Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

Jon-Tom looked shocked. “Those ‘ossified old songs’ are the classics of my world, Buncan. Good, solid, serious rock. I’ve made plenty of magic with them. They constitute a fine basis for spellsinging.”

  “Maybe they do for you. Dad, but I just can’t relate to them. I’ve tried. Magic or no magic. No wonder I can’t keep control. I’m just not into the stuff.”

  “You’d better get into it. As for controlling anything, you’re eighteen years old, stubborn and bullheaded and inexperienced, notwithstanding you’re convinced you know everything. Maybe you ought to take up another instrument.”

  Buncan glanced sharply at his father. “You can only spellsing with a duar.”

  “You got it. Then maybe you should take up something else altogether. Woodcarving. I could apprentice you to Genrac the suslik. He’d be glad to teach you. There’s no shame in learning a real trade.”

  “I want to spellsing, Dad. The problem’s with the music, not my musicianship.”

  “Excepting your lamentable singing voice. Frankly, Buncan, you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Unless that changes you’ll only be a danger to yourself and everyone around you, no matter how well you play the duar. Speaking of which, after Clothahump and Semond and I labored so long and hard over your instrument, I don’t see why you couldn’t have left it alone.”

  “I don’t just want to play good, Dad. I want to look good, too.”

  “Then there’s these ridiculously subdued outfits you’ve started to favor.”

  “Dad, cut me some slack, please? I promise, I won’t screw up again. But I’m just not ready to give up on this and go into woodworking or metal husbandry or thieving or any of the other traditional professions yet.”

  “Okay. I accept your promise. So much for the easy part.”

  Buncan blinked. “What’s the hard part?”

  “Keeping your mother from flaying you alive. Follow me.”

  Preparing himself as best he could, Buncan did so.

  At dinner he was sullen and uncommunicative. Not that it was necessarily a corollary to what had transpired earlier. It was the same pose he’d affected for much of the preceding year.

  Feeling sorry for the boy, Jon-Tom tried to mediate, explaining to Talea that it was all just a phase then- son was going through. Having been brought up under different circumstances in a very different society from that of her husband, Talea responded that in her clan such phases were usually handled with a sharp knife. Buncan started to say something but wisely thought better of it.

  Only after he felt that his mother had vented most of her spleen did he push aside what remained of his vegetables and snake sausage. “Want me to get your sword now, Mom, or should I just take poison after I’ve finished brushing my teeth?”

  “Could we dispense with the sarcasm for five minutes?”

  “Hey, what more can I say, Mom? I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not like I turned the stove into a salamander.” He hesitated, staring at his father. “All I want is to be like Dad. To do some of the things he’s done. To come near to his achievements, have adventures, perform great deeds. I want to rescue beautiful damsels and defeat evil and save the world. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Let me tell you something, son.” Jon-Tom sliced off a cylinder of sausage and poked it into his mouth, chewing reflectively as he gestured with his fork. “It’s true that I helped save the world, and as a full-time occupation I can tell you that it’s very overrated. Not to mention highly stressful.”

  “Actually I mink you’ve saved the world twice, sweetheart.” Talea set a fresh bowl of steaming sweet-and-sour potato down alongside the vegetables.

  Jon-Tom frowned. “I thought it was just once.”

  “No, dear,” she said firmly. “Twice, at least.”

  “Really? Anyway,” he continued, turning back to his son, “I’ve been down that road, and it’s not half so glamorous as you seem to think it is. A nice, steady, comfortable practice of magic somewhere, executing medicinal spells to help people get well and plastic surgery spells to improve their looks: That’s what you want. A good living in a proven profession that’s respected and admired.”

  “But I don’t just want to make a living, Dad,” Buncan protested. “I want to perform mighty deeds. I want to accomplish great things. I want to see the worlds.”

  “Better start with this one. You’re too young and inexperienced for the rest. Besides, there aren’t any great quests at hand presently. I know. I keep a regular check on the ‘Q’ section in the classifieds. Just for old times’ sake,” he explained quickly to Talea.

