Chalmers fished through his garments for writing materials. “As you know, one of the fundamental equations of class calculus which a naive academic acquaintance of mine once thought had something to do with Marxism — is this;
“That is, the class alpha plus the class non-alpha equals the universe. But in magic the analogous equation appears to be:
The class alpha plus the class non-alpha includes the universe. But it may or may not be limited thereto. The reason seems to be that in magic one deals with a plurality of universes. Magic thus does not violate the law of conservation of energy. It operates along the interuniversal vectors perpendicular, in a sense, to the spatial and temporal dimension. It can draw on the energy of another universe for its effects.
“Evidently, one may readily have the case of two magicians, each summoning energy from some universe external to the given one, for diametrically opposite purposes. Thus it must have been obvious to you that the charming Lady Duessa — somewhat of a vixen, I fear — was attempting to operate an enchantment of her own to overcome that of the girdle. That she was unable to do so —”
“The fowl is ready, gentlemen,” said Belphebe.
“Want me to carve?” asked Shea.
“Certes, if you will, Master Harold.”
Shea pulled some big leaves off a catalpa-like tree, spread them out, laid the parrot on them, and attacked the bird with his knife. As he hacked at the carcass he became more and more dubious of the wisdom of psittacophagy. He gave Belephe most of the breast. Chalmers and he each took a leg.
Belphebe said: “What’s this I hear anent the subject of magic? Are you practitioners of the art?”
Chalmers replied: “Well — uh — I would not go so far as to say —”
“We know a couple of little tricks,” put in Shea.
“White or black?” said Belphebe sharply.
“White as the driven snow,” said Shea.
Belphebe looked hard at them. She took a bite of parrot, and seemed to have no difficulty with it. Shea had found his piece of the consistency of a mouthful of bedsprings.
Belphebe said: “Few are the white magicians of Faerie, and all are entered. Had there been additions to the roster, my lord Artegall had so acquainted me when last I saw him.”
“Good lord,” said Shea with sinking heart, “are you a policewoman too?”
“A — what?”
“One of the Companions.”
“Nay, not a jot I. I rove where I will. But virtue is a good master. I am — but stay, you meet not my query by half.”
“Which query?” asked Chalmers.
“How it is that you be unknown to me, though you claim to be sorcerers white?”
“Oh,” said Shea modestly, “I guess we aren’t good enough yet to he worth noticing.”
“That may be,” said Belphebe. “I, too, have what you call ‘a couple of tricks’, yet ’twere immodesty in me to place myself beside Cambina.”
Chalmers said: “Anyhow, my dear young lady, I — uh — am convinced, from my own studies of the subject, that the distinction between ‘black’ and ‘white’ magic is purely verbal; a spurious distinction that does not reflect any actual division in the fundamental laws that govern magic.”
“Good palmer!” cried Belphebe. “What say you, no differcnce between ‘black’ and ‘white’? ’Tis plainly heresy.”
“Not at all,” persisted Chalmers, unaware that Shea was trying to shush him. “The people of the country have agreed to call magic ‘white’ when practised for lawful ends by duly authorized agents of the governing authority, and ‘black’ when practised by unauthorized persons for criminal ends. That is not to say that the principles of the science — or art — are not the same in either event. You should confine such terms as ‘black’ and ‘white’ to the objects for which the magic is performed, and not apply it to the science itself, which like all branches of knowledge is morally neutral —”
“But,” protested Belphebe, “is’t not that the spell used to, let us say, kidnap a worthy citizen be different from that used to trap a malefactor?”
“Verbally but not structurally,” Chalmers went on. After some minutes of wrangling, Chalmers held up the bone of his drumstick. “I think I can, for instance, conjure the parrot back on this bone — or at least fetch another parrot in place of the one we ate. Will you concede, young lady, that that is a harmless manifestation of the art?”
