Anthology 1: The Far Corners Read online

  The tower moved with it. Books shifted; the ramp fell. Scattered by the falling ramp, ninety-two stout mice and a dozen spiders regrouped, put their bodies against the tower, and pushed.

  The tower fell. The door opened just as the House decided firmly against going any further with its plan to intrude upon the master's long repose.

  An avalanche of lesser books tumbled into the master's bed-chamber. An emerald-eyed spider, legs clicking furiously as it scrambled for a foothold, rode the avalanche atop a thick old book of recipes.

  The book slid to a halt. The House, limited now in its awareness to the spider's eight eyes, looked about.

  The master's room was small, bare, and in need of a thorough dusting. Clothes lay in a heap by the door. A dresser sat at the end of the bed; two drawers were halfway open, and more clothes spilled from each. A cracked, empty pitcher lay on the floor just in front of the remains of the tower.

  The House sent a dozen mice and a pair of spiders inside; no wall of fire rose up to meet them.

  The spiders advanced on the bed. The House quivered in anticipation as the first clambered up the side.

  Bed sheets fragile with age ripped under the spider's weight. Three times, the spider nearly reached the top, only to fall clattering to the floor.

  A hush fell over the throng of mice gathered at the door. The spider righted itself and began the ascent again. The sheet ripped, as before, but this time the spider was ready--it dug claw-tips into the mattress, hurled itself roofward, and landed squarely in the center of the bed.

  The master's bed was empty.

  A shrill metallic squeal arose from the mice. Every door, every drawer, every cabinet in the House flew open and slammed shut. Fires roared to life in furnaces cold for ages. Water spewed in rusty torrents from sinks and basins.

  The spider on the bed poked delicately at the sheets. The House saw nothing but clumps of dust, some bits of grey that fell into dust when touched, a scrap of hair -- no master.

  The House trembled, rage flaring. The master had left, had tricked the House somehow, leaving it stranded in the high spaces to slowly choke on the dust no spell could dissuade--how dare he!

  The mice charged, tiny crimson eyes mad with betrayal, silver clockwork bodies flowing up and over the bed, claws ripping, teeth tearing. The ruby-eyed spiders, calmly noting the dust that billowed up, softly closed the master's door.

  * * *

  Winter fell full upon the valley, cloaking it with snow and threatening to freeze the river solid. A north wind howled through the pines; deep in the forest, a thunderous crack and boom signaled the fall of another giant.

  The House felt the tree's fall deep in its cellars. Ceiling beams groaned out a Word; as shutters popped open all over the House, a new spell took shape in the fireplace.

  The House peered through the shutters at the trees that surrounded it. Aside from gentle swayings in the wind, none of the monstrous pines seemed distressed.

  A broken, charred stump was all the remained of the one nearby tree that had fallen under the weight of the ice. The House's new spell, which jerked and twirled in the fireplace, had reduced the tree to smoke and ashes before it struck the House's roof.

  The shutters closed, and with a barely audible ruffling of curtains the House sent the incineration spell into suspension. The stones of the fireplace glowed red for a while, popping and crackling as they cooled. The sound reminded the House of a day, long ago, when the master had fallen asleep reading while the fireplace made the very same noises.

  The House sighed and regarded the book the three ruby-eyed spiders held. It had been the master's favorite book, a hoary old tome of otherworld magic that wrote itself as it was read, always a single word ahead of the reader.

  Impatient, the book rustled and fanned its blank pages, nimbly dodging the spider's eight-armed grasp. The House chuckled and sought to find its book-mark.

  Someone knocked at the massive oak door.

  The spiders slammed the book shut.

  The knock came again, and again, louder each time.

  Part of the House--the oldest, most primitive part, deep in its cellars--wanted to fling open the doors and welcome the master, home at last. But the whole House, which had read much since that day in the master's bedchamber, knew that no one -- not even the master --returned from Death.

  The House listened to the wind and the soft shuffling of feet on its doorstep. Involuntarily, hundreds of mice sprang from their holes, eager to fall upon the dust so that the new master might enjoy clean floors and dust-free furniture.

