Land of Unreason (19 page)

            The eyes widened and she
lifted her head to gaze at him again. "Oh, re-ahlly," with a galling
note of incredulity. "A froggy with a mission! For Sir Lacomar, I
presume?"

            "No. For King Oberon,
if you must know."

            "The Father of the
Gods? Don't try to come it over me, froggy."

            "What do you mean,
Father of the Gods? He's no different from you or me."

            "Oh, why do you have to
be so stupid! Didn't I just take you to the surface? ... But wait, you're new.
Listen, poor foolish froggy; the gods can walk in air and not change ... Though
I don't believe that tradition about them punishing evildoers by catching them
and beating them. Not half. They jolly well do take some of us away, but /
think it's mostly those they like and want to translate to their own sphere.
They took Rana the other day, and she never did anything wrong in her life ...
It would be wonderful to be made into a god."

            "Oh. Isn't there any
way it can happen without being taken from the pool?"

            "Only when the redbeard
comes. That's part of the Laws of the Pool, you know:

-

'When
the redbeard comes again,

Then
shall fairies turn to men—'"

-

           
She sang it to
the same tune Malacea had used when she disappeared into the forest, then broke
off suddenly and became practical:

            "What about the other
Laws, froggy? Want them or no? I haven't all day."

            "My name's not froggy;
it's Fred Barber. And I'd be awfully obliged if you could tell me one or two
things. Perhaps I could learn more that way. For instance, I'm hunting for a
wand that belongs to Queen Titania. It was stolen from me. Have you any idea
where it could be?" If she laughed at him again, he was ready to give up
hope.

            But she didn't. "That
mission again, frog—Fred?" she said, with a bantering air that carried no
sting, and frowned thought. "I re-ahlly don't know unless— unless—"

            "Go on."

            "Come closer,"
said Cola.

            He did so and leaned over to
catch the words she was barely whispering: "Unless the Low One has it.
They say he gets everything sooner or later."

            "Who is the Low
One?"

            She lifted her head and
looked around before replying. "That's what everyone asks. It's in the
Laws:

-

'You
shall not speak of the Low One

Or
question his right to rule;

Lest
it come on you to be numbered

Among
the cursed of the Pool'—

-

           
Oh!" She
put her hands to her face. "Perhaps I've done the forbidden thing just
talking about Him, and the gods will punish me. I don't know why I did—"

            "Have you ever seen
him?"

            "Please, don't."
Little lines of strain and tragedy set in the vole's delicate face. She went
on, so low he could hardly hear: "If he really has the wand of the Mother
of Gods, there's no limit to what he can do."

            "Where does he
live?"

            She said: "You don't
want to go there, Fred. Nobody does."

            "Yes, I do. If he's got
that wand I'm going to get it."

            "What a brave froggy!"
But her voice was shaky. "You couldn't get it. You couldn't do anything.
Please, Fred, listen to me. You're not talking about doing anything fine, but
just something stupid—and ignorant."

            "Then you won't tell
me."

            "No."

            He stood up. How like Kaja
she was! They had quarreled this way a dozen times, but every time he yielded
she had despised him for her very victory. That was why— "Okay, young
lady," he said, "then I'll have to ask somebody else."

            "You're not really
going?"

            "Right this
minute."

            "But, Fred—" The
green eyes were desperate, and then her expression changed. "All right,
then, go! You don't even know the Laws, you silly helpless frog! You'll get
what's coming to you, and I hope you do!" She was off the root and stamping
in vexation, lovelier and more like Kaja than ever.

            "I'll find someone to
tell me about them."

            "Who? There's only old
Sir Lacomar, the mutton-headed old pot, and he's so busy watching the mussels
he won't even speak to you."

            Further argument seemed
useless. Barber poised to take off, then felt the old tug Kaja always brought
to his heartstrings, the old fascination that would never quite let him play
the game to win. He turned. "If I stay," he said, "will
you—"

            "No! I never want to
see you again, you—you bloody bahstard!"

            As Barber kicked himself
away and soared easily through the water, she was suddenly shaken with sobs.

-

            Keeping quite close to the
bank, he went on for a distance that seemed like a couple of miles but was
probably much less. At this point he saw something moving down and to the left
in the murky distance. As he approached, it resolved itself into a man, pulling
a crude hand plow across the bottom.

            The man glanced up at
Barber, dropped his plow, snatched at a huge shield that hung down his back by
a strap around his neck, flopped himself down and pulled the shield over him.
The protection was complete. He even managed to tuck his toes out of sight.

            "Hey!" said
Barber, lighting beside the shield. It remained motionless.

