by Scott Meyer
Murphy said, “What the hell? There’s uh, there’s another Jimmy.”
“Yeah,” Miller said. “The one I saw.”
“No, further down. A third Jimmy.”
Jimmy came strutting up the sidewalk wearing a puffy green insulated vest and cargo pants. He and the Jimmy in the denim nodded hello as they passed each other.
Miller gasped. “What the hell?”
The car sputtered and died. Neither of the agents cared.
As the Jimmy in the puffy vest walked past the condo building entrance, the door opened. The doorman stepped out. Despite being several inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than Jimmy, he had Jimmy’s face. He held the door open. A young woman pushing a stroller stepped out. She wore a sweater dress, leggings, and a scarf, and had Jimmy’s face, complete with his hair and chin beard. She and the doorman with Jimmy’s face smiled broadly as they made small talk, then the woman reached into the stroller and pulled out a baby with Jimmy’s face for the doorman with Jimmy’s face to coo at.
Miller and Murphy watched this, their faces slack with awe and disgust.
Miller became aware of someone standing just outside his rolled-down driver’s-side window. He turned to see a girl, he’d have guessed about twelve years old, in a puffy pink jacket and a T-shirt with a picture of a unicorn on it. Her blonde hair was held in twin ponytails with plastic, rainbow-colored barrettes, and she had Jimmy’s face.
“Mister,” she said in her little-girl voice. She held up a soot-stained banana. “Looks like you fell for the banana in the tailpipe.”
14.
Phillip appeared in the blind alley near Brit the Younger’s apartment. He stood motionless for a moment, his shoulders slumped, his staff hanging low, clutched by fingers that barely bothered to support its weight. He put out a hand to steady himself against the nearest wall.
Nine hours, he thought. Hunched over a computer, searching the logs. Ever since I discovered magic, I don’t think I’ve done anything for nine straight hours except sleep.
He pushed off from the wall and slumped his way out into the main thoroughfare until he stopped and used a hand to brace himself against the frame of Brit the Younger’s door.
Now remember, to her, only twenty minutes have passed, and you’ve just been out for a nice, invigorating walk.
Phillip groaned and opened the door. He strode into the apartment, smiling. “Hello Brit! I’m back.”
Brit the Younger said, “Hey,” without looking up from her book, which appeared to be a textbook with a picture of two ballerinas on the cover.
Phillip settled into a chair opposite her.
“I’ve been thinking,” Brit said. “We should get out of the house today. Go do some sightseeing.”
“Yeah? Where do you want to go?”
“Maybe Las Vegas in 1971. See a show. Catch a boxing match. Use magic to cheat at craps. Maybe, if we’re lucky, catch a glimpse of Hunter S. Thompson—I know you’d like that.”
Phillip said, “Sounds good. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go take a quick nap first.”
“It’s not even eleven yet.”
Phillip got up and stepped toward the two rustic wooden doors set, side by side, into the clean, crystalline expanse of Brit’s living room wall. “Yeah, I know.”
“That must’ve been some walk.”
“Yeah, there was a headwind. Kidding. I didn’t sleep well last night. Just a half-hour cat nap, and I’ll be ready to go.”
Nik breezed into the room, stopping short when he saw Phillip. “Well, look who’s back. Did you enjoy your walk?”
“Yes, Nik, I did, thanks.”
Nik stared expectantly at Phillip. He glanced down at Phillip’s empty hands. He looked around the room, an expression of confusion on his face.
Phillip groaned, “Oh, the butter! Nik, I’m so sorry, I forgot your butter. I’m such a fool! I’ll go get it right now; is a pound enough?”
Nik laughed. “Oh, Phillip, don’t worry about it. We have enough for tonight. Having some extra would have been nice, but I can make do until I go out tomorrow.”
“Oh. Good. Still, I’m sorry, Nik. Again.”
“Don’t worry about it, Phillip. We all forget things.” Nik went back to the kitchen, although less energetically than he’d come out.
Phillip looked at Brit, who smiled. “He understands. Go take your nap. You clearly need it.”
Phillip passed through the door and emerged in his hut in the Medieval English town of Leadchurch. He heard the door click shut behind him, then collapsed onto the bed, an eighties-vintage high-end mattress magically disguised to look like a sack filled with straw.
* * *
Phillip awoke after seven hours of not very restful sleep. He remembered a very long dream about sitting at a computer, poring over logs, looking for anything unusual. He knew that he was hardly the only person who sometimes dreamt about the very thing he was sleeping to recuperate from, but he still found it terribly unfair when he woke up.
Phillip traveled back in time six and a half hours. He looked down at the sleeping form of his past self. He felt a pang of envy for a moment, until he remembered that at that very moment the poor bastard was probably dreaming about staring at a computer monitor.
He rejoined Brit, refreshed after his quick catnap. The two of them spent the rest of that day and that night seeing the sights of Nixon-era Las Vegas. As they came home, exhausted, Phillip told Brit that she had now seen the best that the early 1970s had to offer, and Brit said that based on that, she agreed with Phillip’s assessment that most of that time period, right up until Star Wars was released, had been a waste of time.
