Guardian of the Green Hill (18 page)

Finn's jaw dropped. That woman had clearly despised Gwidion just a moment before. Finn had been admiring her good taste. He'd almost hoped Gwidion would try his luck again, for the girl looked like a capable scrapper and she had easy access to heavy glass bottles. How was it possible that she could change in such a short time? What was on that napkin to convince her? He had to see for himself.

While the girl cuddled on his lap, Gwidion took another napkin. He made a quick sketch under Stubbly's eyes and passed it to him. “You've got the check, eh, friend?” Gwidion asked.

Stubbly looked down at a picture of himself cheerfully handing cash to the bartender. He was dazed for a moment. It was the most outlandish thing he ever heard. He'd never paid for another man's drink in his life, not to say half the bottle. If possible, he avoided paying for his own, running up a tab at various pubs and taverns until the proprietor started discussing broken thumbs. He was therefore amazed to hear his own voice call out to the bartender, “These are on me.”

Gwidion, his arm around the barmaid's waist, tipped an imaginary hat and headed for the door.

“Cover my tables, will you, Doris?” the girl said to a similarly dressed blonde. “Me and my gentleman are going out for a stroll.”

Napkins in one hand, girl in the other, Gwidion walked out. Finn slipped out of the taproom and crept up unseen behind them. He heard the girl coo something about baby-cakes into Gwidion's ear, and when he thought his target was properly distracted, he snatched both napkins and danced out of arm's reach.

“What the … why, you little … I'll tan your hide! Give me those!” Reluctantly, Gwidion let the girl go and made a grab for Finn, who circled the wagon. As long as he paid attention, he could keep its blue bulk between him and Gwidion, and unless Gwidion got help, he would never catch Finn until he made a break for it. This is a useful tactic, for it also makes your opponent look ridiculous and annoys him to no end. Keeping an eye (only one, perforce) on Gwidion, who circled frantically, Finn looked at the napkins. One was the aforementioned sketch of Stubbly volunteering to pay the bill, the other, rather better, a drawing of the lush barmaid looking out at the world with her eyes half closed and her lips puckered.

“You fell for this trash?” Finn asked the girl scornfully.

She watched her new paramour chase a little boy and wondered vaguely what she was doing. She felt woozy and light-headed, almost tipsy, though having seen in her professional capacity what drink can do, she avoided it. Still, she was held under Gwidion's spell and made no move to leave.

“It's rotten,” Finn said, more to Gwidion than the girl. He thought the worst thing he could do was insult the man's talent. If Finn could disillusion the girl (though he had no idea how apt that word was), so much the better. “You couldn't draw a nose to save your skin. And you made her eyes too close together.” Tauntingly, he allowed Gwidion to come almost within grabbing distance, then put on some speed and raced around to the other side.

“I vow to you, if you don't give that back, I'll eviscerate you slowly with a meat hook, you…”

Finn paid him no mind. He was used to idle threats. “Yeah, you and what army?”

Pazhan came around the corner and stood at his master's side. So much for Finn's strategy.

“Where the devil were you?” Gwidion asked the goat. “You were supposed to be standing guard at the door.” He slapped the goat across the muzzle with the back of his hand. “Now, get that boy before he ruins my plans for tonight.”

Pazhan stood a moment on stiff straight legs, gazing at his master levelly, then said, “I obey,” and slowly began to walk around the wagon, his hard little hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones.

Finn gulped. The man alone he could handle, if only by running away. The goat was another story. Pazhan's yellow-brown horns curved backward a bit, but if he lowered his head enough, the deadly points faced forward. He did that now.

“Hey, call off your goat,” Finn said, backing away, and held up the two napkins, the girl on top, ready to tear them. He wasn't prepared for Gwidion's reaction. Gwidion looked over his shoulder at the lovely, patiently waiting girl he'd trapped with his drawing, then back at Finn. He began to tremble, and first Finn thought it was fear that made him shake. Then Gwidion turned and stalked away so fast that Finn gave a short, mocking laugh of triumph, thinking That's it? I made him stand down by threatening to tear up his drawings? He stopped laughing when Gwidion whirled around and charged him with a pitchfork that had been leaning against the wall.

Finn tore the napkins in two and ran for his life.