  Buncan tried to meet his father halfway. “Are you trying to tell me there are no great quests left in the world?”

  “Not at the moment. Not in this part of it, anyway. The Plated Folk have been quiet ever since Clothahump and I kicked their chitonous butts back over the Jo-Troom Pass. Nothing of similar bellicosity has emerged to duplicate the threat they once presented.

  “Meanwhile, business is good. I’m not trying to come down hard on you, Buncan. But you can take it from someone who needed more than eighteen years to overcome a bad voice: Right now you aren’t close to having what it takes, verbally. And without your duar you sing even worse. Sort of a crapella. You need heavy-duty voice training, and plenty of it. It’s something you can’t fix with magic. I tried that route, and it doesn’t work that way. Some things,” he finished grimly, “are beyond the reach of even the most powerful forces to fix.”

  “Clothahump could do it,” Buncan muttered. “If he was interested in anybody’s problems besides his own.”

  Talea whacked him on the side of his arc-inscribed head. “Don’t speak like that about your goduncle. Even if he is a turtle. He’s been very good to your father and me, when he could just as easily have decorporalized us and had done with it, after all the trouble we caused him.”

  “You have to apply yourself to your studies and your training,” Jon-Tom insisted unequivocally. “How can you do that if you’re off on a quest somewhere?”

  “On-the-job training?” Buncan ventured hopefully.

  “Not a good idea where controlling the forces of Otherness are concerned,” his father replied. “Anyway, my situation was different. I was trapped in this world and had no choice but to experiment. I did just well enough to stay alive. If it hadn’t been for Clothahump . . .”

  “That’s right,” agreed Talea. “Let me tell you, when I first met your father he was the most wimpy, hopeless, gangly, driveling . . .”

  “Hey!” said Jon-Tom.

  Buncan pushed himself back from the table. “I know you both mean well, and I promise I’ll think about what you’ve said. But you’ve fulfilled your dreams, Dad. You’ve been all over mis world and your own. I haven’t been any farther than Lynchbany. I’ve never been beyond the Bellwoods. All I want is what you had.” He rose and headed for his room.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” his father called after him.

  “You haven’t finished your snake,” his mother added.

  Following dinner, Jon-Tom helped Talea with the dishes. “He’ll be all right,” he assured her. “He’s just going through a stage.”

  “You keep saying that.” She handed him a dripping bowl. “Do all the young people in your world go through stages and phases? Personally I think a few good whacks with a stout cane would cwhacks with a stout cane would c don’t use that where I come from. We use more enlightened methods, like psychology.”

  “Does that raise as red a welt as hickory?” She shook her head. “You coddle the boy.”

  Jon-Tom looked toward the stairs. “I disagree. I think our little talk had quite a profound effect on him. He’s a bright kid, and he does play well.”

  “Yeah, but he sure can’t sing worth a copper. He’s so bad he makes your voice sound good.” She handed him a platter.

  He put it on the counter and took her, soapy water and all, in his arms. “You’ll pay for that one, Talea.”

  Something twinkl
ed in her eyes. “There were many who said I should have charged.”

  For a while they managed to forget all about their obstreperous son.

  Later, as they lay on the kitchen floor, Jon-Tom pondered his progeny’s future and saw too many potential problems for comfort. After all, Buncan was not what one would call a dedicated student. His academic shortcomings were the bane of his father’s existence, Jon-Tom having advanced as far as law school in his own world. It wasn’t that the boy couldn’t do the work. It was just that his interests lay elsewhere.

  Talea was less concerned. “Buncan will never be a solicitor or physician, Jon-Tom. If he has any special talent, it lies in the field of magic.”

  “But he has to do the minimal schoolwork,” he argued. “A basic knowledge of zoology, for example, is critical to the establishment of good business relationships. You need to understand how the needs of a gorilla differ from those of a chimp.”

  She put her arms around his neck, leaning against him. “You worry too much. Buncan gets along fine with everybody. All his classmates like him.”

