Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  "You're the weirdest sorcerer I've ever encountered or heard tell of, except maybe for this Clothahump. In that respect it's a good match, and I can see how in his searching he seized on you." The comparison startled Jon-Tom. He hadn't considered that he and the turtle might have personal affinities, or that they might be responsible for his presence here.

  "That's okay," he replied readily. "You're the most interesting mugger I've ever run into."

  "Better not do it on a dark street or you're liable to find out just how interesting I am," she said warningly.

  "Really? I've never done it on a dark street, and I would like to find out how interesting you are."

  She started to snap out a reply, looked uncertain, and then accelerated. "Oh, come on." There was exasperation in her voice and just possibly something else. "You're a funny one, Jon-Tom. I'm never quite sure about you."

  And you, he thought as he watched her hurry on ahead of him, are maybe not as hopeless as I once thought.

  It was quite astonishing, he thought as he followed her, how the sight of a beautiful figure teasingly wrapped in snug clothes could shove aside all worries about such picayune matters as survival. Base animal nature, he mused.

  But if he was going to survive in this world, he would have to revert to basics. Wasn't that just what Clothahump and, in different ways, Mudge had both told him? Maybe by keeping his thoughts focused on those basics he could keep a firmer grip on his sanity.

  All assuming that Talea didn't change her mind as fast as she seemed able to and didn't decide to shove a sword through his belly. That thought cooled his ardor, if not his long-term interest.

  Slowing, he found himself standing close to her in the central chamber of the tree. Her perfume was in his nose, her presence a constant comfort in alien surroundings. Yes, they would have to remain friends, if naught else. She was too familiar, too human for him to abandon that.

  Pog directed them out of the central room and into a work area he and Mudge hadn't visited before. The bat hovered nearby while all four watched in silence as the wizard Clothahump fumbled awkwardly among bottles and vials.

  Thoroughly engrossed in his work, the wizard failed to notice his visitors. After a proper pause, Pog fluttered forward and said deferentially, "Pardon da intrusion, Master, but dey have returned."

  "Um... what? Who's returned?" He looked around and his gaze fell on Jon-Tom. "Oh yes, you. I remember you, boy."

  "Not too well, it seems." It was something less than the exuberant welcome he'd hoped for.

  "I have a lot on my mind, boy." He slid off the low bench and sought out the gray figure of Mudge, who was partly hidden behind Jon-Tom. "Back early, I see. Well, you lazy, foul-mouthed, slanderous mammal, what have you to say for yourself? Or is this merely a courteous visit and I should assume you've encountered no troubles?" The last sentence was spoken with false sweetness.

  " 'Tis not like you're thinkin' at all, Your Worshipfulness," the otter insisted. "I was showin' the lad the ways o' Lynchbany and we ran into some unforeseen problems, we did. They weren't no more my fault than they was 'is," and he jerked a short thumb in Jon-Tom's direction.

  Clothahump looked up at the tall young man. "Is what he says true, boy? That's he's done his best and taken good care of you? Or is he the outright liar he looks?"

  "Wot a thing to say," muttered Mudge, but not too loudly.

  "It's hard to lay responsibility for what we've been through lately at anyone's feet, sir." He was aware of black otter eyes hard on his back. "On the one hand, it certainly seems as though I... as though we've been the victims of a really unlikely sequence of unfortunate happenings. On the other...."

  "No, mate," interrupted Mudge hurriedly, "there be no need t' go into such silliness now." He looked back to the wizard. "I did me best for the lad, Your Highestness. Why, I venture t' say nary a stranger's 'ad quite such fullness o' experience o' local customs as 'e 'as in these past several days."

  Jon-Tom kept his expression carefully neutral. "I certainly can't argue with that, sir."

  Clothahump considered while he inspected Jon-Tom. "At least the laggard has clothed you properly." He took note of the war staff and the duar. Then his attention shifted to the third member of the little group.

  "And who might you be, young lady?"

