JANE YOLEN.

Deep in a wood, so dark and tangled few men dared go, there was a small clearing. And in that clearing lived a girl and her brother hart By day, in his deer shape, Brother Hart would go out and forage on green gra.s.s and budlings while his sister remained at home.

But whenever dusk began, the girl Hinda would go to the edge of the clearing and call out in a high, sweet voice: Dear heart, Brother Hart, Come at my behest, We shall dine on berry wine And you shall have your rest.

Then, in his deer heart, her brother would know the day's enchantment was at an end and run swiftly home. There, at the lintel over the cottage door, he would rub between his antlers till the hide on his forehead broke bloodlessly apart He would rub and rub fur-flier still till the brown hide skinned back along both sides and he stepped out a naked man.

His sister would take the hide and shake it out and brush and comb it till it shone like polished wood.

Then she hung the hide up by the antlers beside the door, with the legs dangling down. It would hang there Imp and soulless till the morning when Brother Hart donned it once again and raced off to the lowland meadows to graze.

What spell had brought them there, deep in the wood, neither could recall. The woods, the meadow, the clearing, the deer hide, the cottage door were all they knew.

Now one day in late spring, Brother Hart had gone as usual to the lowland meadows leaving Hinda at home. She had washed and scrubbed the little cottage till it was neat and clean. She had put new straw in then- bedding. But as she stood by the window brushing out her long dark hair, an unfamiliar sound greeted her ears: a loud, harsh calling, neither bird nor jackal nor good grey wolf.

Again and again the call came. So Hinda went to the door, for she feared nothing in the wood. And who should come winded to the cottage but Brother Hart. He had no words to tell her hi his deer form, but blood beaded his head like a crown. It was the first time she had ever seen him bleed. He pushed past her and collapsed, shivering, on then- bed.

Hinda ran over to him and would have bathed him with her tears, but the jangling noise called out again, close and insistent. She ran to the window to see.

There was a man outside in the clearing. At least she thought it was a man. Yet he did not look like Brother Hart, who was the only man she knew.

He was large where Brother Hart was slim. He was fair where Brother Hart was dark. He was hairy where Brother Hart was smooth. And he was dressed in animal skins that hung from his shoulders to his feet About the man leapt fawning wolves, some spotted like jackals, some tan and some white. He pushed them from him with a rough sweep of his hand.

"I seek a deer," he called when he glimpsed Hinda's face, a pale moon, at the window.

But when Hinda came out of the door, closing it behind her to hide what lay inside, the man did not speak again. Instead he took off his fur hat and laid it upon his heart, kneeling down before her.

"Who are you?" asked Hinda. "What are you? And why do you seek the deer?" Her voice was gentle but firm.

The man neither spoke nor rose but stared at her face."Who are you?" Hinda asked again. "Say what it is you are."

As if she had broken a spell, the man spoke at last "I am but a man," he said. "A man who has traveled far and seen much, but never a beauty such as yours."

"You shall not see it again, then," said Hinda. "For a man who hunts the deer can be no friend of mine."

The man rose then, and Hinda marveled at the height of him, for he was as tall as the cottage door and his hands were grained tike wood.

"Then I shall hunt the deer no more," he said, "if you will give me leave to hunt that which is now all at once dearer to me."

"And what is that?"

"You, dear heart," he said, reaching for her.

Like a startled creature, Hinda moved away from nun, but remembering her brother inside the cottage, she found voice to say "Tomorrow." She reached behind her and steadied herself on the door handle. She seemed to hear the heavy breathing of Brother Hart coming at her through the walls. "Come tomorrow."

"I shall surely come." He bowed, turned, and then was gone, walking swiftly, a man's stride, through the woods. His animals were at his heels.

Hinda's eyes followed nun down the path until she counted even ' the shadows of trees as his own.

When she was certain he was gone, she opened the cottage door and went in. The cottage was suddenly close and dark, filled with the musk of deer.

Brother Hart lay on their straw bed. When he looked up at her, Hinda could not bear the twin wounds of his eyes. She turned away and said, "You may go out now. It is safe. He will not hunt you again."

The deer rose heavily to his feet, nuzzled open the door, and sprang away to the meadows.

But he was home again at dark.

When he stepped out of his skin and entered the cottage, he did not greet his sister with his usual embrace. Instead he said, "You did not call me to the clearing. You did not say my name. Only when I was tired and the sun almost gone did I know it was time to come home."

Hinda could not answer. She could not even look at him. His nakedness shamed her more than his words. She put their food on the table and they ate their meal in silence. Then they slept like beasts and without dreams.

When the sun called Brother Hart to his deerskin once again, Hinda opened the door. Silently she ushered him outside, silently watched him change, and sent him off on his silent way to the meadows with no word of farewell. Her thoughts were on the hunter, the man of the wolves. She never doubted he would come.

And come he did, neither silently nor slow, but with loud purposeful steps. He stood for a moment at the clearing's edge, looking at Hinda, measuring her with his eyes. Then he laughed and crossed to her.

He stayed all the day with her and taught her words she had never known. He drew pictures in the dirt of kingdoms she had never seen. He sang songs she had never heard before, singing them softly into her ears. But he touched no more than her hand.

