Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 106: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

of the room was a table made of a single slab of slate supported by a block of hewn granite. Smaller blocks served as chairs. On the table were a broken clay crock and several clay mugs. J followed the cyclops’ example and sat down at the table. He poured a dark, heavy-odored liquor into two of the mugs and handed me one. I waiched him drain his, then sniffed at mine. A rather swecush, though flat, scent, The bulging blue eye winked confidentially. “Not bad, eh?” He smacked his lips and filled his mug again. “We make it outen honey. It goes down even better'n White Mule.” [tasted it—and was rather shaken by its strength, A hazy memory floated around the inner depths of my mind... the memory of tales of ancient Cornish feasting-halls, where warriors rolled under the benches, drunk with a fermented liquor made of honey, water, and spices. . . . They called it mead... Idiocy writhed in the freak’s gibbering mouth. “Ole Gran’pappy Kobolder—we call him Kobold for short—wal, he was the one who fust mixed the fust mashpot full of this stuff. He mixed it up in Cornwall, and up in the fur North Country—and then he brought the idear with him here. He was a smart bupeer, he was!” My skin prickled, “How do you know all this?” I asked. But he didn’t hear, apparently. And, presently, I remarked on the shyness of the populace around here. The cyclops agreed. “They ain’t used to visitars,” he explained. “Shucks, the last time anybody come hereabouts was—wal, corne to think of it, iC Was exactly a year ago to this very day. It were an old priest, I remember. Yeah. He crawled down Black Knicht and began prayin’ for his salvation when he seen some of the ugly scound’els around here! I reckon he figured he’d come to an outcrop of Satan’s kingdom!” And the cyclops laughed with huge, nasal mirth, his rolling eye crinkling at the corners. , “T showed him around. Yeah. I took the holy scound’el down to the Keep itself! T showed him the furniture, the things that’s been lyin’ around un- touched for hunnerts and hunnerts of years. Yeah. . . . But when I showed him Gran'pappy’s ole book, blamed if the rascal didn't claim that it was a fake!” “A take!” “Yeah. The blamed ole fool claimed that Gran'pappy never wrote it. Said it was a Bible printed by some feller nanicd Caxton!” You can understand how I thrilled to my very soul. A Bible by Caxton! Wilham Caxton, date—1477! I realized that I was on the verge of a priceless discovery. There was a stealthy scuffing of footfalls just outside the walls of the hutch—l'd been aware of them for several minutes now. I could almost feel the eyes peering at me through the chinks and envision the shapeless mon- sirositics crowding about the hutch to spy on me—to listen. My horror and 104 ; comicbooks.com