Christopher Stasheff

The little man turned away, shaking his head and muttering. He opened a pippet on the collection beaker and drained some of the distillate into a shot-glass-sized mug.

Rod suddenly realized he was very thirsty. Uh, say - what’re you brewing up there? Wouldn’t be brandy, would it?’

The elf shook his head.

‘Gin, Rum? Aqua Vitae?’

‘Nay; ‘tis spirits of another sort.’ He bounced over to Rod and held the minuscule mug to the man’s lips.

‘Thanks.’ Rod took a sip. He looked up at the roof, smacking his lips. ‘Tastes like honey.’

‘Where the wild bee sucks, there suck I.’ The little man hopped back to the fire.

‘Not bad at all. Could you spare the recipe?’

40

‘1

‘Aye, assuredly.’ The elf grinned. ‘We would do aught within our power for a guest.’

‘Guest I’ Rod snorted. ‘I hate to impugn your hospitality, but immobilizing me isn’t exactly what I’d call a welcome.’

‘Oh, we shall make amends ere long.’ The little man lifted the cauldron lid and stirred the mash.

Something clicked in Rod’s mind. The hairs, at the base of his skull began to prickle.

‘Uh, say, uh… I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, but… your name wouldn’t be Robin Goodfellow, would it? Alias Puck?’

‘Thou speakest aright.’ The elf replaced the lid with a clang. ‘I am that merry wanderer of the night.’

Rod fell back onto the moss carpet. It’d make a great story to tell his grandchildren; nobody else would believe it.

‘Say, Puck - you don’t mind if I call you Puck?’ ‘Oh, nay.’

‘Thanks, ….. I’m Rod Gallowglass.’

‘We ha’ known it.’

‘Well, just thought I’d make it official. Now, you don’t seem to bear me any particular ill-will, so, uh, may I ask… … why am I paralyzed?’

‘Ah, that,’ said Puck. ‘We must find if you are a white warlock, Christopher Stasheff

or black.’

‘Oh.’ Rod chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘If I’m a white warlock, you’ll, urn … let me go?’

Puck nodded.

‘What happens if you decide I’m a black warlock?’

‘Then, Rod Gallowglass, you shall sleep till the Trump of Doom.’

Rod felt as though a weak electric current had been applied to his jaw. ‘Great. The Trump of Doom. And I never was much good at bridge.’

Puck frowned. ‘How…?’

‘Skip it. “Sleep till the Trump of Doom.” A very neat euphemism.

Why don’t you just come right out and say you’ll kill me?’

‘Nay.’ Puck thrust his lower lip out, shaking his head. ‘We would not kill you, Rod Gallowglass. Thou shouldst but sleep forever, and with pleasant dreams.’

‘I see. Suspended animation?’

Puck’s brow wrinkled. ‘I know not that word. Yet rest assured, thou shalt not be suspended. The Wee Folk have no fondness for a hanging.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s something of a comfort. So how do I prove I’m a white warlock?’

‘Why,’ said Puck, ‘by our enlarging you.’

Rod stared. ‘How’s that again? Aren’t I big enough already?

The elf’s face split into a broad grin. ‘Nay, nay! Enlarging you!

Removing the spell that binds you!’

‘Oh.’ Rod lay back with a sigh of relief. Then he jerked back up.

‘Freeing me? That’s going to prove I’m a white warlock?’

‘By itself, no,’ said Puck. ‘Tis a question where we free you.

He clapped his hands. Rod heard the scurrying of scores of small feet coming from behind him; a fold of dark cloth was drawn over his eyes, knotted behind his head.

‘Hey!’ he protested.

‘Peace,’ said Puck. ‘We do but bear you forth to your freedom.’

A host of tiny hands lifted Rod. He resigned himself and lay back to enjoy the trip.

It was a rather pleasant way to travel, actually like an innerspring mattress with four-wheel drive.

His feet tilted up higher than his head and the pace of the scuttling feet under him slowed - they were mounting an incline.

Damp night air struck his face; he heard the breeze sighing in the Christopher Stasheff

leaves, accompanied by a full complement of crickets, with an owl and maybe a curlew providing the harmony.

He was dropped unceremoniously; the blindfold was whipped from his eyes.

‘Hey!’ he protested. ‘What do you think I am, a sack of potatoes?’

He could hear a stream gurgling off to his left.

‘Tha’rt free now, Rod Gallowglass,’ Puck’s voice husked in his ear. ‘May God be with you!’ And the elf bounded away.

Rod sat up, flexing his limbs to make them realize they could move again. He looked about.

It was a moonlit forest glade, with a silver stream trickling past on the left. The trees were bright steel trunk and tinsel leaf, and black shadow among the trunks.

One of the shadows moved.

It stepped forward, a tall figure in a dark, hooded monk’s robe.

Rod scrambled to his feet.

The figure moved slowly toward. Rod, baited ten feet away, and threw back the hood.

Wild, disordered hair over a long, thin face, with hollows under the cheekbones and caves for eye sockets, with two burning coals at their backs - and the whole face twisted, curdled with bitterness.

The voice was flat and thin, almost a hiss. ‘Are you, then, so tired of life that you come to a werewolf’s cage?’

Rod stared. ‘Werewolf!’

Well, why not? If elves were a basic assumption.

Then Rod frowned. ‘Cage?’ He looked around. ‘Looks like the great outdoors to me.’

‘There is a wall of magic around this grove,’ hissed the werewolf.

”us a prison the Wee Folk have made me - and they do not feed me in my proper fashion.’

‘Oh?’ Rod looked at the werewolf out of the corner of his eye.

‘What’s your proper fashion?’

‘Red meat.’ The werewolf grinned, showing a mouthful of canines.

‘Raw, red meat, and blood for my wine.’

Something with lots of cold little feet ran down Rod’s spine.

‘Make peace with your God,’ said the werewolf, ‘for your hour has come.~

Fur appeared on the backs of his hands, and his fingernails grew, curving outward. Forehead and cheeks sprouted fur; nose, mouth, Christopher Stasheff and chin slipped together and bulged, tapering outward to a muzzle. His ears moved upward to the top of his head and stretched into points.

He flung off the dark cloak; his whole body was silvery fur, his legs had become haunches.

He dropped to all fours. His upper arms shortened and his forearms lengthened; his hands had become paws. A tail sprouted and grew into a long, silvery plume.

The silver wolf crouched close to the earth, snarling, growling low in its throat, and sprang.

Rod whirled aside, but the wolf managed to change course mid-air just enough; its teeth ripped Rod’s forearm from in to wrist.