The Miracle Workers

  © 1958 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc

  Astounding Science Fiction, July 1958.

  (illustrated by Frank Kelly Freas )

  CONTENTS

  THE MIRACLE WORKERS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Frank Kelly Freas artwork

  I

  The war party from Faide Keep moved eastward across the downs: a column of a hundred armored knights, five hundred foot soldiers, a train of wagons. In the lead rode Lord Faide, a tall man in his early maturity, spare and catlike, with a sallow dyspeptic face. He sat in the ancestral car of the Faides, a boat-shaped vehicle floating two feet above the moss, and carried, in addition to his sword and dagger, his ancestral side weapons.

  An hour before sunset a pair of scouts came racing back to the column, their club-headed horses loping like dogs. Lord Faide braked the motion of his car. Behind him the Faide kinsmen, the lesser knights, and the leather-capped foot soldiers halted; to the rear the baggage train and the high-wheeled wagons of the jinxmen creaked to a stop.

  The scouts approached at breakneck speed, at the last instant flinging their horses sidewise. Long shaggy legs kicked out, padlike hooves plowed through the moss. The scouts jumped to the ground, ran forward. “The way to Ballant Keep is blocked!”

  Lord Faide rose in his seat, stood staring eastward over the gray-green downs. “How many knights? How many men?”

  “No knights, no men, Lord Faide. The First Folk have planted a forest between North and South Wildwood.”

  Lord Faide stood a moment in reflection, then seated himself and pushed the control knob. The car wheezed, jerked, moved forward. The knights touched up their horses; the foot soldiers resumed their slouching gait. At the rear the baggage train creaked into motion, together with the six wagons of the jinxmen.

  The sun, large, pale, and faintly pink, sank in the west. North Wildwood loomed down from the left, separated from South Wildwood by an area of stony ground, only sparsely patched with moss. As the sun passed behind the horizon, the new planting became visible: a frail new growth connecting the tracts of woodland like a canal between two seas.

  Lord Faide halted his car, stepped down to the moss. He appraised the landscape, then gave the signal to make camp. The wagons were ranged in a circle, the gear unloaded. Lord Faide watched the activity for a moment, eyes sharp and critical, then turned and walked out across the downs through the lavender and green twilight. Fifteen miles to the east his last enemy awaited him: Lord Ballant of Ballant Keep. Contemplating the next day’s battle, Lord Faide felt reasonably confident of the outcome. His troops had been tempered by a dozen campaigns; his kinsmen were loyal and singlehearted. Head Jinxman to Faide Keep was Hein Huss, and associated with him were three of the most powerful jinxmen of Pangborn: Isak Comandore, Adam McAdam, and the remarkable Enterlin, together with their separate troupes of cabalmen, spellbinders, and apprentices. Altogether, an impressive assemblage. Certainly there were obstacles to be overcome: Ballant Keep was strong; Lord Ballant would fight obstinately; Anderson Grimes, the Ballant Head Jinxman, was efficient and highly respected. There was also this nuisance of the First Folk and the new planting which closed the gap between North and South Wildwood. The First Folk were a pale and feeble race, no match for human beings in single combat, but they guarded their forests with traps and deadfalls. Lord Faide cursed softly under his breath. To circle either North or South Wildwood meant a delay of three days, which could not be tolerated.

  Lord Faide returned to the camp. Fires were alight, pots bubbled, orderly rows of sleep holes had been dug into the moss. The knights groomed their horses within the corral of wagons; Lord Faide’s own tent had been erected on a hummock, beside the ancient car.

  Lord Faide made a quick round of inspection, noting every detail, speaking no word. The jinxmen were encamped a little distance apart from the troops. The apprentices and lesser spellbinders prepared food, while the jinxmen and cabalmen worked inside their tents, arranging cabinets and cases, correcting whatever disorder had been caused by the jolting of the wagons.

