The Viking Horn Spell

by Amanda Hartford

  “You be careful how you handle that thing,” I cautioned Barry. “You don’t want to accidentally materialize a full-grown bull while you’re in the air.”

  “No, ma’am,” Barry said. For once, he almost sounded obedient.

  “And keep that dollar bill close by,” I reminded him. “It’s the only thing that gives you control over the horn.”

  “I got this,” Barry said, thumbing the bill pinned behind the pink feather on his hat. He squared his old Stetson on his head.

  “I hope so,” I said. “Give me a call when you get there.”

  What I know about what happened next comes from Stella. Her hands still shake when she tells the story.

  It’s only a few miles from Pentacle Pawn to the airport, but the trip was going to take longer than usual that day. This was Scottsdale’s annual Western Week, and the tourists and snowbirds were out in force. Old Town was filled with fake cowboys of all ages, wearing custom boots and brand-new hats with flashy silver and turquoise bands.

  Driving through the crowd, Barry thought the teenage girls in short shorts and cowboy boots looked just fine.

  “Good thing you’re not on a schedule,” Stella said.

  “That plane don’t go ’til I get there,” Barry said. “Just take it nice and easy — safety first.”

  The street they were traveling was two blocks west of the parade route, but the crowds here were dense as people made their way over to stake out their seats at the curb. Traffic was a mess and the restaurants were hopping. Stella inched her way along, avoiding snowbirds carrying lawn chairs and beer coolers toward the parade route.

  In the backseat, Barry kept his hand through the worn handle of the trombone case. He checked the brass latches every couple of minutes. So far, the case hadn’t even twitched, but Barry was on high alert. The happy chaos of the crowd outside the windows of Stella’s Uber had Barry on sensory overload.

  Stella was only a block shy of the parade’s staging area when a portly old guy in a Chicago Cubs ball cap, cargo shorts, and white tube socks stepped right out in front of her. Stella slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn.

  Barry’s hand was resting on the top of the trombone case, and he felt the drinking horn shift inside.

  The portly man slammed his hand down on the hood of Stella’s car, then flipped her an obscene gesture before he scrambled up onto the far boardwalk and disappeared into the crowd.

  From inside the trombone case came a low moaning note. The color drained from Barry’s face.

  “What was that?” Stella shouted over her shoulder.

  The latches on the trombone case had flipped open.

  “Whoa, partner,” Barry cooed to the case. From inside came another low rumble.

  Barry’s blood went cold. He’d heard that sound before. He had spent a good part of his adult life traveling around the Southwest as a professional bull rider, and he knew the frustrated moan of a bull waiting to explode out of the chute.

  Oh, shoot.

  Barry snapped the brass latches closed, but he knew they wouldn’t hold for long. He grabbed the case and bailed out.

  Next to him was a loading zone, blocked off with orange cones. Barry gingerly put the trombone case on the ground in the center of the open space and took a step back. He desperately tried to remember the calming spell I had taught him. It was right on the tip of his tongue — but he ran out of time.

  The transformation happened in the blink of an eye. One moment there was an old trombone case flipped open on the ground; the next, a full grown auroch stood in the loading zone.

  “Hello, Ajax,” Barry said softly.

  The bull snorted once and lowered his head. He looked around warily, holding his head to the side, his left eye fixed on Barry. Barry looked away.

  Normally, an oversize bull snorting in a parking space might draw some attention, even in Scottsdale. Today, it was just one more four-footed critter in a town preparing for a major Western parade. The crowd simply parted to make room for him.

  “Cow!” yelled a delighted toddler, pointing at the steaming bull.

  “Big freaking cow,” her daddy mumbled under his breath as he dragged the little girl along by the hand, her tiny pink cowboy boots barely scuffing the pavement.

  Barry heard wild whistling and applause behind him. Two blocks over, the parade was starting.

  “Call Maggie,” he shouted to Stella, who by now was out of the car, staring in wonder at the bull.

  “On it,” Stella yelled back. Stella was standing in the open driver’s door, keeping her 3,000-pound Prius between herself and that 2,000-pound auroch.

