Lawrence Watt-Evans: Out of This World

“I asked him if he was a fairy,” Pel said.

“Alack for that!” Raven exclaimed. A wry grin flickered quickly across his face, then vanished. “He made no mention on that. I’ll hope he took not too great an offense at it.”

“No, he accepted it as an honest misunderstanding, I think. So, he’s a friend of yours?”

“An ally, more than a friend, I would say,” Raven replied judiciously.

“Oh,” Pel said, accepting the distinction without comprehension. “Well, so you got into my basement the same way he did?”

Raven nodded. “Exactly. It pleases me well to see that you’re a man of such quick intelligence.”

Pel gave a self-deprecating smile. “Sure. So now that we’ve got that straight-who the hell are you people, and how are you getting into my basement, and why?”

“Well…” Raven’s eyes roamed the room again, the green wall-to-wall carpeting, the textured ceiling, the green drapes and the sliding glass door to the patio, the books and records and CDs and videotapes, the throw pillows that Rachel had stacked on the floor as a fort for her Barbie dolls.

Pel waited.

Raven sighed. “’Tis a long story,” he said, “and I scarce know where to start.”

“Begin at the beginning,” Pel said, without thinking. “And go on till you come to the end; then stop.” The quote from Lewis Carroll was an old favorite.

“Indeed, that’s the wisest course for most tales,” Raven agreed. “But I think I’d do best to start by asking you a question. What know you, sir, of other worlds than your own?”

“It depends how you mean that,” Pel replied cautiously. He did not intend to set himself up for anything.

“What I mean, good sir,” Raven replied, “is that I am not of your world. In truth, I know nothing of it save what Grummetty told me, and what I have seen for myself. Your pardon, but your world seems to me passing strange; your chamber here reminds of nothing so much as a wizard’s secret chamber, yet the door-it is a door?-aye, the door yonder is sheerest glass, is it not? Not some mage’s trickery?”

“It’s glass,” Pel agreed. “Go on.”

“Doors of glass,” Raven said, shaking his head in amazement.

“Get on with it!” Pel snapped. His patience was wearing thin. If this was all some elaborate stunt he was getting tired of it, he wanted the punchline. If it was real-well, that was another matter entirely. That was frightening.

It was downright terrifying, in fact.

“Your pardon, sir,” Raven said, ducking his head. “As I was saying, your world is not my own, nor from what I see here does it much resemble my own, though men are yet men, and the trees and grass I see through the pane seem familiar, and we speak the same tongue.”

That fact had already struck Pel. It seemed very unlikely that people from another world would speak English.

“It seems to me that you speak it as the little people do, rather than as my own, yet ‘tis certainly the same tongue,” Raven continued.

Pel began to wonder if he would ever get to the point. “All right, you’re from another world,” he said. “How’d you get in my basement?”

“’Tis the doing of our mage, Elani, with a spell stolen from the foe; she sent first Grummetty, and then myself, to see what manner of world it was that the Imperials had found in their quest for aid against Shadow.”

“What?” asked Pel, thoroughly confused. Raven’s accent seemed to be thickening, and his phrasing becoming more complex, as he settled into the conversation. The words didn’t seem to make sense, but he tried a little free association. “You’re in trouble with Lamont Cranston’s Chrysler?”

“How’s that?” Raven expressed polite puzzlement.

“Never mind,” Pel said, waving it aside. “Go on.”

Raven nodded. “As I said, ‘tis a long tale. Know you aught of Shadow, or perchance of the Imperials?”

“No,” Pel said flatly. He decided not to try any Little Anthony jokes.

“I feared as much.” The stranger groped for words, then began. “Shadow,” he said, “is an evil thing. ‘Twas once a mortal wizard, the legends say, but I’d not swear to that. Whatever it is in truth, its magic is great, its slaves and servants many and mighty, and in its realm its power is absolute. For centuries, since before my family’s first father began the archives, Shadow has been growing, spreading its power, fighting and defeating and devouring mages and wizards, learning their spells and consuming their power. In its wake come death and terror; castles are thrown down, their inhabitants horribly slain. Villages are burnt, the people devoured, crops and livestock vanished. For centuries, men of good will have struggled against Shadow, have resisted the offers it made of power in its foul realm-but weaker men have sold their souls for empty promises and brief pleasures.”

Pel listened appreciatively. Raven told the story well, despite his curious accent. Pel had heard it before, of course, in any number of fantasy novels and movies. “And you’ve found some way this Shadow can be defeated?” he asked, anticipating the next step in the traditional plot. “Some talisman that can kill it, or something?”

“No,” Raven said, startled. “Of course not. Such things are the stuff of children’s tales. We know of no way Shadow can be fought save by slaying its creatures and combating its spells, as we have done since my grandfather was a babe.”

“No?” It was Pel’s turn to be startled.

“No! No, there can be no easy victory-can there?” An odd, hopeful note crept into Raven’s voice. “Do you know of some way that Shadow can be defeated? Has something like this happened in your world, and was a way found?”

“No, of course not,” Pel replied, confused. “Magic doesn’t work in the real world.”

For a moment Raven was silent, his face slowly reddening; then he stood up angrily. “You mock me, sir,” he said, in a tone that was pure threat.

If this was a joke, Raven was a superb actor; he sounded utterly sincere. Pel blinked up at him, startled anew, and for a long silent moment the two men stared at each other.

“No, I don’t,” Pel said at last. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean any mockery. Go on with your story.”

Raven glared for a moment longer, then slowly settled back onto the couch. He stared at the far wall for a moment, where a blonde in white gauze rode a swing before a landscape of impossibly vivid colors.

Pel had always loved that print, but Raven seemed puzzled by it.

At last the stranger said, “Magic does not work in your world, you say?”

“No,” Pel said. “At least, we generally don’t think so, except for a few loonies. Real magic doesn’t work. It never has.”

Raven nodded.

“That,” he said, “might well account for Grummetty’s illness. ‘Tis said by some that the little people are magical in origin, and yet need a trace of that magic to live. Perhaps in your world that magic is gone, and they cannot exist. Grummetty told us all that he felt as if his own flesh were burning him when he came here, and indeed he was sore ill when he returned to us. At first we feared he might not live, but when his fever broke and his strength began to return, I ventured through the portal. As yet, I’ve felt no ill here.”

“Oh,” Pel said. “He said he felt sick. I wondered about that.”

Raven nodded. “We sent a little person at the first because he might more easily hide, should danger arise. He said he found no danger save the illness, only a metalsmith at work. Would that be you, sir?”

“I was putting together a wagon for my daughter,” Pel explained, a little impatiently. “She just turned six, and we had a party for her yesterday. Now would you go on with your story about the Shadow, and what you’re doing here?”