Fellowship Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Andor coughed into his ale when the red knotwork came undone and started unraveling and pulling out of the stones in the pub. Sam patted him on the back as he coughed a few more times.

  “Time to wrap this up, Andor. They’ll be out in a minute, and I hope they’re in good moods this time. I hate having to run interference when two guys of their caliber fight.” Sam threw back the last of his drink, and stood up. “Be right back, boys.” He headed for the restroom.

  Colin took up their empty pints and dropped them into dishwater behind the bar. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed Andor watching him.

  “I do not know enough protective magics, should my master need me to come to his defense.” Andor’s voice wavered, then he giggled. “And I think you have given me too much to drink.”

  “Just enough to loosen the mind a wee bit, lad.” Colin said, winking at him. The barkeep finished mixing something behind the bar and brought up a small glass. “Drink this. It’ll set you to rights.” Colin brought up a glass for himself and a third for Sam, all three smoking slightly above their dark brown liquid.

  Andor waited until Colin drank his in one gulp. Colin saw him watching, and he said, “It’s to clear the alcohol out of your system instantly. Sam calls it—”

  “The Pre-Hangover Cure! Thank Herunos!” Sam said, and he shoved Andor’s glass toward him. “Nasty taste, so do it in one gulp.” Sam threw his back, and Andor quickly followed suit as the door to the Gambit room slammed open. Andor flinched as the two old men came out, their canes glowing brightly with energy.

  “Andor!” Cyrus barked, “Come get this bag!” The boy snapped to it, rushing to his master’s side immediately. Cyrus surveyed him, then said, “You’ve got some of that foul brew on your chin, boy. What’d you two do—get him drunk to ply our secrets from him?” Cyrus leveled an angry eye at Sam and then Colin.

  Oscar cleared his throat as he moved in front of the two Cabalists. “Cyrus, do you honestly think you have secrets we don’t already possess?”

  Cyrus fumed at the insult. “I hardly believe that, Oscar. If you held all the cards as you suggest,” Cyrus softened his voice and motioned for Andor to move closer. “you’d have stopped some of my moves. Thanks to your passive play and healthy doses of Catholic and Jewish guilt, I positioned things so secrets of four governments will come out! And that chaos will be tapped by the Cabal!”

  Andor’s eyes snapped up to the monitor behind the bar. The game’s final layout remained in place, but a new report popped up. CNN Live: Rumors swirl about Capitol Hill and Pennsylvania Avenue tonight about corrupt lobbyists and their ties with the party in power. Will indictments soon follow? Also, questions are being raised about contributions to political campaigns by religious-affiliated 527s. And tomorrow, more on the questions surrounding a growing number of pagan cults drawing people away from established religions in America.

  “Perhaps I just wanted more interesting and vibrant election seasons to watch, cousin.” Oscar replied. “Or perhaps you convinced me to foment more chaos for the Shift, Cyrus. You never know . . .” Oscar signaled for an ale, then he turned to Sam and asked, “Do we need to be in America the next day or so?” Sam shook his head, so Oscar set his cane down and let the silver energy bleed out of it. “We’re only a few kilometers from my family’s estate. A fine evening for a walk, now that the rain’s stopped.”

  “See how decadent and irresponsible they are, Andor? Wasting all that magic? It’ll only go to strengthening this pub and its magic now, rather than some better uses!” Cyrus said, placing his acolyte’s hand on his shoulder. “They have power, but they do not treat it with the proper respect as we do. We must go to prepare our morning rites. Bid them good-bye, for next time we meet may not be as allies.”

  Andor, his face paled, said, “Yes, Magus. Thank you for your hospitality, Colin. You and Sam both have been kind to this humble acolyte, and I thank you.”

  Sam said, “Until next time, Andor. Magus.” He tipped an imaginary hat their way.

  Oscar whirled around on the barstool. “Oh, and Cyrus, be sure to watch the currency markets for Britain the next few days, will you? That energy’s not gone to waste. I just don’t need it for travel, as you do. Until next time, Magus.”

  With a growl, Cyrus stamped his cane on the floor, and in a red flash, both Cabalists disappeared.

