The Complete Compleat Enchanter (53 page)

Three

Two women appeared at the door of the main house as they approached in a little procession, with serfs now carrying the bundles. One of the women was old and wrinkled, the other young and rather buxom. It occurred to Shea that with a little makeup and a Mainbocher dress, she would be a very nice dish indeed. Lemminkainen seemed to be a good picker.

He said, “Get you to the kitchen, women. We will have food, quickly, for it never shall be said that the great Kaukomieli is less than the most generous of hosts.”

As the pair started to turn away, Belphebe stepped forward and extended her hand to the older one. “Gracious dame,” she said, “forgive Sir Lemminkainen’s seeming want of courtesy in not making us known to each other. He has no doubt been too much concerned with high matters. I am Belphebe of Faerie, wife to Sir Harold Shea here.”

The old woman grabbed Belphebe’s hand. Her eyes filled with tears, and she murmured something unintelligible; then she turned and toddled rapidly into the depths of the house. The nice dish curtsied. “I am known as Kylliki, the maid of Saari, wife of Lemminkainen,” she said, “and she there is his mother. You are welcome.”

Lemminkainen regarded her sourly. “Women always must be gabbling,” he said. “Come, guests from Ouhaiola, let yourselves sit down and tell me of this conjuring you wish. I need the names and stations of the persons you wish brought here; who were their forebears, where they now may be, all that is known of them. Moreover though your skill in magic may be small as compared with that of so accomplished a wizard as myself, it were well if you added your spells to mine; for it is by no means to be concealed that this is a very difficult task, to draw men from one world to another.”

Shea frowned. “I can tell you a good deal about one of them. Dr. Walter Simms Bayard, Ph.D. in psychology from Columbia University, class of—umm—nineteen-forty. He’s from—mmm—born in Atlantic City, New Jersey, I believe. Father was—Oswald Bayard, a businessman. Had a department store in Atlantic City. Died a couple of years ago.”

Lemminkainen said, “Strange and hard are the names you pronounce, O Harol! And the mother of this Payart? I must have the smallest details of his pedigree and background.”

Shea gave what little he knew about Bayard’s mother, who lived in New York with another son of the family, and whom he, Shea, had met briefly.

Lemminkainen closed his eyes in an effort of memory, then asked: “And the other whom you would draw to the land of heroes?”

Shea scratched his head. “That’s a tough one. All I know about him is that he’s a detective of our police force, that his name is Pete and that he breathes through his mouth. Must have adenoids or something. A suspicious character and not too bright.”

Lemminkainen shook his head. “Though it is well known that I am one of the greatest of all magicians, I can have no power over one so meagerly depicted as this.”

Belphebe spoke up. “Why don’t you try getting Walter here first by himself? Perchance in Xanadu, where he is now, he will have learned enough of this Pete to enable Lemminkainen to conjure him up.”

“Okay, kid, I think you’ve got it. Go ahead with Bayard, Lemminkainen, and we’ll worry about Pete afterwards.”

Just at this moment the women came back from the kitchen with another wearing the crude clothes and deferential air of a serf, all three carrying big wooden plates. Each plate bore a huge hunk of rye bread, a couple of pork chops and a wedge of cheese the size of Shea’s fist. Another serf followed with huge mugs of beer.

Lemminkainen said: “Eat as you will. This little snack should edge your appetite for supper.”

Shea’s eyes bugged. He said to Belphebe: “I wonder what these people would call a real meal.”

Lemminkainen said: “We must eat whole mounds of victuals to enhance our souls for such a journey.”

The old woman, his mother, gave a little cry. “Do not go, my son. You are not proof against death.”

Lemminkainen spoke around a huge mouthful of food. “No, it is now a thing decided. Little though a hero of my prowess needs the help of others, it is still true as the proverb has it, that bare is the back with no brother behind it, and these strangers of Ouhaiola may help me much.”

“But you promised me you would not go,” said Kylliki.

“That was before I met these strangers with the strange sword and the strange bow.”

The old woman began to cry, wiping her eyes with the hem of her dress. “You are not wanted there. They will set traps of magic all across your way as soon as they know you are coming, and neither the strangers nor your own strength can keep you from death.”

