The Devil's Own Hospitality
A copse stuck out on the horizon, in the shadow of the rolling hills. At first, there was nothing special about it. Anyone roving this way would have passed a number of such copses already, and this one in particular would not have been worth the second glance. It was at dusk, when the trees darkened to black, that a single star of light shone forth and drew the eye.
The horse plodding through the eventide might have gone past, following the ridge, had her riders not seen the spark. At the magician's behest, she carried them to the nest of trees and stopped to sway patiently in the soft light.
The man slid down from the mare to investigate the oddly placed house, careful in leaving his companion under her own balance. She blinked and yawned, and took in the sight of the antiquated cottage. Too tired to be overly dismayed, she watched the man invite himself in, and dryly accosted him when reappeared within the shadow of the doorframe. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"It's a pilgrim's hostel," he said by way of explanation.
"How can you tell?"
"The lantern."
He returned to her side, amiable to help her down. She couldn't help but notice that he wasn't nearly as tired as she was, and neither could she tell whether this was a new development, or if she merely neglected to notice before.
---
"No one's here."
The silence engulfed her words. Darkness hung over the room, like every other, held up by tiny sparks of candleflame. Yet here, a fire smoldered in the hearth. She could see it in his eyes, as he lost himself in thought. When he didn't answer, she pressed, "Well, someone must have lit the candles, and the fire. Right?"
"Eventually," he smiled softly, and spoke in harmony, "if time behaves itself."
"What?" The answer made no sense at all to her; he didn't elaborate further.
"Nothing." He shook his head as if to clear it, and made for the door beyond the fireplace. "Come."
"We're staying, then?" Molly asked. It was an inviting thought, in an old and half-forgotten way. But she felt strange when the ceiling went on forever in the darkness, and crossed her arms against the chill.
"Yes, of course." The magician paused in consideration. "Why not?"
If she didn't know why, she didn't know why not, either. Her fuzzy mind strayed with the logic of a cloud caught in a tree. "Fine," she conceded at last, and as an afterthought, "But I'm not cooking."
"No?" Schmendrick may have been cunning is his disappointment, but he grinned, sheepish, when she shook her head and insisted, "No. I'm too tired."
He helped her to a chair, and vanished with a kind word. She felt heavy and light at once, as she watched the shadows prance across the table and around the candles' light. Although she had barely begun to slouch when the magician returned, it took some effort in rousing her.
"Don't sleep," he insisted, "Not here."
---
She felt his arm around her shoulders as he kept her up, and remembered the creaking of their steps on the stairs, even though her mind kept wandering away and she felt as if her feet weren't touching the ground. It was odd, to be so tired, but it was odd to have a bed for once. Schmendrick set her down carefully, and her mind wandered back.
"Tell me, please," she said softly, as he fastidiously arranged the bedclothes around her, "what you meant about time."
"When you see it... and there are different ways to see it, like I did when I was younger, it flows like a river, with all the eddies and currents. It pools at the edge, in some places, and you can feel it thick and motionless all around you." He explained it easily, in a manner that sounded jarringly familiar. "And sometimes... it stagnates."
"But you said..."
"Sleep, Molly."
He stood in the door, now; she was just barely aware. She thought he said, "Good night," but he was gone, or maybe she blinked. The next she knew, sunlight dapples over the blankets through tattered curtains and speckled windows.
The night was intangible; she might very well have dreamt that, too.
Working her way around, she found an empty closet first, and the stairs second, which were almost a mere hole in the floor, leading down step by step. On the other side of the stooping hall, she found another bedroom, as spacious as the one she'd left. Draped across one of the two lavishly-sized beds was Schmendrick, who slept soundly as he ever had.
"Good morning." Stepping before the window, she cast a shadow over the bed. The man didn't stir, not when she spoke, not when she prodded him.
"Well it's your own fault," she accused, looking for a bolt on the glass. Once unlocked, with much difficulty, the window still refused to budge. "Pressing on like that... Come on you old codger, time for breakfast."
Her efforts were for nothing, and the sleeping magician made no response. Wearied by the game, she turned around and scowled.
"Schmendrick, this isn't half as funny as you seem to think it is. Wake up."
Moments ticked by, swallowing her words, and she felt the sickly touch of fear. "Be that way."
He could make his own food. He could, quite literally, create it from void. And if he were to be carrying on long nights, time bedeviled, or... whatever he'd done to wear himself out, then she wasn't going to bother.
She stumbled downstairs, making in the direction of what she thought was the kitchen. The candles were out, but hadn't burned down, and the coals of the fire hissed as she passed them by. The pantry was dim, sun-lit by cracks in the ceiling and the floor above... albeit probably not intended that way.
A chill ran up her spine. There wasn't a sound, besides the light creak of the floorboards and her own soft breathing. The light flittered down, dancing with dust-specks she had stirred up. At length, she shook her head.
Somehow, it felt better to be in motion.