  She stepped proudly forward. "I am Talea of Wuver County, of the Brightberries that mature at Night, third on my mother's side, first of red hair and green eyes, and I am afraid of neither man, woman, beast... nor wizard."

  "Hmph." Clothahump turned away from her, then suddenly seemed to slump in on himself. Sitting back down on the workbench he leaned his shell against the table. Fingers rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he smiled almost apologetically at his visitors.

  "Pardon my tone, my friends. You especially, Jon-Tom. I forget common courtesy myself these days, as I forget many other things too easily. Responsible as I am for your inconveniencing, I owe you more than a curt interrogation concerning your recent activities. If I seemed brusque it was only out of worry for your welfare. But you see, things are growing worse and not better."

  "The coming crisis you told us about?" Jon-Tom wondered sympathetically.

  The turtle nodded. "It turns my sleep into a cauldron of black distress. I dream of nothing save darkness and death. Of an ocean of putrification about to drown the worlds."

  "Ahhh, I don't see why ya worry yourself so much," said Pog from a nearby rafter. "You knockin' yourself out fer noddin', boss. Everybody else scoffs at ya, taunts ya behind your shell. Ya know some of da names dey call ya? 'Senile' is da best o' them."

  "I am aware of the local opinion." Clothahump grinned slightly. "In order for one to be affected by insults, one must have some respect for their source. I've told you that before, Pog. The comments of the rabble are of no import, even if they are the rabble one is trying to save. You'll never make a decent peregrine unless you change your attitude in such matters. Hawks and falcons are a haughty folk. You need to cultivate more mental and social independence."

  "Yeah, tell me about it," the bat muttered.

  Jon-Tom was fascinated by the still unspecified threat, despite his own personal problems. "So you haven't learned anything new about this evil since we left? Or about its source, or when it will come?"

  The wizard shook his head dolefully. "It remains as nebulous in nature, as tenuous of touch as before, boy. Nor am I any nearer concocting a methodology to combat it with."

  Jon-Tom tried to cheer the despondent turtle. "I've a surprise for you, Clothahump. It was a surprise to me, also."

  "What are you riddling me with, boy?"

  "I think I may be able to help after all." Clothahump looked up at him curiously.

  "Aye, 'tis true, Your Geniusness," said Mudge excitedly. "Why, 'twas meself who first suggested that..." He broke off, thinking better of the incipient lie. "No. No, dammit, I cannot take any o' the credit. The lad did it all on 'is own."

  "Did what on his own?" asked the exasperated wizard.

  "We'd been tryin' 'ard t' discover some useful skill for 'im, Your Mastership. 'Is range o' experience matches 'is youthfulness, so wasn't much in the way o' things 'e was practiced at. 'E 'as 'is natural size and reach, and some agility. At first I thought 'e might make a good mercenary. But 'e kept insistin' 'e wanted t' be either a lawyer or a musician." Jon-Tom nodded in confirmation.

  "Well, Your Lordship can imagine wot I thought o' the first suggestion. Concernin' 'tother, while the lad's voice is o' considerable volume, it leaves somethin' t' be desired as far as carryin' the tune, if you follow me meaning. But 'is musicianship was another matter, sor. 'E 'as real enthusiasm for music... and as it turned out, somethin' more.

  "We stumbled, literally stumbled we did, across that fine duar you see 'angin' about 'is neck. And when he got to strummin' on it, well, the most unbelievable things started a-happenin'! You would not believe it 'ad not you been there yourself. All purple and 'azy it started to shine, and its shape a shakin
', and the sounds, sor." The otter put his hands melodramatically to his ears.

  "The sounds this lad can coax out o' that little musicbox. 'E calls it music like 'e's used to playin', but 'tis of a size I never 'eard in me short but full little life."

  "I don't know what happened or why, sir." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the duar. "It vibrates a little when I play it. I think it's trying to become the kind of instrument I'm used to, and can't. As to the magic"--he shrugged--"I'm afraid I'm not very good at it. I only seem to have the vaguest kind of control over what I call up."

  "He's too modest, sir," said Talea. "He's a true spellsinger.