  Stella said something into the phone, then looked up at Barry. “Maggie says she can’t get to you with the parade going on.”

  Barry figured his only chance to come out of this alive was to get that bull back to Maggie. And if that meant taking the beast right through the middle of town, well, that’s where they were going.

  Walk or ride? Barry didn’t care for either option. This animal was enormously powerful, and Barry figured it could hit 35 miles an hour at a dead run. On the ground, he was no match for it — it would be like trying to lead an SUV around on a rope. If he tried to walk the auroch back to Pentacle Pawn and something spooked the animal, Barry would get stomped, dragged, or worse.

  He’d be riding back, then. The idea made Barry grin. He’d come out of the chute on many a bucking bull, and he knew the drill. But this time, he didn’t just have to stay aboard; he needed to be able to steer. And for that, he had to put a halter on this thing.

  Barry made eye contact over his shoulder with Stella. “Got any rope?” “I keep my rock climbing gear in the trunk. Will that work?” “That’ll work.”

  Stella popped the trunk. Inside was a big telescope, a laptop, and a bunch of sports junk: a baseball bat, a couple of loose golf clubs, and a rock climber’s gear bag. She pulled out a braided rope in each hand. “Dynamic or static?”

  “What the heck are you talking about? I just need a rope.”

  Ajax widened his stance and snorted again. He was starting to take in his surroundings, and he did not like what he saw. He tossed his head and glared at the diminutive bull rider. No way was Barry making eye contact with that thing.

  “Any time...” Barry urged Stella.

  Stella held up the two coils of rope.

  “Dynamic is stretchy; static isn’t.”

  “Static,” Barry said, keeping his voice low. He glanced over at Stella again. “Give me the bat, too.”

  Stella handed over the bat, handle first, and Barry took it. If the auroch came at him, he was going to swat that big ugly nose into the bleachers.

  The bull pawed at the asphalt. Ajax turned sideways to Barry in a primal display of mass and power, but all Barry’s mind took in were those three-foot horns.

  In the macho world of pro rodeo, Barry had been a vocal holdout against giving up his cowboy hat for protective gear. Right now, though, he would have given anything for football pads and a crash helmet. And maybe a shoulder-mounted missile.

  The climbing rope was new, still in its packaging. Barry pulled his pocket knife out and cut a few lengths. He tied a couple of quick knots, looping up a makeshift halter. The bull watched him with wary interest.

  “You got some kind of clips or rings I can use?” he asked Stella.

  Stella fished out a pair of bright blue aluminum carabiners. “Will these work?” Barry nodded. “Toss ‘em here.” He clipped the carabiners to either side of the halter at the mouth. He cut two more long lengths of rope and tied one to each carabiner for reins. Now all he had to do was to get the halter on the bull and get himself up top.

  The bull was making a chuffing sound like a locomotive.

  Barry had spent most of his life around bulls with attitude, and he’d learned a few things. Grazing animals have eyes that evolved to look down at the ground. Coming at him from above — or from the blind spot near the back haunches — was a sure way to light this guy’s
fuse.

  Barry also knew that cattle — modern cattle, at least — have better hearing and a better sense of smell than humans. He could use that.

  “What tunes you got?” he asked Stella.

  Stella looked confused. “You want music?”

  “No — but he does. We play music in the milking barns to calm the cows down. Maybe we can mellow him out a little.”

  Stella dove inside the car, and a couple of beats later, Stella’s overbuilt sound system blasted out the opening strains of Andy Williams singing Moon River. Stella’s head emerged from the driver seat.

  “That okay?” Stella asked, glancing at the bull.

  Barry grinned. “Seriously?”

  Stella shrugged. “Hey, it’s a classic.”

  But it was working. Ajax raised his head slightly and twitched his tail. Barry could feel the raw power coming off him, but at least the auroch had stopped snorting.

  “Turn it up! All the way!” Barry shouted. The auroch’s breathing was a little more regular now. Barry felt his own heart rate start to go down a little, too.

