The Search For Magic tftwos-1

by Brian Murphy

  “Well, we’re out of the storm,” Mixun said in a very low voice.

  His lanky friend remarked, “Snow news is good news.”

  Mixun was too cold to groan. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his square chin on them.

  “Never thought I’d go like this,” he muttered. “I always thought I’d die with a sword in my hand, fighting to the end.”

  Raegel imitated Mixun’s fetal posture and said, “I always wanted to die in the arms of a beautiful lady. A rich, beautiful lady.”

  They said little more. Breath froze on their lips, sealing their mouth with ice. After shivering apart for a while, Raegel crawled to his friend’s side and huddled close to him.

  Last post, Mixun thought. He would never see home again, never complete the task he’d dedicated his life to. Everything had ended in this white desert, forever frozen and dead.

  He closed his eyes. With his last bit of strength, he found Raegel’s hand and clasped it. His friend returned the gesture with a slight squeeze, just to let Mixun know he was there.

  Shut off from the sensations of his body by the encroaching cold, Mixun fell into a twilight of dreams, images, and lost desires. He saw again the wide sandy wastes of home, the burning sun overhead, and the wind stirring the dust into whirlpools around him.

  Strangely, he felt no heat from the sun, which should have been beating down on his exposed face like a torch. He felt nothing at all.

  The landscape shimmered, though not with heat. It trembled with a rapid, rhythmic pulse that he first thought was his own heart beating, but it was too fast, too even. The pulsation grew stronger. The darkness around Mixun lightened a bit as he struggled to rise to consciousness.

  “Stop kicking me.” Raegel sounded slurred, like a drunken man.

  “I’m not kicking you, you idiot.” Mixun did kick Raegel then, and was delighted to feel his leg respond to his mental command.

  A roaring filled the ice chamber, and snow cascaded down. The cold skin of Mixun’s face was still warm enough to melt it, and he opened his eyes, breaking the lacy crust of ice on his lashes. He sat up. Raegel was lying on his side, curled up in a ball. The noise wasn’t in Mixun’s head, it was real.

  “Raegel! Raegel, wake up!”

  “Scratch my back, will you?” the drowsy man replied.

  “Get up, jackass! The hole’s coming down around us!” Mixun said hoarsely. He drew back his foot and planted a sharp kick on his friend’s backside. Raegel flinched hard and rolled over, rubbing the spot.

  Dragging his benumbed friend by the collar, Mixun scrambled up the ramp of snow created when “he and Raegel had tumbled down into the ice cave. The tremors were very rapid now, almost continuous, and the roaring, grinding sound was deafening.

  Mixun glimpsed the chill gray sky and burst through the last few inches of loose snow. Once in the open, he thrust both hands into the hole and hauled Raegel out.

  Towering above them was the source of the noise and shaking-an enormous wheel, fully thirty paces high, made of heavy timbers and strapped with black iron bands. The wheel stood upright and was turning at a goodly rate, digging plow-like teeth into the ice. Snow and ice sprayed out behind the wheel in two high arcs, creating artificial drifts on either side of the deep trench the device was carving. The axle on which the wheel turned was as broad as a man was tall, and protruded some distance from the center of the wheel. Rising from the ends of the axle were two tall wooden masts, topped with windmill vanes, spinning briskly.

  “What is it? What in the name of the four winds is it?” Mixun shouted, backing away on his feet and hands, sliding on the seat of his pants across the ice. “Some kind of machine,” Raegel said. “I can see that! But what kind of machine?” As if in answer, the churning wheel sounded a shrill blast on a brass horn. The windmill vanes canted, presenting their edges to the breeze, slowed, and stopped. At once the vast device slowed. The plow blades no longer tore smoothly through the ice crust, but bit and bounced on the stone-hard surface. Lethally large chunks of ice flew, and for some moments the two men were kept busy dodging them.

  Without high rotational speed to steady it, the great wheel wobbled. Finally the long axle touched the snowy ground, and the amazing contrivance ground to a halt, leaning on its side like a monstrous child’s top.

  A hatch opened on the axle’s upper surface and a head covered by a puffy black hat emerged. Mixun, though stiff and reeling from the cold, stood up and tried to look dangerous. Raegel didn’t bother. He sat crossed legged in the snow, awaiting whatever fate lay ahead.

