Sherry D. Ramsey

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Read the article, "Science Fiction vs. Fantasy: War of the Speculative Worlds"

Excerpt from "Circle"

We emerged from the copse at the crest of a rise, the corrugated rows of corn sloping down and away from us. A breeze blew down from the mountain, setting the tufted stalks waving like hands, and for a few moments I just let my eye sweep the vista, feeling proud and possessive and lonely.

If it hadn't been for that breeze I might have missed it, might have turned Duke away and headed down the western path to sweep around the perimeter, check the fence and then go home. But because I paused on the crest, watching the undulations of those uniform rows, I noticed the spot that did not move.

And once I had seen it, I had to know why.

It was near the center of the field, maybe a little to the left. I rode Duke down the path as close and I could and dismounted. He couldn't thread his bulk through the thick cornstalk forest without leaving a swath of destruction in his wake, so I looped his reins over the rail and gave him a pat. Then I ducked into the corn.

If I had been walking north, along the direction of the drills, it would have been easy to keep to a straight path, but cutting crosswise the plants are not so evenly or uniformly spaced. I could see the summit of the mountain if I craned my neck, so I used that to get my bearings. The corn rustled and hissed around me, sharing secrets the wind had whispered as it passed. Then the rows ahead thinned and opened out and suddenly I was standing at the edge of a wide compass of broken and battered cornstalks.

"Dammit," I said, my voice small and lost in the corn's rustling. At first I could see nothing but the damage, the loss in dollars and cents. Who would do such a senseless thing? I stood glaring at the stubble, silently demanding that it name its attackers.

And then it registered that the damaged patch was a circle. A perfect circle of wilting stalks stencilled into the greenery of the field.

Automatically I looked up. Foolish, I know, but who had not heard of, seen aerial photos of, the mysterious and sensational crop circles? Hailed by the tabloids as hard evidence of alien visitation, studied by believers and unbelievers alike, explained away by various, numerous, not-quite-good-enough alternate theories.

The sky was azure, serene, and empty, of course. I quickly looked back down at the damage, glad there was no one about to witness the hot flush that mounted my cheeks. For a moment I stood indecisive, then set out to examine my personal crop circle.

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Excerpt from "The Halfhigh Vexation"

A few hundred feet down the path I rounded a bend and met my first halfhigh. He was seated comfortably on the weathered stump of a long-gone tree, short legs crossed, ostensibly cleaning his fingernails. A bulging pack leaned against the stump. He looked up at my approach, brown hair curling boyishly over his forehead, and greeted me solemnly.

"Good day, mistress. Blessed bark and berries, you seem to have had an accident!"

Now, I had heard about halfhighs. The tallest of them might stand three feet, and their perpetually young features were generally charming and sweet. But their reputation for mischief, deviltry, and downright meanness was well-known. There was a jest that went; "What do you call a group of halfhighs? A vexation. And how many halfhighs does it take to make a vexation? One." Wise folk gave them a wide berth and a polite smile.

I smiled politely. "Good day, sir, and thank you for your concern. But I've only met with a minor misfortune, and am quite well." I slowed my pace but kept walking as I spoke, thinking it best to keep the encounter brief. Suspicion was niggling at me that this was the very creature responsible for my 'accident', but I knew better than to accuse him.

"But perhaps there is something I can do to assist. Eldazar Snippet, at your service." He hopped down from the stump and bowed. He was perhaps an inch or two shy of three feet tall, and impeccably dressed in an apple-green doublet and brown hose. "Some pouches I could carry?"

I kept walking, turning as I passed so that I still faced him. "Thank you, thank you, no. I shall be fine, and am almost home." My face was beginning to ache from the mock smile I grimly held to. "Good day to you, Master Snippet."

And I turned my back, keeping my pace deliberately casual and holding my breath. The attentions of a halfhigh I definitely did not want to attract.

"Well, as you wish, mistress," I heard him call after me. "I only wished to help." And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Perhaps a sore bottom has given you a sore head!" And broke into helpless laughter.

Laughter I recognized.

I rounded on the little man, and my careful speech went by the wayside. "You!" I hissed. "Do you know, sirrah, that your little prank cost me and my master a very valuable herb?"

He laughed harder, doubled over.

"And do you know," I continued heedlessly, "that my master is Nissio the Ponderous, a wizard of great power and puissance, and that I am his apprentice, and a wizardess in my own right?"

I was glaring daggers at the little fellow now, who leaned helplessly against the stump upon which he had sat, wiping tears from his eyes and gasping for breath.

"Do you think it is wise," I asked in what I hoped was a withering voice, "to make enemies of powerful people?"

Something in my tone must have gotten through to him, for he finally stopped laughing, pushed himself upright, drew a deep breath and looked up at me.

"Do you know," he said solemnly, "that the scratches on your face make you look like an ill-sewn rag doll?" And he was off in a bubbling fit of laughter again.

I turned on my heel and stalked off for home.

Of course he followed me.

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