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it ended better than last time. He was almost polite there.”

  “Magic is Change, Sam. Why are you so surprised that even Cyrus might do so? Besides, while we have had extreme differences at times, we are all fellows in Magic.”

  REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED WITH BEERS

  Fiona Patton

  “It’s mine!” “Like hell it is!”

  “Give it up, you little shit!”

  “Bite me, jerkweed!”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here!”

  The fight broke up so fast that the contended beer can flew out of two pairs of hands at once. Catching it one-handed, Fred Geoffries glared down at his two young cousins, twelve-year-old Travis Frawst and his eight-year-old brother Cody, before popping the tab and taking a long swallow. Two pairs of equally aggrieved green eyes turned black, glaring at him with equally outraged expressions.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Fred warned, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his faded Mill Valley Tractor Pull T-shirt. “It’s what you get for fightin’.”

  “S’not fair, Uncle Fred!” the younger of the two boys complained. “I had it first!”

  “That’s jus’ ’cause I paid you to go get it, Cody, you whiny little puke,” the older boy shot back at once. “You musta let him see you!”

  Cody’s eyes sparkled with indignant tears. “I did not!”

  Fred’s own eyes narrowed. “J’ya pay him before he got it for you, Travis?” he demanded.

  The older boy rolled his eyes at him. “Course not,” he sneered.

  “Then it doesn’t matter if I saw him or not, you’re not out anything.” Finishing the beer, Fred tossed Cody the empty can before ambling off in the direction of the field where his own brother, Brandon, was waiting for him, leaning against a rusted manure spreader, a cigarette cupped in his left hand to protect it from the early September breeze.

  Travis glared at them.

  At twenty-three and twenty-five-years-old, the two men looked much alike: the same thin, rangy build, the same battered ball caps over the same longish dark blond hair, the same ragged jeans and torn T-shirts advertising local events from five years ago, and the same easy symmetry when they stood together as if they knew what the other one was thinking before he did.

  In comparison he and Cody looked nothing alike, Travis noted angrily. He was blond, Cody was dark, he was tall and thin, Cody was short and stocky. They liked different games, different music, different food even. They had nothing in common.

  As Brandon tossed Fred a cigarette, the beer can in Cody’s hands crushed of its own volition and the younger boy dropped it with a shout of surprise. Travis’ green eyes had darkened again. He took a single, menacing step forward, but came up short as his brother caught him by the back of his own T-shirt.

  “Don’t, Trav,” Cody said urgently. “You’ll get it.”

  Travis shook him off. “Shut up,” he snapped.

  “You don’ even know if they’re really over there,’ Cody insisted. “Mom says a Geoffries could be standin’ right beside you and you’d never even see ’em. Their illusions are that good.”

  “I’d smell ’em,” Travis growled, but his eyes had already returned to their usual green. With one final glare in Fred’s direction he stalked away.

  Cody watched him go for a moment, then, after stooping to catch up the beer can again, trotted quickly after him.

  “I’ll walk with you, Trav.”

  “Don’t be stupid! Your feet’ll fall off,” the older boy snarled. “Just get on the damn bus before I smack you one.” Ignoring his little brother’s hurt expr
ession, Travis shoved him at the school bus door, saving a particularly withering glare for the driver who’d kicked him off the bus yesterday a mile from home. As the aging vehicle wheezed away, he shot one, defiant finger in the air, before heading up the road.

  An hour later, Brandon’s Ford Taurus pulled up beside him. His older cousin said nothing, merely jerked his head at the passenger door. As Travis slid into the wrapper-littered seat, doing his best the keep the relief from softening the dusty scowl on his face, Brandon pulled the car back onto the road. “Jus’ don’t tell your mom,” he said shortly as they headed into town.

  The Mill Valley Public School had closed a decade before, forcing the dwindling population of south county children to travel another thirty kilometers to Greenville. As they crossed the bridge over Mill Creek, Travis glanced at Brandon from under the bill of his own red Potter’s Feed Supply ball cap.

  “So, Fred’s your little brother, right, Uncle Brandon?” he asked.