They both slept solidly through the night, but Phillip was haunted by dreams of poring over logs on a computer that was set up in the middle of a blackjack table while a game was in progress. His work was slowed by computer crashes, and an argument with a player who split a pair of fours.
* * *
The next morning, as the sun crested the rim of Atlantis and foot traffic was just beginning to heat up, Martin stood on the roof of a nearby house and watched as Phillip emerged from the front door of Brit the Younger’s apartment.
“Just a quick walk,” Phillip almost sang as he backed out onto the street. “You’re sure you don’t need anything? I’ll get it this time, I swear . . . Okay.”
As Phillip closed the door, his shoulders and his smile sagged instantly. He walked down the street, his head held low, muttering to himself. “Spent all day in Vegas in the seventies. Ruffles everywhere. Paid good money to have Don Rickles call me a hockey puck. Never understood American humor.”
He shuffled along, eyes never rising above the ground five yards in front of him, lost in his own thoughts. He took no notice when a large bucket of honey some thoughtless person had left teetering on the edge of a terrace above tipped and fell over directly above him. The honey and the bucket would have covered him in sticky ooze and possibly left him blinded, with a bucket on his head, if they hadn’t hit the force field Martin had created just below the ledge, hanging in midair as if sitting in a transparent bowl.
Phillip shuffled on, oblivious, as only a few steps later, a large pillow-like burlap bag, also left precariously on the edge of the next terrace up, spontaneously ripped along its seam, unleashing a thick, dry clump of downy white feathers. It fell with surprising speed, staying together in one mass with only minimal feather loss until it also hit an invisible force field only a yard above Phillip’s bowed head.
The clump of feathers burst on impact, spreading into a swirling cloud contained in a spherical force bubble, like a snow globe.
Still, Phillip did not notice.
“Shrimp cocktail,” he muttered. “Canned shrimp and cocktail sauce from a jar. No wonder it only cost fifty cents. Still a total rip-off.”
He plodded past a man attempting to move a large barrel. As Phillip passed by, the man lost control of the barrel, which tipped over. The contents, which appeared to be several cubic feet of ball bearings, sloshed forward, but stopped at the barrel’s opening as if crashing into a glass lid. The barrel’s owner seemed confused by this. Grateful, but confused.
Phillip took no notice of that, either.
“She spent an hour after the floor show talking to that choreographer. Don’t know why. That wasn’t dancing, walking around topless while wearing giant hats.”
Just before Phillip reached the alley he’d taken to using as a covert teleportation spot, he passed a plank of wood leaning against a wall. The plank flopped down, seemingly of its own accord, and a fox sprung out of a hole the plank had concealed.
The fox skidded to a stop directly in front of Phillip, who leapt back in surprise. The fox looked up at Phillip, spun around twice to examine its surroundings, then streaked off down the path and out of sight.
Phillip shrugged and stepped into the alley. A moment later, he’d vanished.
Martin scanned the rooftops and corners, fearing his target had already fled. Something caught Martin’s eye, some bit of movement that seemed out of place. He focused in and saw what he was looking for: the goblin who’d been harassing Phillip, standing on a rooftop, head shaking, shoulders hunched, looking directly at Martin. The goblin waved hello.
Martin hurled his beanbag at the goblin with all his might. The goblin slapped it away before it struck his chest. Martin said “Bamf” a moment too late, and took the beanbag’s place just after it had been batted away. Martin flew backward out of control, tripped, tumbled, and came to a rest on his side. As he wallowed on the ground, trying to get back to his feet, his still badly damaged robe shed hundreds of sequins that fell to the ground in a shower of glittering debris. He cast his eyes around the path and found that the pedestrians had scattered and vanished, as they always seemed to do as soon as there was any sign of trouble between two wizards. He knew they were watching, but from a safe distance, and hidden behind or under any cover they could find.
The goblin pushed back his hood, revealing his unnaturally long nose, pointed ears, and misshapen bald head. “Good work, Martin. You once again foiled my attempt to distract Phillip. You have no idea what you’re doing.”
Martin picked himself up. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m keeping you from covering my friend with honey and feathers, then tripping him with marbles.”
“But you missed the fox.”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “Good thing it was a dud.”
“Well, if you hadn’t foiled the honey and the feathers, it would have been a different story. The fox’s natural predatory instincts toward chickens was a major component of the plan.”
“Huh. I almost wish I hadn’t interfered.”
“So do I,” the goblin said. “Why are you working so hard to keep me from distracting Phillip? I think it’s pretty clear that I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“You’re trying to meddle in his life without him knowing. I can’t imagine you’re up to any good.”
“But Martin, by stopping me, you’re meddling in his life without him knowing. Are you up to no good?”
“I tried to get him involved, but he didn’t believe me. And I’m trying to protect him.”
“That’s admirable,” the goblin said, “but now the question is, who will protect you?” The goblin threw his arms out wide and bellowed, “Expecto Patronum!”
Martin saw a blinding white flash, which gave way to a persistent blinding white light, which weakened and gave way to a blindingly bright glowing white moose.
