The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (3 page)

“My sentiments exactly,” Shandy told him. “Perhaps you and Lady Syglinde can start a fashion for keeping a good hag instead of a bad one.”

“And why think ye I shall ever get a chance to start anything?” Torchyld snarled. “Gin I fail to get Ffyffnyr back, I be forever banished from the kingdom and Great-uncle Sfyn will marry off my darling Syglinde to yon scurvy, stinking, caitiff louse Owain.”

“Your cousin Owain is also interested in your—er—much-betrothed?”

“She dealt him perforce a lusty buffet with a trencherful of boiled eels but four e’ens agone. Great-uncle Sfyn nigh brast a gut laughing.”

“Then what are you blethering about? Lady Syglinde is obviously a young woman who knows how to handle herself in a clinch. And if the king is so partial to Owain, why would he have laughed?”

“It was funny,” Torchyld replied. “I laughed, also. Then I wrapped a brace of eels around Owain’s neck and stuffed their tails down his ugly throat and made him eat them or choke. He broke out in spots next morning. Boiled eels always give Owain spots. Great-uncle Sfyn was still laughing about ye spots, until he found out Ffyffnyr was agone.”

“How did Ffyffnyr go?”

“How should I know, prithee? He went. One minute he was there trying to sneak a boiled eel off the banqueting board. The next minute he was gone. Poof.”

“You observed this poof? That is to say, you actually saw the griffin disappear?”

“How could I? Have I eyes to see what was and is suddenly not? Anyway, I was up on ye battlements at ye time.”

“Getting in a spot of troth-plighting while you were fresh and rested, eh?”

“Nay, I was on guard duty. A castle’s safety rests on its sentries’ eyeballs. We keep aye a sharp lookout for ogres and dragons and marauding armies and suchlike.”

“See many of them around these parts?”

“Off and on. Ye know how it be. Anyway, I was up there keen-eyed and vigilant, setting an example to ye lower ranks according to court protocol and military discipline. Had Ffyffnyr flown off, I could not but have seen him. I saw not, so he hath not.”

“Was he in the habit of flying off?”

“Nay, Ffyffnyr might take a little spin around ye turrets when he felt ye urge, like any normal griffin, but he cameth always back. Ffyffnyr be no grifflet, ye ken, and he hath been a pet all his life. Great-uncle Sfyn’s own father, Sfynwair ye Compassionate, found him in a cave barely out of ye egg, and brought him back to ye castle for Sfyn to play with. They were babes together, and they’ve grown old together.”

Torchyld began to cry again. “Curses, it rotteth mine guts to think of yon fat old griffin in some ogre’s stewpot, and Great-uncle Sfyn back there alone in ye banqueting hall with his mustache dragging in his metheglin. He be like to pine away without Ffyff, damn it.”

“You don’t suppose that’s what somebody had in mind?” Shandy ventured..

“Ungh?”

“I don’t want to raise unjust suspicions, Sir Torchyld, but might not one of your uncles, to raise a hypothetical question, have a hankering to become king in his father’s stead? After all, if Prince Edmyr, Prince Edwy, and Prince Edbert all have grown sons of their own, as you told me, they can’t be getting any younger themselves. The longer King Sfyn hangs on, the more likely it appears that certain of his heirs could die without ever getting a whack at me throne, doesn’t it?”

“Mine uncles be not magicians,” Torchyld protested. “They be but princes. In sooth, they get fed up now and then. I gainsay ye not that it be possible one of them might wish to hurry Great-uncle Sfyn along a trifle gin he foundeth a chance, but look at ye facts. A mere prince wotteth not to make a griffin go poof. A prince can’t do much of anything except ride off on gestes and rescue beautiful princesses from monsters and evil wizards. My uncles have all been down that road long ago. Bethink ye, once a prince hath rescued one beautiful princess, that first princess be like to wax exceeding wroth gin he goeth off and rescueth another. I know because Uncle Edwy tried it. Aunt Edelgysa found out and beaned him with ye thighbone of a sheep.”

“Gad,” said Shandy. “I hadn’t realized food could be such a dangerous weapon.”

“Did I not tell ye about me and ye biscuits?”

“You did. Now tell me more about Ffyffnyr. Has he any distinguishing features? That is to say,” Shandy amplified since Torchyld looked puzzled at his choice of words, “is he in any way different from other griffins? Aside from being old and fat, that is?”

“He weareth a collar of purest gold, richly engraven and set about with blazing gems.”

“Excellent. Anything else?”

