The Fantasy MEGAPACK ® Page 2
The Second Western Novel MEGAPACK®
The Third Western Novel MEGAPACK®
The Fourth Western Novel MEGAPACK®
The Fifth Western Novel MEGAPACK®
The Sixth Western Novel MEGAPACK®
The Western Romance MEGAPACK®
The Zane Grey MEGAPACK®
YOUNG ADULT
The Bobbsey Twins MEGAPACK®
The Boy Scouts MEGAPACK®
The Boy Detectives MEGAPACK®
The Boys’ Adventure MEGAPACK®
The Bryce Walton Boys’ Adventure MEGAPACK®
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout MEGAPACK®
The Dare Boys MEGAPACK®
The Doll Story MEGAPACK®
The G.A. Henty MEGAPACK®
The Girl Detectives MEGAPACK®
The Miss Pickerell MEGAPACK®
The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK®
The Penny Parker MEGAPACK®
The Pinocchio MEGAPACK®
The Rover Boys MEGAPACK®
The Second Carolyn Wells MEGAPACK®
The Sky Detectives MEGAPACK®
The Space Patrol MEGAPACK®
The Tahara, Boy Adventurer MEGAPACK ®
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet MEGAPACK®
The Tom Swift MEGAPACK®
The Wizard of Oz MEGAPACK®
The Young Adult Award-Winners MEGAPACK®
SINGLE-AUTHOR
The A. Merritt MEGAPACK®*
The A.R. Morlan MEGAPACK®
The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK®
The Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK®
The Second Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK®
The Anatole France MEGAPACK®
The Andre Norton MEGAPACK®
The Anna Katharine Green MEGAPACK®
The Arthur Conan Doyle MEGAPACK®: Beyond Sherlock Holmes
The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction MEGAPACK®
The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK®**
The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK®
The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson MEGAPACK®
The Bram Stoker MEGAPACK®
The Burt Arthur Western MEGAPACK®
The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK®
The Charles Alden Seltzer MEGAPACK®
The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK®
The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK®
The Dashiell Hammett MEGAPACK®
The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Story MEGAPACK®
The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK®
The E.F. Benson MEGAPACK®
The Second E.F. Benson MEGAPACK®
The Edmond Hamilton MEGAPACK®
The Edward Bellamy MEGAPACK®
The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK®
The F. Scott Fitzgerald MEGAPACK®
The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK®
The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK®
The First William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK®
The Fred M. White Disaster MEGAPACK®
The Frederick Douglass MEGAPACK®
The Fredric Brown MEGAPACK®
The Second Fredric Brown MEGAPACK®
The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK®
The Guy de Maupassant MEGAPACK®
The H. Beam Piper MEGAPACK®
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK®
The Harold Lamb MEGAPACK®
The Henri Bergson MEGAPACK®
The Jacques Futrelle MEGAPACK®
The Jane Austen MEGAPACK®
The Johnston McCulley Mystery MEGAPACK®
The Jonas Lie MEGAPACK®
The Katherine Mansfield MEGAPACK®
The Lloyd Biggle, Jr. MEGAPACK®
The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK®
The M.R. James MEGAPACK®
The Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK®
The Mary Fortune Mystery & Suspense MEGAPACK®
The Max Brand MEGAPACK®
The Murray Leinster MEGAPACK®***
The Second Murray Leinster MEGAPACK®***
The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK®
The Rafael Sabatini MEGAPACK®
The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK®
The Second Randall Garrett MEGAPACK®
The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK®
The R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK®*
The Second R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK®*
The Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK®
The Second Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK®
The Robert Sheckley MEGAPACK®
The Saki MEGAPACK®
The Selma Lagerlof MEGAPACK®
The Stephen Crane MEGAPACK®
The Stephen Vincent Benét MEGAPACK®
The Talbot Mundy MEGAPACK®
The Third R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK®*
The Virginia Woolf MEGAPACK®
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK®
The Wilkie Collins MEGAPACK®
The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK®
The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK®
The William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK®
The Zane Grey MEGAPACK®
* Not available in the United States
** Not available in the European Union
***Out of print.
FREE PROMO MINI-MEGAPACKS®
Each one is only available from our web site for a single day—on Free Ebook Tuesday! Like us on Facebook to see new title announcements.
The John Gregory Betancourt MINIPACK®
The Richard Deming Crime MINIPACK®
The Charles V. de Vet MINIPACK®
The Paul Di Filippo MINIPACK®
The H.B. Fyfe MINIPACK®
The Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol MINIPACK®, by Eando Binder
The Richard Wilson MINIPACK®
The Rufus King Mystery MINIPACK®
The Sime~Gen MINIPACK®
The Spicy Mystery MINIPACK®
The Thubway Tham Thanksgiving MINIPACK®
OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY
The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany MEGAPACK®”)
The Wildside Book of Fantasy
The Wildside Book of Science Fiction
Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
THE COPPERSMITH, by Lester del Rey
Originally published in Unknown, Sept. 1939.