  The crowd, on the other hand, wasn’t digging the vibe. They moved off quickly toward the parade route, leaving only a few stragglers shuffling across the street with their lawn chairs and beer coolers.

  Ajax was fully focused on Stella’s car, no longer feeding off the chaotic energy of the crowd. It was now or never.

  “Gimme the putter,” Barry said to Stella. He swapped the baseball bat for the golf club from the trunk and turned back to the bull.

  “How you doing, partner?” Barry crooned, keeping his voice low and his words slow.

  The auroch was curious. He watched cautiously as Barry eased the head of the putter up between the bull’s shoulders and gently scratched.

  Ajax twitched his muscles, but he liked the sensation. Barry stood as still as he could, gently scratching, taking his time.

  Barry was hoping — praying, actually, to whatever gods that might be listening — that some previous owner had worked with Ajax enough that the auroch would recognize the halter and respect the man who wielded it. If not, today was going to have a very abrupt and messy ending.

  Barry held the halter out low so the bull could sniff it. Stella having a brand-new rope in her trunk had been a stroke of luck. Cattle sometimes freak out over the smell of even a little blood, but this rope smelled only of nylon.

  Ajax’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t pull away. The sweat from Barry’s hands — and his palms had been plenty sweaty while he knotted up the halter — gave the animal his scent. He felt the auroch studying him. It was Barry’s move.

  Barry slid the head of the putter through the halter and used it to guide the rope over the bull’s nose and drop it behind his ears, all the while talking a steady stream to the enormous animal. It was more words than Barry had used up in a year.

  Eventually, Ajax stopped flicking his tail, and his ears relaxed. While the auroch focused on the halter, Barry moved his other hand under the bull’s chin and scratched.

  “That’s a good boy,” Barry coaxed as if the enormous bull was a lap dog.

  It was working. The auroch was his to command. Barry knew that Maggie’s dollar bill in his hatband gave him full control over the auroch’s spell. He just hoped that Ajax knew it, too.

  The auroch was so tall — and Barry was so short — that Barry had to use the hood of the Prius as a step stool to climb aboard. He waited for the explosion.

  It never came. Ajax rocked a little from side to side, adjusting to the unusual weight on his back. Barry reached down and scratched him behind the shoulder blade. Barry and the auroch both let out a sigh.

  “Okay, partner, let’s go.”

  ♦

  Because Ajax was a manifestation of magic rather than a real beast, Barry didn’t need to guide him with his legs or reins — all he had to do was think about where he needed to go, and Ajax went. At least, that was the theory. Barry hoped it worked in practice.

  Barry pictured the alley in front of Pentacle Pawn’s door. He felt Ajax shift his weight underneath him. The great bull started walking. People on the sidewalk applauded as they headed down the street. As far as the crowd was concerned, Ajax was just part of the show.

  Barry had ridden a lot of monster bulls in the rodeo, but this was different. Ajax wasn’t bulky like the Brahmas; his mass was bred for power and speed. This felt more like riding a draft horse. Barry realized his own muscles were clenched, on guard against any sudden moves.

  Barry realized that it was probably his own darned fault that the auroch had materialized. He had been startled when that jerk pounded on Stella’s hood. He’d triggered the spell himself. Barry would have to keep control of his emotions while Ajax was out of the trombone case. His fingers went to the dollar bill pinned in his hat. He was in control of the spell, and he’d better start acting like it.

  The last time Ajax had been materialized was in medieval Europe, but the great auroch was coping pretty well with all the cars and the confusion. Barry began to believe that they might just get back to Pentacle Pawn in one piece.

  That was the moment a fire truck pulled into the intersection ahead of them and blocked the road. Barry felt Ajax tense underneath him, spooked by the strobing lights.

  Please, please don’t hit the siren, Barry prayed.

  They couldn’t go forward. Barry started running alternate routes in his mind, but before he could make a decision, Ajax grabbed one and went with it. The auroch wheeled on his rear legs and turned left.

  There was no going back now. They were joining the parade.