  “Getting along isn’t the same as understanding.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Buncan drew back his fist, but before he could swing, the heavy-bodied adolescent black bear had a paw on his chest, shoving him back and down. Because he’d inherited some of his father’s unusual Otherworld height, Buncan towered over the majority of his fellow students.

  But not Fasvunk. The bear came as near as anyone in the school to carrying the mantle of class bully. While no taller than Buncan, he was built far more massively. He adjusted the yellow lizard-skin headband above his eyes, hitched up his matching pants, and beckoned with both paws.

  They were surrounded by the rest of Buncan’s class. Archmer the badger held the ball they’d been playing pentagon with.

  “C’mon, human,” Fasvunk growled. “You think you’re so special ‘cause your sire’s a spellsinger. Well, I ain’t impressed.”

  Breathing hard, Buncan confronted the bear squarely. He wasn’t afraid of Fasvunk, but neither was this how he’d planned to spend his afternoon.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Fasvunk. I haven’t got the time.”

  “Sure you do, Buncan.” The bear’s gaze narrowed. “Way I hear it, you want to fight everybody sooner or later. Why not start with me?” He snorted and kicked at the ground.

  “I never said I wanted to fight everybody. I just said that I wanted to deal with everybody. As for my father, you’re right about him. If you’re not careful he’ll—”

  “He’ll what?” said Fasvunk, interrupting. “Turn me into a fish? Force me down on all fours? I thought you could do that yourself. Or do you have to run to your daddy to perform every little spell?”

  “Yeah,” came a nasal voice from the surrounding circle. Buncan recognized Othol the anteater. “You’re always carrying that duar around so you’ll have something to scratch your butt with.” A few of the others laughed, but most kept silent, waiting to see the outcome of the confrontation before choosing sides.

  Buncan glared. “I’ll take care of you next, Othol.” The much smaller anteater stubbornly held his ground.

  Fasvunk took a ponderous step forward, heavy paws held out in front of him in fighting mode. “You got to get through me first, toad-turd.”

  Sucking in a breath, Buncan checked to make sure his duar was secure against his back, and adopted a stance. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable about this. Have it your way. No claws, and no biting.”

  “Why not?” Fasvunk grinned. “So you can make the best use of your height? No restrictions, baldy.”

  “Suit yourself.” Buncan presented his fists. “No death-dealing, though. I don’t want you ripping out my throat.”

  “Hey, would I do that?” The bear opened his right paw, displaying half-inch-long claws. “Just a little nick here and there. Maybe I’ll carve my initials in your ass.” Several of the spectators giggled.

  “And maybe,” replied Buncan threateningly, “I’ll twist off that stub you call a tail and shove it up your nose.”

  Fasvunk’s smile vanished and he grunted heavily, advancing. “Like to see you try, human.”

  “No one’s going to ‘try’ anything,” said a new voice.

  The circle patted quickly to admit Master Washwum. Not that it would have mattered if they’d tried to hold their ground. The silverback gorilla went where he chose.

  Adjusting his thick glasses, his gaze flicked from one antagonist to the other, his white collar stiff against his bull neck. “What’s this all about, then? You two at it again?” He glared at Buncan. “I thought I told you no more fighting.”

  “Hey, he started it!” Buncan gestured at the somnolent black bulk of Fasvunk.

  “Wasn’t me, sir.” The bear sounded appropriately chagrined.

  The silverback’s nostrils flared. “I have just about had it with both of you. You! Get back to class.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fasvunk turned and beat a hasty retreat back toward the buildings, followed by a wake of relieved onlookers.

  “And as for you,” the gorilla began, turning his attention back to Buncan.

  “You don’t like me,” Buncan said sharply. “You always side with him, or the others.”

  “I do not side with anyone, boy,” said the silverback with great dignity. “But even you must admit that you are a caution to me.”

  “If it’s about that piece of ensorceled carpet I put in your desk last week, that was intended for reupholstering your old chair. It needs it. I was just trying to do you a good turn.”

  “It gave me a turn, all right,” Washwurn admitted. “Half a week’s worth of notes full of interwoven thread; unreadable.”

