"Yes," Mother agreed weakly, "I guess you do."
"Anyway, once the two jerks were really caught, the other guys came over to see what was going on. They are all absolutely positive-according to the one who came here with his dad-that we had a puma and a panther on our front porch."
"Oh, sure," Mother said.
"Well, I guess somebody up there must like us. None of the punks was really a hard case: no guns or knives or bicycle chains. They all ran like rabbits."
"Leaving their friends to be eaten?" Mother asked.
"I guess. They're sure they would have been, too, if they hadn't tried putting the lanterns down and backing off. No problem. Once the pumpkins were safe, the teeth let go. The other kid lashed out with a boot-and I understand he has slashes six inches long right through the leather."
Mother grinned. "Couldn't be our cats, then."
Father stopped petting. He regarded Bat very soberly. Then he shook his head.
Mother was not normally telepathic, but she was almost sure her husband was thinking, "Not now, anyway." But, of course, he couldn't be, and if he was, never, never would he admit to having had such a ridiculous thought.
Bat yawned. He'd had more fun last night than he'd had in his three whole lives and one part-life put together. But he was so sleepy he felt melted. Shape changing took energy. Guess he ought to follow Punkin's good example and get some shuteye. He purred.
He'd convince them all, even if it did take solving the problem of a teen gang on Halloween to set the adults on the right track. Christine already knew he was here to take care of her-and the things she cared about, like those silly vegetables with holes in them. Ian talked silently to Punkin all the time, and to Bat, sometimes. He'd soon start speaking aloud in complete sentences. His grown-ups would faint from shock. Even if they convinced him that he really hadn't had conversations with cats, he'd always believe anything Christine told him. Mother was another of the odd ones-left-handed, red-haired, green-eyed, too smart for her own good, and one step to the reft (or lown or some other direction normal people couldn't enter). Hmm. Perhaps he should see to a "pet" for her, too. And Father? Well, Bat was mildly embarrassed at how long it had taken him to realize that Daddy was a wizard unaware: who else could so easily convince the ordinary populace of this continuum that everything was ascribable to ordinary, reasonable causes? Even a puma and a panther on the porch.
The Last Gift by Elizabeth H. Boyer
Upon the day of her sixteenth birthday, Isolf was presented to the jotun as an offering, along with three sheep, five geese, some chickens, two goats, and a cow.
"Will I be killed and eaten outright?" she asked her father the night before. "Or will I be held captive?"
"Skrymir is an old friend to this clan," said her father, Alborg. "You are my firstborn child, the most precious thing I can think of, so he won't destroy such a gift. Sixteen years ago I promised him my firstborn in exchange for a drink of his honey mead. Because of that drink and my promise, I was given the secret of making steel. Our people turned back the savage Utlanders, and we have lived in peace ever since. But a promise is a promise, especially when you make it to a jotun. A jotun's gift always has a price, and you, my precious daughter, are the price I must pay for the freedom of our people."
Isolf took a firm grip on the cow's halter and knocked on the great door leading into the jotun's mountain hall. The earth quivered as heavy steps approached, then the door abruptly fell open with a rusty grating and grumbling.
"Who are you? What do you want?" rumbled the mighty voice of the jotun.
Isolf stepped over the threshold of the jotun's cave, making the appropriate protective sign, and gazed up into the craggy countenance of the jotun, lurking far above in the shadows of the cave. His eyes blazed down at her, casting a faint smoldering sort of light over his massive form and unkempt mane of shaggy beard and hair.
"My name is Isolf, firstborn daughter of the wizard Alborg. Sixteen years ago you gave him the gift of steel, and he promised to give you his firstborn child."
The great and terrible jotun chuckled a dire chuckle.
"Firstborn children! Beautiful maids! Livestock cluttering my doorstep! What a nuisance you mortals are!"
"Well, you've given us so much, we want to give something in return. Do you mind if we come in?" She gathered up a goose under one arm, a bundle of bound chickens under the other.
"Are you not afraid of the mighty jotun, mortal maid?"
"Not in particular," said Isolf.
"Indeed. Men nowadays fear nothing. Some even make a mock of the jotuns, with masks and costumes." The jotun sighed, a gusty sound made hollow with ancient wisdom and intolerable burdens. "Come in, then. I must make a memorandum about making rash promises with mortals. Sometimes they actually stick to them."
Skrymir diminished himself to a size more appropriate. Standing before Isolf was a craggy-shouldered old man who reminded her of her own grandfather, with white hair and beard streaming over his shoulders in a forgotten tangle.
"Many have not forgotten your gifts," said Isolf, glancing about the dust and gloom of the jotun's hall. "If not for the Elder Race, men would still be wearing skins and throwing rocks. With jotun knowledge we have tamed the metals of the earth, learned to bake and brew and weave and make cheese and husband the earth and its creatures. It is true, many have forgotten, and the Elder Race is derided. I think that is the cause for the rising Chaos around us. Fields are no longer fertile. Our flocks are not as plentiful. Our walls and houses no longer stand as firm and true. If I can do anything to drive back the Chaos by coming here as an offering, then here am I to serve."
The great Skrymir chuckled again. For several centuries, he had watched over the New People, benignly assisting their progress from skin-clad, warfaring scraelings to civilized, warfaring vikings. Their busy antics amused him, as might a disturbed anthill, with their trials, tragedies, and heroic endeavors. Even their epithet for him-jotun-he found amusing. In stature he was not so much a giant to them; their scalds and legends and folktales served to increase their expectations to a fearful extent, so when they came to him begging favors, as was their wont, he shifted his shape to a larger one, so as not to disappoint them. But of late, their respect was sadly lacking. So many of them came as thieves and tricksters, instead of earnest supplicants for wisdom.
Skrymir gazed down upon the slight figure of Isolf, clad in a blue cloak for health and protection, with a red hood for courage.
"What can you do against the rising tide of Chaos? What use have I for such a tiny thing as you? My needs are not human needs. Everything I require is here." He let a handful of dust sift through his fingers. "I have lived here alone since the dawn of time, and I don't need any looking after by a human creature."
"And no one seems to do much cleaning up," said Isolf, darting a shocked glance around the great hall in the mountain. "My mother and the wise women of the clan taught me that disorder is an affront to nature. It is my duty to put nature back into harmony wherever I find it disordered, so I shall stay where I may do some good against Chaos."
"I shall ponder the matter," said Skrymir. "After I ponder the rise of Chaos and the future of the New People. Wisdom makes thinking such an ordeal." He settled himself in his chair in a pondering pose, with his chin resting upon his fist and his eyes drawn nearly shut in a baggy scowl.