“Ah, Tom,” said the gaoler. “Be grateful for what ye got.”

“Put something in this slop! Meat! A man needs meat to be strong!”

“But meat’s expensive, Tom. If ye had two pennies I’d give ye meat, but ye don’t, so be quiet or else I’ll call the doctor to purge your ill humours.”

“I’ll get two copper pennies then. I will!”

“Ha! A thief ye will be too? For that they’ll hang ye, Tom. Stay a loon and be safe.”

And laughing, the gaoler left.

“Are you the bogey-man?” he was asked, and if ever an answer was likely that was it.

But Tom made a face and waved his arms and stuck out his tongue and sputtered, “No! I’m the Devil! Gobblegobblegobble!” and the child ran away in terror, screaming that he had seen the Devil.

Tom laughed. He went a little further and met a maid with a bucket in hand.

“Going a’milking?” said Tom. “Not a good night for that. The Devil’s loose I hear.”

“I’m not milking, sir,” replied she, drawing back.

“Then you should! You should!” He pinched her with both hands in two places where she would not be touched. The maid let out a shriek, Tom a yelp of delight, and the two of them were quickly parted. Tom continued on until the houses thinned out and the stink of the city was behind him. He came to a field, in the middle of which a rock moved.

It was a boulder larger than a man and much heavier too, and yet it moved up and down as if an unseen giant were hefting it. Then suddenly it flew up, up, up, and a star winked as it passed by.

“Won’t be back till tomorrow,” said a little piping voice. Tom looked down and saw a little man standing where the stone had been, a fellow not more than five inches tall and clad in an oak leaf.

“You are very strong,” said Tom. “You must eat fine meat to get that way.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “The thighs of men roasted, the breasts of maids toasted, little babies whole and raw, your mother’s rump, I eat them all—”

“I think I must be getting back. I can’t be out this late.” Tom began to run, but the little man’s voice followed him.

“Wait! You I shall not eat, for the King of Elves holds court tonight and he has summoned you. There’s a great reward waiting for you.”

Tom stopped, turned around, and came back.

“A reward?”

“Yes. Follow me.”

He followed, over fields and fences and walls, through hedges and trees, along roads and over them, into a swamp and out again, all the while falling behind as the other ignored the obstacles that so tormented Tom.

“Slow down,” he called out at last, “or I’ll lose you.”

“You’re not lost. You’re found. You’re here.”

And Tom emerged from a final thicket of thorns onto a wide plain where there was a great bonfire tended by witches, and before long he came to the old log which was the throne of the King of Elves. He saw that the King was not tiny, but tall as a mortal man, with a robe of soft green and a flowing red beard. The Queen of Elves sat beside the King, also dressed in green, and there were strings of acorns in her hair. The King spoke.

“Thomas, you have been called here by me to be my champion. You must joust for me as one must every year for my honour with the enemy. If you are victorious a wish will be granted to you from the fullest resources of my magic.”

“And if I lose?”

“Why then,” laughed the King, “my tithe to Hell will be paid until next year.”

Tom knew he was in dire peril then, but he knew also that there was no escape through the throngs around him, so he made the best of it and joined the feast that was being held for the occasion. He joked with the gnomes and dwarves, took fairies by the dozens into his lap, and he ate well of meats no one has tasted in a thousand years. He drank deep of the molten liquor they brewed, and would have forgotten his predicament entirely had not a bent old man with a white beard trailing along the ground, with lantern and thorn branch in hand and a mangy dog trailing behind, come into the midst of them wailing, “Hellgate is open. The time has come. The foe has arrived. The time has come.”

“Who is that?” whispered Tom to one beside him.

“The Man In The Moon, although presently not in the Moon,” was the reply.

“And the foe?”

“Look.”

The crowd drew away from the fire as it flamed brighter than ever, and out of the middle of it came one who was unmistakably Satan himself, and after him a knight on a black horse wearing black armor, with the face of a skull revealed beneath his upraised visor. His lance was aflame and his eyes seemed to be. Smoke snorted from the nostrils of his mount.