  Two streets ahead, a local high school band was rocking a Beyonce medley as they marched down the parade route. Ajax seemed drawn by the music. As Barry and Ajax approached the corner, parade watchers scrambled to make way for them.

  Right behind the band was an equestrian unit: three guys on beautifully matched chestnut quarter horses — and a beefy cowboy sitting high in the saddle on a majestic Brahma bull.

  This was not good.

  The Brahma knew that Barry was there — no doubt about it. He was a mature bull, confident of his powers. He shook his head and snorted. The Brahma’s rider whipped his head around.

  But Ajax wasn’t a domesticated bull. He was a feral creature, and other animals could sense it. Mark had told Barry that aurochs once ran in marauding herds. Ajax would be the alpha in any herd alive today.

  Apparently, the Brahma thought so, too. Ajax drew up next to him, hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and gave the Brahma the stink eye.

  The Brahma refused to look in Ajax’s direction. He just adjusted his path to put himself in the far traffic lane, opening a distance of 20 feet between himself and the auroch.

  Ajax was satisfied. His head came up and Barry felt the huge animal’s muscles relax underneath him. Dominance established, the auroch and the Brahma trotted along side by side.

  Barry tipped his hat to the other bull rider, a muscular middle-aged man in a denim jacket decorated with silver studs and well-worn jeans. His black Stetson had a high crown, and the sides of the broad brim curled up like wings. They exchanged glances at each other’s trophy belt buckles, the mark of a rodeo pro. The other rider touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. No further conversation was necessary.

  The high school band switched to a march and the pace picked up. Ajax was a herd animal, and his herd was moving south on Scottsdale Road. The crowd cheered as the Brahma and the auroch headed down the parade route.

  ♦

  Stella had made it back ahead of them, and she, Mark and I were waiting in the alley when Barry turned the corner. One minute it’s just the three of us, standing on the cobblestones in the quiet alley. The next minute, the far end of the alley is completely filled with a small man astride a very big bull.

  Stella had her phone out, and she snapped a picture. I mean, you have to, right? She promised to text me a copy.

  Barry was taking his time, not rushing the auroch
as they sauntered down the narrow alley. The reins lay slack across Barry’s knees. He pulled up right in front of me, the giant bull’s nose even with my face.

  All I could do was shake my head. Barry threw a leg over and slid to the ground.

  “Have a nice ride?” Mark asked.

  “Boy, howdy,” Barry said. “Ajax, here, is smooth as a rocking chair.” “Ajax?”

  Stella held up the trombone case and pointed out the brass plate. Ajax.

  “I thought that was the original owner’s name,” I said.

  Barry shrugged.

  “Ajax,” Mark intoned, sliding into his professorial voice. “Hero of the Trojan war, son of Telamon. A giant, they say, almost as strong and brave as Achilles.” Mark assessed the bull. “Good name for him.”

  The auroch flicked his ears at Mark.

  I took the trombone case from Stella’s hands and placed it on the ground in front of the bull. Barry looked stricken.

  “You’re not gonna make him get back in that thing, are you?” he asked. He patted Ajax’s flank. “I just thought…”

  “He doesn’t belong to us, Barry,” I said. “You were supposed to be delivering that case to New York, not riding Ajax down the middle of Scottsdale Road.”

  “So you’re really going to put him back in the case?” Barry scratched Ajax’s muzzle as he pulled off the makeshift halter. “Sorry, partner,” he murmured in the huge bull’s ear.

  I put out my hand. Barry unpinned the dollar bill from his hatband and handed it to me. He backed away to the far wall of the alley as I began my incantation over the trombone case. As fast as it had begun, Ajax’s freedom ended in a small puff of breeze.

  Mark snapped the case closed. Barry was crestfallen.

  “You want a ride back to your motel?” Stella asked him.

  “Nah,” Barry replied. “I’m gonna go get drunk.”

  He pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes, shoved his hands in his pockets and put his head down. I heard his boot heels clicking on the cobblestones as he walked down the alley alone.