Spellsinger Read online

  "I don't want to hurt you," Jon whispered, as much from the agony in his side as

  from a desire not to panic the creature. "I just want to wake up, that's all."

  Tears started from his eyes. "Please let me wake up. I want to leave this dream

  and get back to work. I'll never take another toke, honest to God. It hurts. "

  He looked back over his shoulder, praying for the sight of his dumpy, cramped

  room with its cracked ceiling and dirty windows. Instead, he saw only more

  trees, tulip things, glass butterflies. A narrow brook ran where his bed should

  have been.

  Turning back to the otter he took a step forward, tripped over a rock, and fell,

  weakened by loss of blood. Peppermint and heather smells filled his nostrils.

  Please God, don't let me die in a dream....

  Details drifted back to him when he reopened his eyes. It was light out. He'd

  fallen asleep on his bed and slept the whole night, leaving the Mexia unread.

  And with an eight o'clock class in Brazilian government to attend.

  Judging from the intensity of the light, he'd barely have enough time to pull

  himself together, gather up his books and notes, and make it to campus. And he'd

  have words with Shelly for not warning him about the unexpected potency of the

  pot he'd sold him.

  And it was odd how his side hurt him.

  "Got to get up," he mumbled dizzily.

  " 'Ere now, guv'nor," said a voice that was not his own, not Shelly's, but was

  nonetheless familiar. "You take 'er easy for a spell. That was a bad knock you

  took when you fell."

  Jon's eyelids rolled up like cracked plastic blinds. A bristled, furry face

  framing dancing black eyes stared down at him from beneath the rim of a bright

  green, peaked cap. Jon's own eyes widened. Details of dream slammed into his

  thoughts. The animal face moved away.

  "Now don't you go tryin' any of your daemonic tricks on me... if you 'ave any."

  "I"--Jon couldn't decide whether to pay attention to the bump on his head or the

  pain in his side--"I'm not a daemon."

  The otter made a satisfied cluttering sound. "Ah! Never did think you were. Knew

  it all along, I did. First off, a daemon wouldn't let hisself be cut as easy as

  you did and second, they don't fall flat on their puss when they be in pursuit

  of daemonic prey. Worst attempt at levitation ever I saw.

  "Thinkin' I might 'ave misjudged you, for bein' upset over losin' me supper, I

  bandaged up that little nick I gifted you with. Guess you're naught but a man,

  what? No hard feelin's, mate?"

  Jon looked down at himself. His shirt had been pulled up. A crude dressing of

  some fibrous material was tied around his waist with a snakeskin thong. A dull

  ache came from the bandaged region. He felt as though he'd been used as a

  tackling dummy.

  Sitting up very slowly, he again noted his surroundings. He was not in his

  apartment, a tiny hovel which now seemed as desirable and unattainable as

  heaven.

  Dream trees continued to shade dream flowers. Grass and blue clover formed a

  springy mattress beneath him. Dream birds sang in the branches overhead, only

  they were not birds. They had teeth, and scales, and claws on their wings. As he

  watched, a glass butterfly lit on his knee. It fanned him with sapphire wings,

  fluttered away when he reached tentatively toward it.

  Sinewy muscles tensed beneath his armpits as the otter got behind him and

  lifted. "You're a big one... give us a 'and now, will you, mate?"

  With the otter's aid, Jon soon found himself standing. He tottered a little, but

  the fog was lifting from his brain.

  "Where's my room? Where's the school?" He turned a circle, was met by trees on

  all sides and not a hint of a building projecting above them. The tears started

  again, surprising because Jon had always prided himself on his emotional

  self-control. But he was badly, almost dangerously disoriented. "Where am I?

  What... who are you?"

  "All good questions, man." This is a funny bloke, the otter thought. Watch

  yourself, now. "As to your room and school, I can't guess. As to where we are,

  that be simple enough to say. These be the Bellwoods, as any fool knows. We're a

  couple days' walk out o' Lynchbany Towne, and my name be Mudge. What might yours

  be, sor, if you 'ave a name?"