Greetings were exchanged between the Devil and the King, and the Lord of Elves called on Tom.

“Rise and come forward, champion, and fight in my name.”

“But—I have no horse—”

“Then take one, made of air.” The King waved his hand and the dust beneath Tom’s feet began to stir. He was caught in a whirlwind and raised up. He felt the muscles of a horse rippling beneath him. He felt a saddle, and his feet found stirrups, but to his eye there was nothing except a dim shape, like a cloud. His steed whinnied and stamped.

“I have no lance,” said Tom.

“Then take one.” A burning twig was brought from the edge of the fire.

“This is a lance?”

“Take it,” commanded the King and Tom took it by the end that wasn’t afire. As soon as he touched it it lengthened and grew and became a fine, flaming lance indeed.

“Now the battle shall begin,” said the King.

“But I lack a helmet,” said Tom, desperate for excuses.

“Take one then.” The same witch who had handed him the twig now offered a leaf, and he put it on his head where it became a silver helmet with two slits to see through. She gave him also a plate which expanded into a shield, and she said a word and his rags were armor. Now without any more ways to delay the inevitable, Tom gulped hard and muttered a prayer to the Saviour. As he did the whole company hissed like a thousand snakes, and the King said angrily, “Speak not such words!”

In silence Tom was led away from the fire on his horse of wind and dust, and the black knight followed to a place where there was plenty of room for combat. Only the King and the Devil stood near.

“Now fight,” said the King, and Tom was terrified.

“But wait. I’m not ready. I don’t know—”

“What don’t you know?”

“Who am I fighting?”

“The same one who comes every year for this.”

“You mean—nobody has ever beat him?”

“Tom, I have great hopes for you.”

“Well, who is he?”

“The Knight of Ghosts and Shadows. His name is Kamathakalamailetheknafor.”

“What?”

“Such is his name. It is said that no mortal can repeat it, and thus none can gain power over him.”

“Then how shall I—?”

“Good luck, my champion.”

A trumpet sounded. The Knight of Ghosts and Shadows lowered his visor, and his lance. With no further warning he spurred his horse and charged. Tom in his confusion fum­bled for the invisible rein of his barely visible steed. At the same time he kicked it in the ribs and the creature bolted forward. His lance was up, then down, then swaying side to side. When the two met Tom’s point missed his opponent entirely, while the other’s crashed into his shield and broke it like the old plate it was. The force of the blow sent Tom tumbling to the ground.

He landed with a clang of metal and lay stunned. When next he was aware the Knight stood over him with a red hot sword upraised, and helpless Tom, who had raved wilder things before, cried out, “Oh spare me, Kamathakalamailetheknafor, please!”

And the Knight of Ghosts and Shadows paused and began to sway, and then he fell over backwards. At the same time Tom’s armor became his rags again, and with the weight off him he was able to sit up. He saw his smoldering spear on the ground a good way off, and at his feet was a skeleton in a rusty suit, which crumbled as he watched, became only a heap of bones, then dust, then nothing at all.

The King of Elves lifted him to his feet, and all shouted his praises except Satan, who scowled and stalked back into the fire, took the flames with him and shut the door to Hell. By the light of the stars and the moon another feast was held, and this time Tom was treated like a God.

“Now Champion,” said the King after a while. “What reward will you take?”

“I—I—uh—hadn’t thought—I don’t know.”

“Would you like to be King of India?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then know.” And the Elfking took a wand and touched Tom on the head with it. All the folk around him vanished, and the field did also. For a minute Tom was King of India, sitting on his throne while eunuchs fanned him with huge feathers, and a hundred African maidens danced before him.”

“It’s awfully hot there,” he said when he came back, “and I don’t know how to rule anyway.”

“Then do you desire riches?”

“Riches?”

“All the gold in the mountains of the Moon. Look up.”

