The Reality War

  by

  Robert Boyczuk

  Magic! Bertwold thought, grinding his teeth and staring at the castle

  wedged neatly -- and quite impossibly -- in the heart of the pass. Nothing good

  ever comes of magic! Beside him, Lumpkin, his crew chief, mined his nose

  abstractly, evincing no interest whatsoever in the castle.

  The two men stood at the juncture where the road turned from gravel to

  dirt. All work had ceased; picks, shovels, and wheelbarrows lay in the long grass

  next to the idle road crew. Behind them the paving machine huffed in a quiet

  rhythm, its bellows rising and falling, as if it were a beast drifting off to sleep.

  The digging and grading machines had already been shut off and lay like giant,

  inanimate limbs on the road. Bertwold had fashioned them thus -- in the shapes

  of human arms and legs -- to assuage the King's distrust of machines. But now

  their very forms irritated Bertwold, reminding him of all the hoops he had already

  had to jump through to win the Royal contract.

  And now this.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Bertwold stared miserably at the

  castle.

  Its outer walls were fashioned of basalt, rising seamlessly from the

  ground to a height of nearly ten rods. Each corner boasted a square tower

  surmounted by an enormous ivory statue. Curiously, all four of the carvings

  appeared to be of imperfect figures, each lacking one or more limbs. The statue on the nearest corner was missing a head and sporting two truncated stumps

  where there should have been arms. Within the castle itself, visible above the

  crenellations of the walls, were apical towers of coloured emerald and ruby glass;

  and between them, the tops of ovate domes that shone with the lustre of gold and

  sparkled with the cool radiance of silver. Thin, attenuated threads, the colour of

  flax, (walkways Bertwold reckoned, though they were empty) wound round and

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  connected the buildings in an intricate pattern that was both complex and beautiful to behold -- and, he thought with a slight degree of irritation in his

  engineer's mind -- altogether impossible.

  "How long has it been there?" he asked at last.

  "We're not sure, boss," Lumpkin said. "It was there when we came out

  this morning to start work."

  "Have you sent anyone to ... " Bertwold hesitated, not sure exactly what

  might be appropriate in this case. "... to, ah, ring the bell?"

  "Well, no, sir. I tried to order a man to do it, but they're scared of its

  magic, you see...."

  Turning to Lumpkin, Bertwold tapped him on the chest with his

  forefinger. "Then you go find out who lives in that thing, and what they're doing there. You, personally. Don't send a labourer." Lumpkin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but Bertwold cut him off. "Or I'll find someone else who's

  hungry for a promotion." Lumpkin clamped his mouth shut. "In the meantime,

  I'll get the men back to work. We're still at least half a league from the castle, and there's plenty of road yet to lay. As far I know, there's nothing in the contract that prevents your men from working in the presence of the supernatural."

  Lumpkin, now a shade paler, nodded and swallowed hard. Spinning on

  his heel, he stumbled away, the gravel crunching under his bootsoles.

  Bertwold sighed. He had not counted on this when he had won the

  King's commission to build the greatest road the land had ever seen. He looked at

  the castle, imagining the pass as it had been yesterday and the day before, and

  every day before for as long as men remembered, a wide, inviting V of sky that

  gave onto the tablelands beyond.

  Why would anyone want to drop a castle there?

  Lady Miranda peered through the arrow slit. Ants, she thought, watching

  as a clutch of figures emerged from a tent and scattered, busy with their

  unfathomable, pointless tasks. Insects.

  She looked at her right hand, then at her left, and pursed her lips.

  Between the two there weren't enough fingers remaining to end this quickly.

  Perhaps if she asked Poopsie....

  No, she thought, he'd never agree. He was still off somewhere sulking.

  It had been as much as she could do to convince him to move the castle from that

  horrid swamp to where they were now, even though he'd undershot their

  destination by over a hundred leagues. If she had been the one with the talent for

  moving it would have been done right; but hers was transubstantiation, of little

  use in such endeavours. She knew he should have offered his entire leg and not

  just the shin, for the gods were capricious and not entirely to be trusted. But that

  was Poopsie, always trying to cut corners, to save a finger here, a toe there, and

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  ending up paying a much higher price for it in the long run. She'd wanted to warn him, but had, with difficulty, held her tongue. Now he'd have to go an entire arm

  or the other leg to unstick them if they ever wanted to leave this absurd spot.

  And they must.

  The mortals would never leave them alone until both she and Poopsie

  had been whittled down to their trunks. Humans were ants, swarming over their

  betters and bearing them down by dint of sheer numbers. Crush a hundred and a

  thousand would return. Their thick-headedness was simply incomprehensible.

  Like the one who had disturbed her sleep yesterday morning.

  Lumphead, he had called himself. Lumphead, indeed! A thoroughly nasty, bug of

  a man. Imagine, the nerve, asking her to move the castle! Never! she had shouted, outraged at the impudence of the request, though it was the very thing

  for which she wished. How dare he! Her anger rekindled for an instant as she

  remembered his effrontery -- and how she had reacted instinctively, without

  thinking. Then she smiled, recalling the startled look on Lumphead's face as she

  had reached out and touched his nose, and broccoli had sprouted in its place.