“Aye, for the now,” said the girl. “Though I know you schoolmen; say ‘I admit this; I concede that,’ are ere long one finds oneself conceded into a noose.”
“Therefore it would be ‘white’ magic. But suppose I desired the parrot for some — uh — illegal purpose —”
“What manner of crime for ensample, good sir?” asked Belphebe.
“I — uh — can’t think just now. Assume that I did. The spell would be the same in either case —”
“Ah, but would it?” cried Belphebe. “Let me see you conjure a brace of parrots, one fair, one foul; then truly I’ll concede.”
Chalmers frowned. “Harold, what would be a legal purpose for which to conjure a parrot?”
Shea shrugged. “If you really want an answer, no purpose would be as legal as any, unless there’s something in gamelaws. Personally I think it’s the silliest damned argument —”
“No purpose it shall be,” said Chalmers. He got together a few props — the parrot’s remains, some ferns, a pair of scissors from his kit, one of Belphebe’s arrows. He stoked the fire, put grass on it to make it smoke, and began to walk back and forth pigeon-toed, holding his arms out and chanting:
“Oh bird that speaks
With the words of men
Mocking their wisdom
Of tongue and pen —”
Crash! A monster burst out of the forest and was upon them before they could get to their feet. With a frightful roar it knocked Chalmers down with one scaly forepaw. Shea got to his knees and pulled his épée halfway out of the scabbard before a paw knocked him down too. . . .
The pressure on Shea’s back let up. He rolled over and sat up. Chalmers and Belphebe were doing the same. They were close to the monster’s chest. Around them the thing’s forelegs ran like a wall. It was sitting down with its prey between it’s paws like a cat. Shea stared up into a pair of huge slit-pupilled eyes. The creature arched its neck like a swan to get a better look at them.
“The Blatant Beast!” cried Belphebe. “Now surely are we lost!”
“What mean you?” roared the monster. “You called me, did you not? Then wherefore such surprise when I do you miserable mortals the boon of answering?”
Chalmers gibbered: “Really — I had no idea — I thought I asked for a bird —”
“Well?” bellowed the monster.
“B-but you’re a reptile —”
“What is a bird but a reptile with feathers? Nay, you scaleless tadpole, reach not for your sorry sword!” it shouted at Shea. “Else I’ll mortify you thus!” The monster spat, whock, ptoo! The green saliva sprayed over a weed, which turned black and shrivelled rapidly. “Now then, an you ransom yourselves not, I’ll do you die ere you can say ‘William of Occam’!”
“What sort of ransom, fair monster?” asked Belphebe, her face white.
“Why, words! The only valuable thing your vile kind produces.”
Belphebe turned to her companions. “Know, good sirs, that this monster, proud of his gift of speech, does collect all manner of literary expressions, both prose and verse. I fear me unless we can satisfy his craving, he will truly slay us.”
Shea said hesitantly: “I know a couple of jokes about Hitler —”
“Nay!” snarled the monster. “All jests are stale. I would an epic poem.”
“An — epic poem?” quavered Chalmers.
“Aye,” roared the Blatant Beast. “Ye know, like
Herkeneth to me, gode men
Wives, maydnes, and alle men,
Of a tale ich you wil telle,
&nbs
p; Hwo-so-it wile here, and there-to dwelle.
The tale of Havelok is i-maked;
Hwil he was litel, he yede ful naked.”
Shea asked Chalmers: “Can you do it. Doc? How about Beowulf?”
“Dear me,” replied Chalmers. “I’m sure I couldn’t repeat it from memory.”
The monster sneered: “And ’twould do you no good; I know that one:
Hwaet! we Gar-Thena
In gear-dagum
Theod cyninga
Thrym gefrunon,
Hu tha aethelingas
Ellen fremedon.
“Twill have to be something else. Come now; an epic or shrive yourselves!”
Shea said: “Give him some of your Gilbert and Sullivan, Doc.”
“I — uh — I hardly think he —”
“Give it to him!”