            Barber sat down to wait.
This was most unlikely to be anything but one of the mussels.

            In due time the shield
shifted a trifle, an eye peeked out and was followed by a head. The head was
apparently satisfied, for the mussel heaved the shield up and himself after it.
"Thought you was a trout," he remarked by way of apology. He was
stocky, muscular, stoop-shouldered, with high cheekbones and a dead-white skin,
hairless as a fish.

            Barber said: "Hello. My
name's Barber.'*

            "Call me Joe,"
said the mussel.

            "Nice little farm you
have here."

            "Okay," said the
mussel. "I got a farm. So what?"

            "Nothing. I just
wondered if you were one of Sir Lacomar's people."

            Joe spat, the spittle
drifting off to dissolution. He jerked a thumb toward the riverbank.
"Awright. I work for Lacomar. And I think he's a jerk, a lousy slave
driver. So what?"

            "Nothing. I was looking
for someone else. Can you tell me where the Low One lives?"

            The mussel stuck his head
forward. "Smart guy, huh? You frogs are all smart guys. He's a goddam
heel, but he'll fix your wagon."

            "Why? Is he coming this
way?"

            "Me, I wouldn't know. I
just plow."

            "Would it make any
difference to you if he did?"

            "Prob'ly not."
Barber knew the mussel was not sure whether he was lying or not. "You get
rid of one boss, you get another. It's all part of the system. Skip it, Mac,
skip it." He jerked his thumb toward another mussel, who was dragging his
plow. "If anyone takes a poke at us, we know what to do, see? Meanwhilst
we don't shoot our mouths off to every lug that comes along, see?"

            "I might be able to do
something for you."

            "You?" The
mussel's deep-set eyes were scornful. "Hah! I know—gimme some literchure,
work twelve hours more a day, so Lacomar, the lousy stinker, can live on
pie."

            Barber persisted:
"Aren't you afraid of what'll happen if the Low One comes?"

            "Not specially."
He lied. Even without the special sense he had acquired in Fairyland Barber
could have detected the undercurrent of fear. So did Joe, the mussel, and
rushed on into explanation: "The system's all wrong, see? It's gotta be
put through the wringer before we get a right break and maybe he's the only guy
can do it."

            "Isn't it against the
Laws of the Pool to talk the way you have about Sir Lacomar and the Low One?
What if I told on you? Though of course I won't if you give me a little
information." Barber rather hated to do it, but he had to find out.

            "So, you're a snitch, a
agent provocateur? My word against yours, funny-face. Gwan, now beat it, before
I dust you off, you goon." The mussel slung his shield over his back and
glumly set off, dragging his plow.

            Barber soared up and looked
round. There were two or three other mussels in sight, each stonily pulling at
a plow, but their expressions promised no less surly reception than that he had
received from Joe, and he headed toward the bank.

            Sure enough, there was where
it began to slope up, a circular tower of rough stones. On the top of this
tower, with his feet hanging down, sat a bulbous, ruddy-faced man. He was
nearly bald, with prominent, china-blue eyes and a handle-bar mustache.

            Barber swam for the top of
the tower and hung suspended. "Hello," he said.

            "Hello, froggy,"
said the ruddy man.

            "The name's
Barber."

            "Barber, eh? Relative
of the barbels? Good fellas, stout fighters. They bear azure and argent,
barrywavy of six. What's your arms? Wait, I forget; frogs aren't armigerous.
All poets; no fight in 'em."

            "Mind if I sit
awhile?"

            "Not at all, old chap.
Saw one of your musical relatives the other day—what was his name? Hylas.
Thought his singing very nice, though I don't pretend to understand such
things. Soldiers don't get much time."

            Barber sat down on the
parapet. He noted that a pile of plate armor lay behind the big man.
"You're Sir Lacomar, aren't you?" he asked.

            "Right."

            "Miss Arvicola
suggested I look you up."

            "Oh, you know Cola?
Splendid girl." Sir Lacomar held out a large red hand to be shaken.
"Bit wild and free with her tongue. Don't know that I blame her, though,
seeing the devil of a time she's had with You-know-who. Glad I've been able to
do a favor or two for her."

            "When was this?"

            "Don't know the
details, and naturally wouldn't ask unless the lady chose to volunteer. In my
position. Should think it would make a good poem for you, though, if you could
get her to tell you."

            The audience was friendly but
the matter had better be approached gradually. Barber asked for local news.

            Sir Lacomar said: "A
few things, here and there. The usual. Trout made a raid from one of the
tributaries last week. Got poor old Krebitz, but we routed 'em
handsomely."