of day.”
He couldn’t be charming the hag, but he’d certainly managed to shake her aplomb. She stood staring at him through those mad, red eyes; her snout quivering, her jaw dropped to show rows of abominable, filelike teeth. He kept singing and strumming. As he played, he rose and backed slowly toward the cave mouth, praying his feet would locate a loose rock he might quickly scoop up and hurl. He’d been a pretty good shortstop for the Wheatfields Nine in his youth. The old wing still had enough juice in it to knock out a few of those God-awful teeth, anyway.
This was too slow. He struck up a livelier jangle and danced to the rhythm, hounding around in a wild jig that seemed to fascinate her more than the music.
“Git out the way, ol’ Dan Tucker!
“Git out the way, ol’ Dan Tucker!”
Why in hell didn’t his companions wake up? He cavorted over toward the cave wall, still hoping to find something he could throw, but any rock he encountered had been glued to the floor by that eternally dripping mineral water.
Water! Peter scrooched down and managed to drag the hem of his robe through a puddle, danced back, and slapped the robe across the sleepers’ faces, one after another. They groaned, stirred. He danced back and soaked his garment again, and again and again till he was ready to fall with exhaustion. Still the hag had made no move to attack. Maybe he had in fact managed to work an enchantment. She started clapping her blood-streaked hands, swaying in time to the music. It was revolting to watch all those yellow dugs flap to and fro, but better than being eaten. Then praise the Lord, Tim woke up.
“Pete, what the hell?” he grumbled.
“Oh, git out the way, ol’ Tim Tucker,” Peter caroled. “Or you’ll be goddamn sorry you stayed for supper!”
“Great Christ on a crutch!” Tim looked from his madly jigging friend to the naked, swaying, clapping hag. Then, incredibly, he started to laugh, leaped to his feet, and began dancing, too.
“Jee-hoshaphat, Pete, if you ain’t the damnedest! Dan! Hey, Dan, wake up. We’re having a hoedown. Swing it, Pete. Sashay left and all hands ’round. Whee! Haw, haw!”
Maybe it was hysteria. It could hardly have been anything else, but Peter began laughing, too. He twanged and stomped and ho-ho-ho’d, totally out of control. He slapped the hem of his wet robe back and forth across Dan Stott’s face until at last their colleague sat up.
“Wherefore the levity, friends?”
That set them off again. Dan, normally the most decorous of swine experts, rose up to laugh and leap with them. At last they managed to rouse Torchyld.
“Oh, my head!” he groaned, then he realized what was going on and joined the roaring roisterers.
“I’faith, hag, ye knowest well how to maken merry. This be funnier than when I made Owain eat the boiled eels.”
The only one not laughing was the hag. All that male guffawing appeared to terrify her as perhaps no threat of physical violence could have done. She was cowering away from them and beginning, Shandy thought, to shrink.
“Come on, old sow,” he yelled boldly. “Put on your clothes and join the party.”
Peter danced over and picked up the garment she’d thrown off in her ghastly transformation. “Phew, this is ripe. I’ll wash it for you.”
He sloshed the reeking rag through a pool in the cave floor, and flung it at her.
“Squee-ee-ee!”
As the sopping, cold cloth hit her, the sow sorceress squealed a horrendous squeal. Then came a mighty explosion. Loathsome fragments flew around them. A direful stench filled the air.
“Great balls of fire,” yelled Tim. “What happened?”
“She brast,” said Torchyld matter-of-factly. “Good show, druids.”
“What do you mean, she brast?” Tim insisted. “Where is she?”
“Around,” said Peter. “Let’s get out of here. This place stinks like a bunkhouse full of lumberjacks.”
Daniel Stott was inclined to stand and ruminate on what had occurred, but
He couldn’t be charming the hag, but he’d certainly managed to shake her aplomb. She stood staring at him through those mad, red eyes; her snout quivering, her jaw dropped to show rows of abominable, filelike teeth. He kept singing and strumming. As he played, he rose and backed slowly toward the cave mouth, praying his feet would locate a loose rock he might quickly scoop up and hurl. He’d been a pretty good shortstop for the Wheatfields Nine in his youth. The old wing still had enough juice in it to knock out a few of those God-awful teeth, anyway.
This was too slow. He struck up a livelier jangle and danced to the rhythm, hounding around in a wild jig that seemed to fascinate her more than the music.
“Git out the way, ol’ Dan Tucker!
“Git out the way, ol’ Dan Tucker!”
Why in hell didn’t his companions wake up? He cavorted over toward the cave wall, still hoping to find something he could throw, but any rock he encountered had been glued to the floor by that eternally dripping mineral water.
Water! Peter scrooched down and managed to drag the hem of his robe through a puddle, danced back, and slapped the robe across the sleepers’ faces, one after another. They groaned, stirred. He danced back and soaked his garment again, and again and again till he was ready to fall with exhaustion. Still the hag had made no move to attack. Maybe he had in fact managed to work an enchantment. She started clapping her blood-streaked hands, swaying in time to the music. It was revolting to watch all those yellow dugs flap to and fro, but better than being eaten. Then praise the Lord, Tim woke up.
“Pete, what the hell?” he grumbled.
“Oh, git out the way, ol’ Tim Tucker,” Peter caroled. “Or you’ll be goddamn sorry you stayed for supper!”
“Great Christ on a crutch!” Tim looked from his madly jigging friend to the naked, swaying, clapping hag. Then, incredibly, he started to laugh, leaped to his feet, and began dancing, too.
“Jee-hoshaphat, Pete, if you ain’t the damnedest! Dan! Hey, Dan, wake up. We’re having a hoedown. Swing it, Pete. Sashay left and all hands ’round. Whee! Haw, haw!”
Maybe it was hysteria. It could hardly have been anything else, but Peter began laughing, too. He twanged and stomped and ho-ho-ho’d, totally out of control. He slapped the hem of his wet robe back and forth across Dan Stott’s face until at last their colleague sat up.
“Wherefore the levity, friends?”
That set them off again. Dan, normally the most decorous of swine experts, rose up to laugh and leap with them. At last they managed to rouse Torchyld.
“Oh, my head!” he groaned, then he realized what was going on and joined the roaring roisterers.
“I’faith, hag, ye knowest well how to maken merry. This be funnier than when I made Owain eat the boiled eels.”
The only one not laughing was the hag. All that male guffawing appeared to terrify her as perhaps no threat of physical violence could have done. She was cowering away from them and beginning, Shandy thought, to shrink.
“Come on, old sow,” he yelled boldly. “Put on your clothes and join the party.”
Peter danced over and picked up the garment she’d thrown off in her ghastly transformation. “Phew, this is ripe. I’ll wash it for you.”
He sloshed the reeking rag through a pool in the cave floor, and flung it at her.
“Squee-ee-ee!”
As the sopping, cold cloth hit her, the sow sorceress squealed a horrendous squeal. Then came a mighty explosion. Loathsome fragments flew around them. A direful stench filled the air.
“Great balls of fire,” yelled Tim. “What happened?”
“She brast,” said Torchyld matter-of-factly. “Good show, druids.”
“What do you mean, she brast?” Tim insisted. “Where is she?”
“Around,” said Peter. “Let’s get out of here. This place stinks like a bunkhouse full of lumberjacks.”
Daniel Stott was inclined to stand and ruminate on what had occurred, but
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