Meanwhile the old man, weary and aching, retreated to the shade of the lean-to and sat down, his back against the side of the structure. He watched his two pets with a benevolent, almost foolish, expression. His rheumy eyelids drooped, and he drooled a little.
It was time, the Tartars felt, either to withdraw or reveal themselves. Surely the magician was aware of their presence; no concealment could deceive such a master. If they lingered, without doing him honor, he might well blast them; his kind were touchy. So, after a hasty whispered exchange, they decided to go forward and do him homage.
As they approached the old man, their belief in this power grew, for instead of fear and flight, the normal reaction of civilians to their appearance, he just sat there, waiting for them, and the naive smile on his wrinkled face deepened.
“Welcome, brothers,” he greeted them in a cracked, wavering voice. “I have little to offer visitors, but there are wheatcakes in the hut, some fermented milk.” The pair, still gorged on beef from the ravaged farm, were not interested in such poor fare. Instead Tugai Bey pointed to the animals, which, after pausing briefly to appraise the strangers, were again frolicking.
“You must be a mighty sorcerer,” the scout said in his vile but comprehensible Slavic, “to converse with such a beast as the leopard and give it orders so that it sports with its natural prey instead of devouring it.”
The old farmer smiled. “It is the simplest magic of all,” he said. “Anybody can practice it, but alas, few do, preferring hate and conflict. The magic of love. I love them, and they love each other. Nothing more is needed.”
Baffled, the scouts eyed him, expecting some elaboration of that bizarre statement.
“I do not understand that,” Tugai Bey grunted. “Love is not sorcery. A man may love his father, his brother, maybe his chief, or perhaps, for a time, a woman, but that is natural, not magic.”
“Yes, it is,” the old man persisted. “Because of it you see a ferocious beast, a born blood-drinker, playing joyously, in all innocence, with a small, helpless thing he could smash with a single blow and eat with relish. Love is the sorcerer here, not I. Even when I am dead — which will soon be the case, since I am very old and tired, these two would be as brothers from the same litter. Some day,” he added, “this same magic will make all men live together in peace and harmony.” He was silent then, recalling muzzily the tiny leopard cub he had found years ago and reared with the black pup.
“I fear, nephew,” Tugai Bey whispered, “that this old sorcerer is unwilling to share any of his knowledge with us. Instead he speaks in riddles, and shows his contempt. Well, since he is not mortal, and holds great power, there is nothing we can do about it; it would be very dangerous to offend him.” He spoke in their own guttural tongue, and the farmer, still lost in the past, let his eyelids sag once more.
“Surely an arrow through the heart can kill even a magician,” Burlai Khan said.
“You speak like a fool. It would glance off. Or even if it pierced him, he would just pluck it out, laughing, and visit a dreadful revenge upon us. And in his true, fearsome shape.” He glanced at the sun and said, “We have wasted enough time here. You wait, without annoying him I warn you, while I climb that hill to see what lies ahead.” And he strode off with the choppy, awkward steps of a horseman to mount his pony.
Burlai Khan idly watched the two animals, now lying down several yards apart, then addressed the farmer. He had to raise his voice before the sorcerer’s eyes opened. It seemed to the young, vigorous barbarian that this magician was indeed terribly old and weak. Maybe he should follow his uncle now. What if this strange being desired his strong young body and took it over, leaving him trapped in that worn-out husk — or as a forlorn wraith with no physical presence? He felt a surge of panic at the thought.
“Great One,” he murmured, “be not angry with me for asking, but is it true that if I drove an arrow through your heart, you would not die like a normal man but only pluck it out?”
The old man looked up, filmy eyes open now, but said nothing. The sweet, fatuous smile touched his lips, but that was the only response.
“Would you show me how it’s done? That would be something to tell around the evening fires. Say yes, I beg of you.” He was unused to asking instead of taking, and the plea almost choked him.
The farmer looked vaguely bewildered, but aware of some request. His eyes clouded still more, but at last he spoke, replying with a sort of query, however. “Yes, what? Yes, young man, whatever you wish. My home is yours. We are brothers, as all men are, or will be some day.”
To Burlai Khan this was permission enough. What a tale to tell! That he had sent an arrow through the heart of a great sorcerer, and seen him yank it out, grinning, as the wound healed instantly.
The old man’s eyes were completely closed now, so he didn’t see the short, heavy arrow locked. The scout moved back a dozen feet, drew the shaft to its cruelly barbed head, and cried, “I’m ready, master. You still permit?”
The old man said softly, eyes still shut, “Do as you like, brother...”
On the word the bowstring twanged, and the arrow nailed the farmer’s slight body, shrunken by the years, to the wall of the hut.
The young Tartar, anxious to observe the miracle at closer range, ran forward. There was very little blood, but that was only to be expected; the arrow’s shaft tended to block the free flow. But the sorcerer’s eyes remained closed, and he neither moved nor spoke when the scout gingerly tapped his shoulder.
“Take out the arrow now,” the Tartar urged him. “Now, o great sorcerer. Pull it out and return to life as you promised me.” But the old man didn’t stir, and a feeling of panic overwhelmed the youth. The magician must be angry after all and wasn’t going to oblige. Instead, he obviously meant to remain a corpse until it pleased him to live again. What had Burlai Khan done wrong? Something, it seemed, and even now the old man might be plotting some horrific act of reprisal. With a choked cry, the scout ran to his pony, scrambled into the saddle, and galloped off to find his uncle.
As he rode away, the black mongrel trotted up to his master, stood whimpering at his feet, then climbed into the farmer’s lap. His pink tongue caressed the still face, frozen in a smile. Then he jumped down and ran about, barking shrilly.
For a moment the leopard stood there, scrutinizing the frantic dog; then it moved in on padded feet to sniff curiously at the farmer’s wound, its yellow, opalescent eyes aglow. Blackberry ran up to it, whining, seeming to beg for consolation.
Briefly the great cat studied the frantic mongrel. Then, with a single oblique stare at the corpse, he thrust out a tentative paw, claws sheathed, and pinned the dog to the earth. The captive whined in protest, unwilling to play in this hour of loss. He squirmed vainly against the pressure, crying more loudly.
Then, very slowly, with gloating relish, the snow leopard brought its keen, bluish talons out, and the little dog yelped in agony as they drew blood. Putting its other forepaw on the black head, the big cat casually eviscerated its long-time playmate. It dipped its rough tongue into the crimson pool, lapping greedily. A low, grating sound came from its throat. It was purring.
Seeing Red
by D. H. Reddall
I had lunch at the Rudder where I managed to gag down the speciaclass="underline" some limp greens, an arid potato, and the usual mystery meat that Floyd swears is roast beef. I left feeling like I’d swallowed a shotput.