  Jon answered numbly, "Meriweather. Jonathan Thomas Meriweather."

  "Well then, Jnthin Tos Miwath... Joneth Omaz Morwoth... see 'ere, man, this

  simply won't do! That's not a proper name. The sayin' of it ud give one time

  enough to dance twice widdershins 'round the slick thighs o' the smooth-furred

  Felice, who's said t've teased more males than there be bureaucrats in

  Polastrindu. I'll call you Jon-Tom, if you don't mind, and if you will insist on

  havin' more than one name. But I'll not give you three. That clatters indecently

  on the ears."

  "Bellwoods," the lanky, disoriented youth was babbling. "Lynchbany...

  Lynchbany... is that near Culver City? It's got to be in the South Bay

  somewhere."

  The otter put both hands on Jon-Tom's wrists, and squeezed. Hard. "Look 'ere,

  lad," he said solemnly, "I know not whether you be balmy or bewitched, but you'd

  best get hold of yourself. I've not the time t' solve your problems or wipe away

  those baby-bottom tears you're spillin'. You're as real as you feel, as real as

  I, and if you don't start lookin' up for yourself you'll be a real corpse, with

  real maggots feedin' on you who won't give a snake fart for where you hailed

  from. You hearin' me, lad?"

  Jon-Tom stopped snuffling, suddenly seemed his proper age. Easy, he told

  himself. Take this at face value and puzzle it through, whatever it is. Adhere

  to the internal logic and pray to wake up even if it's in a hospital bed.

  Whether this animal before you is real or dream, it's all you've got now. No

  need to make even an imaginary asshole of yourself.

  "That's better." The otter let loose of the man's tingling wrists. "You mumble

  names I ain't never heard o'." Suddenly he slapped small paws together, gave a

  delighted spring into the air. "O' course! Bugger me for a rat-headed fool for

  not thinkin' of it afore! This 'as t' be Clothahump's work. The old sot's been

  meddlin' with the forces of nature again." His attitude was instantly

  sympathetic, whiskers quivering as he nodded knowingly at the gaping Jon-Tom.

  " 'Tis all clear enough now, you poor blighter. It's no wonder you're as puzzled

  and dazed as you appear, and that I couldn't fathom you a'tall." He kicked at

  the dirt, boot sending flowers flying. "You've been magicked here."

  "Magicked?"

  "Aye! Oh, don't look like that, guv'nor. I don't expect it's fatal. Old

  Clothahump's a decent docent and wily enough wizard when he's sober and sane,

  but the troublemaker o' the ages when he lapses into senility, as 'e's wont t'

  do these days. Sometimes it's 'ard to tell when 'e's rightside in. Not that it

  be 'is fault for turnin' old and dotty, 'appens t' us all eventually, I expect.

  "I stay away from 'is place, I do. As do any folk with brains enough. Never know

  what kind o' crazed incantation you might get sucked up in."

  "He's a wizard, then," Jon-Tom mumbled. Trees, grass, the otter before
him

  assumed the clarity of a fire alarm. "It's all real, then."

  "I told you so. There be nothin' wrong with your ears, lad. No need t' repeat

  what I've already said. You sound dumb enough as it is."

  "Dumb? Now look," Jon-Tom said with some heat, "I am confused. I am worried.

  I'll confess to being terrified out of my wits." One hand dropped reflexively to

  his injured side. "But I'm not dumb."

  The otter sniffed disdainfully.

  "Do you know who was president of Paraguay from 1936 to 1941?"

  "No." Mudge's nose wiggled. "Do you know 'ow many pins can dance on the 'ead of

  an angel?"

  "No, and"--Jon-Tom hesitated; his gaze narrowed--"it's 'how many angels can

  dance on the head of a pin.' "

  Mudge let out a disgusted whistle. "Think we're smart, do we. I can't do fire,

  but I'm not even an apprentice and I can pindance."

  His paw drew five small, silvery pins from a vest pocket. Each was about a

  quarter of an inch long. The otter mumbled something indistinct and made a pass

  or two over the metal splinters. The pins rose and commenced a very respectable

  cakewalk in his open palm.