Lemminkainen laughed, spraying the table with fragments of cheese. “Fear is for the women only—and not all of those,” he said, and gave Belphebe an admiring glance. Shea began to wonder whether he had not been a little hasty in persuading this buck to accept their services. “Now, go fetch me my finest shirt, for I will no longer delay in starting to show those snakes of Pohjola how we keep feast in the land of heroes.”

He stood up and walked around the table towards Kylliki with one hand drawn back. Shea wondered if the hero was going to hit her and wondered what he himself would do if Lemminkainen did, but the nice little dish saved him the trouble of doing anything by getting up hastily and scuttling out of the room. Lemminkainen came back, sat down, took a long drink of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Let us to our spells, O Harol,” he said amiably. “I must think a moment that the verses run smoothly.”

“So must I,” said Shea, producing pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, and beginning to set up a sorites. He would have to allow for the fact that the poetic element in this Finnish magic was very strong indeed, and probably interminably long. Belphebe slid down towards the end of the bench where Lemminkainen’s mother was sitting and began talking to her in a low tone. She seemed to be getting results, too, because the old lady was looking noticeably less woebegone.

After a few minutes Kylliki came back with a clean white shirt, and another of some kind of leather with fishscale metal plates sewed on to it in an overlapping pattern, which she laid on the bench beside Lemminkainen. The hero rewarded her by pulling her down beside him.

“Now you shall hear one of my greatest spells,” he said, “for I have composed well and truly. Are you ready, Harol?”

“About as ready as I will be,” said Shea. Lemminkainen leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to sing in a high tenor voice:

“O, thou distant Valter Payart,

Caught in Xanadu’s enchantments,

I am sure I know thy father,

Since thy father’s name was Osvalt . . .”

There didn’t seem to be much of a tune, or rather each line had a tune of its own.

“Osvalt of Atlantic City,

And thy mother’s name was Linda,

Of the New York City Jacksons,

See I know of all thy people . . .”

He droned on and on, while Shea tried to concentrate on the sorites. With the back of his mind he was forced to concede that the big lug was probably a pretty good magician. His memory was prodigious, for he hadn’t left out a single item of the Bayard biography and connections, though he had heard them only once. Lemminkainen’s verses came faster and faster, until with his voice climbing the scale, he ended:

“Come thou now, O Valter Payart,

From the pleasure-dome of Kubla

To the land of Kalevala.

Thou canst not resist my singing,

Canst not long delay your coming;

Thou art standing here before us!”

Lemminkainen’s voice rose to a scream on the last words; he stood up and swept both hands around his head in a series of magical passes.

Foomp!

There was a rush of displaced air, which rattled the wooden plates around the room, and there was Dr. Walter Simms Bayard of the Garaden Institute, Ph.D. in psychology.

Not, however, standing before them. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and lying on her back across his lap, clinched in a passionate lass with him, was one of the houris of Xanadu, wearing about as much as a burlesque queen at the climax of her performance.

Bayard removed his mouth from that of the girl to look around him with amazed eyes.

Lemminkainen said: “Now is it to be seen that I am truly the greatest of wizards. For not only have I conjured this man from another world, but his handmaiden also. O Valtarpayart, fitting it is that you should give her to me in reward for my services.”

As Bayard released her and both of them began to scramble up, Belphebe plucked at Shea’s arm.

“Look at Kylliki,” she said in a low voice. “She looks as though she wanted to scratch somebody’s eyes out.”

“She’ll get over it,” said Shea. “Besides, if I know Walter, he isn’t going to fall for Lemminkainen’s bright ideas any more than I did.”

“That’s what I mean. Harold.” Her voice became still lower. “Isn’t it true that in this continuum if you know everything about a person, you can always put some kind of spell on them?”

“Gee, you’re right, kid. I never thought about it. We’ll have to keep an eye on Walter.”

Four

Bayard’s face slowly turned the color of a well-ripened strawberry. “Look here, Harold,” he said, “these tricks of yours . . .”

“I know,” said Shea, “you were just getting acclimated.” Belphebe giggled and Lemminkainen guffawed. “Skip it—we haven’t got time for temperament. This is Lemminkainen. He’s a hero with a capital H.”

“How do you do,” said Bayard, a trifle loftily, and held out his hand. The hefty man, grinning all over his face at the complimentary description, did not appear to notice it, but ducked a kind of bow from where he sat on the bench. It occurred to Shea that the custom of handshaking probably hadn’t been introduced in this continuum.