  It had been worth her little toe.

  Bertwold tried hard not to stare at Lumpkin's nose.

  Instead he watched his three sappers wrap burlap around the explosives

  before carefully packing them on small, two-wheeled carts. Another coiled

  varying lengths of fuse around his shoulder.

  "Ready, sir."

  Bertwold nodded at the fusilier who had addressed him. "Then let's get

  on with it."

  "Yes, sir!"

  The men lifted the handles to their carts and began jogging along the dirt

  path towards the castle, the wheels raising small clouds of dust. Ha! Bertwold thought as he watched his men draw closer to the base of the wall, Let them

  magic their way out of this!

  Lady Miranda's beauty was legendary. At least in her presence.

  Studying herself in the mirror, she daubed an exact amount of rouge

  beneath her eyepatch. She frowned, then turned her head so that her face was in

  profile, her patch blending in with the dramatic shadows and angles of her

  sculpted features. She had changed into a slinky black velvet number that

  matched the colour of the patch. Yes, she decided, perhaps I can use it to good effect. The patch certainly added to her air of mystery, making her flawless skin appear even more striking. Picking up a silver-handled brush, she began stroking

  raven hair that fell to the small of her back. She smiled. Ya still got it, baby, she thought. Then, with just a slight degree of irritation: Lord knows I might need it 3

  soon. She sighed. Certainly she'd been careful, very careful, to dole out her magic in small doses over the years, saving it for only the most pressing

  occasions. Her appearance had, after all, been her saving grace: it was how she'd

  attracted Poopsie -- and his countless predecessors. She'd managed to remain

  relatively whole while her suitors had whittled themselves down to slivers of flesh

  to gain her favour. But Poopsie had reached the point where he was becoming

  more and more reluctant to do so. He, along with his ardour, was thinning out.

  That's what had landed them in this cursed mess in the first place.

  The mirror chimed, snapping Miranda out of her reverie; its surface

  shimmered like a wind-blown lake, distorting her reflection. A moment later a

  pasty-faced cherub wearing a headset appeared where her reflection had formerly

  been. "Ladyship," it intoned in a thin, reedy voice. "The bugs are restless." The cherub disappeared and was replaced by a scene outside the castle. Several

  figures toiled along the road, dragging wooden carts behind them. The view

  narrowed, drawing in on the men. Visible, some rods behind, and exhorting the

  men on loudly, was that hideous Lumpy fellow whose nose she'd transformed the

  previous day; and beside him stood another man, a head taller, and broad of

  shoulder. A breeze flicked his locks of golden hair restlessly in the wind.

  Miranda ordered her mirror cherub to zoom in.

  She sucked in a breath. He was a big fellow. A towering, bear of man,

  arms locked defiantly across a barrel chest, a scowl twisting up his face. And a

  striking face it was. Eyes grey as sea mist, nose long and straight, cheeks

  prominent and sculpted like her own. And four perfect, fully-formed limbs.

  Miranda's heart skipped a beat. Why, she wondered with no small amount of

  bitterness, couldn't more immortals look like that?

  "Milady, the ants draw nigh ...."

  A V creased Miranda's brow; she shifted her attention back to the figures

  dragging the carts. Explosives, she suddenly realized with distaste.

  She expelled a sharp breath and cursed loudly. They would be at the

  gates in a few minutes. It was too late to find Poopsie.

  Gathering up her skirts, she dashed out of her sitting room and down the

  stairs, taking them two at a time and emerging in the courtyard. She ran over to

  the front gate and knelt in the dirt, her velvet gown forgotten. Placing her palm

  flat on the ground, she concentrated on the two remaining fingers of her left

  hand and began chanting under her breath. Almost immediately her fingers

  stretched, then liquefied, soaking into the earth and transmuting the hard-packed,

  washed out dirt to a lumpy beige mass centred around her palm. It glistened in

  the sunlight. The transmutation grew, milk-white circles forming in pockets on its

  surface. It continued to spread, now moving away from Miranda, following the

  path under the gate and out towards the men trotting up the road.

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  Bertwold watched the sapper slip and fall. The man tried to rise, but the more he struggled the further he sank into the ground. He managed to drag

  himself up slightly on the protruding edge of his cart, but his efforts only mired

  the cart deeper. He wiped his face with the back of his arm and spat something

  from his mouth. " Oatmeal! " he screamed.

  "What did he say?" asked Bertwold.

  "Ootmal," said Lumpkin, his voice altered since his nose had been turned

  to broccoli. "The rood's ben tooned to ootmal."

  "Oh," Bertwold said. "I see."

  Two of the men -- along with the cart -- had already slipped beneath the

  surface. Another had managed to half-swim, half-crawl to safety at the side of the

  road where the ground was firmer.

  Bertwold stared at the castle and ground his teeth.