“He be red.”

“Redder than most griffins, you mean?”

“Redder than any griffin other than he. I wot not what color ye griffins be whence ye cometh, druid, but around here they be mostly brownish yellow with green and purple streaks. Sometimes find we a griffin that be all green or all purple or kind of plaid, but no man ne yet no maid hath ever before nor since found a red one. That be why Sfynwair ye Compassionate kept Ffyff in ye first place. Ffyff waxeth somewhat gray around ye muzzle now, but still gleameth he as red as ye lips of my beauteous Syglinde.”

“You’re not going to cry any more, I hope,” Shandy pleaded. “Try to keep your mind on the griffin. When did you find out he was gone?”

“When ye guards came to seize me.”

“They seized you? Off the battlements, you mean?”

“Nay, druid, I said not they seized me. I said they came to. I tied them together in pairs by ye hairs of ye heads, and dangled them over ye parapet until they changed their minds and let me walk down by myself. So I went into ye great hall and found Great-uncle Sfyn waxing wrother than ever I have seen him wax before. All my aunts and uncles were standing around giving me dirty looks, and Dwydd was hopping and cackling and pointing her finger at me, in accordance with standard court procedure for evil hags. Dwydd wotteth her job, I’ll say that for her. So then everybody started hueing and crying about what had I done with Ffyffnyr. Then I realized Syglinde wasn’t there.”

“Because nobody was getting beaned with a trencher, I suppose?”

“In sooth. So I gan yelling what ye hell were they all yelling about and what had they done with Syglinde? So Uncle Edmyr said never mind Syglinde, where was Ffyffnyr? So I asked him how was I supposed to wot?”

“A reasonable question.”

“So then Dwydd hopped and cackled some more, and ye gist of her cackling was that I had spirited Ffyffnyr away by ye same mystical power I used to kill ye wyvern. That be a lot of dragon feathers and I told them so. But they believed me not.”

“Why, do you suppose?”

“Because Uncle Edmyr and Uncle Edwy and ye rest be ashamed for that they themselves fared not forth to slay ye wyvern, and ye women are ashamed of their men for being a bunch of
llwfryns
but dare not say so. Gin they can all fool themselves into believing I, a mere great-nephew of the king, performed that mighty deed of valor by a cantrip spell instead of with a disenchanted sword and—”

“Two stale biscuits,” said Shandy. “A shrewd observation, Sir Torchyld. So that’s their story and you’re stuck with it.”

“True, O druid. Great-uncle Sfyn commanded me to search ye world over if need be, until I find Ffyffnyr, or ne’er again will I embrace my darling Syglinde. And just as I was leaving, Dwydd slapped this goddamn enchantment on me to make my search impossible. So here I be with no sword, no lance, no horse, nothing but a harp and a tin ear, forsooth. What the
uffern
be I to do?”

“What would you do if you were a real bard?”

“Oh, meseems I would charm ye birds of ye air and ye beasts of ye field and ye minds and hearts of men and women with ye power of my voice and all that
ffolineb.
How do I wot what I would do? I have ne’er been a bard before, and I be not one now. And I be doomed ne’er to betroth my Syglinde again!”

“Drat it,” snapped Peter, “if you don’t quit blubbering, I’ll disenchant you myself.”

“Canst, druid?” Torchyld grabbed his arm in a grip like a griffin’s. “Why said ye not so in ye first place?”

“M’well, frankly, I didn’t mean that in quite the way it came out. That is to say, we druids have to—er—observe the druidical protocol, you know. We can’t simply go around disenchanting people without—er—studying their cases first, you know.”

“Nay, I wot not,” howled the ill-made bard. “I but wot gin ye fail to disenchant me and help me get Syglinde back, I wot to wrap thy neck around thy knees and use ye for a football.”

A
N ANTHROPOLOGIST MIGHT HAVE
been interested to learn King Sfyn’s great-nephew played football. Peter Shandy was only concerned with whether his oversized new acquaintance really meant what he said. This dream was getting awfully physical.

“Then let’s—er—get on with it,” he said. “The first thing—”

“Ye first thing be to get rid of this accursed harp,” Torchyld interrupted, giving the instrument a contemptuous twang.

“Not on your life. One never knows when one may need a harp.”

“What for?”

Peter couldn’t think what for, so he put on what he hoped was a profound and druidical expression. Torchyld did have the grace to look somewhat abashed, though he gave the harp another jangle, evoking horrible discords and causing some hitherto silent rooks to begin squawking pettishly in the treetops.