The girl, blinking as if she just woke up, looked around, felt her gorge rise to see the company she was keeping, scooped up a glass bottle lying on the rubbish heap and threw it with a strength born from years of lugging trays heavy with lager. If her aim had been truer, she might have knocked Gwidion cold. As it was, she only stopped him in his tracks.

“After him!” Gwidion shouted to the goat, and whirled back to face the girl. “Sorry, pet,” he said, his voice wheedling, trying to make himself appealing even through the murder in his eyes. He tossed the pitchfork to the ground, where it clattered at their feet. “Now, where were we?” He reached for her, hoping against hope that something of the spell lingered, but it had evaporated with the destruction of his drawing.

“Touch me and die, scum,” the girl said, scooping up the pitchfork. She made a trial jab, shifted the weight, and stood like a Valkyrie. She looked as if she almost hoped he would try.

Gwidion, still shaking with rage and now shaking with disappointment and frustration too, took three quick, shallow breaths and managed to croak, “Another night, perhaps, sweetheart.” He turned tail and staggered after Finn and Pazhan.

“Hey!” came a voice from the tavern door. Stubbly came out, rubbing his eyes. “Come back here! You owe me ten pounds!”

*   *   *

“So?” Smythe said again. “Tell him. I'll think of some excuse, and he'll believe it, like he believes everything. Anyway, he's started, and the rules say he can't back out now. Step aside, girlie. I've business to attend to.”

Meg turned and saw it was true. A whistle sounded, and Fenoderee and Tansy honed a last fine edge on their scythes and commenced mowing.

Tansy held the end of his scythe in his left hand and the grip about a third of the way down, in his right. He was bare-chested now, and what Meg thought was sweat was actually a thin layer of oil applied to make his muscles look more defined. He didn't need the oil's help. As soon as he swung the scythe his muscles bunched and extended like dancing buffalos in a tight herd. The cut started with his body twisted to the far right, and the blade glinted in the midday sun as he unwound his torso to slice a narrow, perfect swath of hay that fell down in obedient homage at his side. He took a half step forward and swung again. The first few strokes were for showing off—appreciative squeals followed each play of his muscles—but as he found his rhythm, his speed increased and the rows of fallen hay grew. The blade sliced easily, the hay as yielding as warm butter.

Fenoderee was having a harder time. His first slice with his massive scythe was met with boos and hisses from the audience and a harsh grating sound from the hayfield itself. Miraculously, the mighty scythe with his fairy strength behind it cut through the metal bars. But it took much greater effort, and only a few strokes later, his blade was so dull that the haystalks didn't fall, they merely bent and rose halfway again, their seeded heads nodding as if to say “Good try, but you'll need better than that to fell us, sir.” Fenoderee was half a row behind Tansy when he stopped to whet his blade, a full row down when his scythe was sharp again. He kept at it with dogged determination and even had a smile on his face. He felt he was doing something to be proud of, and no matter how hard it was, he enjoyed mowing.

He fell farther and farther behind, and Meg was too afraid of the flying scythes to approach. She'd have to wait until the contest was over. Then, regardless of the consequences, she'd tell him the truth, make him understand how badly he was being used.

Tansy was a fine mower, and it wasn't false pride when he said he was the best in the county. He finished in record time, the stalks lying in orderly rows. But he wasn't pleased with himself. He knew he wouldn't stand a chance against Fenoderee in a fair contest.

“Mr. Fenoderee! Mr. Fenoderee!” Meg called out, thinking the contest over. But the pig-snouted fairy wasn't satisfied with a job half done. Even though his blade would barely take an edge now, he swung on. She started forward, and a rough hand grabbed her arm. She pulled away from Smythe, and the hand tightened.

“None of that now, girlie,” he said, leaning close and breathing sour ale in her face.

“I thought you weren't afraid of me telling him,” she said defiantly.

“Best to take no chances,” Smythe said, and started to drag her toward the shed where Fenoderee had been hidden before the contest.

“Help!” she screamed, and though there were some thirty or forty people quite prepared to help her, for none liked Smythe and most knew who she was, several other things happened first.

Like a convergence of compass points, four forces came running to Meg at the center.

