“Left, this time, I think.”
He went at a trot, and another hour passed. He tried to watch the sky and the angle of the sun, but it did no good. At length he came around again, the way merging with the original trail. This time two sets of hoof prints went to the left, and again he confronted the parting of the ways.
He abandoned the trail and urged his horse through the underbrush, dodging low branches. After a slow- moving and arduous hour …
“Damn.”
The same trail, and ahead the same fork.
He tried going off trail again, this time in another direction. Twigs of saplings snagged at him. Low branches swooped. An angry buzzing informed him that the gourdlike object he had brushed against was a wasps’ nest. He geed up into a gallop and almost had his head taken off by a malevolent tree. He rode blindly for a good long while.
At length he broke into the open. The blasted trail again! — this time with more sets of hoof prints than he could discern.
“I’m starting to get pissed off.”
He turned against the traffic and went back the way he had originally come.
The trail gave out about a minute later. He found himself in a small clearing that had not been there before. He reined his sweating steed around to find that the path had entirely disappeared. Hemmed in, he dismounted.
“All right, what do you want?”
He heard — or thought he heard — laughter.
“Right. Well, we’ll see.”
He walked the circumference of the clearing, peering into the undergrowth. Nothing, no one.
At the center of the clearing was a fairy circle of toadstools, these about knee-high. He stood in the middle of the circle and raised his arms. He murmured a few words.
He waited. Silence.
He said the words again, this time more slowly. He stood still for a good while longer, eyes closed.
A rustling off to the left. He did not open his eyes. Time passed.
Presently a four-legged beast ran into the clearing and halted not far from him. He turned and beheld it.
It was small, had short white hair, and looked like a cross between a goat and a pony. On its head were long golden horns, three of them: two curving ones to the side, and one, slightly straighter, growing out of the middle of the forehead. The creature’s eyes were a piercing blue.
The tricorn regarded him dispassionately.
He asked, “Are you the demiurge around here — or at least its incarnation?”
The empathic vibrations he received in reply seemed to indicate the affirmative.
“Is there something you want of me?”
(Negative.)
“Then you’re simply having a bit of fun?”
(Mirth.)
“Much as I hate to spoil your sport, could I possibly persuade you to let me go?”
(Perhaps.)
“What would it take?”
(Mild amusement.)
“I have the feeling that nothing short of my death would satisfy you, although you don’t want it to happen suddenly. You intend to keep me a prisoner in your domain until I waste away.”
(Laughter.)
“All right, you play rough. But two can play.”
He held out his right hand. A flame sprang to life on his upturned palm. He turned his hand over and the flame spilled to the ground. The grass blazed up, and he stepped back.
Thunder cracked, and rain began to fall. The flames did not go out; they leaped up and roared, spreading, making a path for the undergrowth.
“You’ll find that water won’t quench it,” he called. “Only my counterspell will.”
The thunder faded and the rain stopped.
“Convinced?”
(Affirmative!)
He waved his hands and the flames died. Pale smoke rose from the clearing.
“Now. How about showing me a way out?”
The tricorn stood motionless.
He searched the edge of the clearing. The path had reappeared.
“Fine. I need a little help, though. I want to find a shortcut across the continent. I’m told that a hellwind blows from here to the mountains of Marnass. Will you show me where I can catch this infernal zephyr?”
(Reluctant assent.)
He mounted. “Good. Lead on, hat rack.”
(Indignation.)
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
The tricorn raced ahead on the path. He had trouble keeping up, catching only glimpses of the animal’s silky white tail as he rounded bends. The forest breathed its cool breath on him, the trees parted, and the way was made clear.
After a while he stopped to give the horse a rest. The tricorn foraged in the bushes to one side up ahead. He sat and massaged his aching legs.
He heard a babbling and went down into a nearby gully. Finding a clear stream, he kneeled and drank. The water was crisp, pure, sweet. His shimmering reflection caused him to reflect that he was getting old. He recalled an old family saying:
Returning, he mounted and resumed the journey.
At last he came to the edge of the forest. Ahead were badlands colonized by an occasional stunted tree. The tricorn circled around and darted back into the woods.
At his back he felt a warning.
(Do not return. Ever!)
“Thank you. I won’t.”
He moved forward. The sun beat down on rocks and little else except tufts of dry grass. A ridge of hills cut across the terrain ahead.
A lizard scurried across the trail. Nothing else moved. The sky had turned yellow, vague clouds striping it.
A wind suddenly rose, whipping up dust. The horse neighed and reared up. It was a strange wind, and blew good to no one except those who would seek to cheat time and space. That was what he sought, and he attuned himself to its flow. It blew at his back and toward the hills, pushing him. The horse leaped into a canter, then broke stride into a run. He reined in and brought the animal back to a proper gait. Better to maintain a steady pace.
The ground seemed to go by faster than the horse moved. The effect was disconcerting at first, but soon he had accustomed himself to yet another anomaly.
The hills came up and he climbed, the rate of speed paradoxically increasing as the horse followed a pass marked out by gray boulders. Cliffs threw deep shadows across the trail and slides of talus dumped debris in his path, but the horse was magically surefooted. The wind increased, shrieking at his back.
He reached the summit, and the rate of the ground’s passing picked up even more. The beast ran at freeway cruising speed, impossibly. Then faster, and faster still.
He came down into tableland cut by deep arroyos. Cactuslike plants populated the flats. The nearby ground was a blur, distant scenery passing as in a fast-moving train. Still the speed increased.
Clouds grouped, turning dark. Lightning cut the sky at the horizon and rain began to fall. The wind was fierce now, whipping at him and churning up a whirling storm of dust. Bits of dirt and tiny pebbles stung his face, and he spoke a short bit of magic-making to ward them off.