  "Allemande left," the otter commanded. The pins complied, the odd one out having

  some trouble working itself into the pattern of the dance.

  "Never can get that fifth pin right. If only we 'ad the 'ead o' an angel."

  "That's very interesting," Jon-Tom observed quietly. Then he fainted....

  "You keep that up, guv, and the back o' your nog's goin' to be as rough as the

  hills of Kilkapny Claw. Not t'mention what it's doin' t' your fur."

  "My fur?" Jon-Tom rolled to his knees, took several deep breaths before rising.

  "Oh." Self-consciously he smoothed back his shoulder-length locks, leaned

  against the helpful otter.

  "Little enough as you 'umans got, I'd think you'd take better care o' it." Mudge

  let loose of the man's arm. "Furless, naked skin... I'd rather 'ave a pox."

  "I have to get back," Jon-Tom murmured tiredly. "I can't stay here any longer.

  I've got a job, and classes, and a date Friday night, and I've got to..."

  "Your otherworldly concerns are of no matter to me." Mudge gestured at the

  sticky bandage below the man's ribs. "I didn't spear you bad. You ought t' be

  able to run if you 'ave t'. If it's 'ome you want, we'd best go call on

  Clothahump. I'll leave you t' 'im. I've work of me own t' do. Can you walk?"

  "I can walk to meet this... wizard. You called him Clothahump?"

  "Aye, that's it, lad. The fornicating troublemakin' blighter, muckin' about with

  forces 'e can't no longer control. No doubt in my mind t' it, mate. Your bein'

  'ere is 'is doin'. 'E be bound to send you back to where you belong before you

  get 'urt."

  "I can take care of myself." Jon-Tom had traveled extensively for his age. He

  prided himself on his ability to adapt to exotic locales. Objectively

  considered, this land he now found himself in was no more alien-appearing than

  Amazonian Peru, and considerably less so than Manhattan. "Let's go and find this

  wizard."

  "That's the spirit, guv'nor!" Privately Mudge still thought the tall youth a

  whining, runny-nosed baby. "We'll 'ave this 'ere situation put right in no time,

  wot?"

  Oak and pine dominated the forest, rising above the sycamore and birch. In

  addition, Jon-Tom thought he recognized an occasional spruce. All coexisted in a

  botanistic nightmare, though Jon-Tom wasn't knowledgeable enough to realize the

  incongruity of the landscape.

  Epiphytic bushes abounded, as did gigantic mushrooms and other fungi. Scattered

  clumps of brown and green vines dripped black berries, or scarlet, or peridot

  green. There were saplings that looked like elms, save for their iridescent blue

  bark.

  The glass butterflies were everywhere. Their wings sent isolated shafts of

  rainbow light through the branches. Yet everything seemed to belong, seemed

  natural, even to the bells formed by the leaves of some unknown tree, which rang

  in the wind and gave substance to the name of this forest.

  The cool woods, with its invigorating tang of mint ever present, had become

  almost familiar when he finally had his first close view of a "bird." It lit on

  a low-hanging vine nearby and eyed the marchers curiously.

  Bird resemblance ended with the feathers. A short snout revealed tiny sharp

  teeth and a long, forked tongue. The wings sprouted from a scaly yellow body.

  Having loosened its clawed feet from the vine, the feathered reptile (or scaly

  bird?) circled once or twice above their heads. It uttered a charming trill that

  reminded the astonished Jon-Tom of a mockingbird. Yet it bore closer resemblance

  to the creature he'd seen scamper beneath the boulder in the meadow than to any

  bird, and was sooner cousin to a viper than a finch.

  A small rock whizzed through the air. With an outraged squawk the feathered

  apparition wheeled and vanished into the sheltering trees.

  "Why'd you do that, Mudge?"

  "It were circlin' above us, sor." The otter shook his head sadly. "Not entirely

  bright you are. Or don't the flyers o' your own world ever vent their excrement

  upon unwary travelers? Or is it that you 'ave magicked reasons o' your own for

  wishin' t' be shat upon?"