  Brandon just nodded as he lit a cigarette, allowing the car to hold the road on its own for a moment. The Ford immediately headed for the right-hand ditch and, with an impatient frown, Travis’ eyes went dark and it centered itself again.

  “He ever piss you off so bad you wanted to drown him?” he asked once Brandon’s left hand was back on the wheel.

  “Sure, sometimes.”

  “What’d ya do?”

  Brandon chuckled. “Remembered that our mom’d kill me if he turned up dead.” Then he shrugged. “Besides, who else would I have to go huntin’ with if I drowned him?”

  “Cody’s too little to go huntin’ with,” Travis declared dismissively. “He’d get himself eaten by a fisher.” His sneakered feet hit the dashboard as he hunkered down in his seat. “He’s too little to do anything,” he continued. “Last week he fell off my three-wheeler right into a patch of poison oak, busted the bike up, and I got blamed.”

  “He fix it back up for you?”

  “He tried, but he’s still too little too even do that right. And besides,” Travis’ voice took on a tone of outrage, “He shouldn’t be able to fix anything back up. He’s a Frawst.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is.”

  Half a dozen rocks lifted from the side of the road and slammed into the seventy kilometer sign as they passed it. The problem was that Travis did know how it was. His parents had been “on a break” when Cody had been born—looking just like Randy Akorman—and had swiftly displayed the Akorman ability with machines rather than the Frawst ability to move things with their minds. His father hadn’t seemed to care, but then why would he? Yesterday their eight-year-old fourth cousin Sha-lynn Mynaker had thrown a Hot Wheels car three hundred and fifty feet to hit her brother Tyler right between the eyes. She’d never so much as raised a finger to do it and both Travis’ dad and her “dad” had been equally proud of her.

  Travis couldn’t see why. Sha-lynn was supposed to have the second sight like any other Mynaker and Cody was supposed to move things with his mind like his brothers. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else that Cody couldn’t throw toy cars but could mojo any engine to run without gas or even spark plugs, but it bothered Travis. Cody should be able to move stuff with his mind or what good was he?

  Beside him, Brandon considered the road for a moment, his expression neutral.

  “Course, he’s not to old to go campin’ with, is he?” he said finally. “You both comin’ to the beach on the weekend, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  Travis shrugged. “Mom’s kinda pissed about the school bus thing.”

  “Hmm.” Brandon pulled out to pass a heavily laden grain truck before glancing over. “So, what happened there anyway? Gettin’ kicked off the bus on very first day of school’s gotta be a new kinda record, even for us.”

  Travis shook his head in disgust. “Cody happened again, is what happened,” he complained. “Threw an eraser at Jordan Wallace that missed him and hit the damn bus driver an’ I got blamed. Again.”

  “Why’d you get blamed?”

  “Cause everybody in the damned county knows Cody can’t aim it!”

  With that, Travis hunkered down in the seat again, refusing to say a word until Brandon pulled over in front of the Greenville Public School. As he got out, Brandon leaned over the seat.

  “I’ll talk to your mom,” he promised. “Your uncle George’s woodpile’s ready to stack. You an’ Cody helpin’ him out after school today should go long ways towards puttin’ her in a better mood.”

  “Yeah sure, but how’re we s’posed to get there?” Travis muttered.

  “Fred’s comin’ into town to pick up a new chainsaw. He’ll give you a lift.”

  “Great.”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. Thanks.”

  As the Taurus pulled away, a handful of gravel rose from the ground, hovered a few moments, then dropped as Travis made for the school’s battered side door, the scowl on his face as deep as ever.

  That afternoon was clear and warm with just the hint of an autumn breeze to temper the late summer sun. As Fred’s Dodge Viper turned into the long, weed-choked driveway of George’s century-old farmhouse, the heavyset man turned from the woodpile with a relieved expression.

  A retired tabloid journalist from Toronto, George Prescott had come to the county a year and a half ago to research his grandmother, Dorothy Mynaker’s, family and recuperate from his third heart attack. After ensuring that he was not going to endanger their unique lifestyle by telling his publishers about them, his many Mynaker, Akorman, Frawst, and Geoffries cousins had made it their business to keep him from doing anything too stupid or strenuous while he acclimatized to country living.

