“What do you mean?”

  “ ‘Metaphysics.’ The word means, literally, after, or over, physics. In other words, when the physics you know, the kind you measure with your damned slide rule, ends, metaphysics begins. And that’s where we are right now, my lad—at the beginning of being beyond physics.”

  “Whew!” He gulped down his drink and gestured for another. “It has rubbed off on you.”

  “Think about it. Do we really know the exact relationship of space and time and matter? What are you, Holger? Where are you: Or rather, where-when are you?”

  “I’m here and now, drinking some not very good liquor!”

  “You’re in balance—in tune?—with a specific continuum. So am I—with the same one. That continuum embraces a specific universe, one that functions according to a very complex series of laws. We know some of those laws; hence we have organized bodies of knowledge we call chemistry, physics, astronomy—”

  “And voodoo!” He lifted his glass. “Time you stopped t’inking and begun some serious drinking. Skaal!”

  I let it go. Holger never mentioned my speculations again, but I’m positive he later remembered them…and possibly understood them. But enough of that, let me get on with the story.

  The war broke out overseas, and Holger grew more unhappy about it all the time. He had no special political opinions, but he hated the Nazis with a fervor that surprised me. It surprised him, too, in a way. When the Germans occupied his country, he went on a three-day jag.

  The occupation went peacefully, for a while, and Holger dropped his notions of enlisting in Canada. But by 1941 there was trouble starting up in Denmark, and it became clear that the States would sooner or later be drawn into the war. It took Holger a lot of time and beer to make up his mind what to do. The most effective way to hit back was, plainly, to join the British or American army, but somehow he got a fixation that he must return home. It didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t get rid of it, and finally he yielded. He quit his job, we gave him a farewell party, and he sailed for Spain. From there he was able to wangle a trip back; Denmark was technically neutral, though you were beginning to hear gunshots and explosions.

  I imagine the Germans kept an eye on him for a while, suspecting he might be an agent. He gave them no trouble at first, but stayed on his job at Burmeister & Wain. It wasn’t till mid-1942 that he really went underground.

  The story of his labors doesn’t come in here till we get to a certain night in the late summer of 1943. Then there was a man who had to be gotten out of Denmark. He had information and abilities which the Allies needed rather badly. The Germans watched him incessantly, for they knew what he was. Nevertheless, the underground spirited him out of his home and conveyed him down to the Sound, where a boat was waiting to take him to Sweden.

  It may never be known whether the Nazi police were on his trail or whether it was simply a German patrol which spotted men on the shore long after curfew. Someone cried out, someone else fired, and then the battle was on. It was an open, stony beach, with just enough light from the stars and the illuminated Swedish coast to see by. No way to retreat. The boat got going, and the underground band settled down to hold off the Germans till it was well away.

  Holger Carlsen fully expected to die, but there wasn’t time to be afraid. He crouched on the pebbly sand, the Luger hot in his fingers, and fired into the shadowy mass of the enemy. Bullets were whining around his ears, someone screamed and held his belly and coughed blood, and Holger took aim and fired some more.

  Then all his world blew up in flame and darkness.

  -1-

  He woke slowly, and lay for a while without awareness of anything but the pain in his head. Then, gradually, vision came, and he saw the root of a tree in front of his nose. When he turned over, a soft, pungent blanket of old fallen leaves crackled gently under him.

  “Hell!” he muttered and sat up.

  He was in a forest, and it was daylight. When he touched his head, he felt clotted blood. His thinking was still slow, but he realized that a bullet must have creased his scalp and knocked him out. A few centimeters lower— He shivered.

  But what had happened since? He lay in a forest, and there was no one else around, no sign of any other being. It looked as if his friends had escaped, taking him along, and hidden him in some little tract of woods; but why, then, had they abandoned him?

  He got up, holding his head. He felt stiff, and there was a great hunger in him. Sunlight slanting between high old trees told him that it was afternoon. Morning light doesn’t have that peculiar golden quality. Heh! He’d slept the clock around! He sneezed.

