel.
Oh my gosh, he’s burst into tears.
“Don’t point that thing at me, Olly. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be your chum.”
I’ve put the weapon away. He’s smiling again. He’s offering me a cigar. Hey, you should see this, Colonel. He’s done that trick, you know, flicking his thumb out of his fist like a lighter? There’s a flame coming from his thumbnail.
He’s still smiling. He’s friendly after all, though he’s still got one hand hidden from me. Maybe he’s realized he’s made a mistake? I have to show willing. I’m taking a light for the cigar. Hell, he could be a really nice guy.
I don’t know what this thing is, but it’s not a Havana cigar. Tastes kinda ropy, like the cigar that producer of a low-budget B-movie once gave me, when I played Young Ike. What was his name? Ricky Hernandez, yeah. Good movie that. Pity it was never released.
Jesus, this thing is playing havoc with my throat. Can you still hear me? It has a familiar smell – now where did I – oh yes, in the Gulf. Shit, it’s nerve gas! The bastard has given me a cigar which releases nerve gas into the lungs.
Oh fuck, oh fuck – I’m getting dizzy. I feel like vomiting. There’s blood coming from my mouth, ears and nostrils. He’s reaching forward. He’s taken my weapon. I’m . . . I’m falling . . . falling. Oh God, my legs are twitching, my arms, my torso, my head. I’m going into a fit spasm. I’m dying, Colonel. I’m a dead man.
Wait, he’s standing over me. I think he’s going to speak. Are you listening, Colonel?
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley’, and play with your tie.”
Hollywood, damn them. He’s speaking again. Listen.
“I suppose you think I lied to you, Olly?”
Yes I do, you freak, you murdering shape-changing bastard. I do think you lied to me.
He’s giving me one of those smug Stan Laurel smiles, showing me his other hand, the one he’s had behind his back all the time. He’s . . . he’s got his fingers crossed.
“Sorry, Olly.”
Hollywood covered every contingency except one. In all the alien-invasion movies they ever made, the attacking monsters are always as grim as Michigan in January. As I lie here dying, the joke is on you and me, Colonel. There’s one type of extraterrestrial we didn’t plan on. An offworlder just like our own soldiers.
An alien with a sense of humour.
FADE OUT
Craig Shaw Gardner
I am a dedicated fan of the adventures of the apprentice Wuntvor and his master, the wizard Ebenezum, who is allergic to magic. I have reprinted two of their tales in the previous two anthologies, and I don’t apologize for presenting a third. If you want to track down the full corpus of Ebenezum and Wuntvor then you’ll need to find six books: A Malady of Magicks (1986), A Multitude of Monsters (1986), A Night in the Netherhells (1987), A Difficulty with Dwarves (1987), An Excess of Enchantments (1988) and A Disagreement with Death (1989). In An Excess of Enchantments, from which the following episode comes, Wuntvor has travelled to the far Eastern Kingdoms in search of a cure for Ebenezum’s allergy but has fallen foul of the witch, Mother Duck, who robs Wuntvor of his memory and casts him into a series of fairy tales, of which this is the first.
Once upon a time, a young lad named Wuntvor travelled far from his native land, seeing the sights and having many adventures. So it was that he came over a hill and saw a bright and verdant valley spread before him. Brilliant sunlight shone down on green trees and golden crops, and Wuntvor thought that he had never seen a place as beautiful as this in all his travels.
He left the hilltop and began his descent into the valley. But he had not gone a dozen paces before he saw a hand-painted sign hanging from one of the beautiful, green trees. And on that sign, in large red letters, someone had painted a single word:
DANGER.
Wuntvor paused for a moment, and stared at the sign. Was someone trying to warn him? But danger of what? And where could any danger be on such a fine day as this?
So Wuntvor continued upon his way, whistling merrily as he studied the wild flowers that bordered the path on either side. He came to a broad field of wild grass and clover, and saw that on the far side of that field wound a lazy blue river.
Wuntvor looked along the trail he followed, and noted that in the distance it led to a narrow bridge that crossed the wide expanse of water. Well then, he thought to himself, that is the way that I must go. But he had not walked a dozen paces before he found that a giant boulder blocked his way. And on that boulder was painted a single word, in red letters three feet high:
BEWARE.
Wuntvor paused for a long moment to regard the message on the boulder. This was the second warning he had received since he had entered the valley. But what were these messages trying to tell him? What, or whom, should he beware of?
At length, Wuntvor decided that it was much too fine a day to beware of anything. Let the fates do what they must, he thought. On a sunny afternoon like this, he could best whatever was thrown in his path!
And with that, Wuntvor skirted the boulder and continued down the trail to the bridge. He had not gone a dozen paces, however, before a large man stepped out from behind a concealing hedge. Wuntvor studied the newcomer with some surprise, since he was the largest man the young lad had ever seen, being massive in girth as well as height. The large fellow was dressed in a bronze breastplate, which was somewhat dented and tarnished, and wore an elaborate winged helmet on top of his massive head. He raised a giant club above his head, and uttered but a single word:
“DOOM.”
Wuntvor took a step away, being somewhat taken aback by this new turn of events. Was this the danger that the first sign spoke of? Was this what he had to beware of, as the boulder had cautioned? Yet the large man did not attack. Instead, he simply stood there, the giant club still raised above his massive head.
“Pardon?” Wuntvor said after a moment.
“What?” the large man asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Wuntvor expanded.
“Oh,” the large man answered. “Doom.”
“Yes,” Wuntvor prompted. “But what kind of doom?”
“Oh,” the large man answered again. “Down at the bridge.”
Wuntvor smiled. Now he was getting somewhere! “What about the bridge?”
“Doom,” the large man replied.
But Wuntvor wasn’t about to give up. “At the bridge?” he prompted again.
The large man nodded his head and lowered his club.
“That’s where the danger is?” Wuntvor added. “That’s where I have to beware?”
The large man continued to nod.
“But what is the danger?” Wuntvor insisted. “What do I have to beware of?”
“Doom,” the large man insisted.
Wuntvor began to despair of ever getting any real answers out of the large fellow. He gazed down the path at the distant bridge. It certainly looked peaceful enough. Just what was this big fellow trying to warn him about? Wuntvor decided he would try to gain a definite answer one more time.
“Indeed,” he began, for there was something reassuri
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