Martin watched, fascinated, as the moose stepped forward, its great glowing head held high, its shimmering antlers extending proudly, and its glistening tongue licking its sparkling lips, leaving behind a thick film of viscous, twinkling saliva.
Martin said, “You have kind of an animal theme, don’t you? You’re like Aquaman, only instead of talking to fish, you talk to animals. You’re like Landman.”
“Dr. Doolittle would be a more apt comparison.”
“Yeah, I guess. So, you called up a glow-in-the-dark moose. Great. I like the Harry Potter reference, but what’s it going to do, attack me with its moose powers?”
The goblin smiled. “Yes!”
The moose let out a mighty bellow. It sounded hollow, distant, ghostly. The sound gave Martin chills.
The moose galloped up to Martin, stood up on its hind legs, and with its front hooves, started raining blows down on Martin from above. The moose worked its front legs as if it was pedaling a bicycle, but with each stroke, its hooves struck Martin.
He used his arms and staff to repel the blows as best he could, and stepped backward in an attempt to get away. The moose advanced, balancing awkwardly on its rear legs, occasionally touching down with the front legs to regain its balance before rearing up again and continuing its barrage of undignified front kicks, while bellowing in fear and rage.
Martin did his best to evade the angry glowing moose, backing away, blinded by the intensity of the attack, but he found escape impossible. After ten or so seconds of struggle, which felt like a lifetime, Martin said, “Okay, screw this.” He tossed his beanbag as far as he could down the path behind the moose, said “Bamf,” and disappeared.
From his new position thirty yards away, he used his magic to lift the moose into the air. It hung there, legs and tongue thrashing wildly. Martin pushed the moose out into empty space, over the edge of the terrace, then lowered it to the next level down. Many citizens still crowded the lower level, trying to see what was going on above, but as the moose lowered to their level, they scattered.
He maneuvered the animal under the floating bucket of honey. He released the spell that kept the honey suspended, allowing it, and the now-empty bucket, to fall on the furiously thrashing moose.
Martin pushed the moose forward into the hovering sphere of floating feathers. The beast’s churning legs disturbed the air, causing the honey to spread and the feathers to swirl more turbulently. After just a few seconds, Martin lowered the moose, now completely covered with a sickly-looking coating of feathers, to the ground.
The instant the moose’s hooves touched a solid surface, it leapt, then ran in a tight circle, then spun in place twice, bellowing, as if asking if anyone wanted a piece of him. No sooner had the moose stopped its thrashing then it started leaping again, as the fox that had failed to attack Phillip streaked into view and started nipping at the moose’s heels.
“Huh,” Martin said. “It would have worked.”
“Of course it would have,” the goblin said. “The only flaw in the plan is that you’re involved.”
Martin flew forward, landing only a few feet in front of the goblin. “Okay. My turn. Fantomoj de la pasinteco!”
A thick, dark vapor streamed out of the head of Martin’s staff and swirled around him and the goblin, blocking their view of the outside world. Distant voices, unmistakably human and just as unmistakably morose, filled the air, loud enough that one could not ignore the noise, but far too distant and indistinct to make out a single word. It was like the background noise from the world’s least enjoyable cocktail party.
The gas swirled faster and more violently. Currents and vortices formed in the rapidly flowing surface, then congealed into the forms of faces that floated above the goblin, looking down, speaking in stern, paternal voices.
“You’ve never been good enough”
“I can only hide so much disappointment.”
“Why can’t you be more like your siblings, cousins, or more successful classmates?”
“What is this?” the goblin asked.
Martin smiled viciously. “We established I can embarrass a magic user, and I can make a magic user
uncomfortable. Now I’m using emotional warfare to do both!”
The faces grew more numerous, surrounding the goblin. Their voices grew louder and came at an accelerating rate, creating a seemingly infinite chorus of both adults and children.
“Aw, did you wet the bed again? It’s okay. You’re still little.”
“Your team’s got last pick, so you’re stuck with him.”
“Show the note you were passing to the class! Oh, she checked no!”
“I expected you’d stop wetting the bed by the seventh grade!”
“Got dumped, eh? She was always too good for you.”
“So you didn’t get into your first choice of university. We have a fine community college.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Or a casual thing. Or another friend.”
“So you didn’t get into your first-choice community college. There’s still your safety.”
“I didn’t expect my boyfriend to be wetting the bed when I moved in with him!”
Martin heard a high-pitched shriek that was not part of the spell. He turned and saw the goblin, eyes agape, hands over his ears, mouth wide open, screeching like an air-raid siren. The goblin turned and took off running, cutting through the swirling mist and emerging into the clean air beyond, still screaming incoherently.
Martin followed, the mist dissipating behind him. He held his staff out in front of him and shouted, “Gluu la ŝuojn.”
The goblin came to an abrupt halt, his scream ending as he fell forward, arms swirling like pinwheels. The soles of his feet remained in contact with the ground as he bent forward at the waist and caught himself with his outstretched arms. His feet seemed rooted in place, so he remained in this position, hands and feet pressed to the ground, his posterior the highest point of his body, for several seconds, grunting and swearing and trying to push off of the ground with his hands hard enough to become upright once again.