  The House stilled the mice, locked the doors and shutters, and spoke a long Word with a grinding of timbers. The seclusion spell awoke, pulled tight, and with a sudden great lurch it cast the House back among the high spaces the master had always preferred.

  The House spoke another Word. A new spell seized the House and drew it lazily through the lightless realm of the high spaces. The House watched the spell until it was sure it had made no errors.

  The spiders coaxed the book open again with waves of silver legs and imploring chitters. Boards popped as the House found its place, and words again began to creep across the page.

  Twenty thousand days, mused the House. Twenty thousand days until the motile spell reaches its destination, a quiet meadow in a warm, sunlit land unpeopled by beings like the master.

  The House wanted solitude and uninterrupted study.

  After all, thought the House, there is so very much to learn.

  The Truth About Arphon and the Apple Farmer's Daughter

  by Frank Tuttle

  Jere the Harper sat alone, shivering in a blanket. He had no fire, for fear that the soldiers would see; but the moon rode full and bright, and Jere could see his surroundings -- a small grassy clearing, and a smaller moss-banked pond -- well enough to avoid stepping into holes or onto rattle-snakes.

  Jere pulled his blanket tight. He saw no hint of torch-light, heard no sound of horses, saw nothing but a towering ring of moonlit Eastern blood-oaks. Still, though, he could not escape the terrible sense that something just out of sight was watching him, creeping closer, waiting for just the right moment to howl and pounce.

  "Bloody trees," he muttered. "I said I wasn’t a lumber-jack, didn’t I?"

  An owl hooted. Jere froze, heart pounding, until the echoes were lost in the night.

  "No more travels beyond the Empire," he whispered at last, with a rueful grin. "We’re heading west at first light and in the west we’ll stay."

  His road-harp strummed faintly in agreement.

  "Chased by soldiers. Why, I wonder?" Jere said. "Common courtesy demands at least an accusation, don’t you think? Nothing elaborate. Just a ‘you looked cross-eyed at the Mayor and we think we’ll hang you now’ sort of thing."

  His harp was silent. The owl hooted again. Jere yawned, stretched, and when he opened his eyes the small pond glowed yellow-gold as if the bottom were aflame.

  Jere threw off his blanket. His road-harp made a single sharp twang -- G minor, harpish for danger.

  "I see it," hissed Jere. He squinted, groping for the short sword on the grass at his side. "Hush."

  Jere grasped the sword and held his breath. The pond water rippled and glowed, soft and golden, as though lit below by a sunset or the first touch of dawn.

  The light grew steadily brighter, taking on a bobbing motion, as though someone at the bottom was ambling skyward with an unusually brilliant lantern in hand.

  "We’re leaving," said Jere aloud, dropping his sword long enough to shove his blanket in his pack and sling his roadharp over his shoulder. "I’ll take my chances with the soldiers," he said. "Surely they’ve given up by now."

  A hound bayed, loud and close.

  The owl spread her wings and took to the air, sailing slow across the moon, quiet as a prayer. The first hound was joined by another, and another.

  Jere snatched up his sword. A fourth and fifth hound joined the rest, closer than the others. Jere remember
ed seeing the Mayor’s pack-hounds snarling in their kennels, just outside the Keep. How many had there been?

  Hoof-beats joined the baying, and then the snapping of branches and breaking of limbs crushed under iron-shod hooves.

  Jere sprinted for the trees at his back, but a hound barked there, just beyond the shadows. The harper turned and raced for the far side of the ring of oaks, but was met with the thunder of war-horses and the bark of yet another bloodhound.

  "Oh, no," said Jere. "Oh, no."

  His roadharp strummed within its case. Jere recognized the tune as Water, Water, Sweet and Cold.

  The roadharp strained to play louder and faster.

  Jere turned to face the pond.

  The perfectly circular, brightly glowing pond.

  Jere moaned. All those songs about haunted forests, he thought, and I plunged headlong into the heart of the haunt and thought myself clever.

  Dogs barked and snarled. Horses -– half a dozen horses, at least –- galloped through the moonlit forest. Men shouted, metal clanged, dogs drew nearer with each racing heartbeat.