“There, goddamn it,” came a voice from somewhere. “I told you we were dead. I hear heavenly harps, and angels singing.”

“A malignant shade,” cried Torchyld. “Aroint! Aroint!”

“Aroint, hell,” bellowed Shandy. “Tim! Hey, Tim! Over this way.”

“Pete! Cripes, are you dead, too?”

Timothy Ames could still put on a fair burst of speed for a short sprint. He came bounding down the forest path, followed at a more stately pace by Daniel Stott and his cheese. Both, like Peter, were wearing what looked like bedraggled nightgowns. Both had white coverings over their heads, secured by golden bands around their foreheads. Tim was carrying a ceremonial golden sickle that made him look like Father Time. He caught sight of Peter, glanced back at Dan and down at his own garb, and snorted.

“Damn, I thought this was the pearly gates, but it looks more like an Arab oilmen’s convention. Where in hell are we? Or should I rephrase the question?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Peter told him. “All I can tell you is that you appear to have butted into a dream I was having. Happy to have you aboard, of course. Meet Sir Torchyld, an enchanted warrior.”

“The devil he is. Who enchanted him?”

Tim moved closer to the giant and squinted upward. He was without his spectacles and hearing aid, no doubt because they would have been out of period with the golden sickle and other accoutrements, but he was managing better than might have been expected.

“God, Pete,” he said after he’d completed his examination, “doesn’t he remind you of the President?”

For the three wayfarers there was only one President: namely, Thorkjeld Svenson, head thunderbolt hurler at Balaclava Agricultural College. Peter nodded.

“He’s younger and more talkative, and he cries a lot—though I’ll admit he has plenty to cry about,” Peter added when the giant began to look truculent, “but I’ll admit the resemblance is pretty frightening. Perhaps, Tim, you’d like to tell him the first name of his fair lady.”

“Cripes, doesn’t he know?”

“Certainly he knows. I just thought he’d appreciate a demonstration of your—er—druidical wisdom.”

“Is that what we’re supposed to be? Okay, son, your girl friend’s name is Sieglinde and she’s going to bean you with that harp if she finds you out here running around in your nightshirt. What’s this dream of yours all about anyway, Pete?”

“I’m not sure yet. Hi, Dan, join the party.”

Daniel Stott hove up to the group, parked his cheese on a convenient oak bole, and regarded them with a steady, benevolent gaze.

“Peter, old friend, well met. And this would be an ancestor, or what might perhaps be deemed a prototype, of our esteemed President, in the somewhat surprising and one would have thought inappropriate guise of a Welsh bard.”

“I be under enchantment,” Torchyld informed him.

“Ah, that would explain the incongruity.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Timothy Ames, “is what he’s doing in Wales. The President’s a Swede, at least his ancestors were.”

“They were Vikings, I believe. Norsemen found the British Isles an ideal target for their acts of pillage and rapine, and no doubt intermarried freely with the natives. Or not, as the case might have been. According to accepted theories of reincarnation, it is possible for the entity to manifest in diverse locations and situations over a wide time span. The druids believed in transmigration, you know, although perhaps possibly not in reincarnation as we regard it.”

“Who regards it?” barked Timothy Ames. “Go ahead, Dan, tell him his sweetheart’s name.”

“I gather you expect me to say Sieglinde. She would be a lady of noblest mien and remarkable force of character, perhaps a trifle slender in form for my personal taste but extraordinarily personable withal. Would this gentleman, whom I deem to hight Thorkjeld or a reasonable facsimile thereof, care for further information about his lady?”

“Yes,” howled Torchyld, bursting into tears again, “where be she?”

Shandy took it upon himself to explain. “Sir Torchyld’s having a spot of bother with his great-uncle Sfyn.”

“Dying Jesus,” Tim groaned. “Not that old goat who seduced Hilda Horsefall over at Lumpkin Corners? I thought he was back in Sweden.”

“Drat it, Tim, whose dream is this, anyway? Let me explain, can’t you? The thing is that King Sfyn, as he happens to be at the moment, whenever the moment may be, has lost his pet griffin. Sir Torchyld is accused of having spirited it away. Therefore, King Sfyn has in turn hidden Lady Syglinde somewhere and says Torchyld can’t have her back until he produces the griffin in reasonable condition.”

“Why in only reasonable condition?” asked Dan Stott. “Does this griffin have a medical problem?”

“He’s old, that’s all, and a bit on the hefty side. He’s spry enough otherwise. Isn’t that right, Sir Torchyld?”