Chalmers cleared his throat, and readily quavered:
“Oh! My name is John Wellington Wells.
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses
And ever-filled purses
And ever-filled purses,
And ever-filled —
“I can’t! I can’t remember a thing! Can’t you recite something, Harold?”
“I don’t know anything either.”
“You must! How about Barbara Frietchie?”
“Don’t know it.”
“Or Chesterton’s Lepanto?”
“I don’t — hey, I do know one long poem. But —”
“Then say it!” cried Chalmers.
Shea looked at Belphebe. “Well, it’s hardly suitable for mixed company. Monster, if you’ll let the young lady go —”
“Nay!” roared the Blatant Beast. “To your verses, tadpole!”
Shea turned a stricken face to Chalmers. “It’s The Ballad of Eskimo Nell. What’ll I do?”
“Recite it, by all means.”
“Oh, Lord!” Chalmers was right, of course. But Shea had begun to feel an affinity for the red-haired huntress. He drew a deep breath and began:
“When Deadeye Dick and Mexican Pete
Set forth in search of fun,
’Twas Deadeye Dick who . . .”
He wished he knew a bowdlerized version; he didn’t dare to try to change the working extempore.
“They hit the strand of the Rio Grande
At the top of a burning moon,
And to slake their thirst and do their worst
They sought Black Mike’s saloon.”
On he went, getting redder and redder.
“Soon Deadeye Dick was breathing quick
With lecherous snorts and grunts . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belphebe’s face. It registered puzzlement.
“Then entered into that hall of sin,
Into that Harlot’s Hell,
A lusty maid who was never afraid:
Her name was Eskimo Nell . . .”
Shea went faster and faster to get to the end of the awful epos. He finished with a sigh of relief, and looked up to see how the Blatant Beast was taking it.
The monster got slowly to its feet. Without a word to its late captives, it lumbered off into the woods, shaking its reptilian head.
Shea looked at Belphebe. She said, “A life for a life. Truly we should be friends henceforth, and fain would I be such, did I but understand your craft of magic. That magic is white that draws such a monster nigh, you’ll hardly assert. That poem — half the words I understood not, though meseems ’twas about a battle betwixt a warrior maid and a recreant knight.”
“You might put it that way,” said Shea.
“Riddle me those words, Squire Harold. For ensample —”
Shea interrupted hastily: “Some other time, Miss Belphebe, if you don’t mind. Right now we want to get our bearings. Is this what they call ‘the wood where the Losels breed’?”
“Aye. Some say the enchanters created that gruesome race of monsters to be their cattle.”
Shea asked innocently: “Why, is the place infested with enchanters too?”
“Marry, a mort of ’em. Take care lest you fall into their snares.”
Chalmers broke in; “Ahem . . . could you tell us where there are any — uh — magicians to be found?”
Shea scowled at his partner. Belphebe’s face changed. “Now wherefore would you know such things?”
“We’re trying to rescue somebody we think they have, and we thought if we could — uh — gain the confidence of one —”
“Meseems that is a strange and not well-thought-on plan,” said the girl coolly. “Yet, since you wish, straight on, and I warrant me you’ll find enough of the naughty rogues.” She waved her hand. “And now, good gentles, if you will even pardon me, I must trim the ears from the Losel I slew —”
“You must what?” demanded Shea.
“Trim the ears from the Losel. For trophies. Already I have pairs an hundred and twenty and two. Good morrow, gentles.”
* * *
“That,” said Shea when they were on their way, “is my idea of a real girl. And you had to put her off us by that crack about magicians!”
“Very fine girl, provided she doesn’t put an arrow through you and cut off your ears for trophies. I confess my taste runs to a somewhat more sedentary type of female. I doubt whether I can stand much more excitement of this sort.”
Shea said: “I know how you feel. Travelling through Faerie is just one damned encounter after another.” His two narrow escapes in one day had left Shea feeling like a damp washcloth.