  The puffy black hat was attached to a puffy black suit. The person in the suit climbed out and dropped to the ground, staggered, and fell down. Another round, padded hat appeared in the hatch.

  Mixun started toward the strange visitor. Raegel grasped his leg as he passed.

  “You don’t know who they are,” he warned.

  “They have warm clothes, and probably have food and drink,” Mixun said. “And I want some!”

  By the time he reached the axle, four black-suited figures had come out. They all wobbled in circles, as if drunk. Mixun grabbed the closest one. He was small, shorter by half than Mixun, who was not a tall man. Mixun snatched at the lacing on the front of the puffy hat and shoved it back. Out came a mass of silver-white hair and an ageless pink face.

  Gnomes. He should have guessed. The strange giant wheel had all the earmarks of a gnomish mechanism.

  “Greetings!” cried the gnome. When Mixun did not promptly reply, he repeated his salutation in Elvish, Old High Dwarvish, Ogrespeak, then whinnied like a centaur.

  “Common tongue will do,” Mixun said, setting the little fellow back on his feet. “Who are you?”

  Eight minutes later the gnome concluded his name.

  Three-quarters frozen, the only part Mixun remembered was the first bit: “Master maker of wheels, wheel-rims, spokes, hubs, axles, cotter-pins, bearings (roller and ball), fabricated in wood, bronze, brass, iron, and steel…” In lieu of all that, Mixun thought of him as “Wheeler” from then on.

  The other gnomes gradually recovered their equilibrium and surrounded the freezing pair. They chattered volubly about the weather, thickness of the ice beneath their feet, the formation and texture of snowflakes-on and on without pause, as Raegel slumped to his knees and Mixun’s eyelashes grew heavy with frost.

  “We’re dying!” he managed to gasp. “Can you help us?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Wheeler. The near-identical gnome on his right said, “Over-active glands. Gets ‘em every time, these big people.”

  “Maybe they have the Wingerish Fever?” said another.

  “You have the Wingerish Fever,” said Wheeler severely. The gnome in question put a hand to his neighbor’s forehead.

  “How can you say that?” he replied. “My blood pressure feels normal!”

  “The c-c-cold,” Raegel chattered. His eyes fluttered and closed, and he fell backward in the snow.

  “Dear, dear,” said Wheeler. “They aren’t dressed for the climate, are they? Come, let us repair to the Improved Self-Propelled Ice Engraver and warm these poor men.”

  “Did I hear you say the ISPIE needs repair?” asked the gnome with the Wingerish Fever. “No!” said the other four gnomes.

  Wheeler took Mixun by the hand and led him to the hollow axle of the stupendous wheel. The rest of the gnomes took hold of Raegel’s hands and feet and dragged him to the open hatch.

  The interior of the axle was very tight, sized as it was for beings of gnomish height and bulk. Mixun crawled through a thorny hedge of levers, rods, and pulleys, finally falling exhausted between two brackets of the axle frame. At least it was warm.

  The gnomes put Raegel in the niche across from Mixun. One gnome gave him a steaming mug of liquid, and Mixun took it gratefully. He raised the cup to his lips, but the smallest of the gnomes stopped him.

  “That’s not a beverage,” he said.

  Mixun looked over the mu
g rim at the round, pink-faced creature, framed by a wreath of silver-white hair. The gnome’s wide, round eyes were filled with concern.

  “What’s it for?” he asked.

  “It’s Supreme Cold Weather Foot Wash. You pour it on your feet.”

  Mixun stared at his boots-encrusted in snow, which was rapidly melting. The littlest gnome took the mug from his hand and poured the steaming green liquid over his feet. The snow disappeared, and a strong sensation of warmth flooded Mixun’s feet. Unfortunately, the most appalling stench also arose. Mixun covered his nose with his hand and said, “Faw! What’s that stink?”

  “A side effect of the compound,” said the gnome. “I’m still working on it. But your feet are warmer, are they not?”

  He had to admit they were. Pleased despite the smell, he asked the gnome his name.

  Seven and a half minutes later (for he was younger than Wheeler, and therefore had a shorter name), the little gnome finished his proud epithet. From it, Mixun understood the gnome was a maker of oils and unguents, a mixer of soaps, greases, and anything slippery. Because of his expertise, Mixun dubbed him “Slipper.”