  Lord Faide entered the tent of his Head Jinxman. Hein Huss was an enormous man, with arms and legs heavy as tree trunks, a torso like a barrel. His face was pink and placid, his eyes were water-clear; a stiff gray brush rose from his head, which was innocent of the cap jinxmen customarily wore against the loss of hair. Hein Huss disdained such precautions; it was his habit, showing his teeth in a face-splitting grin, to rumble, “Why should any hoodoo me, old Hein Huss? I am so inoffensive. Whoever tried would surely die of shame and remorse.”

  Lord Faide found Huss busy at his cabinet. The doors stood wide, revealing hundreds of manikins, each tied with a lock of hair, a bit of cloth, a fingernail clipping, daubed with grease, sputum, excrement, blood. Lord Faide knew well that one of these manikins represented himself. He also knew that should he request it Hein Huss would deliver it without hesitation. Part of Huss’s mana derived from his enormous confidence, the effortless ease of his power. He glanced at Lord Faide and read the question in his mind. “Lord Ballant did not know of the new planting. Anderson Grimes has now informed him, and Lord Ballant expects that you will be delayed. Grimes has communicated with Gisborne Keep and Castle Cloud. Three hundred men march tonight to reinforce Ballant Keep. They will arrive in two days. Lord Ballant is much elated.”

  Lord Faide paced back and forth across the tent. “Can we cross this planting?”

  Hein Huss made a heavy sound of disapproval. “There are many futures. In certain of these futures you pass. In others you do not pass. I cannot ordain these futures.”

  Lord Faide had long learned to control his impatience at what sometimes seemed to be pedantic obfuscation. He grumbled, “They are either very stupid or very bold planting across the downs in this fashion. I cannot imagine what they intend.”

  Hein Huss considered, then grudgingly volunteered an idea. “What if they plant west from North Wildwood to Sarrow Copse? What if they plant west from South Wildwood to Old Forest?”

  “Then Faide Keep is almost ringed by forest.”

  “And what if they join Sarrow Copse to Old Forest?”

  Lord Faide stood stock-still, his eyes narrow and thoughtful. “Faide Keep would be surrounded by forest. We would be imprisoned… . These plantings, do they proceed?”

  “They proceed, so I have been told.”

  “What do they hope to gain?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps they hope to isolate the keeps, to rid the planet of men. Perhaps they merely want secure avenues between the forests.”

  Lord Faide considered. Huss’s final suggestion was reasonable enough. During the first centuries of human settlement, sportive young men had hunted the First Folk with clubs and lances, eventually had driven them from their native downs into the forests. “Evidently they are more clever than we realize. Adam McAdam asserts that they do not think, but it seems that he is mistaken.”

  Hein Huss shrugged. “Adam McAdam equates thought to the human cerebral process. He cannot telepathize with the First Folk, hence he deduces that they do not ‘think.’ But I have watched them at Forest Market, and they trade intelligently enough.” He raised his head, appeared to listen, then reached into his cabinet and delicately tightened a noose around the neck of one of the manikins. From outside the tent came a sudden cough and a whooping gasp for air. Huss grinned, twitched ope
n the noose. “That is Isak Comandore’s apprentice. He hopes to complete a Hein Huss manikin. I must say he works diligently, going so far as to touch its feet into my footprints whenever possible.”

  Lord Faide went to the flap of the tent. “We break camp early. Be alert, I may require your help.” He departed the tent.

  Hein Huss continued the ordering of his cabinet. Presently he sensed the approach of his rival, Jinxman Isak Comandore, who coveted the office of Head Jinxman with all-consuming passion. Huss closed the cabinet and hoisted himself to his feet.

  Comandore entered the tent, a man tall, crooked, and spindly. His wedge-shaped head was covered with coarse russet ringlets; hot red-brown eyes peered from under his red eyebrows. “I offer my complete rights to Keyril, and will include the masks, the headdress, the amulets. Of all the demons ever contrived he has won the widest public acceptance. To utter the name Keyril is to complete half the work of a possession. Keyril is a valuable property. I can give no more.”

  But Huss shook his head. Comandore’s desire was the full simulacrum of Tharon Faide, Lord Faide’s oldest son, complete with clothes, hair, skin, eyelashes, tears, excrement, sweat and sputum—the only one in existence, for Lord Faide guarded his son much more jealously than he did himself. “You offer convincingly,” said Huss, “but my own demons suffice. The name Dant conveys fully as much terror as Keyril.”