  And that included giving himself a fourth heart attack by stacking his own winter wood.

  As Fred pulled the car up beside the woodpile Cody rocketed from the backseat, pointing to the large piece of ironwood that the older man was struggling with.

  “I can carry that, Uncle George!” he shouted.

  Travis shook his head as he exited from the front seat more slowly. “No, you can’t,” he warned. “You’re too little!”

  Cody whirled on him, his expression furious. “I am not too little, you piss-head! I’m a better worker’n you are!”

  “Enough! In a minute you’ll both be too little, and you’ll both go home!” Fred snarled, slamming the driver’s side door with enough force to raise a cloud of dust from the driveway.

  Both boys subsided reluctantly, but Travis’ dark look at his brother promised more thunderclouds to come. Cody ignored him, accepting the piece of wood from George with a triumphant smile plastered across his face.

  “So how long can we work today, Uncle George?”

  Cody’s disembodied voice floated out from behind the huge piece of Manitoba maple he was maneuvering toward the drive shed like a drunken man and, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, George checked his watch before answering.

  “Um . . . we’ve been at it for how long? About ten minutes?” he asked. Surveying the still-towering woodpile with a melancholy expression, he sighed. “I think perhaps another twenty minutes should do it.”

  “Aw, how come we can’t work for more’n a half an hour?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Cause the two of yous can’t go more’n half an hour without fightin’,” Fred stated from where he was throwing wood into a wheelbarrow for Travis to push.

  Cody bridled angrily. “We can too!”

  Travis rolled his eyes but subsided when Fred shot him a warning glance.

  “I think twenty more minutes is about all that I can manage,” George explained diplomatically and, noting how dangerously red his face had already become, the other three nodded, in agreement for the first time that day.

  Exactly twenty minutes later, after Fred had obtained George’s promise to drive Travis and Cody home, the older man and the two boys sat on a tree stump in the front yard sharing a six-pack of no-name cola
and watching the dust cloud from the Dodge slowly dissipate. As the sound of indignant barking coming from the farmhouse rose over the last of the summer cicadas, George straightened.

  “Ah. It seems that his nibs has finally woken up from his afternoon nap. I’d better bring him outside for a pee.”

  “I’ll get him, Uncle George!” Cody shouted, jumping up and sprinting for the house.

  “Bring a couple of freezies out with you,” George called after him, “and the money from the dog mug on the dining room table!”

  Cody’s enthusiastic reply was lost in the flurry of renewed barking as he pounded through the porch door.

  Moments later, he came running back, the ends of two large, blue freezies poking from the back pocket of his jeans and George’s tiny brown Chihuahua, Lucky Charm, cradled in his arms. The small dog had a very superior look on his face and pointedly gave George the cold shoulder as Cody sat down with him in his lap.

  George shook his head fondly. “He needs to walk,” he said as gently as he could so that the boy wouldn’t think he was finding fault, but Cody just wiped one grimy arm across his nose before lowering Lucky very carefully to the ground at his feet.

  “Well, I woulda,” he explained, “but there was this huge bumble bee buzzin’ ’round the door, an’ he got scared, see.”

  George eyed his generally fearless little dog, who was now sniffing suspiciously at a grasshopper twice the size of his front paw.

  “Really?” he asked with a smile. “He got scared, did he?”

  “Yep. Just about jumped outta his skin.”

  Travis made to say something, but thought better of it as Cody handed him one of the freezies. “Don’ forget to give Uncle George his money,” he said instead.

  “I was gonna.” Cody reached into the front pocket of his jeans. “There was only a ten in there, Uncle George,” he said as he passed it over.

  “A ten will do.” Pursing his lips, George looked at the bill thoughtfully for a moment. “Let’s see, that’s five each. Travis can look after it this time, I think, until you can get change.” He handed the older boy the money. “And Cody can take charge of it the next time,” he added swiftly as the younger boy opened his mouth to protest.