Free Land of Unreason by L. Sprague de Camp, Fletcher Pratt Page B

over to the nearest hedge, rolled under
its spread on the cushiony grass, and fixed the wand, point up, among the
branches, to keep him dry. Just as he drifted off to sleep, he heard the
pattering raindrops cease.
     
                When he woke it was to find
the sun already low, the moon up and challenging it. A few minutes brought him
to a fork which must be the one Cyril had mentioned. Go left, he had said,
since the day was Monday; a piece of reasoning which struck Barber as so characteristic
of the place that he stood for a moment wondering, whether it was still Monday
and, if not, which was the right direction. Finally deciding Cyril would have
made allowance for the lapse in time, he took the left fork. The way led down
and round a long curve; climbed a steepish rise, and brought him out on the
crest of a low hill, with a broad meadow between him and a dark wall of
midnight green— the forest, so denominated. The sun was down behind it.
     
                Fred Barber took a long
breath and marched resolutely across the meadow into the encroaching gloom
under the branches. He could feel the gentle strain at the back of his jacket
where the little bulges that must really be wings pulled against it, and there
seemed to be a new set of muscles developing at his chest.
     
                The forest was one of large
trees, old as time, with neither grass nor underbrush around their trunks. It
would be like the tame parked forests of Germany, Barber thought, but for the
bulging of knots and scars, which in the tricky moonlight gave almost every
tree some semblance of a human face. A scowling eye greeted him from the gloom
ahead, a mournfully drooping mouth followed him there.
     
                Overhead spots of sky were
scattered beyond the leaves, but walking was not too difficult on the even leaf
mold. Barber peered here and there for denizens of the place to guide him.
There were none, no more sound nor motion about than there had been in the park
beyond Oberon's palace. The place was in a kind of silent green golden age as
though the trees themselves had absorbed all the personality of the landscape.
He struggled with the thought that they might similarly absorb him, turning his
body into one of those rugose pillars, his members into branches ... It was as
credible as anything else in this land of unreason.
     
                He was trying to follow a
straight line by sighting on trees before and behind him, but could not be sure
against following a wide circle.
     
                Something moved.
     
                In his familiar old world it
would be an animal and perhaps dangerous. Still, Titania's wand ought to defend
him against wug-wugs, whether predacious or fawning. He was acquiring respect
for that ivory stick since the incident of the cloudless rain. He took a long,
leaping step forward. The figure moved again, and now he was sure of its
humanity.
     
                "Hey!" he called.
     
                The figure stopped; an old
woman, leaning on a stick gripped in skinny hands, her long nose and chin
curving toward each other like those of a caricature. Only these were visible
under a floppy hat, and her head was bent to stare at the ground.
     
                Barber bowed. "Beg
pardon, ma'am, but could you tell me the way to the Kobold Hills?"
     
                The head did not lift.
" 'Tis bad loock to sleep near a apple tree. And beware o' t' ploom,"
said a voice that was so like Mrs. Gurton's as to make him start.
     
                "Thank you," he
said, "but can you tell me how to get to—"
     
                " 'Tis bad loock to
sleep near t' apple. And watch aht foor t' ploom." She showed him a
shoulder and toddled off among the dark trunks.
     
                Barber hesitated. If she
didn't want to tell him, he had no means of compulsion, unless the wand ... But
at least she