  A moment later there was a muffled roar. The oatmeal road exploded

  upwards like a fountain; it showered down in thick droplets splattering all those

  who had gathered to watch, a large lump narrowly missing Bertwold and plopping

  wetly atop Lumpkin's skull.

  Miranda reached the ramparts just in time to see the ensuing explosion.

  She laughed aloud as the oatmeal rained down on her enemies. Chew on that,

  silly mortals! she thought. Vulgar food for vulgar pests! That big one didn't seem quite so haughty now that he was wearing a suit of oatmeal.

  Miranda felt exhilarated, alive. And something else, too. A strange, yet

  not wholly unpleasant, tingling. Perhaps this was just what she needed. Nothing

  like a bit of a excitement to shake the dust from your bones.

  She clambered onto the thick ledge of the crenel so she would be visible

  to those below. Then she waved, looking directly at the big man, laughing and

  knowing her laugh would be carried clearly on the tongue of the wind to those

  annoyingly perfect ears ....

  There was no denying she was beautiful.

  Bertwold stared through his brass telescope at the infuriating women.

  She sat on the parapet, brushing her hair as if nothing were amiss, acknowledging

  his presence by blowing him an occasional raspberry. Cheeky impertinence! he

  thought. He was angry at her -- and angry at himself for finding that damned

  eyepatch so fascinating!

  "Weel?"

  "Well, what?" Bertwold answered irritably. He stepped back from the

  telescope, and made a mental note that, at a more discreet moment, he would

  suggest a thorough steaming might help Lumpkin in the preservation of his

  wilting nose.

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  "Whoot shuld I teel the mun?"

  Bertwold turned. Some of the crew were playing cards, others stood in

  small groups, talking in low voices. Bertwold stared at a digging machine, its oak

  bucket cupped in the shape of human hand, resting uselessly on the side of the

  road.

  "Assemble the men," he said. "I have an idea."

  Bertwold stood behind the machine, pleased that its design and

  construction had proceeded so smoothly. It had taken only a day, remarkable,

  really, when he thought about it. Perhaps his men shared the same agitation to get

  on with things that dogged him; or maybe they were just anxious to complete the

  road and return to their families. Whatever the case, the guilds had worked co-

  operatively for once, and would have posted their first injury-free day had it not

  been for the knifing.

  Bertwold walked the length of his new machine, checking the work.

  Inside the frame from the levelling machine, they had placed the arm from the

  digging machine, hinged on a massive, metal pin. Bertwold nodded at the end of

  his inspection, deciding it would make a passable catapult.

  He surveyed the castle wall with his telescope, settling on a spot midway

  between the towers.

  The men stood ready.

  Bertwold barked an order and three bare-chested men bent to the task of

  turning a large windlass that drew the catapult's arm lower. A ratchet snicked in

  time to the men's grunts. When the arm would go no lower, a second crew

  wrestled a round, black bomb into the cupped palm at the end of the arm.

  Lumpkin, who Bertwold had placed in charge of the catapult, jotted a few quick

  calculations on a pad he held in his hand, and directed the men to angle the cart

  ever so slightly. A moment later, he turned to Bertwold and said, "Weady, Sur!"

  Bertwold nodded.

  "Fur!" Lumpkin shouted at a burly man holding a mallet.

  The man raised his eyebrows in a quizzical look.

  "Fur, I said!"

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "Fire," Bertwold said quietly.

  "Oh," the man said, then turned and knocked the ratchet stay free with

  his mallet.

  The arm flashed upwards, and the cart jerked sharply, its wheels

  momentarily lifting off the ground. Bertwold watched the bomb arc towards the

  castle.

  It struck near the top of the wall and exploded, the thunderous sound

  rushing back to them a second after the flash. A section, just above the point at

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  which the missile struck, slowly tumbled backwards and out of sight, leaving a small, but noticeable gap, like a missing front tooth.

  The men cheered, and Bertwold turned to look at Lumpkin. Though it

  was hard to tell, he thought he could detect a smile of satisfaction beneath the

  green mass of broccoli.

  "Aieee!" shrieked Miranda, dancing backwards when the wall tumbled

  down, narrowly missing her and burying Poopsie, who had been seated in the rose

  garden. "Aieee!" she said again. Then, recovering her composure, she stamped her feet in indignation. How dare they! she thought. The insolent insects! "That's it!" she said to the rubble heap that had been Poopsie, "Now, I'm really mad!"

  "Now, now, Miranda, better not to get yourself worked up." Poopsie's

  voice was barely audible from beneath the debris. "They're only doing what

  mortals usually do. Let's think about this thing rationally ...."

  "No!" Miranda shouted as a large section of the fallen wall began to stir,

  loose dirt and stones trickling off its edges. "I will not let this go unpunished!"

  The chunk of wall floated upwards, then hovered. Another piece began to shift.

  "Please, Miranda, before you go throwing away perfectly good body

  parts on a pointless gesture." Poopsie's voice was clearer now, and Miranda

  recognized the wheedling tone. She knew it was his own precious body parts he

 

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