Tom looked up at the full moon which still had no man in it, and he felt himself floating. As if he were made of smoke he rose above the earth. Below him the field grew small and vanished, and he saw all of England, then all the sea, then all the world. The round face of the moon grew larger, until it filled the whole sky. Then he was falling down, not up, into the valleys and mountains of the moon. He came to a stop in the middle of a barren plain and saw huge ingots the size of elephants strewn about, and moun­tains of pure gold in the distance, and even a volcano which spewed forth a golden stream. Then he was back on earth again and he said, “I could never carry that.”

“Will you make up your mind, soon?” The King was growing impatient. “Dawn will be coming soon and you must choose before then.”

And Tom, afraid of losing all the riches and power and privilege in the world, could say nothing at all.

“Well, think,” said the King. “What did you most recently wish for? What did you want this morning?”

“Two copper pennies,” blurted Tom, before he knew he’d said it.

“Done! Two copper pennies you shall have.”

“Wait, I—”

“Two copper pennies.” The King clapped his hands and did a little dance, and his shape began to change. He shifted into something not at all human, and he shrank and dark­ened, and sprouted feathers. His neck grew disproportionately long; his lips grew out from his face and became a bill; his arms flattened into wings. The King had turned himself into a black swan. Tom looked on in amazement, and he began to feel sick. He seemed to be falling. His limbs would not obey him, and he looked up to see how the Man Not In The Moon, the witches, and even the dwarves towered over him. In the place of his hands he discovered black feathers, and knew then that he had become a swan too.

“Follow,” said the King in a voice that sounded odd coming from the bill of a swan.

The two of them took to the air. It was natural for Tom, like running or jumping. It seemed that he had always known how to fly. He soared with the King away from the field, away from the Isle of Britain entirely, over the chan­nel, across France, and above another sea. The moon was a lantern to light their way, and when clouds closed beneath them there was yet another ocean, this one all of glowing mist. They overtook night owls in their flight, and bats, and even a witch on her broom. All were left behind as Tom fol­lowed the King until land was beneath them again. They dropped lower, passed two artificial mountains, and fol­lowed a river. They came at last to a hidden place, to the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the forgotten valley of Hadoth by the banks of the Nile, to the tomb of a Pharaoh the his­tories never mention. At the door of the tomb they became men very briefly, then serpents, and on their bellies they wriggled between the stones, down into the deepest vault where the coffin of the Black Pharaoh lay. The snake who was the Elfking caused there to be a faint light, and Tom could see the grim, shrivelled face of the Pharaoh, and the two copper coins laid on his eyes.

“There are your pennies, Tom,” said the King. “Take them in your mouth and come away. There isn’t much time.”

And so Tom wriggled over the corpse of the one who had rested there so many centuries and scooped up the two pennies off the eyes to reveal a hateful glare undiminished by time. He screamed at the sight and nearly swallowed the coins. The light went out, and in complete darkness the Elfking spoke.

“Come! Hurry!”

The two of them crawled back between the stones, and up out of the tomb. Tom followed the other only by the rustling of the King’s dry body, and by smell, which was much more acute than it had been when he had a human nose. At last dim light appeared overhead, and they emerged onto the desert sand. To the east the sky was beginning to brighten.

“Be quick,” said the King. “If daylight catches us we can never resume our true forms.” He changed them both into swans once more, and off they flew, racing the dawn all the way back to England.

This time the clouds beneath them were not a sea but a land, a wondrous country brought alive by the sun, and hidden to those who dwell only on the ground. Tom thought he saw hills and valleys, bright castles with tall white tow­ers overlooking glowing fields. Where the clouds broke there were vast cateracts dropping to the unimaginable world below.

They flew on until London was beneath them, and the swan that was the Elfking said to Tom, “Go now where you will, and touch ground only when you have arrived, for when you do you’ll be a man again.” Then he folded his wings and dropped away into the retreating darkness, and was seen no more.

Tom winged on, over the palace, over the bridge and the Thames, until he came to Bishopgate. He swooped very low and a night watchman saw him, and wondered what was the meaning of this strange thing, this swan with coins in its bill. The watchman came for a closer look as Tom dropped behind a fence. He found him there, looking dazed, but there was no swan. Tom had changed, spit out the coins, and pocketted them the instant before the guard arrived. He was recognized.