Retracing her steps, she passed the front door once, catching sight of the sparse trees through a near window, before managing to find her way outside. The wind was blowing across the grass and through the pine needles, and, in the distance, a hawk floated silently over the fields. It was a beautiful morning, and a bit cool in the way that morning could be.
Appearing from out of the copse, the horse trotted forward for attention, nickering softly. Nudging and pushing, she calmed after a moment, as Molly scratched her nose and scratched her mane. Her bridle was missing, perplexing the woman, who shook her head in wonder.
"Where did it go, you silly thing?" she asked, as if the mare were one to answer. Not that she necessarily needed an answer; Schmendrick must have seen to her comfort the night before. Abruptly, the horse snorted. Ducking her head, she shied away from Molly's hand, and dashed away from the copse and across the grass.
The shiver that gripped her was pale. Upon turning back to the house, the woman startled; her hands flew to her mouth to stifle her cry of surprise.
Nothing happened.
How utterly foolish, she reprimanded herself. Recovering, she smiled thinly, and decided that wasn't right at all. In haste, she tried to explain herself, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize..."
In the door was a man, tall and handsome in the manner which heroes were written. Molly had known a hero – rather, a few, in fact, by her count – quite unlike the fables, and this man struck her as something else entirely. Dirt clung to his hands, as he sprawled himself in the doorframe. He didn't interrupt, and made no move to reply, but watched her with unfettered curiosity.
She wasn't sure what else to say. Through the windows, she could see the wind moving through the white lace curtains; the dim of the house felt oppressive under the light of the sun.
"Do you live here?" she asked, inclining her head to wonder.
The man answered, almost immediately, in a voice melodious and hard, "Yes."
"I'm dreadfully sorry," she apologized again, although she wasn't sure what for. "I..."
"What is it," he asked, as she struggled for words, "that you didn't realize?"
"I didn't realize," Molly replied, drawing out her reply although it was purely honest, "that anyone else was here. My friend and me, that is, we..."
"Your friend?" he interrupted, a hint of wonder in his voice. He grinned and tossed his head, understanding, before he again met her gaze. His eyes sparkled in the shade. "Him, I've met."
But the woman wasn't paying attention, as she thought of his words. "Last night, or this morning?"
"Both."
This she was relieved to hear, for to her troubled heart it explained everything. In control again, she shook her head to herself and moved up the two steps.
Except the man didn't move from the door. He simply stood there, with one hand behind him, and one in front of him... barring her way.
Taken aback, she made to ask, as he did just that, pulling back to cross his arms. Blushing, fumbling, she murmured, "Thank you," and slipped past him into the house.
Nothing had changed, it seemed, not even the dust in the air. The stairs creaked in exactly the same way as they had when she stepped down them, echoing an echo from a distance. Schmendrick was still very much asleep, in the way that she had left him, and the last she knew before she reached the terrible room.
As she stood within the hall, outside the open door, the stranger moved with all the silence of a shadow, and stood beside her as such. Smiling softly, harmlessly, and even then he terrified her.
"Who are you?" She asked, stepping back and away. Bravery was not something she bore out of choice or for recognition, yet Molly Grue bore it silently all the same. The stranger didn't answer, but paced past her, and she pushed him the first name she knew. "Robin Goodfellow."
"A distant relation," he admitted. The whisper brushed against her cheek, searingly truthful, "But you know that already."
---
The noon wore on, and Molly found herself lost. She wandered about the house, with and without the stranger hounding her steps; she fed and brushed the horse, who couldn't help her with her troubles; at length she returned to Schmendrick's room, and found the door closed and locked.
It was no more peculiar than anything else about this house was. With a renewed, doomed sense of hope, she knocked politely. The door cracked inward, revealing none other than the man she least wanted to see.
"Terribly sorry, but we're busy," he explained, and held the door fast as she tried to push it inward, "Please, do entertain yourself, but do it elsewhere."
He pushed her without a touch, that she stumbled back, and the door clicked shut before her. For a time, she stood by, shocked. On the other side of the door, his voice raised, muffled but droning on.
It sounded very much like an argument...
... A rather one-sided argument, from all she could hear. Not to be brushed aside so lightly, she knocked again, this time rattling the door on its hinges. It cracked inward again, and the man smiled a feral grin, neither to be interrupted.
"Please. Go away," he insisted, and Molly found herself amidst the trees.
---
Being perfectly honest with herself, Molly knew, at the very least, that she wasn't sure what to do. She hadn't nearly as much experience with magic or mystical creatures. A unicorn was one thing – all girls who would become women know about unicorns – but Schmendrick had never spoken much about anything other unless she asked, and sometimes not even then; she knew nothing of elves, outside of their being dangerous.
This one, in particular, was wearing thin on her nerves. She was never sure if he might appear – if he was even real outside of this – and when he did, she often only noticed out of the corner of her eye, or from the way her skin crawled.
She did was came familiar, taking comfort in it. She cooked because maybe she was seeing things wrong, or jumping to conclusions. She set the table, in case Schmendrick decided to finally crawl out of bed. Appeared not him, not her magician, but their enigmatic host.