  Buncan kicked absently at the dirt. “It was an accident.”

  The gorilla considered his rambunctious pupil. “You are still intent on following in your father’s footsteps, aren’t you? If that is the case, you will find a solid academic background invaluable in your intended line of work. It will be especially helpful if it should develop that certain factors preclude your excelling in that difficult profession. Your voice, for example.”

  “Don’t you criticize me too. Master Washwurn. I can play.”

  “That’s not enough, a fact I am certain your father has repeatedly pointed out to you. I shall see you back in class. And see if you can’t somehow make peace with that unimaginative lump Fasvunk.”

  Buncan’s voice fell to an irritated whisper. “Fasvunk’s a wus.”

  Washwurn pretended not to hear. “And get yourself cleaned up.” He turned and with immense self-presence walked back toward the buildings.

  Buncan followed him with his eyes. He was alone on the recess ground. His expression tightened as he turned and started running. Not toward the buildings, not after his instructor, but for the line of nearby trees. For the familiar succor of the forest, which did not criticize. For the balm of the Bellwoods, which welcomed without questioning.

  He ran aimlessly, the Belltrees tinkling around him. He was a good runner, and it wasn’t long before he’d left both the school and the outer fringes of Lynchbany far behind. The same light breeze which stirred the bell leaves cooled him as he ran. Glass butterflies flitted brilliantly through the branches, and in a half-eaten bush coilpillars flashed metallic scales at him as he charged past.

  Exhausted, he finally slowed to a walk. Sympathetic or not, Washwurn would still report the incident and his subsequent absence from class to his parents, Buncan knew. It wouldn’t be the first time. It meant he’d have to endure another lecture from his father. He’d far rather be beaten, but Jon-Tom was too enlightened for that. If only the old man knew how painfully his words fell on his offspring’s ears.

  The river lay just ahead. He could follow the big curve around to the far side of Lynchbany and hang out there, with friends who had given up school and even thoughts of apprenticeship. Borgemont the mongoose would be awake soon, and Sissily, human like himself but much pre
ttier, might put in an appearance.

  Changing his mind, he headed south, sticking to the forest, heading for the one place where everyone sought answers. What he had in mind would be hard to go through with, perhaps even degrading, but he couldn’t go home yet and he couldn’t go back to school. It was the only place left.

  Tenebrous clouds hung over the gigantic old oak. They didn’t worry him, because he knew they were only transitory. The rest of the sky was perfectly clear. It meant that Clothahump was at home and working. From time to time all manner of objects could be seen hovering over his tree: intersecting rainbows, lambent sunshine, tropical downpours, the occasional isolated fragment of befuddled comet. Less wholesome sights ofttimes greeted nocturnal visitors: swarms of dainty dark winged shapes with glowing orange eyes, or ticklish feelers.

  Buncan was not afraid of clouds, no matter how threatening. He stepped out of the forest into the neatly mown clearing that surrounded the tree. Immediately a throaty nimble assaulted his ears, and he looked around anxiously.

  Dipping out of the center of the boiling clouds was a tightly restrained swirling funnel, the tip of which poked and probed as if feeling for the earth like some necromantic drill.

  Buncan’s first thought was to run and warn Clothahump. But what if the wizard wasn’t home? What if some old enemy was taking advantage of his absence to destroy the turtle’s beloved tree?

  The duar was heavy against his back. He was completely confident in his playing, but his voice, his lyrics . . . What if he made things worse? What if instead of banishing the apparition he tempted it toward him?

  As he equivocated it touched down, corkscrewing across the neatly manicured grounds, sending twigs and leaves and dust flying in all directions. Despite its extensive root system, a bubblebush weed was ripped from the soil to vanish into the howling funnel.

  Then the swirling tip touched the tree itself. It grew momentarily darker, denser, before sliding neatly through a half-open upper-story window. He could still hear it, roaring and growling somewhere deep within the irreplaceable bole.

  It was time to make a decision. He could race home and relate the tale to his father. Jon-Tom would surely know what to do. Or . . .