  "We were tired and worn from our long march through the woods when he started a strange song about some kind of transportation." She looked sideways at Jon-Tom. "I cannot imagine what it was he was singing about, but what he produced was a L'borean riding snake. I do not think it was specified by his song."

  "Not hardly," agreed Jon-Tom.

  "Nevertheless, that is what he materialized, and a fine ride it provided us, too."

  "Nor be that all, sor," said Mudge. "Soon afterward, as we glide through the forest night, 'e's a-strummin' those strings and then... why sor, the like's o' so many gneechees was never seen in this country! I swear by me piece they were about us like fleas on a fox followin' a four-day drunk. You never saw the almost-likes o' it."

  Clothahump was silent for long moments. Then, "So it seems you've some spellsinging abilities." He scratched at a loose drawer in his plastron.

  "It looks that way, sir. I've heard about hidden talent, but I never expected to find any in myself."

  "All most interesting." The wizard rose from the bench, put both hands as far behind his back as they'd reach, and scratched at his shell. "It would help to explain so many things. It would explain why in casting I settled upon you and passed over others." There was a touch of resurgent pride in his voice. "So it may be I am not as senile as some say. I thought there was more to this than mere confusion on my part. The talent I sought has been present all along."

  "Not exactly, sir. As Talea explained, I can call for something, but I get something quite different. I don't have control over my, uh, magic. Couldn't that be awfully dangerous?"

  "My boy, all wizardry is dangerous. So you think you might be able to help now? Well, if we can settle on something for you to help me against, your services will be most welcome."

  Jon-Tom shuffled his feet nervously. "Actually, sir, I didn't mean I'd be able to help in that way. Wouldn't you still prefer a real magician, a real 'engineer' from my world to assist you?"

  "I expect I would." Clothahump adjusted his spectacles.

  "Then send me back and exchange me for another."

  "I told you before, boy, that the energies required, the preparations involved need time to..." He stopped, squinted upward. "Ah, I believe I follow your meaning now, Jon-Tom spellsinger."

  "That's it, sir." He could no longer restrain his excitement. "If we both concentrate, both devote our energies to it, maybe the combination will be powerful enough to work the switch. It's not like you're shoving me back home all by yourself, or pulling a replacement here alone. We'd be complementing each other's talents, and making an exchange all at once. Only a single conjuration would be involved instead of two."

  Clothahump looked seriously at his workbench. "It might be possible. There are certain shortcuts...." He glanced back at Jon-Tom. "It involves definite risks, boy. You might find yourself stuck halfway between this world and your own. There's no future in limbo. Only eternity, and I can't think of a duller way to spend existence."

  "I'll take that chance. I'll take any chances neeessary."

  "Good for you, but what about whoever you're going to be trading places with?"

  "How do you mean?" He looked uncertain.

  "This eng'neer that we locate with our thoughts, Jon-Tom, will be as thrown from his familiar time and place as you were. He will likely also be trapped here for considerably longer than yourself, since I will not have the power to try and return him to his normal life for some time. He might not adapt here as well as you have, might not ever be sent home.

  "Are you willing to accept the responsibility for doing that to someone else?"

  "You have to take the same responsibility."

  "My entire world is at stake, possibly your own as well. I know where I stand." The wizard was staring unwinkingly at him.

  Jon-Tom forced himself to think back, to remember what his first sight and feelings were like when he'd materialized in this world. Glass butterflies and utter disorientation. A five-foot-tall otter and bellwoods.

  How might that affect an older man of forty or fifty, who might find it far harder to cope with the physical hardships of this place, not to mention the mental ones? A man with a family perhaps. Or a woman who might leave children behind?

  He looked back down at Clothahump. "I'm willing to try the exchange and... if you're as serious about this crisis as you say, then you don't have any choice. Not if you want a real engineer."

  "That is so," replied the wizard, "but I have far more important reasons for wanting to make this switch."

  "My reasons are important enough to me." He turned away from the others. "I'm sorry if I don't measure up to your heroic standards."