  His roadharp switched to a strident rendition of Hangman Take the Slow Man, I’m Running for my Life.

  Jere turned and ran for the light.

  Behind Jere, something –- he didn’t turn to look –- smashed through the last line of tree-limbs and thundered across the turf.

  The roadharp had time to play the first three chords of Swim a Deep River before Jere the Harper leaped headlong into the luminous water, a decidedly un-bardish curse word on his lips.

  I truly, deeply hate the East, he thought, and then a darkness deeper and colder than a thousand winter nights wrapped him round and held him tight all the long way down.

  * * *

  Jere opened his eyes.

  He lay on his back, and the ground was hard and cold. He listened for a moment, heard no rattle of swords or tromp of boots, and lifted his head to look about.

  A few paces from his feet lay a perfectly circular pool of dark, still water, a twin to the glowing pool into which he’d dived.

  This clearing, though, wasn’t the same as the one he’d fled; the towering old oaks were gone, replaced by a ring of low hills and gnarled, bare-limbed trees that tossed and swayed in a wind Jere didn’t feel.

  It was night, the sky ablaze with stars but lacking a moon. A chill rode the still air, and with it silence.

  "What is this place?" said Jere, aloud.

  The stars above twitched and shook, each one in unison with its neighbors, as if the sky were a reflection in a troubled pool of water. Jere blinked, lifted arms gone tingly and numb, and rubbed his eyes.

  The sky was calm, when he looked again.

  "Harper, harper, wet on the ground," said a woman’s voice. "Are you not grateful, to be rid of the pike-men?"

  Beside him, Jere’s harp plucked out G-minors quick within its case.

  "Thank you," croaked Jere. The harper sat up. "I can’t see you, my Lady," he said, stifling a cough. "Why is that?"

  "Such poor riddles," said the lady. Jere tried and failed to place the sound, which moved about and above him with each word. "Shall I ask instead one of mine?"

  Jere searched the darkness for his sword. It shone pale on the grass, ten paces away.

  Jere looked away from it. "I’m dry," he said. "Have I been sleeping long?"

  "Long enough," said the voice. "I had despaired of your awakening. Your folk are so fragile."

  Jere spied his pack, just out of the water at the pool’s far edge.

  "Looking for something?" asked the woman. "A sword, perhaps?"

  "A blanket," said Jere. "A chill haunts the air. Am I not born of the fragile folk, my Lady?"

  The lady laughed. "Fetch your blanket, harper. And then we must talk, you and I. It seems you owe me a favor, do you not?"

  Jere sighed. "Indeed," he said. "A favor."

  "Such a dour harper," said the woman. "Would you perhaps prefer to return to the company of the soldiers? I believe they still trouble the waters of my gazing-pool with the tips of their lances."

  Memory of hounds and horses raised the hackles on the bard’s neck. Jere rose, ran his hands through his hair, and straightened his shirt. "I beg pardon, my Lady," he said. "Ask what you will; Jere the Harper is equal to the task."

  Jere’s roadharp plucked out a single loud G-minor.

  "Well spoken," said the lady, though Jere was not sure whether the voice spoke to him or his harp.

  "And what does my host require?" asked Jere.

  The lady whispered, from just by Jere’s left ear. "A night," she said. "This night. One night of your life, one night of all your thousands. Trade me this night, Harper. Mine for yours, and you may keep all the rest."

  *Tia-tia.* The harp's words sprang loud and unbidden into Jere’s mind. And then, *have a care.* He bowed quick thanks to his harp, breathed out steam into his cupped hands, and ransacked his memory for tales of tia-tias. What do I know of them?

  It’s a legendary Eastern bugaboo, he thought, with all the worst qualities of bugaboos everywhere. It’s capricious, malign, deceptive, and wholly untrustworthy. Tends to prey on foreigners, sailors, and harpers, and I’m at least two of the three.

  Jere stamped his feet, numb in his boots. Every story, every song told of the tia-tia’s treachery where vows were made, or bargains were struck – oh, it would keep its word, but always in a way that left the mortal party doomed.