  Not far off was a small brook, tinkling through deep sun-flecked shadows. He went over and drank thirstily. The clear cold water helped a lot, and he looked about him and tried to figure out where he was. Grib’s Wood?

  No, by Heaven. This forest was—wild. The trees were huge and ancient, beech and ash and oak thickly covered with moss, and the underbrush was tangled under them. There was no such area in all Denmark; there hadn’t been since the Middle Ages.

  A gray squirrel ran up a trunk as he stared, and a pair of starlings flew away. Through a rift in the leafage, he saw a hovering bird, a hawk. Were any hawks left in his country?

  Well, maybe a few, he didn’t know. He was still too groggy to think. He bathed his head, drank some more, and wondered what to do next. If he’d been left here by his friends, there must be a good reason, and he shouldn’t wander off. At the same time, something might have happened to them since—

  “Well, my boy, you can hardly stay here overnight,” he said. “Let’s at least find out where we are.” His voice seemed unnaturally loud in the rustling stillness.

  Another noise— He tensed before recognizing it as the impatient whicker of a horse. That made him feel better. There must be a farm nearby. His legs were fairly steady now, and he pushed through a screen of young trees to find the horse.

  When he did, he stopped dead. “No,” he said aloud.

  It was a gigantic animal, a stallion the size of a Percheron though its build was more graceful, and sleek and black as polished midnight. It was not tethered, but had an elaborate fringed bridle leading off a silver-worked headstall; on its back was a high-peaked saddle, a sweeping, colorfully embroidered blanket, and bundle of some kind.

  Holger swallowed and approached closer. All right, so somebody liked to ride around in such style. “Hallo,” he called. “Hallo, is anyone there?”

  The horse tossed his flowing mane and whinnied eagerly as he neared. A velvety nose nuzzled him, and the big hoofs lifted as if to be off. Holger patted the brute—he’d never seen a horse so friendly to strangers—and looked closer. Engraved in the silver of the headstall was a word: Papillon.

  “Papillon,” he said, just to hear his own voice.

  The horse whinnied again, stamped, and dragged at the bridle he held.

  “Papillon, is that your name?” Holger stroked him. “It’s French for butterfly, isn’t it? Fancy calling a big fellow like you Butterfly.”

  The bundle behind the saddle caught his attention, and he stepped over to look at it. What the devil—chain mail!

  “Hallo!” he called again. “Is anyone there? Help!”

  There was no answer. A crow jeered at him.

  Looking around, Holger saw a long steelheaded shaft leaning against a tree—a lance, it was, a regular medieval lance. Now he got excited. His restless life had made him less law-abiding than most of his countrymen, and he didn’t hesitate to untie the bundle and spread it out. There was quite a bit: a byrnie long enough to reach his knees, a helmet, a dagger, and the quilted underpadding for such armor. Then there were some changes of clothes, consisting of cloaks, tunics, breeches, and so on, all of coarse, gaily dyed cloth trimmed with fur. Going around to the port side of the horse, he wasn’t surprised to find a sword and shield hanging there. The shield was of the conventional heraldic form, about four feet long, and obviously new; when he took the canvas cover off its metal surface, he saw a design of three crouching lions, gold on azure, alternating with three red hearts.

  It struck a dim remembrance in him somewhere, and he stood puzzling over it for a while. Was it— Wait. The Danish coat of arms. No, that had nine hearts. The memory sank down again.

  Now what in the world— He scratched his head. Had somebody been organizing a pageant, or— He drew the sword. It was a huge, broad-bladed thing, double-edged and cross-hiked, meant for cutting, and it bore signs of wear. His engineer’s eye recognized low-carbon steel. Nobody reproduced medieval equipment that accurately, even for a movie, let alone a parade; yet it was too large for the small man of the Middle Ages.

  Papillon snorted and reared. Holger whirled around and saw the bear.

  It was a big brown one, which had perhaps come ambling along to investigate the noise. It blinked sleepily at them, and Holger wished wildly he had his gun, then it turned and walked off again.

