My Son, the Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Could be.” Matt nodded. “Or the minion might not have been human.”

  Nirobus stared, appalled. “You aren’t thinking of some sort of monster, I hope!”

  “No, I was shifting metaphors even worse—so far I was grinding the gears, in fact. Think about it in terms of computer programming for a minute. If our hypothetical sorcerer left the magical equivalent of a subroutine, a sort of watchdog spell, to monitor my magical efforts and automatically counter them, that could explain why the power was able to begin to build up a little before the ‘watchdog’ canceled it.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Nirobus said slowly, “but would your hypothetical sorcerer know about computer programming?”

  “Why not?” Matt said airily. “After all, he’s my hypothesis—I can make him think any way I want.”

  Nirobus stared at him in surprise, then laughed with delight.

  Matt grinned, liking the man more and more. “So the question is—am I facing a man or an enchantment?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “I’d rather have the enchantment,” Matt said slowly. “A resident spell should be easier to overcome than an actual, thinking sorcerer who could switch spells if I overcame his first one.”

  “While he was sending for his master, to hit you with really impressive power.” Nirobus nodded. “Either way, though, you would need enough force to roll over the blocking spell or the magical inertia.”

  “Yes, I would.” Matt smiled.

  Nirobus smiled quizzically. “That doesn’t seem to concern you overly much.”

  “Not really.” Matt grinned. “I know just the source for all the power I need.”

  “Do you really!” Nirobus stared.

  “Yes: the patron saint of Merovence, provided he wants me back there—and I think he does.”

  “I see.” A shadow crossed Nirobus’ face; then he forced a smile.

  Now it was Matt’s turn to be amused. “Don’t believe in saints? Don’t worry—this is all metaphorical, anyway.”

  “And hypothetical.” The idea seemed to cheer Nirobus considerably. “So, then! You seem to have worked out your transportation problem admirably.”

  Matt stared, then gazed off into space, adding up all the factors they’d just talked about. “I have, haven’t I?”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Nirobus stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. “And I’m very glad to see you so cheered.”

  “Thanks.” Matt gave him a grateful smile, wondering how he was going to get rid of the nice old guy so he could try the spell again.

  Nirobus glanced at his watch. “I still have fifteen minutes before my train. If you’ll excuse me, I think I had better take precautions against the ride into the city.”

  “Precautions?” Matt frowned, then remembered that there weren’t any bathrooms on the commuter trains. “Oh. Right. You might not have much time changing to the PATH train.”

  “Quite so.” Nirobus gave him a warm smile. “You’re quite understanding, for a man so young. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you again in ten minutes or so.” He started to turn away, then turned back with a twinkle in his eye. “Or perhaps I won’t.”

  Matt grinned. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Or unless you’re swallowed by an allegory.” Nirobus shook his hand. “Good luck, young man—or should I say, bon voyage?”

  “Thanks, either way.” Matt returned the handshake, then watched the older man pace swiftly around the side of the train station, off toward the nearest coffee shop. Too bad the station itself wasn’t open between rush hours; Nirobus was in a rush, indeed.

  Then Matt looked around him and was appalled to see how much more mellow the light had become. How many weeks had passed in Merovence while he’d been talking the problem through with Nirobus? Not that there had been much choice, but it still dismayed him.

  It must be getting into rush hour now. The commuter trains would be coming in, and people would be streaming through that tunnel. Maybe he’d better find another hiding place.

  But there wasn’t time. Matt hurried along, hoping he could get back to Merovence before the 4:15 came roaring in to disrupt his concentration. He ducked in under the bridge, stood in the center where he should be between the sets of tracks so there was no Cold Iron right above him, and visualized Saul’s face as he chanted softly,

  “Nine-one-one!

  Call begun!

  Saul, by rune!

  To me tune!

  Mocker of pomposity!

  Witches’ Doctor, hark to me!”

  Even as doggerel, it was pretty bad, but it contained the call phrases Saul had given Sir Guy to use in an emergency, and if this wasn’t an emergency, Matt didn’t know what was. But he felt the force of magic beginning to gather about him again—though faintly, so faintly! He held his breath, listening with more than his ears, hoping.

  All he heard was the breeze that blew through the tunnel, and the distant noise of traffic on Main Street.

  In desperation, he cupped his hands around his ears, trying to shut out even that slight sound so that he could concentrate on ones that would come from his mind, but they only concentrated the sound as a seashell does, making the white-noise hiss that children thought of as “hearing the ocean.” Matt listened to it with fierce determination, trying to listen through it, to hear Saul’s voice.

  Then a freight train came rumbling through.

  Matt groaned aloud, not that he could hear himself. If Saul did send words, he wouldn’t hear them through the roar.

  Then he realized that the rumbling overhead had modulated, was forming into words. The more he concentrated, the clearer they became: “...the hell have you been? She’s worried as fury!”

  Matt could imagine his sweet wife in a worry-induced rage all too easily. “Bushwhacked!” he said, as loudly as he dared. “Anchor me! Hold me in mind!”

  There was a second’s silence, and Matt’s heart dropped, afraid that Saul was gone. But the Witch Doctor’s voice came again with determination firmed by anger. “Right. Holding. Go!”