"That's not for you," she stated, as he served himself, with far less vehemence than she distantly felt. Her words fell flat, and the man brushed them aside as he leaned back, grinning at nothing she knew.
"There's no one else here, sweets."
If she had been hungry at all, she lost her appetite. She abandoned the kitchen, and the strange, lilted laughter for the cool of the evening sunset.
What little she knew amounted to the fact that the only way to fight a faerie was to play his game, and that the only outcome of playing fae games was to lose. Her cat was nowhere to be seen. Even the mare, ever faithful, stood at a safe distance, waiting for her to come to her senses.
---
It had been nearly three days' sunrise, and she was seeing things no human ought to. She wondered, sometimes, if the strange man was a figment of her dreams, like every last of the faerie tales and unicorns she knew by heart; but if she were dreaming she thought she would have waken up by now. But every hour, she was well aware of the dry, parched time dusting past her with all the force of a sandstorm.
It wasn't fair, but she knew that.
Staggering between the trees, she tripped, and glared at the house. It was everywhere, from every direction, and it blotted out the sun and the moon and the stars. She couldn't sleep – she knew at heart she couldn't sleep – but there was nothing she could do. A week ago, everything had been different; everything had been right. The patch of bare earth seemed oddly appropriate, and she clawed at it, restless. It wasn't fair.
She lifted her hand, and found her fingers entwined with the leather straps of her mare's bridle. Surprised, she scratched a little deeper, and found one of the horses' shoes. Deeper still, rested a collection of old, rusty nails... a dagger... a locket...
The legacy of the unsuspecting.
Molly felt sick.
---
"You're still here?"
At long last, she knew. And she had to keep silent, keep her head down; she was shaking from exhaustion, and fear, and the little what ifs that plagued her mind.
"Ah, I see. Loyalty..."
He was as real as she was. She knew that now, that if nothing else. If she heeded that ice-cold sensation in her blood, she was lost. All she had was this – one chance, one nothing.
"Such a faithless human emotion, and I never tire of it. You know, I should keep you around after all – you could prove useful, in time. Molly, is it?..."
Don't look. Don't listen, Molly desperately reminded herself. The scraping of the spoon grated on her ears, but she couldn't... Don't look.
The coals of the fire flickered and faded to ash. Forgetting within an instant eternal, she spun around at the crashing behind her, as the bowl shattered on the table, and the table upset the balance of chairs. The man hunched over the table, gagging, and his pallid skin flaked, drying in clumps to reveal thick ropes of red beneath that sizzled and burned as he bled rust. Failing to speak – to accuse – instead, he lunged for her, tripping over a chair in the process. A scream caught in her throat, forming as a meager squeal, and she escaped to the far side of the table.
He was glaring at her, with all the rage of hell; his gaze was drawn behind her, and he sneered. In the doorway stood Schmendrick, cold as the winter night.
"I should have known," the magician said. He didn't look at her once, but held out his hand; she rushed to him without hesitation, and he shielded her with his cloak.
With all the contempt and none of the grace, the faerie pulled himself together – a fallen lord – and brushed his clothes free of dust and moth-webs. Schmendrick faced him without splendor. There was magic, heavy and unsung, and the air dripped with it. Fear and uncertainty crackled, in a battle one wasn't sure he could win and one couldn't afford to lose. Sighing deeply, the magician nudged Molly toward the hall; his voice was soft with tired urgency. "Run."
There's nothing more you can do, she understood full well. Creeping back into the dark, she made her way over the warped and moldy floorboards, which threatened to fall in or trip her as she went. The air outside was heavy with soot, and she fell, coughing, to the bare dirt.
The frantic, impatient nickering brought her back from the brink of oblivion; she wasn't sure how long hence. Blindly, she felt her way upwards and dug her fingers into the tough mane, dragging herself to her feet. Thank you, she thought – or might have said. The silver beneath her fingers faded to deep chestnut, and the dirt to grass underfoot. The horse sauntered, almost too fast for her to keep up, but for a stumbling, grim determination.
Molly's fingers grew numb, her hold slipping, and she was barely aware of Schmendrick being there to catch her when she fell.
"Don't," he said, and she couldn't tell if it were a warning or an urgent plea, "Don't sleep. Not now, not yet."
the end
Working Title: Time Stands Still
Inspiration: Like the last one, pulled out of a dream and reworked repeatedly to make coherent. Also I think I just wanted an excuse to use the word codger.
Noteworthy: Better and worse than Second Guessing, for various reasons. I'd have preferred it slightly more solid, but I'm glad to have gotten it coherent, at least. Or incoherent. You know what I mean.
Disambiguation: I can tell you what happened in the dream, and I can think of at least three different possibilities for ambiguous aspects of the story. Disambiguations aren't particularly helpful in that aspect, I fear.
Suggestion: Please, don't try to stay up for three days, of any duration. If you don't fall asleep where you stand, the hallucinations and insanity will probably get to you, or you may try to introduce yourself to a street sign. Or you might simply drop dead.
Derivative work of material © Peter S. Beagle, to whom I apologize profusely.