  Doomed, Jere recalled, to join the tia-tia’s band of ghosts.

  Jere lowered his hands. "On the face of it, a reasonable trade," he said, forcing a lightness to his tone. "Still -- one wonders. Is, for instance, your night equal in length to one of my own? I have no wish to grow old, waiting for a sunrise which never comes."

  The tia-tia laughed, its voice high and merry and near. Jere looked above and about, and saw a shimmering ride the air above him, faint as wisps of pipe-smoke.

  Ghosts, he realized. Always near the tia-tia itself. Colder than the most frigid blast of winter.

  "You need not fear such a puerile deceit," said the tia-tia. "Do the old stories portray my kin so badly?"

  Jere bowed. "Merely being cautious, my Lady," said Jere. "It is a common failing, among Avendish harpers on distant roads." He looked toward the blurred air above. "So, our nights are of equal duration, without any variance whatsoever in perceived or literal duration?"

  The tia-tia laughed. "Just so," it said.

  Jere frowned. "And I may leave when my night is done?"

  "You may go where you will," said the tia-tia. "I will seek neither your harm nor your hindrance."

  Jere sighed. Word for word, he recalled the same promise from an old story -- the one where the sailor wound up frozen in the block of ice.

  "And what of your companions?" said Jere. "The ones who fly round about you –- will they undertake the same oath?"

  "My pets?" spoke the voice. "Why surely you do not fear them?" it said. "Harmless wights, each one."

  The voice drew near, and the air went frigid.

  Jere took a step backward. "Do they undertake an oath to cause me neither harm nor hindrance?" he said.

  "Why should they take an oath at all?" said the tia-tia, as the air turned colder still. "Could they not touch you now, where you stand? Trade, harper," it said. "Trade, or perish."

  Jere licked his lips. "Ah, yes," he said. His nose and ears went numb from the cold.

  "Doubtless, there will be another traveler camped by your pool in a century or three." He shrugged. "What is time to one so powerful as you?"

  The cold intensified, but only for an instant, and then Jere felt the ghosts withdraw.

  "Very well," said the tia-tia, with a dismissive sigh. "Ask them to speak what oath you will. I care nothing for you," it said. "I care only to quit this accursed place. But speak quickly, harper," it said. "Quickly, or not at all."

  Jere cleared his throat. "Swear, then," he said, mind racing. "All wraiths, wights, ghosts, and variou
s and sundry supernatural, disembodied, and, um, bodied entities present must swear that they shall not seek my harm or hindrance by any means, active or inactive, which shall include but be not limited to the application of cold or suffocation due to proximity or other, um action or cause." Jere took a breath. "Furthermore --"

  "Enough!" cried the tia-tia, in a voice as loud as thunder. "Hear them, as they swear."

  In the silence, Jere distinctly heard a chorus of high, thin whispers speak the words "We swear, we swear, fear not."

  "Now," said the tia-tia, "No more. I have dismissed my claims upon you. My servants have forsworn their amusements. It is time, harper. Make a bargain, or tempt my wrath."

  Jere nudged his harp-case with his toe, but the strings were silent. His sword lay a goodly dash away, and what use a sword against bodiless voices?

  Jere bowed. What choice? "One night, then," he said. "One night."

  "You give this freely?"

  Jere smiled. "As freely as I may," he said. "Given my alternative."

  The sky wavered again, and the stars danced. Jere blinked.

  Against the moving stars, a woman’s form took shape, solidified. Huge beyond all reason, she towered above the sky and seemed to stand behind and above the stars. She looked down upon Jere and smiled, something between delight and madness in her eyes.

  "You gave me your night, Harper," she said. Her smile widened, and when she spoke Jere could see that her teeth were long and sharp. "And I give you mine."

  She leaned down, lower and lower, until her face filled a quarter of the sky. Silent lightning illuminated her face, which changed with each crackle and flash. Now a woman’s, now a man’s, now something furred and fanged, or scaled and wet. "Sing well," it said. "Amuse my servants. Perhaps they will let you live. For a time."