“You! What are you doing loose? You know where you belong.”

“I know, and I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Then I’ll take you back.” The watchman took Tom by the scruff of the neck and dragged him through the still empty and dark streets as morning began to break over the city. He came to a familiar old building with a wooden sign swinging over the door which reads:

BETHLEHEM HOSPITAL
FOR THE DEMENTED
God Help all ye
who enter here.

“Is this one of yours?” demanded the guard of the gaoler.

“It is.”

“Then see that he doesn’t get out again.”

When the watchman was gone, Tom said, “I’ve got the two pennies, like I said I would.”

“Did ye now? Indeed.”

“In fact and also in deed.”

“Quick! Show me them before anyone else wakes up.”

Tom gave him the two coins, and the gaoler puzzled over the unfamiliar designs on them.

“Will you put meat in my soup now?”

The gaoler dropped one penny in his pocket, and held up the other. “The first is to make up for the trouble ye caused by running away, but the second will buy ye something for your dinner, as long as ye tell me where ye got them.”

Tom told him the whole story, leaving out no details, and distorting it very little. When he was done he was not believed, as he had feared. The gaoler looked at him silently for a moment with a mixture of disgust and pity, then sighed, “Ah Tom, you’re mad as ever and nothing will change that.”

He put Tom back in his cell, and dropped the second coin in with the first, but the two did not rest there. The end was not yet, not quite anyway.

The gaoler sent a boy down into the cellar to kill a rat for the soup, then forgot about Tom altogether. He paced back and forth desperately, waiting for the long hours to pass until the shops would open, the coins like red-hot coals in his pocket, so eager was he to spend them. The gaoler was not a thrifty man.

At last a steeple clock struck nine, and the time was come. He ran out into the street, past windows filled with tempting things, and made his first stop an inn. Inside, he ordered a drink, had one of his new pennies changed, and it was only a moment before the innkeeper was turning the coin over and over in his hand and muttering, “This money isn’t English. And it isn’t French, or Spanish.”

Just then the innkeeper’s wife came by. She took one look and pronounced, “It’s not money at all. It’s fake!”

“Fake! Fraud! Counterfeit!” The cry was raised by all there, by all who stood in the street outside, and a mob formed. They chased the gaoler back the way he had come, yelling, and a sheriff joined them, and several guardsmen with pikes.

When they got to the hospital the crowd huddled outside while the sheriff and the guards went in one minute and came out the next with the offender in custody.

“ ’Tis death to counterfeit,” the sheriff intoned right­eously.

“What?” came a voice. “Would you put to death a poor lunatic that doesn’t know right from wrong?”

Everyone turned, and there was Tom standing in the street. He’d climbed out of the window again and come down to see what all the excitement was about. His eyes met the gaoler’s and no words were spoken, but a message was passed:

Help me Tom. They’ll kill me if ye don’t. I’ll do anything. Please.

“Who are you?” demanded the sheriff.

“I’m the keeper.”

“What? He’s the keeper!”

“Oh no, he’s a lunatic. We let him play his game of being the keeper to keep him good. Otherwise he’s violent. His wit’s diseased.”

And at that moment the gaoler was so astonished that he looked the part.

“You mean,” said the sheriff, “that he’s—mad?”

“Quite”

“Then he belongs in a cell, not out here loose!”

“He does.”

The sheriff ordered the guards, “You there! Take him inside and lock him in a cell.”

They did, and from their looks when they came out you’d think they had been handling a leper.

“Thank you,” said Tom. “You’ve all been very helpful.”

“See that he doesn’t get out again,” said the sheriff. “If he does, lunatic or not, I’ll have his head.”

“I’ll keep him safe. Don’t worry.”

* * *

“Here’s meat for you,” said Tom, “and I won’t charge you for it. Not anything. Not a penny.”

“Ah Tom,” the other sighed, “Ye’re the soul of kindness.”