  “Take start positions!” Wheeler shouted. Slipper thrust a second mug of footwarmer upon Mixun.

  “For your friend,” he said, and dashed away.

  “Flywheel to neutral! Spring tension sixty percent! Wind velocity, twenty-two!”

  “Blood pressure one hundred seventeen over fifty-five,” said the gnome with Wingerish Fever.

  “Shut up!” said the rest.

  Huddled between the axle ribs, Mixun could see the gnomes hopping about, working their mysterious apparatus and happily shouting numbers and figures at each other. The center of the axle was a cage-like structure made of wire and rattan, and inside this stood Wheeler, his feet planted on a narrow board studded with four small wheels. That puzzled Mixun. Why was the gnome standing on a wheeled platform?

  “Make secure all loose securables!” Wheeler cried.

  The gnomes took turns strapping each other into bags of rope netting hanging from rings on the axle wall. When one gnome was fully laced into his bag, his neighbor would climb into his own hammock and wait for the secure gnome to wriggle out and lace him. Mixun thought this would go on forever, as one gnome would always be left free by such an absurd process, but after several go-rounds, the last free gnome was tied in place by Wheeler, who left his rattan cage just long enough to finish the job. He climbed back onto his wheeled plank, threw a big lever, and the giant wheel began to shake.

  All at once Mixun realized he and Raegel weren’t tied down at all. “Ho!” he called. “What about us?”

  “No time for tea or hotcakes now,” said Wheeler, setting a pair of leather-framed goggles over his eyes.

  Mixun was about to protest when the gnomes threw several levers at once. The windmill vanes outside caught the wind, and their motion was transferred by crown gears to a huge stone flywheel inside the rim of the great wheel itself. As the ponderous disk of granite gained speed, ropes wound tight, sandbag counterweights rose and fell, and the entire device shivered with building power. The tip of the axle lying on the ice rose a bit, then fell back with a bump. Mixun braced his arms against the hull and looked on wildly.

  His feet warmed and stinking, Raegel came to. Rubbing the melted frost from his eyes, he saw his friend facing him, gulped, and said, “Hullo, Mix. What’s happening?”

  “Gnomes!” That said it all.

  The axle rose again, higher this time, wobbled in a circle and dropped back once more. Both men were thrown in the air and settled back in their former places with a heavy thump.

  Wheeler picked up a mallet and used it to whack a large, red-painted peg outside his cage. With a shriek of tortured tackle and straining leather straps, the full force of the flywheel was applied to the outer wheel structure. The axle leaped into the air, shaking violently. Pounding blows rattled Mixun’s teeth and made Raegel’s head bang painfully against the wooden axle wall. Mixun knew what was causing the bone-jarring vibration-the sharp iron plows were chewing up the ice again.

  The noise was deafening. Vision blurred by the heavy pounding, Mixun could see his friend’s mouth move, but he could not hear what was being said. Then the gnomes launched the great wheel forward.

  Raegel and Mixun tumbled over each other as the cabin turned a full revolution with each rotation of the wheel. During his wild flight, Mixun saw Wheeler standing upright and unconcerned in his rattan cage, his wheeled board canceling out the motion of the manic machine under him. The other gnomes twisted and tumbled in their rope bags, allowed to turn head over heels, but held in place.

  The two men were thrown together like dry peas in a cup. Raegel’s suede boots, no doubt toasty warm on his feet now but smelling like all the sewers of Sanction, kept colliding with Mixun’s nose. His own noxious footwear were curled beneath him, but he managed to straighten them out so he could return the favor to Raegel.

  “Try… to… get a… grip!” Mixun cried as they whirled.

  “On what?” Raegel retorted.

  Mixun braced his feet and hands against the axle ribbing, and that stopped his dizzy tumbling-or it did until Raegel fell on top of him and broke his hold. They rattled around a few more revolutions, then Raegel managed to loop his arms around a wooden bracket. He ran in place as the great wheel turned, then planted his feet against the ribs as Mixun had done. Soon they were both stable, though rotating with the axle. Raegel found himself staring at Mixun’s kneecaps, and Mixun’s view of the world was framed by his friend’s long, bony legs.