  “I will add five hairs from the head of Jinxman Clarence Sears; they are the last, for he is now stark bald.”

  “Let us drop the matter; I will keep the simulacrum.”

  “As you please,” said Comandore with asperity. He glanced out the flap of the tent. “That blundering apprentice. He puts the feet of the manikin backwards into your prints.”

  Huss opened his cabinet, thumped a manikin with his finger. From outside the tent came a grunt of surprise. Huss grinned. “He is young and earnest, and perhaps he is clever, who knows?” He went to the flap of the tent, called outside. “Hey, Sam Salazar, what do you do? Come inside.”

  Apprentice Sam Salazar came blinking into the tent, a thickset youth with a round florid face, overhung with a rather untidy mass of straw-colored hair. In one hand he carried a crude pot-bellied manikin, evidently intended to represent Hein Huss.

  “You puzzle both your master and myself,” said Huss. “There must be method in your folly, but we fail to perceive it. For instance, this moment you place my simulacrum backwards into my track. I feel a tug on my foot, and you pay for your clumsiness.”

  Sam Salazar showed small evidence of abashment. “Jinxman Comandore has warned that we must expect to suffer for our ambitions.”

  “If your ambition is jinxmanship,” Comandore declared sharply, “you had best mend your ways.”

  “The lad is craftier than you know,” said Hein Huss. “Look now.” He took the manikin from the youth, spit into its mouth, plucked a hair front his head, thrust it into a convenient crevice. “He has a Hein Huss manikin, achieved at very small cost. Now, Apprentice Salazar, how will you hoodoo me?”

  “Naturally, I would never dare. I merely want to fill the bare spaces in my cabinet.”

  Hein Huss nodded his approval. “As good a reason as any. Of course you own a simulacrum of Isak Comandore?”

  Sam Salazar glanced uneasily at Isak Comandore. “He leaves none of his traces. If there is so much as an open bottle in the room, he breathes behind his hand.”

  “Ridiculous!” exclaimed Hein Huss. “Comandore, what do you fear?”

  “I am conservative,” said Comandore, dryly. “You make a fine gesture, but some day an enemy may own that simulacrum; then you will regret your bravado.”

  “Bah. My enemies are all dead, save one or two who dare not reveal themselves.” He clapped Sam Salazar a great buffet on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, Apprentice Salazar, great things are in store for you.”

  “What manner of great things?”

  “Honor, noble self-sacrifice. Lord Faide must beg permission from the First Folk to pass Wildwood, which galls him. But beg he must. Tomorrow, Sam Salazar, I will elect you to lead the way to the parley, to deflect deadfalls, scythes, and nettletraps from the more important person who follows.”

  Sam Salazar shook his head and drew back. “There must be others more worthy; I prefer to ride in the rear with the wagons.”

  Comandore waved him from the tent. “You will do as ordered. Leave us; we have had enough apprentice talk.”

  Sam Salazar departed. Comandore turned back to Hein Huss. “In connection with tomorrow’s battle, Anderson Grimes is especially adept with demons. As I recall, he has developed and successfully publicized Pont, who spreads sleep; Everid, a being of wrath; Deigne, a force of fear. We must take care that in countering these effects we do not neutralize each other.”

  “True,” rumbled Huss. “I have long maintained to Lord Faide that a single jinxman—the Head Jinxman in fact—is more effective than a group at cross-purposes. But he is consumed by ambition and does not listen.”

  “Perhaps he wants to be sure that should advancing years overtake the Head Jinxman other equally effective jinxmen are at hand.”

  “The future has many paths,” agreed Hein Huss. “Lord Faide is well advised to seek early for my successor, so that I may train him over the years. I plan to access all the subsidiary jinxmen, and select the most promising. Tomorrow I relegate to you the demons of Anderson Grimes.”

  Isak Comandore nodded politely. “You are wise to give over responsibility. When I feel the weight of my years I hope I may act with similar forethought. Good night, Hein Huss. I go to arrange my demon masks. Tomorrow Keyril must walk like a giant.”