  “Thanks,” Matt called. He hoped he could go. He took a deep breath, hoping the freight would keep going long enough to hide his words from anybody who might happen by. He muttered,

  “St. Moncaire, who propped a king

  And guided Merovence’s course,

  Your power send, to homeward bring

  Myself. Of magic be my source!”

  He felt the magic field strengthen, and for a moment his hopes soared. Then the counterforce hit like a hammer blow, scattering the magic field like water exploding out of a shattered bottle. Matt stood, stunned, pain pounding through his head, the world blurring around him. He sagged against the concrete wall, and couldn’t tell if the roaring in his ears was the freight train or the effect of an inner concussion.

  It faded, and Matt heard the traffic whirring on Main Street. He took a deep breath, shaken, and wondered what had happened. It was almost as though the enemy sorcerer had been watching Matt in person, had known he was about to try another spell, had stood waiting, ready to hit with everything he had. But how? How could he have known?

  Nirobus.

  Matt stared. That kindly, dapper, sophisticated old gent? The very picture of a twentieth-century urbanite? How could he be an agent for a medieval sorcerer? It had to be Matt’s imagination!

  But he had been in an awful hurry to get away. Had he been looking for a rest room, or a chance to report back to Merovence? Certainly he hadn’t seemed terribly surprised by Matt’s “metaphor.” Matt had thought he was very understanding—but why hadn’t he thought Matt was crazy?

  Maybe because he knew Merovence was real!

  Matt gave himself a shake. He was really getting paranoid, blaming a nice old guy like that for his own failures. He sagged against the wall again, thinking wildly, searching for a way around the magical wall...

  A way around.

  Matt straightened, fired with hope. A bypass
! If he could open up a channel that went around whatever magical sentry had been trained on him, he could get all the power he needed to fight back. He might even be able to return to Merovence through that channel, a sort of magical detour! And he had one available, of course—the Spider King, who had lived in both universes and a great many others besides. With that bypass, he didn’t need all that much power, certainly no more than St. Moncaire could lend across the interuniversal Void. He thought of Saul and felt an answering rapport. He was still anchored, St. Moncaire was still listening—he was almost home.

  He glanced around for a spiderweb, and wasn’t surprised to find one—no one exactly came through this tunnel with a dust rag. A broom, maybe, but he or she didn’t look up all that often.

  Matt did, though. He stared up at the small black dot in the center of the web and chanted,

  “Spider King, attend and mark!

  A channel find me through chaos!

  Help me traverse the trackless dark

  Between our separate gaias!

  Through voids outside of time and space

  Guide me to my spirit’s place!”

  Suddenly there was tension in the air, like the feeling of stress that comes as a thunderstorm is building. Something was working somewhere. Matt took a deep breath and began to recite again,

  “Lalinga wogreus marwold reiger

  Athelstrigen marx alupta

  Harleng krimorg barlow steiger...”

  His heart soared as the syllables began to make sense again:

  “You, betrayed by Time and Space,

  Born without your proper grace,

  To a world befouled and base—

  Feel your proper form and case,

  Recognize your homeland’s face.

  Cross the void of time and space!

  Seek and find your proper place!”

  Now he felt the magical force build around him as the saint of another universe laid pull upon pull, tugging at the soul and the body that came with it. Outside that, though, Matt could feel great forces piling up, resisting—but he could sense some sort of wall pushing against them, straining, straining, as the world began to spin, and dizziness seized him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt’s stomach lurched and tried to climb up through his esophagus. He fought it down, telling himself he wasn’t really falling, was just in free fall in a weightless void, but it was hard to believe, for all he could see was a flux and flow of colors all about him, colors that broke into tiny particles and intermingled, swirling together until they all seemed to be a sort of dirty white, making his stomach rebel against the lurch and swing and the primordial fear of the endless plunge.

  Then hardness slammed against his side and arm, pain shot through him, and the stomach-sickness vanished into that pain as the colors fell into their places, coalescing into gray stone and the blue denim of Saul’s jeans as he dropped to his knees beside Matt. “Hey, man, are you all right?”

  “Good... training,” Matt managed to gasp.

  “Good training?” Saul stared, then grinned. “Yeah, you fell on your side, just the way I taught you. Welcome back!”

  “Th-thanks,” Matt managed, then closed his eyes and started a prayer of thanks to St. Moncaire before he passed out.

  He was almost feeling restored an hour later. Of course, that was probably due as much to his having changed back into doublet and hose as to the brew that Saul had prepared, standing by his elbow to be sipped every few seconds.

  Saul sat across from him, eyeing him critically. “Yeah, I guess you’re doing better.”

  Matt took another sip. “When did you become a doctor?”

  “When I found out people expected me to be one,” Saul retorted. “I’ve been studying herbs as well as trances.” He turned to Alisande. “I think he’s almost ready for duty.”

  “Praise Heaven!” Alisande still clasped Matt’s hand firmly; she had scarcely let it go to help him dress. Even now, her voice sounded shaken, the more so because he had done the best he could to explain what had happened. It had come out as confusing, but harrowing. “I never dreamed into what danger I was sending you, husband, when I bade you visit your mother!”