  The gnomes thundered along in this fashion for some time, the massive wheel chewing through layer upon layer of packed snow and ice. The machine bore right and picked up speed. Suddenly there was an extra hard jolt, and the wheel bounced into the air. For a second the noise and shaking stopped. There followed a resounding splash as the wheel struck the water.

  “See! See!” Wheeler was crowing. “Thus it is proven! The ISPIE works as well in the water as it does on land!”

  “Nonsense! Preposterous!” his fellow gnomes responded. “The efficiency of the plows as paddles cannot exceed thirty percent!”

  “Fifty!” Wheeler shouted back.

  “Thirty!”

  “One hundred twenty-six over forty-nine,” announced the gnome with the Wmgerish Fever.

  “Shut up!” the gnomes chorused.

  “Excuse me,” Mixun said in the brief moment of silence that followed. “Not that my friend and I aren’t grateful, but where are we going?”

  “Nevermind South,” said Slipper, turning in his rope bag to see their guests. “Our base of operations for the Excellent Continental Ice Project.”

  “And what, pray, is the Excellent Continental Ice Project?” asked Raegel.

  “Our purpose here,” Wheeler said. “We’ve come to harvest the abundant natural concretion of solidified sub-freezing water.”

  “The what?”

  “The ice,” said all five gnomes in unison.

  The giant wheel, which the gnomes informed Mixun and Raegel was named Snow Biter, paddled down the coastline, making good time in the choppy gray sea. When the wind dropped, the vanes outside slowed and Snow Biter lost speed. When the wind kicked up again, the strange contrivance churned ahead. The axle, as tightly caulked against wind and water as a well-made ship, kept everyone inside dry and warm.

  Well past midday, Wheeler announced they were going inland again. Everyone braced themselves. Angling ashore, Snow Biter climbed the beach and tore at the crusty, rock filled snow. Amid a barrage of nonsensical orders, the giant wheel turned sharply to the left and halted. The sudden cessation of motion and noise was startling. Raegel neglected to lower his voice and kept shouting everything he said, while Mixun seemed to want to keep on turning of his own accord. Men and gnomes tumbled outside, weaving and spinning like dandelion seeds caught in a zephyr.

  Gradually the world stopped turning, and Mixun was able to survey their surroundings. The
gnomes had created a fantastic miniature town. It lined the shore of a shallow bay like a toy village wrought in snow by children. Everything was gnome-sized, and hundreds of the little people were about, coated in all manner of strange garb. The men saw gnomes dressed in waxed cotton coveralls smeared with grease, leather capes with seagull feathers glued all over, and furs of every shade. A pair of busy-looking fellows rolled past, sealed inside globes of glass four feet in diameter. Oddest of all were the gnomes who wore only a breech-cloth and stockings, yet stood about in the frigid air as calm and comfortable as they pleased. Raegel was about to inquire about their state of warmth when the wind changed.

  “Awk!” he said, gasping. “That smell!”

  “Slipper’s foot-warming lotion,” Mixun said, nodding. “They must use it all over.”

  He and Raegel were freezing, so they loudly demanded some protection from the cold for themselves. Wheeler was in a hurry to report to his colleagues, and he dashed off, leaving little Slipper to assist the humans.

  “I’m doubtful there’s any clothing in camp that will fit you,” he said, stroking his beardless chin.

  “Anything you have-blankets will do. Anything!”

  “Very well. Follow me.”

  They followed Slipper to a low structure made of driftwood and blocks of ice, cut and fitted with all the care of traditional masonry. Both men had to duck to enter the icehouse. It was surprisingly warm inside, which accounted for the walls running rivulets of water and the ceiling yielding a constant supply of shockingly cold drops.

  The building was a warren of corridors and rooms, all sized to gnomish standards. Slipper led them a merry route through the bustling halls, and more than once Mixun lost sight of their guide as he passed through a crowd of fellow gnomes.

  “Little mites all look alike!” he declared under his breath. Raegel chided him for his ignorance.

  “They’re as different as you and me,” he said. “See? There’s Slipper, over there.”

  “All right, hawkeye, you lead!”

  Graciously, Raegel did just that. Before long, Slipper led them to a supply room. Furs and yard goods lay in heaps everywhere. “Help yourselves,” said the gnome. He turned to leave.