  Holger leaned against Papillon’s saddle till he got his wind back. “Now a brushwood forest,” he heard himself saying earnestly, “is possible. There may be a few hawks left. But there are no, positively no bears in Denmark.”

  Unless one had escaped from a zoo— Now he was going hog-wild. What counted was learning the facts.

  Was he crazy, or delirious, or dreaming? Not too likely. His mind was working pretty well by now. He sensed sunlight, leaves, the sharp mingled smells of horse and forest and his own sweat; it was all utterly prosaic. Anyway, there was nothing he could do but carry on, even in a dream. What he needed was some information and some food.

  On second thought, he reversed the order of importance.

  The stallion seemed friendly enough. He had no right to take him, but his case was probably more urgent than that of whatever owner had so carelessly left the animal here. In fact, being untied, the horse had probably strolled off.

  Methodically, Holger re-packed the bundle and tied it back on. The stallion whinnied softly as he mounted, and walked over to the lance so he could pick it up. “Good boy,” he said aloud. “I never thought horses were that smart.” He fitted the butt of the weapon into a rest he found descending from the saddle, took the reins in his left hand, and clucked. Papillon started westward.

  It wasn’t till he had been riding for some time that Holger grew aware of his own unconscious skill. His experience with horses had been confined to some rather unhappy incidents at riding academies, and he recalled now having always said that a horse was only good for taking up space that might otherwise be occupied by another horse. Funny, the instant liking he’d felt for this black monster. And funnier, too, the easy way his body moved in the saddle, as if he’d done this all his life. When he thought about it, he grew awkward again, and Papillon snorted and shied; so he pushed it from his mind and concentrated on picking a way through the trees. It was a clumsy business, riding through pathless woods, especially if you were toting a lance.

  The sun was low now, hidden by the black forms of trees, only a few bright slivers showing. Damn it, there just wasn’t a wild stretch this big anywhere in the country. Had he somehow been carried unconscious to Russia? Or had the bullet thrown him into amnesia for weeks or months? No, that wouldn’t do, his injury was fresh and he was wearing the same shirt and pants as last night, not much dirtier than they had been then. Then what in hell—?

  He sighed. Worry was being replaced with thoughts of food. Let’s see, about three broiled cod and a mug of Carlsberg Hof— No, let’s be American and have a T-bone, smothered in French-fried onions, and—

  Papillon reared, almost throwing him. Through the brush and the rising darkness, a lion was coming.

  Holger yelled. The lion stopped, twitched its tail, and rumbled in its maned throat. Papillon skittered around the beast, snorting. Holger grew aware that he had dropped the lance shaft into a horizontal rest and was pointing it forward.

  Somewhere there was a noise that could only be a wolf-howl. The lion stood its ground, and Holger guided Papillon circling it and out of sight. He wanted to gallop, but a branch would surely sweep him off if he tried it in this murk. He was sweating.

  Night came, and they stumbled through gloom. Holger’s thoughts steadied themselves after a fashion. Bears and wolves and lions— That sounded like no place on earth, except maybe a remote district of India. But they didn’t have European trees in India—did they? He tried to recall his Kipling, but a branch swatted him in the face and turned him to cursing.

  “It looks,” he said aloud, “as if we’ll spend the night outdoors.”

  Papillon shoved on, a vague shadow in a darkness that muttered with voices. Holger heard owls, a remote screeching that might be a wildcat, more wolves. And something else—yes! A laughter, tittering low in the brush—“Who’s there? Who is that?”

  There was a patter of small feet running away, and the laughter faded. Holger shivered. It was getting cold.

  Then he saw stars and realized they had emerged in a clearing. A yellow light glimmered ahead. A house? He urged Papillon ahead, and the stallion broke into a jarring trot.

  When they got up to the house, Holger could see that it was of the most primitive sort, a rudely thatched cottage of wattled clay. Firelight was red on smoke rising from a hole in the roof, and gleamed out the little windows and around the sagging door. He paused, licking his lips, almost afraid to stop and make inquiries.

  Well—it was chilly out. He decided it was wise to remain mounted, and thumped on the door with his lance butt.