In the slanting rays of the morning sun, the figure trudging along the path seemed out of place so near the foothills of the Adirondacks. His scant three feet of stocky height was covered by a tattered jerkin of brown leather that fell to his knees, and above was a russet cap with turned-back brim and high, pointed crown. Below, the dusty sandals were tipped up at the toes and tied back to the ankles, and on each a little copper bell tinkled lightly as he walked.
Ellowan Coppersmith moved slowly under the weight of the bag he bore on his shoulders, combing out his beard with a stubby brown hand and humming in time with the jingling bells. It was early still and a whole day lay before him in which to work. After the long sleep, back in the hills where his people lay dormant, work would be good again.
The path came to an end where it joined a well-kept
highway, and the elf eased the bag from his shoulder while he studied the signpost. There was little meaning for him in the cryptic marker that bore the cabalistic 30, but the arrow below indicated that Wells lay half a mile beyond. That must be the village he had spied from the path; a very nice little village, Ellowan judged, and not unprosperous. Work should be found in plenty there.
But first, the berries he had picked in the fields would refresh him after the long walk. His kindly brown eyes lighted with pleasure as he pulled them from his bag and sat back against the signpost. Surely even these few so late in the season were an omen of good fortune to come. The elf munched them slowly, savoring their wild sweetness gratefully.
When they were finished, he reached into his bag again and brought forth a handful of thin sticks, which he tossed on the ground and studied carefully. “Sixscore years in sleep,” he muttered. “Eh, well, though the runes forecast the future but poorly, they seldom lie of the past. Sixscore years it must be.”
He tossed the runes back into the bag and turned toward a growing noise that had been creeping up on him from behind. The source of the sound seemed to be a long, low vehicle that came sweeping up the road and flashed by him so rapidly that there was only time to catch a glimpse of the men inside.
“These men!” Ellowan picked up his bag and headed toward the village, shaking his head doubtfully. “Now they have engines inside their carriages, and strange engines at that, from the odor. Even the air of the highway must be polluted with the foul smell of machines. Next it’s flying they’ll be. Methinks ‘twere best to go through the fields to the village.”
He pulled out his clay pipe and sucked on it, but the flavor had dried out while he had lain sleeping, and the tobacco in his pouch had molded away. Well, there’d be tobacco in the village, and coppers to buy it with. He was humming again as he neared the town and studied its group of houses, among which the people were just beginning to stir. It would be best to go from house to house rather than disturb them by crying his services from the street. With an expectant smile on his weathered old face, Ellowan rapped lightly and waited for a response.
“Whatta you want?” The woman brushed back her stringy hair with one hand while holding the door firmly with the other, and her eyes were hard as she caught sight of the elf’s bag. “We don’t want no magazines. You’re just wastin’ your time!”
From the kitchen came the nauseating odor of scorching eggs, and the door was slammed shut before Ellowan could state his wants. Eh, well, a town without a shrew was a town without a house. A bad start and a good ending, perchance. But no one answered his second knock, and he drew no further response than faces pressed to the window at the third.
A young woman came to the next door, eyeing him curiously, but answering his smile. “Good morning,” she said doubtfully, and the elf’s hopes rose.
“A good morning to you, mistress. And have you pots to mend, pans or odds that you wish repaired?” It was good to speak the words again. “I’m a wonderful tinker, none better, mistress. Like new they’ll be, and the better for the knack that I have and that which I bring in my bag.”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t anything; I’ve just been married a few weeks.” She smiled again, hesitantly. “If you’re hungry, though…well, we don’t usually feed men who come to the door, but I guess it’d be all right this time.”
“No, mistress, but thank’ee. It’s only honest labor I want.” Ellowan heaved the bag up again and moved down the steps. The girl turned to go in, glancing back at him with a feeling of guilt that there was no work for the strange little fellow. On impulse, she called after him.
“Wait!” At her cry, he faced her again. “I just thought; Mother might have something for you. She lives down the street—the fifth house on the right. Her name’s Mrs. Franklin.”
Ellowan’s face creased in a twinkling smile. “My thanks again, mistress, and good fortune attend you.”
Eh, so, his luck had changed again. Once his skill was known, there’d be no lack of work for him. “A few coppers here and a farthing there, from many a kettle to mend; with solder and flux and skill to combine, there’s many a copper to spend.”
* * * *
He was still humming as he rounded the house and found Mrs. Franklin hanging out dish towels on the back porch to dry. She was a somewhat stout woman, with the expression of fatigue that grows habitual in some cases, but her smile was as kindly as her daughter’s when she spied the elf.
“Are you the little man my daughter said mended things?” she asked. “Susan phoned me that you’d be here—she took quite a fancy to you. Well, come up here on the porch and I’ll bring out what I want fixed. I hope your rates aren’t too high?”