  No mention of Papa, Matt noticed. “There wasn’t that much danger as long as I was there, darling. It was the time-squeeze that worried me—that, and the fact that I couldn’t get back. And you know paranoid me—right away, I was worrying about conspiracies against you.”

  Alisande exchanged a glance with Saul, and Matt frowned. “So I was right! What’s been going on while I was away?”

  “It is nothing beyond our ability to cope,” Alisande hastened to say, “or at least, that Saul has not...”

  The room shook, and something boomed outside.

  Matt was on his feet in an instant. “An earthquake!”

  “No, not really.” Saul was up too, reaching out for Matt’s arm.

  “I can walk,” Matt said testily, and turned toward the door. “Come on! We’d better get up to the battlements and see what’s going on.”

  Thunder slammed in bursts, and the walls shook.

  Matt grabbed the nearest tapestry and held on, managing to stay on his feet. When the floor steadied, he sprinted for the door. “Let’s go! Something’s badly wrong!”

  “Wait a minute,” Saul called, running after him. “We wanted to fill you in, you know, kind of gradually...”

  “Fill me in about what?” Matt asked, and stepped out onto the battlements—into a vast roaring that he finally recognized as laughter so huge that it shook the stone blocks under him. He fell to his knees, grasping the nearest crenel, and stared upward, paralyzed by what he saw.

  At first he thought it was a hot-air balloon, a huge, tan, canvas teardrop—but as his eyes began to make sense of its scale, he realized that it was a humanoid form, a huge, turbaned, bare-chested man who rose above the battlements, reaching out to the tallest tower and shaking it as he laughed. The whole castle vibrated with it. His arms were as long as a whole team of horses, his face was as broad as a house, his beard a black hedge, and his chest expanded like the widening front of a baron’s castle.

  But if it expanded, it dwindled, too, in the other direction. Matt glanced down and saw that the huge torso narrowed quickly, looking like the tail of a teardrop indeed. He could make out some sort of belt, the beginning of trousers, but below that, the body narrowed quite quickly to a long, flowing tentacle that ended in a point, floating fifty feet or more above the earth.

  Matt looked back up, eyes wide in awe, and breathed, “A genie!”

  “Look, man, I told you to get away from here!” Saul shouted at the genie, but his anger was clearly diluted by fear.

  The genie roared another laugh, but one that had an edge to it, and pointed at Saul. A fireball shot from his fingertip.

  Saul leaped aside, and the fireball exploded where he had been. But he didn’t even look at it, just pointed at the genie, narrowing his eyes and chanting,

  “The wind comes rushing through the air

  A-seeking for a weird,

  It stirs the forest darkness,

  The darkness of your beard.

  Let royal service be your lot,

  The service that Drake paid,

  When he took his men to raid

  Upon the Spanish main,

  Then turned about to singe the beard

  Of the King of Spain.”

  The genie’s beard burst into flame. He howled, batting at it, roaring a verse in his own language. Matt frowned; it didn’t quite sound like Arabic...

  Then rain roared down, soaking Matt in an instant—but going around or through the genie, drowning the fire in his beard on the way. He threw back his head and roared with laughter, laughter that made the walls shake again...

  Matt thought of the walls of Jericho and knew he had to stop that torrent of sound. The torrent of rain, too, of course, but that could wait.

  “Blow, bugles, blow,

  set the wild echoes flyin
g,

  Blow, bugle; answer, echoes,

  dying, dying, dying.”

  The genie kept laughing, but the sound no longer rang or boomed about them; it stayed with the genie himself. The walls stopped shaking, and the genie caught his breath, staring in surprise.

  Saul cried,

  “Get along with you, for you give me a pain!

  My castle never leaks without your rain!”

  The rain slackened, but didn’t stop. Well, Saul hadn’t told it to, really.

  Matt called out,

  “He is not here, but far away

  The genie’s noise begins again,

  And wanly, through the glimmering rain,

  On the cropped slope slides the djinni fay.”

  Well, a djinni wasn’t properly a fay, but the unwelcome visitor apparently didn’t know that—he gave a very disconcerted howl, shooting downward as though a huge hand had just yanked him. He hit the “cropped slope” below the castle and slid straight downhill.

  “I hope he doesn’t hit the town wall,” Saul said, craning his neck downward, “at least, not too hard.”

  He needn’t have worried. The genie slowed, then floated back into the air, windmilling his right arm.

  “Here it comes!” Saul called. “Hold tight!”

  As the genie’s arm swung in a circle, mass gathered in his hand until he had enough to throw. The missile shot from his hand, arcing toward the castle—a boulder four feet in diameter.

  Matt realized the sense of what Saul had been saying. He hugged the crenel as though it were his wife.

  His wife! He spun to look, saw Alisande hanging on to a torch sconce that was very securely bolted to the granite—but his own hold was loosened.

  An earthquake hit. Matt’s hold tore loose, and he went sliding toward the gap between two crenels.

  “Matt!” Saul shouted, and reached out toward him—then lost his own hold and came sliding after Matt as the ramparts shook them loose like fleas when a dog scratches.