  "I expect no heroic stances from you, Jon-Tom," said Clothahump gently. "You are only a man. All I ask now is that you make the decision, and you have. That is enough for me. I will commence preparations." He turned back to his bench, leaving Jon-Tom feeling expectant, pleased, and slightly anxious.

  Self-preservation, he told himself angrily. He would wish whoever was to take his place the best of luck, and could do no more than that. He'd never know who was chosen.

  Besides, his erratic and possibly dangerous magic could do little to help Talea and Mudge and Clothahump's world. Probably whoever took his place would be able to, if Clothahump's perception of the danger threatening them was accurate. Rationalization or not, that was a comforting thought to cling to.

  I didn't ask to be here, he told himself firmly, and if I have a chance to get home, damned if I'm not going to take it...

  XI

  The rest of the preparations took all afternoon. They were not ready until evening.

  In the middle of the Tree's central chamber a circle had been painted on the wood-chip floor. It was filled with cryptographic symbols that might have been calculus and might have been nonsense. Talea, Pog, and Mudge had been directed to stay out of the way, an admonition they needed no urging to obey.

  Clothahump stood on the opposite side of the circle from Jon-Tom, who tapped nervously at the wood of the duar.

  "What do I do when we begin?"

  "You're the spellsinger. Sing."

  "Sing about what?"

  "About what we're going to try and do. I wish I could help you, my boy, but I have other things to worry about. I never did have much of a voice."

  "Look," said Jon-Tom worriedly, "the riding snake was an accident. I don't know how I did that. Maybe we should stop and..."

  "Not now, boy," the wizard told him curtly. "Do the best you can. Sing naturally and the magic will follow. That's the way it is with spellsingers. You do that and I will do my part."

  He slipped into a semitrance with startling speed and began to recite formulae and trace symbols in the air. There was a great deal of mumbling about time vortices, dimensional nexi, and controlled catastrophe theory.

  In contrast Jon-Tom started to pluck hesitantly at the strings of the duar. They glowed blue as he furiously searched for an appropriate tune. His thoughts were confused enough without his having to recall the specifics of a song.

  Eventually though he settled on one (he had to select something) and began. It was "California Dreamin'."

  He started to feel the rhythm of the song, the deceptive power of the ballad, and his voice rose higher, the chords becoming richer as he put all his homesick feelings and desires into it: "I'd be safe and warm,
if I was in L.A." It grew dark in the Tree. Brilliant yellow clouds formed in the eenter of the circle. They were echoed by a thick emerald fog that coalesced just above the floor.

  Yellow drops of swirling energy started to spill from the clouds, while green rain rose skyward from the lazy fog. Where they met they formed a whirlpool-globe that began to swell and spin.

  Jon-Tom's voice echoed around the chamber, his fingers flying over the strings. The powerful electronic mimicry thundered off the walls, blending with Clothahump's sonorous and steady chant. A deep, low ringing like the distant sound of a huge bell being played two speeds too slowly on a bad tape recorder began to fill the room. A tingling came over Jon-Tom's entire body, a glittering heat that radiated through him.

  He continued to play, though it felt now as though his fingers were passing through the strings instead of striking them. Glass bottles shattered on the workbench and books tumbled from their shelves as the very heart of the Tree quivered with the sound. For all anyone inside knew, the whole forest was shaking.

  The climax of the song was nearing, the end of the ballad, and he was still within the Tree. He tried to convey his helplessness to Clothahump, his uncertainty about what to do next. Perhaps the wizard understood his anxious stare. Perhaps it was just that their timing was naturally good.

  A violent yellow-green explosion obliterated clouds and fog and whirlpool-globe. A great invisible fist struck Jon-Tom hard in the sternum and sent him stumbling backward. He bounced off the far wall, staggered a couple of steps, and fell to his right. Scrolls, fragments of skull, some stuffed heads mounted on the wall, wood shavings and chips, powders and bits of cloth were raining around him. Within the circle a whitish haze was beginning to dissipate.