“It’s very reasonable you’ll find them, mistress.” He sank down on a three-legged stool he pulled from his bag and brought out a little table, while she went inside for the articles that needed repairs. There were knickknacks, a skillet, various pans, a copper wash boiler, and odds and ends of all sorts; enough to keep him busy till midday.
She set them down beside him. “Well, that’s the lot of them. I’ve been meaning to throw most of them away, since nobody around here can fix them, but it seems a shame to see things wasted for some little hole. You just call me when you’re through.”
Ellowan nodded briskly and dug down into his seemingly bottomless bag. Out came his wonderful fluxes that could clean the thickest tarnish away in a twinkling, the polish that even the hardest grease and oldest soot couldn’t defy, the bars of solder that became one with the metal, so that the sharpest eye would fail to note the difference; and out came the clever little tools that worked and smoothed the repair into unity with the original. Last of all, he drew forth a tiny anvil and a little charcoal brazier whose coals began to burn as he set it down. There was no fan or bellows, yet the coals in the center glowed fiercely at white heat.
The little elf reached out for the copper boiler, so badly dented that the seam had sprung open all the way down. A few light taps on his anvil straightened it back into smoothness. He spread on his polish, blew on it vigorously, and watched the dirt and dullness disappear, then applied his flux, and drew some of the solder onto it with a hot iron, chuckling as the seams became waterproof again. Surely now, even the long sleep had cost him none of his skill. As he laid it down, there was no sign to show that the boiler had not come freshly from some shop, or new out of the maker’s hands.
The skillet was bright and shiny, except for a brown circle on the bottom, and gleamed with a silvery luster. Some magic craftsman must have made it, the elf thought, and it should receive special pains to make sure that the spell holding it so bright was not broken. He rubbed a few drops of polish over it carefully, inspected the loose handle, and applied his purple flux, swabbing off the small excess. Tenderly he ran the hot iron over the solder and began working the metal against the handle.
But something was very wrong. Instead of drawing firmly to the skillet, the solder ran down the side in little drops. Such as remained was loose and refused to stick. With a puzzled frown, Ellowan smelled his materials and tried again; there was nothing wrong with the solder or flux, but they still refused to work. He muttered softly and reached out for a pan with a pin hole in it.
Mrs. Franklin found him sitting there later, his tools neatly before him, the pots and pans stacked at his side, and the brazier glowing brightly. “All finished?” she asked cheerfully. “I brought you some coffee and a cinnamon bun I just baked; I thought you might like them.” She set them down before the elf and glanced at the pile of utensils again. Only the boiler was fixed. “What—” she began sharply, but softened her question somewhat as she saw the bewildered frustration on his face. “I thought you said you could fix them?”
Ellowan nodded glumly. “That I did, mistress, and that I tried to do. But my solder and flux refused all but the honest copper, yond
er, and there’s never a thing I can make of them. Either these must be wondrous metals indeed, or my art has been bewitched.”
“There’s nothing very wonderful about aluminum and enamelware—nor stainless steel, either, except the prices they charge.” She picked up the wash boiler and inspected his work. “Well, you did do this nicely, and you’re not the only one who can’t solder aluminum, I guess, so cheer up. And eat your roll before it’s cold!”
“Thank’ee, mistress.” The savory aroma of the bun had been tantalizing his stomach, but he had been waiting to make certain that he was welcome to it. “It’s sorry I am to have troubled you, but it’s a long time ago that I tinkered for my living, and this is new to me.”
Mrs. Franklin nodded sympathetically, the poor little man must have been living with a son, or maybe working in a side show—he was short enough, and his costume was certainly theatrical. Well, hard times were hard times. “You didn’t trouble me much, I guess. Besides, I needed the boiler tomorrow for wash day, so that’s a big help, anyway. What do I owe you for it?”
“Tu’pence ha’penny,” Ellowan said, taking out for the bun. Her look was uncertain, and he changed it quickly. “Five pence American, that is, mistress.”
“Five cents! But it’s worth ten times that!”
“It’s but an honest price for the labor, mistress.” Ellowan was putting the tools and materials back in his bag. “That’s all I can take for the small bit I could do.”
“Well—” She shrugged. “All right, if that’s all you’ll take, here it is.” The coin she handed him seemed strange, but that was to be expected. He pocketed it with a quick smile and another “thank’ee,” and went in search of a store he had noticed before.
The shop was confusing in the wide variety of articles it carried, but Ellowan spied tobacco and cigars on display and walked in. Now that he had eaten the bun, the tobacco was a more pressing need than food.
“Two pennies of tobacco, if it please you,” he told the clerk, holding out the little leather pouch he carried.
“You crazy?” The clerk was a boy, much more interested in his oiled hair than in the customers who might come in.