The thought apparently did not occur to Bayard. He frowned darkly, placed a protecting arm around his houri’s shoulders, and said, “This is Miss Dunyazad—Mrs. Shea, Mr. Harold Shea. Now, Harold, if you’ll tell me how to get out of this Norse madhouse, I’ll get about it. I don’t blame you for bringing me here, of course, but I haven’t your taste for adventure.”

“It isn’t Norse, it’s Finnish,” said Shea. He grinned. “And I don’t think you’re going to get out right away. I don’t think it would look good if you turned up at the Garaden Institute with your Miss Dunyazad and without Pete the cop. At least Belphebe and I found it that way. By the way, I hope he didn’t get himself impaled or anything?”

Bayard looked a little mollified as the houri snuggled closer to him. “Oh, he’s making the best of a bad business, trying to beat off the Rockette chorus. He’s really a very proper Presbyterian, a deacon of the church. The last thing I heard him doing was trying to teach one of the girls the doctrine of original sin. By the way, is there anything solid to eat around here? I’m fed up to the ears with that sticky mess they gave us in Xanadu.”

Lemminkainen had been engaged in a huge yawn that showed his tonsils and a great deal else. Now he brought his mouth closed with a snap. “True it is, O noble guestlings, that in the fatigue of my mighty magic, I forget the first duty of a host. Kylliki! Mother! Fetch supper.” He counted guests on his fingers. “A couple of dozen ducks will do. Valtarpayart, I see your handmaiden is dressed for the bath. Does she wish one prepared?”

“No,” said Bayard, “but I think she could use the loan of some clothes if you have a few to spare. Couldn’t you, my dear?”

Dunyazad nodded dumbly and, as Lemminkainen shouted for clothes, Bayard led her over to a bench and sat down. Shea noticed it was as far as possible from Lemminkainen.

Bayard said, “I don’t wish to cavil, Harold, but I really don’t see why it was necessary to involve me in this escapade of yours.”

Shea explained the magical reasons for the flank attack on Xanadu. “But we still haven’t got Pete the cop, and if we ever want to get back to Ohio, we’d better. How much do you know about him? Irish, isn’t he?”

“I should say not! I talked with him enough to find out that in spite of being a Presbyterian, his real name is Brodsky, and he’s about as Irish as Jawarharlal Nehru. He only wishes he were Irish, tells Irish jokes and sings Irish songs. With that polyp or something he has in his nose, the result is below Metropolitan Opera standards.”

Kylliki came through the door, bringing with her an odor of cooking duck and a long, loose dress which she threw at rather than handed to Dunyazad. Lemminkainen’s eyes followed the houri admiringly as she struggled into it. Then he yawned again and said, “Scanty is the tale you give me of this Piit whom you are seeking.”

“Well,” said Bayard, “let’s see. He was promoted to second-grade detective for the work he did on the Dupont case. I’ve heard that a dozen times. He works out of the Madison Street station. His mother is named Maria, and his father was named Pete, too, and was a bricklayer, and wanted him to tend bar when he grew up. He himself had the idea of being a pro football player. Will that do?”

Lemminkainen shook his head gloomily. “Only such a master of magic as I would dare attempt the passing-spell with materials so scanty. And even I must meditate on it until morning, for I am foredone with labors mighty.”

“Why not now?” Bayard appealed to Shea. “I’d like to see how this is done. I may be able to use it.”

Shea shook his head. “Won’t do, honest, Walter. You don’t know the first thing about magic yet. It has rational rules, but they follow a different kind of logic from anything you’ve had any experience with. And I wouldn’t advise you to stay around while Lemminkainen is fishing for Pete, either. You’ve worked up quite a bit of magical potential by being pulled here from Xanadu. So if Lemminkainen does fetch Pete, and you’re right here handy, you’re a little bit apt to pop right back into Xanadu along the lines of weakness created by the spell while he’s coming here. Remember the trouble we had, dear?”

“Marry, that do I,” said Belphebe. “But let us not dwell upon it, for here’s our sup.”

This time there were seven servants in the procession. Each bore a wooden tray upon which a mountain of bread was surrounded by three whole roast ducks except the one who served Lemminkainen. He had six.