  It creaked open, and a bent figure stood black against the lighted interior. An old woman’s voice, high and cracked, came to him: “Who is it? Who would stop with Mother Gerd?”

  “A—stranger,” said Holger slowly.

  “Ah—Ah, yes. A fine young knight, I see, yes, yes. Come, fair sir, dismount ye and partake of what little a poor old woman can offer. Come, come, be not afeared. Shelter is all too rare, here by the edge of the world.”

  Holger peered beyond her into the shack. He couldn’t see anyone else; it should be safe enough to stop off.

  He was on the ground before he realized that she had been speaking in a language he did not know—and that he had answered her in the same tongue.

  -2-

  He sat at a rickety table, his eyes stinging with the smoke that curled under the rafters. One door led into a stable where his horse was now tied; otherwise there was only this low room. It held a few bits of rude furniture, a straw tick, a hearth on which the fire burned, a cat, and a disparately large and ornate wooden chest. The woman, Mother Gerd, was bent over the fire, stirring up a meal for him in an old iron pot. She was herself incredibly ancient, stooped and withered in a dress like a tattered sack, and gray hair straggled about a hook-nosed, sunken face that seemed caught forever in a snag-toothed grin. But her eyes were bright and black and very sharp.

  “Ah, yes, yes,” she said, “ ’tis not for the likes of me, poor old woman that I be, to inquire of that which strangers would keep hid. There are many who’d rather go a-secret, in these uneasy lands near the edge of the world, and for all I know ye might be some knight of Faerie itself in human guise, who’d put a spell on an impertinent tongue. Nonetheless, good sir, might I make bold to ask a name of ye? Not your own name, understand, if ye wish not to give it, but some name to address ye properly and with respect.”

  “I am Holger Carlsen,” he answered absently.

  She started, almost knocking over the pot. “Say ye so?”

  “Why—” Was he wanted here? Was this German territory, or— He felt the dagger, which he had prudently thrust in his belt. “What is there about that name?”

  “Oh—nothing, good sir—” Gerd looked away, then back to him. “Save that Holger and Carl are both somewhat well-known names, as ye well wot, though in sooth ’tis never been said that one was the son of the other, save in the sense that a king is—”

  “I am neither of those,” he said hastily, to stem the tide. “It’s only chance, I imagine.”

  She dished up a bowl of stew for him, and he attacked it without stopping to worry about germs or poison. Bread and cheese went with it, hacked off by his knife and eaten with his fingers, and a mug of uncommonly good ale. It was a long time before Holger leaned back, sighed, and nodded satisfaction. “Thank you,” he said. “It saved my life.”

  “ ’Tis naught, sire, ’tis but coarse fare for one such as ye, who must oft have supped with kings and belted earls, and listened to the minstrels of Provence, their glees and curious tricks, but though I be old and humble, yet would I do ye the honors which—”

  “I marvel at your ale,” said Holger quickly. “I’d not thought to find any so good, unless you—” he meant to say, “unless you bought it in some great city,” but she interrupted him with a sly little laugh.

  “Ah, good Sir Holger, for in truth ’tis a knight ye must be, I see ye’re a man of wit and penetrating eye and must know all the poor old woman’s tricks at your very fingertips. Yet though most of your order do frown on such cantrips and call ’em devices of the Devil, though in truth ’tis no different in principle from the wonder-working relics of some saint, that do their miracles alike for Christian or paynim, still must ye be aware that all here in this land do traffic in such little magics, and that ’twould scarce be justice to burn a poor old wife for witching herself up a little beer to comfort her old bones of winter nights when there be such many and powerful sorcerers, open traffickers in black arts, who go unpunished, and—”

  So you’re a witch? thought Holger. That I’ve got to see. What did she think she was putting over on him, anyway? What kind of buildup was he getting?

  He listened with half an ear while he puzzled over the matter of language. It was a strange tongue, an archaic-sounding French with a lot of Germanic words mixed in, one that he might have been able to unravel slowly but could surely never have spoken as if it were his native speech. Somehow, the transition to—wherever this was—had equipped him with the local dialect, and—