  “Good night, Isak Comandore.”

  Comandore swept from the tent, and Huss settled himself on his stool. Sam Salazar scratched at the flap. “Well, lad?” growled Huss. “Why do you loiter?”

  Sam Salazar placed the Hein Huss manikin on the table. “I have no wish to keep this doll.”

  “Throw it in a ditch, then.” Hein Huss spoke gruffly. “You must stop annoying me with stupid tricks. You efficiently obtrude yourself upon my attention, but you cannot transfer from Comandore’s troupe without his express consent.”

  “If I gain his consent?”

  “You will incur his enmity; he will open his cabinet against you. Unlike myself, you are vulnerable to a hoodoo. I advise you to be content. Isak Comandore is highly skilled and can teach you much.”

  Sam Salazar still hesitated. “Jinxman Comandore, though skilled, is intolerant of new thoughts.”

  Hein Huss shifted ponderously on his stool, examined Sam Salazar with his water-clear eyes. “What new thoughts are these? Your own?”

  “The thoughts are new to me, and for all I know new to Isak Comandore. But he will say neither yes nor no.”

  Hein Huss sighed, settled his monumental bulk more comfortably. “Speak then, describe these thoughts, and I will assess their novelty.”

  “First, I have wondered about trees. They are sensitive to light, to moisture, to wind, to pressure. Sensitivity implies sensation. Might a man feel into the soul of a tree for these sensations? If a tree were capable of awareness, this faculty might prove useful. A man might select trees as sentinels in strategic sites, and enter into them as he chose.”

  Hein Huss was skeptical. “An amusing notion, but practically not feasible. The reading of minds, the act of possession, televoyance, all similar interplay, require psychic congruence as a basic condition. The minds must be able to become identities at some particular stratum. Unless there is sympathy, there is no linkage. A tree is at opposite poles from a man; the images of tree and man are incommensurable. Hence, anything more than the most trifling flicker of comprehension must be a true miracle of jinxmanship.”

  Sam Salazar nodded mournfully. “I realized this, and at one time hoped to equip myself with the necessary identification.”

  “To do this you must become a vegetable. Certainly the tree will never become a man.”

  �
�So I reasoned,” said Sam Salazar. “I went alone into a grove of trees, where I chose a tall conifer. I buried my feet in the mold, I stood silent and naked—in the sunlight, in the rain; at dawn, noon, dusk, midnight. I closed my mind to manthoughts, I closed my eyes to vision, my ears to sound. I took no nourishment except from rain and sun. I sent roots forth from my feet and branches from my torso. Thirty hours I stood, and two days later another thirty hours, and after two days another thirty hours. I made myself a tree, as nearly as possible to one of flesh and blood.”

  Hein Huss gave the great inward gurgle that signalized his amusement. “And you achieved sympathy?”

  “Nothing useful,” Sam Salazar admitted. “I felt something of the tree’s sensations—the activity of light, the peace of dark, the coolness of rain. But visual and auditory experience —nothing. However, I do not regret the trial. It was a useful discipline.”

  “An interesting effort, even if inconclusive. The idea is by no means of startling originality, but the empiricism—to use an archaic word—of your method is bold, and no doubt antagonized Isak Comandore, who has no patience with the superstitions of our ancestors. I suspect that he harangued you against frivolity, metaphysics, and inspirationalism.”

  “True,” said Sam Salazar. “He spoke at length.”

  “You should take the lesson to heart. Isak Comandore is sometimes unable to make the most obvious truth seem credible. However, I cite you the example of Lord Faide who considers himself an enlightened man, free from superstition. Still, he rides in his feeble car, he carries a pistol sixteen hundred years old, he relies on Hellmouth to protect Faide Keep.”

  “Perhaps—unconsciously—he longs for the old magical times,” suggested Sam Salazar thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps,” agreed Hein Huss. “And you do likewise?”

  Sam Salazar hesitated. “There is an aura of romance, a kind of wild grandeur to the old days—but of course,” he added quickly, “mysticism is no substitute for orthodox logic.”