Once More With Footnotes

Clay?"
     
                  "I said I'd got three brothers-in-law, right? He's the merchant. So he said repl anting would make the land easier to sell."
     
                  There was a long pause while Cohen digested this.
     
                  Then he said, "You can't sell Cutshade Forest. It doesn't belong to any-one.
     
                  "Yeah. He says that's why you can sell it."
     
                  Cohen brought his fist down on th e parapet. A piece of stone detached itself and tumbled down into the gorge. "Sorry," he said.
     
                  "That's all right. Bits fall off all the time, like I said." Cohen turned. "What's happening? I remember all the big old wars. Don't you? You must have fought. "
     
                  " I carried a club, yeah."
     
                  "It was supposed to be for a bright new future and law and stuff. That's what people said."
     
                  "Well, I fought because a big troll with a whip told me to," said Mica, cautiously. "But I know what you mean."
     
                  "I mean it wasn't for farms and spruce trees. Was it?"
     
                  Mica hung his head. "And here's me with this apology for a bridge. I feel really bad about it," he said, "you coming all this way and everything — "
     
                  "And there was some king or other," said Cohen, vaguely, looking at the water. "And I think there were some wizards. But there was a king. I'm pretty certain there was a king. Never met him. You know?" He grinned at the troll. "I can't remember his name. Don't think they ever told me his name."
     
    -
     
                  About half an hour late r Cohen's horse emerged from the gloomy woods onto a bleak, windswept moorland. It plodded on for a while before saying, "All right ... how much did you give him?"
     
                  "Twelve gold pieces," said Cohen.
     
                  "Why'd you give him twelve gold pieces?"
     
                  "I didn't h ave more than twelve."
     
                  "You must be mad."
     
                  "When I was just starting out in the barbarian hero business," said Cohen, "every bridge had a troll under it. And you couldn't go through a forest like we've just gone through without a dozen goblins trying to chop your head off." He sighed. "I wonder what happened to 'em all?"
     
                  "You," said the horse.
     
                  "Well, yes. But I always thought there'd be some more. I always thought there'd be some more edges."
     
                  "How old are you?" said the horse. "Dunno."
     
                  "Old enoug h to know better, then."
     
                  "Yeah. Right." Cohen lit another cigarette and coughed until his eyes watered.
     
                  "Going soft in the head! "
     
                  " Yeah."
     
                  "Giving your last dollar to a troll!"
     
                  "Yeah." Cohen wheezed a stream of smoke at the sunset. "Why?"
     
                  Cohen st ared at the sky. The red glow was as cold as the slopes of hell. An icy wind blew across the steppes, whipping at what remained of his hair. "For the sake of the way things should be," he said. "Hah!"
     
                  "For the sake of things that were. "
     
                  " Hah!"
     
                  Cohen lo oked down. He grinned.
     
                  "And for three addresses. One day I'm going to die," he said, "but not, I think, today."
     
    -
     
                  The wind blew off the mountains, filling the air with fine ice crystals. It was too cold to snow. In weather like this wolves came down i nto villages, trees in the heart of the forest exploded when they froze. Except there were fewer and fewer wolves these days, and less and less forest.
     
                  In weather like this right-thinking people were indoors, in front of the fire.
     
                  Telling stories about heroes.

James Frankel (editor) and Patti Perret (photographer), The Faces of Fantasy (published by Tor in 1996).
     
     
     
     
     
F aces of F antasy/ O n W riting
     
                  Once, when I was learning my trade as a newspaper