  "No." He tried to regain some of the otter's respect. "I've had to dodge birds

  several times."

  The confession produced a reaction different from what he'd hoped for.

  "BIRDS?" The otter's expression was full of disbelief, the thin whiskers

  twitching nervously. "No self-respectin' bird would dare do an insult like that.

  Why, 'ed be up afore council in less time than it takes t' gut a snake. D'you

  think we're uncivilized monsters 'ere, like the Plated Folk?"

  "Sorry." Jon-Tom sounded contrite, though still puzzled.

  "Mind you watch your language 'ere, lad, or you'll find someone who'll prick you

  a mite more seriously than did I."

  They continued through the trees. Though low and bandy-legged like all his kind,

  the otter made up for his slight stride with inexhaustible energy. Jon-Tom had

  to break into an occasional jog to keep pace with him.

  Seeds within belltree leaves generated fresh music with every varying breeze,

  now sounding like Christmas chimes, now like a dozen angry tambourines. A pair

  of honeybees buzzed by them. They seemed so achingly normal, so homey in this

  mad world that Jon-Tom felt a powerful desire to follow them all the way to

  their hive, if only to assure himself it was not equipped with miniature windows

  and doors.

  Mudge assured him it was not. "But there be them who are related to such who be

  anything but normal, lad." He pointed warningly eastward. "Many leagues that

  way, past grand Polastrindu and the source o' the River Tailaroam, far beyond

  the Swordsward, on the other side o' great Zaryt's Teeth, lies a land no

  warmblood has visited and returned to tell o' it. A land not to look after, a

  country in'abited by stinks and suppurations and malodorous creatures who are o'

  a vileness that shames the good earth. A land where those who are not animal as

  us rule. A place called Cugluch."

  "I don't think of myself as animal," Jon-Tom commented, momentarily forgetting

&nbs
p; the bees and wondering at what would inspire such loathing and obvious fear in

  so confident a creature as Mudge.

  "You're not much of a human, either." Mudge let out a high-pitched whistle of

  amusement. "But I forget myself. You're a stranger 'ere, plucked unwillingly

  from some poor benighted land o' magic. Unwillingly snookered you've been, an' I

  ought by right not t' make sport o' you." Suddenly his face contorted and he

  missed a step. He eyed his taller companion uncertainly.

  "You 'ave the right look 'bout you, and you feel right, but with magic one can

  never be sure. You do 'ave warm blood, don't you, mate?"

  Jon-Tom winced, listed to his left. A powerful arm steadied him. "Thanks," he

  told the otter. "You should know. You spilled enough of it."

  "Aye, it did seem warm enough, though my thoughts were on other matters at the

  time." He shrugged. "You've proved yourself harmless enough, anyway. Clothahump

  will know what he's called you for."

  What could this wizard want with me, Jon-Tom wondered? Why is this being done to

  me? Why not Shelly, or Professor Stanhope, or anyone else? Why me? He noticed

  that they'd stopped.

  "We're there?" He looked around, expecting maybe a quaint thatched cottage.

  There was no cottage in sight, no house of any kind. Then his eyes touched on

  the dull-paned windows in the flanks of the massive old oak, the wisp of smoke

  rising lazily from the chimney that split the thick subtrunks high up, and the

  modest door scrunched in between a pair of huge, gnarly roots.

  They started for the doorway, and Jon-Tom's attention was drawn upward.

  "Now what?" wondered Mudge, aware that his entranced companion was no longer

  listening attentively to his description of Clothahump's growing catalog of

  peculiarities.

  "It's a bird. A real one, this time."

  Mudge glanced indifferently skyward. "O' course it's a bird. What, now, did you

  expect?"

  "One of those hybrid lizard things like those we passed in the forest. This

  looks like a true bird."

  "You're bloody right it is, and better be glad this one can't 'ear you talkin'

  like that."

  It was a robin, for all that it had a wingspan of nearly a yard. It wore a vest

  of kelly green satin, a cap not unlike Mudge's, and a red and puce kilt. A sack

  was slung and strapped across its chest. It also sported a translucent eyeshade