"You are as innocent as any creature in the woods," he said over and over in amazement.

And so pa.s.sed the day.

Suddenly it was dusk, and Hinda looked up with a start. "You must go now," she said.

"Nay, I must stay."

"No, no, you must go," Hinda said again. "I cannot have you here at night If you love me, go." Then she added softly, her dark eyes on his, "But come again in the morning."

Her fear touched him. So he stood and smoothed down the skins of his coat. "I will go. But I will return."

He whistled his animals to him and left the clearing as swiftly as he had come.

Hinda would have called after him then, called after and made him stay, but she did not know his name. So she went instead to the. clearing's edge and cried:Dear heart, Brother Hart, Come at my bidding, We shall dine on berry wine And dance at my wedding.

And hearing her voice, Brother Hart raced home.

He stopped at the clearing's edge, raised his head, and sniffed. The smell of man hung on the ah", heavy and threatening. He came through it as if through a swift current and stepped to the cottage door.

Rubbing his head more savagely than ever on the lintel, as if to rip off his thoughts with his hide, Brother Hart removed his skin.

"The hunter was here," he said as he crossed the door's threshold.

"He does not seek you," Hinda replied.

"You will not see him again. You will tell him to go."

"I see him for your sake," said Hinda. "If he sees me, he does not see you. If he hunts me, he does not hunt you. I do it for you, brother dear."

Satisfied, Brother Hart sat down to eat. But Hinda was not hungry. She watched her brother for a while through slotted eyes.

"You should sleep," she said at last. "Sleep and I will rub your head and sing to you."

"I am tired," he answered. "My head aches where yesterday he struck me. My heart aches still with the fear. I tremble all over. You are right. I should sleep."

So he lay down on the bed and Hinda sat by him. She rubbed cinquefoil on his head to soothe it and sang him many songs, and soon Brother Hart was asleep.

When the moon lit the clearing, the hunter returned. He could not wait until the morning. Hinda's fear had become his own. He dared not leave her alone. But he moved quietly as a beast in the dark. He left his dogs behind.

The cottage in the clearing was still except for a breath of song, wordless and longing, that floated on the air. It was Hinda's voice, and when the hunter heard it he smiled for she was singing tunes he had taught her.

He moved out into the clearing, more boldly now. Then suddenly he stopped. He saw a strange shape hanging by the cottage door. It was a deerskin, a fine buck's hide, hung by the antlers and the legs dangling down.

Caution, an old habit, claimed him. He circled the clearing, never once making a sound. He approached the cottage from the side, and Hinda's singing led him on. When he reached the window, he peered in.

Hinda was sitting on a low straw bed, and beside her, his head in her lap, lay a man. The man was slim and naked and dark. His hair was long and straight and came to his shoulders. The hunter could not see his face, but he lay in sleep like a man who was no stranger to the bed.

The hunter controlled the shaking of his hands, bat he could not control his heart He allowed himself one moment of fierce anger. With his knife he thrust a long gash on the left side of the deerskin that hung by the door. Then he was gone.

In the cottage Brother Hart cried out in his sleep, a swift sharp cry. His hand went to his side and, suddenly, under his heart appeared a thin red line like a knife's slash that bled for a moment Hinda caught his hand up in hers and at the sight of the blood grew pale. It was the second time she had seen Brother Hart bleed.

She got up without disturbing him and went to the cupboard where she found a white linen towel.

She washed the wound with water. The cut was long but it was not deep. Some scratch got in the woods perhaps. She knew it would heal before morning. So she lay down beside him and fitted her body to his.

Brother Hart stirred slightly but did not waken. Then Hinda, too, was asleep.

In the morning Brother Hart rose, but his movements were slow. "I wish I could stay," he said to his sister. "I wish this enchantment were at an end."But the rising sun summoned him outside. He donned the deerskin and leapt away.

Hinda stood at the door and raised her hand to shade her eyes. The last she saw of him was the flash of white tail as he sped off into the woods.

But she did not go into the cottage to clean. She stood waiting for the hunter to come. Her eyes and ears strained for the signs of his approach. There were none.

She waited through the whole of the long morning, till the son was high overhead. Not until then did she go indoors, where she threw herself down on the straw bedding and wept At dusk the sun began to fade and the cottage darken. Hinda got up. She went out to the clearing's edge and called: Dear heart, Brother Hart, Come at my crying.

We shall dine on berry wine And ...

But she got no further. A loud sound in the woods stayed her. It was too heavy for a deer. And when the hunter stepped out of the woods on the very path that Brother Hart usually took, Hinda gave a gasp, part delight, part fear.

"You have come," she said, and her voice trembled.

The hunter searched her face with his eyes but could not find what he was seeking. He walked past her to the cottage door. Hinda followed behind him, uncertain.

"I have come," he said. His back was to her. "I wish to G.o.d I had not."

"What do you mean?"

"I sought the deer today," he said.

Hinda's hand went to her mouth.

"I sought the deer today. And what I seek, I find." He did not turn. "We ran him long, my dogs and I.

When he was at bay, he fought hard. I gave the beast's liver and heart to my dogs. But this I saved for you."