Chalmers mused: “It is logical that it should be so. The Faerie Queene indicates that this is a world wherein an endless and largely planless concatenation of encounters are a part of the normal pattern of events — Merciful Heavens, another one! What’s that?”
“That” was a big black leopard which leaped out suddenly into their path. It snarled with the sound of tearing sheet iron. The mounts bucked and started to whirl against the bits.
“Stop, Doc,” yelled Shea, manhandling Adolphus around and reaching behind him for the broadsword. “If you run, it’ll jump you sure!”
He tumbled off, snubbed his reins around a convenient stump, and faced the leopard with the broadsword in one hand and the épée in the other. This was getting to be a worse bore than the Garaden Institute. If I stand my ground, he thought, it probably won’t attack, but if it does — There was a book he had read once — what was its name? — about a Lithuanian who hunted jaguars with a spear. If it springs, impale it with the épée; if it stands off and claws, chop with the broadsword —
The leopard snarled again. It seemed uncertain. Then, to Shea’s astonishment, it swelled and changed into a huge lion. He felt a prick of fear. A man might handle a 150-pound leopard, but a 600-pound Lion — not even a mortal stab wound would keep it from ripping him up, once it got to close quarters. He was in for it —
“Harold!” Chalmers’ voice was not too near. “It’s all right.”
“The hell it’s all right!” thought Shea, holding his ground for want of anything better to do.
The lion did not spring. Instead it grimaced. The fanged mouth became a beak, wings sprouted from its shoulders, and it was a griffin. That, Shea realized, was not kosher; griffins did not —
Chalmers called, closer. “It’s the man we’re looking for.”
Shea relaxed. “Take off the false whiskers, Mr. Magician; we know you,” he said. The griffin began to dwindle and dissolve. Shea turned to Chalmers, who was struggling with a patently balky Gustavus. “Didn’t you say something about when away his regiment ran, his place was in the fore, oh —”
“I couldn’t control this confounded beast. And it’s “at the fore oh,” not in. How do you do, sir?” This was to the ex-griffin, which had become a stout, dark, bald man, who stood glowering at them, fists on hips.
“I do right well,” said the man. “What do you two here? Eh? Seek trouble? You’ve come to the right market.”
Shea gri
nned. “In a way I suppose we are, if you call yourself trouble.”
“Ho, you seek my professional service! I warn you I handle no minor matters, like turning cows sour or the manufacture of love philters. That’s witch-wife work. I’m a master magician.”
“Then we’re delighted —”
“Ahem,” said Chalmers. “Excuse me, Harold. I should like to explain to the gentleman that our interest is professional, looking to an exchange of information that might he mutually profitable.”
“Ho!” cried the enchanter. “You two claim to be magicians? How do I know you speak sooth? Tell me that, eh?”
“Well . . . uh —”
“Work a spell for him, Doc,” said Shea.
“Oh, dear me. I don’t suppose he’d be satisfied with more mice — or cats. All I can think of now is one I prepared for conjuring up a dragon.”
“What the hell, that’s fine! Go ahead with your dragon!” The magician’s ears caught the last word. “Dragon? D’you think you can really produce a dragon? Let’s See you do it!”
“But won’t it be . . . uh . . . dangerous?” This was Chalmers.
“Have no fear. I’ll get a counterspell ready. Dolon protects you. The Dolon.” He strutted.
“Show him, Doc.”
Chalmers, with a look of baffled and apprehensive resignation, began to make a list of the properties needed. A small red salamander was discovered under a stone. Most of the other things they had already, but a snapdragon plant was called for, and there was none in sight. “Conjure one up,” said Shea, coolly. The harassed psychologist looked annoyed. But, with the aid of a roadside weed, he produced a snapdragon plant the size of a tree. The Dolon snorted.
Chalmers laid out his properties, lit a fire with flint and steel, and began an incantation:
The Incompleat Enchanter Page 19