Eight Fantasms and Magics Read online

  Eight Fantasms

  and Magics

  by Jack Vance

  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

  Contents

  Foreword

  The Miracle Workers

  When the Five Moons Rise

  Telek

  Noise

  The New Prime

  Cil

  Guyal of Sfere

  The Men Return

  Jack Vance catapults the science fiction reader into the world of the paranormal where possibility—and probability—exceed the reaches of our wildest dreams.

  Consider, for example, demonologists at play in “The Miracle Workers” who must learn to telepathize with their enemies in order to conquer them. Or Perrin, the lonely lighthouse-keeper afloat in psychedelic outer space, plagued by hellish visions “When the Five Moons Rise.” And if you listen closely, you may hear the strange tales told of the “Telek,” a people whose bodies cast no shadow.

  Look into the journal of Howard Charles Evans and you’ll enter a diaphanous world where “Noise” doesn’t exist, where terror takes a holiday and seduction stalks on psychic feet. In “The New Prime,” contestants vie for galactic rulership. Is it possible that Arthur Caversham, caught in the nude at a Boston debutante’s coming-out party, is even in the running?

  Fancy a vagabond named Cugel, possessed by a quixotic Firx, unleashing the questionable charms of a magic amulet on the folk of “Cil.” Or “Guyal of Sfere” at home in the remote future where magic has waned and “. . . the sun gutters like a candle in the wind”; where misanthropic grues, leucomorphs and deodands wander the forests, a world where wisdom is lost to the ages.

  Can “The Men Return” in a meaningless noncausal world where the sun no longer rises and sets, where sanity has no sanctuary and mad mutant cannibals reign supreme?

  Eight Fantasms and Magics—titillating tales of science fiction and the supernatural, superbly executed by a master of the genre, JACK VANCE, who has thrilled fans of all ages with his many works of the imagination, including Eyes of the Overworld, Star King, Language of Po, and Monsters in Orbit: World Between and Other Stories.

  Jacket design by Anthony Sini

  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

  866 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10022

  Copyright © 1950, 1951, 1952, 1954, 1957, 1958, 1969 by jack Vance

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any

  information storage and retrieval system, without permission

  in writing from the Publisher.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-80798

  First Printing

  The Macmillan Company

  Collier-Macmillan Canada Ltd., Toronto, Ontario

  Printed in the United States of America

  Foreword

  Strange things happen. Almost everyone has had some sort of brush with the paranormal, even the most resistant and skeptical of persons. The range of events is wide and only roughly amenable to classification. In olden times angels and demons were held responsible; to date no one has produced a more reasonable explanation.

  Phenomena such as telepathy and poltergeists may well be manifestations of different and distinct principles; there may be two, three, four, or more such realms of knowledge, each at least as rich and intricate as physics or astronomy. There is little systematic study. Conventional scientists shy away from the field because they are, in fact, conventional; because they fear to compromise their careers; because the subject is difficult to get a grip on; because scientists are as susceptible to awe and eeriness as anyone else. So: the mysteries persist; the lore accumulates, and we know for sure no more than our remote ancestors, if as much.

  The stories of this collection are by no means homogeneous, and are told from different perspectives and different moods. “The New Prime,” strictly speaking, has no psionic or paranormal reference. “The Men Return” toys with a somewhat recondite (and perhaps not wholly defensible) physical concept. “Cil” is an episode from Eyes of the Overworld, a picaresque novel of the twenty-millionth century. “Telek” and “The Miracle Workers” have a more definite psionic orientation, and make at least a superficial inquiry into certain aspects and implications of telekinesis and demonpossession. I can’t pretend to offer enlightenment; there isn’t any to be had. The stories, in any event, were not conceived as argumentative vehicles, but simply reflect my own fascination with the vast and wonderful reaches of the unknown.

  Jack Vance

  The Miracle Workers

  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 highwheeled 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 b
reath. 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 cabal-men 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 open 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 from 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.”