He held up his hands then, and a deerskin unrolled from them. With a swift, savage movement, he tacked it to the door with his knife. The hooves did not quite touch the ground.

Hinda could see two slashes in the hide, one on each side, under the heart. The slash on the left was an old wound, crusted but clean. The slash on the right was new, and from it blood still dripped.

'She leaned forward and touched the wound with her hand. Tears started in her eyes. "Oh, my dear Brother Hart," she cried. "It was for me you died. Now your enchantment is at an end."

The hunter whirled around to face her then. "He was your brother?" he asked.

She nodded. "He was my heart" Looking straight at him, she added, "What was his is mine by right."

Her chin was up and her head held high. She reached past the hunter and pulled the knife from the door with an ease that surprised him. Gently she took down the skin. She shook it out once and smoothed the nap with her hand. Then, as if putting on a cloak, she wrapped the skin around her shoulders and pulled the head over her own.

As the hunter watched, she began to change. Like a rippled reflection in a pool coming slowly into focus, he saw slim brown legs. brown haunch, brown body and head. The horns shriveled and fell to the ground. Only her eyes remained the same.

The doe looked at the hunter for a moment more. A single tear started in her eye, but before it had time to fall, she turned, sprang away into the fading light, and was gone.

Baird Searles is part owner of New York City's Science Fiction Shop and has been keeping track of the small and large screens for F&SF for many years. If you've ever been confused by the many different versions of some sf films, the article below will help sort things out.

Films: Multiples

BAIRD SEARLES

It's a cliche of the American entertainment industry that if it works (i.e., if it makes money), do it again. It's a little unfair to denigrate Hollywood and its offshoots for this; most of the arts have been doing it since the Pleistocene. Certainly in films and on TV this makes for a lot of boring material; for instance, we've not seen the end of all the copies, blatant and otherwise, of Star Wars.

As a lover of variations on a theme, though, Fm usually intrigued when a producer decides to use exactly the same property that has been made into a movie before. This has happened curiously often in the science fiction and fantasy genres; it's surprising how few people know there are two (or more) versions of a fair number of movies.

So as a public service (and to save you from the embarra.s.sing experience of talking about the 1969 The Pterodactyl That Ate Petrograd when someone else is discussing the cla.s.sic 1932 version), let's sort out some of these. (With one or two exceptions, I'll ignore silent films as being for the most part lost in the dim past.) For instance, a while back when watching a 1944 epic called Weird Woman, I realized that here was a version of Fritz Leiber's Conjure Wife that I hadn't run into before. The story (of the use of magic by faculty wives in that most mundane of settings, the American university) totally lost its point here, since its chilling quality comes from the very ordinariness of the people involved, and the professor's wife of Weird Woman is given a childhood background of Caribbean voodoo. Much closer is the well-known version, Burn Witch, b.u.m, which has become a sort of minor cla.s.sic.

Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, about a future inhabited by a population of vampires, was the basis for The Omega Man with Charlton Heston. In this case, an earlier film from the same source was more interesting-the 1963 The Last Man on Earth with Vincent Price.

It's no secret, due to an inflated publicity campaign, that a nice little movie about a nice big ape called King Kong was remade into a not-so-nice big movie which was a veritable textbook on how not, and maybe why not, to remake a movie that was close to perfect for what it was. Much of the subtler pleasure of the early King Kong comes from its period charm-the naivete, the wonderfully, pretentious dialogue, even the oonga-boonga black natives. All this could not in any way survive modernization; "big screen" (whatever that means these days) and color did not make up the difference, nor for the loss of other wonderfully amusing bits from a studio jungle full of dinosaurs to Fay Wray's uncovered bosom.

A similar case is that of H. G. Wells's The Island of Dr. Moreau, filmed with superbly demonic atmosphere as Island of Lost Souls in 1932. Charles Laughton, maybe the best actor yet to appear on film, gives an extraordinary performance as Dr. M., and Bela Lugosi captures the spirit of the beast men as the Speaker of the Law with the abhuman quality that characterized his Dracula. Now Burt Lancaster is one of film's most underrated actors, but his straightforward non-intellectual approach to the doctor role undermined the '70s trip to the Island; Richard Basehart didn't help matters by looking tike a beneficent Old Testament prophet in the Lugosi role. But even Laughton and Lugosi would have been hard put to come across, with the later film's completely uninteresting script and camerawork.

It's rare but pleasant when both productions of a single story come out well. One Million B.C. gave us Tumac of the Rock People and Luana of the Sh.e.l.l People in the persons of Victor Mature and Carole Landis, not to mention enraged giant lizards and a volcanic eruption. One Million Years B.C. took the same simple-minded story, made it in color, which for once was an improvement, used splendid effects by Ray Harryhausen, and starred John Richardson as Tumac and Raquel Welch as Luana, both of them being pretty spectacular special effects themselves. Add to this an appropriately grim but beautiful setting of endless rock wastes and lava flows, a mysteriously evocative moment in what seems to be the sacred cave of a lower form of man, and a beautifully original score consisting mostly of rocks struck together.

As you may gather, it's one of my favorite schlock movies.