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  "Now, then." Rory drummed his heels underneath them, and they giggled. "What did you want of an old ci-devant like me?"

  Rodney frowned. "What's a seedy van?"

  But Richard said, more loudly, "A story, Grandpa! Another story!"

  "Another?" Rory shook his head sadly. "Ah, poor lads. I'm sorry, then, for I've only the one."

  "Oh, Grandpa! Stop being mean! I mean another story inside the big story!"

  "Oh! Well, that's another matter. Yes, another part of the big story... But, let me see, now... My memory isn't what it used to be..."

  "You left off in the middle of the forest," Rodney said, recognizing a cue when he heard one, and Richard said, "Sir Beaubras had just rescued the damsel Demure."

  "Ah, yes! He had saved her from the enchantment of Ulcer, the Wizard of Orange." Rory gazed off into space, his smile growing dreamy.

  The two boys snuggled down and hushed. They knew that look.

  "Onward they rode," Rory began, "though the bleached and leafless trees of the Forest Malalder reached out long, thorny branches to catch at them."

  The boys shivered with delicious dread.

  "Onward, past the tarn of Lobier, until they came nigh Callow Slough. Then a roar like the thunder of kettledrums shook the forest, and there rose up before them a vasty, rotund ogre..."

  And he was off, taking the boys with him into the land that only he could see, where the knight Beaubras battled and bested the ogre Pomposity, and it fell back into Callow Slough (though perhaps not forever), as all things must that journey not to Granclarte.

  At last, his voice lilted and ended, and he sat gazing off into space, smiling at the vision he beheld.

  Richard looked up at him, holding his breath, then reached over and poked Rodney, who lifted his head slowly, blinking, then realized Grandpa had stopped talking and looked up, hoping. But the nanny-bot emitted a noise like the clearing of a throat and said, "It was a wonderful tale, my lord. But the hour grows late."

  "Yes, of course." Rory's eyes came back into focus, and he smiled down at his grandsons. "That's enough for one night, hmm? Now off to bed with you!"

  "Oh, but Grandpa..."

  "Just a little more, Grandpa!"

  "Boys," the nanny-bot said—not loudly; but it was enough to strengthen Rory against temptation. "No, bedtime is bedtime, and you're past it already. Don't you want Santa to come with his rocket-sled?"

  The boys looked at one another, startled; they had quite forgotten Christmas in the wonder of the story.

  "Off with you, now! Shoo! If I keep you up too late, your mother will forbid you to come here—and so will I, for that matter. The tales of Granclarte are only for those who try with all their might to do what is right for all, and to be good."

  The boys hopped down with alacrity. "Good night, Grandpa!"

  " 'Night!"

  "Merry Christmas, Grandpa!"

  "Not yet, silly!" Richard corrected, with all the lofty authority of a big brother.

  "Good night, lads, and sweet dreams of sugar-plums." Rory gazed after them, doting, as the nanny-bot ushered them out of the study. He heard their voices echoing away down the hall.

  "Boy, we're lucky to have him for a grandpa!"

  "Yeah! Daddy says Grandpa never told him stories like that."

  Rory's eyebrows shot up, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement of guilt. "Ah, Robin! Rupert! What can I say to you, lads? Only that I couldn't see Granclarte, then... Well." He turned around toward his scriptorium. "At least I can leave you a record of it, of what I have seen there, and perhaps, in your old age, you will receive its tale with as great a delight as your sons have... New material."

  The enchanted parchment on the scriptorium went blank and clear as a new page for a moment; then glowing letters appeared on it, showing the words that he had spoken to his grandsons. "Scroll slowly," he murmured, and watched as the rows of words moved slowly upward. Now and again he would say, "Pause"—and lo! The wondrous foolscap would cease scrolling! Then he would point with his miraculous quill which, in accordance with this Court of Granclarte, inscribed with light, not with ink; and, as he spoke a new word or phrase, he could see it appear where his quill indicated. Anon he would blot a word entire with his quill, and it would disappear as though it had never been, or he would change the spelling of a homonym that created a glorious, but ill-placed, pun.

  Sometimes, of course, he only chuckled, and let the pun stand.

  Old Fess stood by, just behind his chair, faithful and patient, attentive and vigilant as ever, silently watching his old master working at the screen of the voicewriter with his light-pen.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Christopher Stasheff spent his early childhood in Mount Vernon, New York, but spent the rest of his formative years in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has always had difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality and has tried to compensate by teaching college. When teaching proved too real, he gave it up in favor of writing full time. He tried to pre-script his life, but couldn't understand why other people never get their lines right. This caused a fair amount of misunderstanding with his wife and four children. He wrote novels because it was the only way he could be the director, the designer, and all the actors too.

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  The Crafters (volume 2)

 

 

  Christopher Stasheff, The Warlock's Grandfather

 

 

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