From the north, dashing at breakneck speed, calling “Meg! Help me!” came Silly, clutching something that looked like a jade-green hairless monkey.

From the east, lumbering under his burden, came Carl clasping his prisoner, Dickie, who was hanging limp like a kitten in its mother's jaws. “Stop, thief! There she is! I'll have satisfaction!” He waved his wrench over his head.

From the west, sprinting for his life, came Finn with Pazhan, foaming at the mouth, in hot pursuit. Lagging behind, with glances over his shoulder, came Gwidion.

From the south came the thing that stopped everything else.

On its shoulders perched the Wyrm. “A deus ex machina is a shabby device,” he said clearly in the sudden hush. “But at times quite useful.”

The Wyrm's mount was somewhat longer than a large crocodile, but built on a heftier scale. His legs turned to the side like a crocodile's, and he walked with the same swinging alternation with his belly only just off the ground. But that's where the resemblance ended. He was a mammal, or more mammalian than reptilian, and covered with short, thick hair like a lion's pelt. His tail was more like a horse's, and it swished from side to side. No one noticed his tail, though, because his head commanded all the attention.

At least two times too big for his body, it could have been a hippo's, if hippos were even meaner than they are … and they are very mean. His eyes were small and piggy, perfect for muddy waters, but what everyone saw first, and remembered longest, were his teeth. Or they might have been tusks. In any case they protruded upward from his lower jaw and downward from his upper jaw by about a foot and a half. They looked like they had been sharpened by a professional whittler, and their ivory was stained by something suspiciously reddish-brown. He walked deliberately through the crowd as the Wyrm whispered something in his ear and pointed to Meg with the tip of his tail.

Silly skidded to a halt and said, “Wow.” As you know, Silly was not easily impressed.

Finn also skidded to a halt and said a bad word (as did many people there that day).

The goat knew he had met his match and sat down to eat a discarded cigar, wondering what would happen.

Gwidion leaned on his goat and wondered if perhaps he'd had too much to drink.

Carl dropped Dickie, who came suddenly to life and did the bravest thing anyone ever saw—he ran directly toward the creature. He reasoned that if it was friends with the Wyrm, it couldn't be all bad. He didn't go quite up to it—no one in the world is that brave—but he came close enough for the Wyrm to flap heavily over on its stubby wings, its body drooping down, and drape itself over his shoulder. It gave him a quick reassuring nuzzle, which is about as demonstrative as a Wyrm gets, and settled down to watch the play unfold.

Smythe gripped Meg by her other arm too and held her out in front of him when it became clear where the creature was headed. He as good as said, “Here's a tender morsel, consider it an offering and let me live.”

“Cooee, cobber! Meg Morgan, fair dinkum? What's all this barrack, then?” It took her a moment to realize the creature was speaking English, or a version of it, and another moment to wonder how he talked with all those bloody teeth (or tusks) in the way. When he spoke, she saw row upon row of smaller, dirklike teeth in his mouth with gobbets of flesh between them. The interloper seemed to notice Smythe for the first time and fixed him with one beady eye. “This drongo bothering you? Oi, mate, let Miss Meg go, if you please.”

Meg rubbed her arms where finger-sized bruises were already purpling.

“Bonzer,” he said, satisfied. “Would you like me to eat him for you?”

“Oh, no, please don't,” Meg said hastily. If nothing else, it would be a mess and an embarrassment, and she was heartily sick of people staring at her.

“Or I can leave him for you to eat. Selfish of me, to think of eating him myself. But then,” he added demurely, “I am very carnivorous.”

“What are you?” Meg asked.

“Me? Why, I'm a bunyip.” Suddenly remembering his diplomatic mission, he dropped his Australian cant and said very formally, “On behalf of the United Federation of Bunyips and Aboriginal Entities, I'd like to offer our fealty to you, Meg Morgan.”

“Do you mean I woke you up too?” she asked, aghast. Lightning spirits and odd two-tailed cats were one thing, but she didn't want to be responsible for a monster like this walking around. And if he was part of a federation, there must be more of them.

“Woke me? No, we were not sleeping, exactly, though we had returned to the Dreamtime. But now you have made this world comfortable for us again, so we have emerged. A few of us, anyway.” Thank heaven for small mercies.