“Oh,” murmured Jon-Tom, sounding unaccountably disappointed.
“It’s the torment you’re inflicting on yourself that has me concerned. Can’t you see your own unhappiness? If someone as inherently insensitive as a demon can sense it, surely you can’t be oblivious to your own emotional condition.”
“I know I’m not a bundle of good cheer here lately,” Jon-Tom admitted. “I think it’s because I’m not doing what I want. In fact, I’m not doing much of anything. But what can I do about it when there’s nothing that needs doing? The world is at present an ordered and placid place. I can’t invent a crisis.”
The demon hopped up on the kitchen counter across from Jon-Tom and planted his hairy legs and backside on the edge of the tile. With extraordinary presumption for a conjured fiend, he put a comradely arm around the spellsinger’s shoulders. Jon-Tom didn’t shrug it off.
“You can get off this track and out of this rut if you want to, Master Meriweather.” With his free hand he gestured at the kitchen. “Or are you going to spend the rest of your life attending to such as this? Spellsinging brooms and feather dusters?”
Jon-Tom scrutinized the grotesque but concerned face. “I’ve told you. There’s nothing going on that requires my attention.”
“A resourceful mortal has access to situations and circumstances that are denied even to such as myself,” Fugwheez reminded him. “If you persist in rationalizing your present situation, you will indeed end up like the great mass of humans: content on the outside, desperate on the inside. I know. I’ve consumed quite a lot of human desperation.” A long clawed finger tapped the center of Jon-Tom’s chest. “It’s usually a small knot right about here, though it varies in size from individual to individual. Nourishing but rather bland, not unlike enriched white bread. Don’t you know that most men lead lives of quiet desperation?”
“That’s from Walden, isn’t it?”
The demon nodded. “Thoreau’s quite popular in the Nether Regions. All that talk about civil disobedience, you know. Anarchy has a distinctive flavor.”
“Why this unnatural concern for me?” Jon-Tom watched the blue demon intently.
“I told you: you’re different. Also, we find your antics entertaining, and because of the nature of your work, it’s likely that someday one of us will have the opportunity to disembowel and consume you. Nothing personal, I assure you. But sweet tastes better than bitter.”
“So what this all comes down to is not altruism or concern for my welfare, but food?”
The demon replied innocently, “Doesn’t everything?”
“I told you, I can’t just go out and manufacture a crisis.”
“Of course not. That’s my job. But surely the great spellsinger Jonathan Thomas Meriweather can think of something more suitable to engage his talent than defrosting the freezer and fluffing the sheets on his bed.” Fugwheez leaped ceilingward and hung dangling by one arm from the light fixture, looking like the ugliest and bluest of all apes.
“Maybe… .” Jon-Tom let his fingers drift across the duar’s strings. The sound they produced in the kitchen was melancholy yet hopeful. “Maybe I haven’t been trying hard enough. Maybe it’s time I stopped waiting for something to happen and went looking for it.”
“That’s it!” Fugwheez cheered him on. “Be active, not reactive.” He skittered across the ceiling, irritating the glowspells. “And the next time you need something varnished, don’t hesitate to call on me. All I ask in return is that when you finally make a fatal slip, I get the first bite of your brains. I’m sure the flavor will be delicate and exceptionally sweet.”
“If that circumstance arises, I’ll try and make sure that you’re first in line,” Jon-Tom assured him dryly.
“Then I bid you a fond farewell, Master Meriweather.” The fiend was becoming a blue vapor.
“Good-bye, Fugwheez. And … thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the vapor told him. “Therapy’s a hobby of mine. You’d be surprised how many demons and imps are deeply neurotic.” With that he swirled in upon himself and, like a puff of smoke, vanished into the nearest light fixture. The air in the kitchen turned pale blue for just an instant as the demon tested the protective parameters surrounding Jon-Tom. There sounded a mildly disappointed cry of “Darn!” when these held firm, and then the interior illumination came back on clean and white. Fugwheez was gone.
And so was Jon-Tom—out the door, down the hall, and through the main entrance to the tree. Duar bouncing gently against his back, he strode determinedly away from his home and toward the riverbank. Sunlight sparkled on his iridescent vest. There was a spring to his step that had been missing for some time, and it wasn’t due to the presence in his boots of coiled steel conjured by some mystic metallurgical spell.
“Mudge? Mudge, get up!” He pounded forcefully on the door set flush with the smooth riverbank. When no reply was forthcoming from within, he stepped back and began to sing. Moments later he heard the internal latch click.
The door swung open and he stepped through, having to bend low to clear the lintel. Designed to accommodate adult otters, it was a good two feet lower than he would have found comfortable.
The ceilings were higher, but he still had to walk bent over as he made his way deeper into the riverbank, carefully avoiding any fixtures attached to the ceiling. The light was dim and he squinted as he advanced.
“Mudge? Mudge!” There was no sign of the otter in the kitchen, with its little round windows that looked out over the river and its rough-hewn, close-to-the-floor furniture. Nor was the otter in the den, or the front hall.
Jon-Tom found him sprawled like a loosely scrawled letter S in the middle of the rumpled master bed. The room showed signs of Weegee’s efficient touch as well as Mudge’s more anarchic tastes.
“Mudge, get up.”
“Mphm, wot… ?” Blinking back sleep, the otter rolled over, whiskers twitching. A hand-crocheted sleeping cap covered half his face. “Wot are you doin’ ’ere, mate? I were ’avin’ a sound sleep an’ a loverly dream.”
Jon-Tom made a face and indicated the single window through which sunlight was pouring. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Middle …” The otter squinted sleepily at a bedstand.
“Wot time is it, exactly?”
“Seven-thirty. Get up.”
“Seven-thirty! In the mornin’?”Grumbling, he sort of oozed out of the bed. “Wot is it with you ’umans an’ your peculiar affection for sunlight?”
“Come on, move your tail,” Jon-Tom demanded impatiently.
“All right, all right. Don’t get your privates in an uproar.” Mudge rubbed at his slightly bloodshot eyes as he straightened. “What’s the bloody emergency?”
Jon-Tom didn’t bother searching for a chair, knowing that none of the furniture in the riverside home was big enough to accommodate his lanky form. Instead, he sat down very carefully on the end of the bed. There was no frame, the mattress resting directly on a pad on the floor.
“Mudge, you’re as bored as I am. You admitted as much yesterday.”
The otter arched his back and stretched, which is to say he nearly stuck his head through his legs. It was an exhibition of spinal acrobatics few other creatures could have duplicated. Jon-Tom’s back twitched in sympathy.
“You jostled me out o’ a sound sleep to remind me o’ that?”
“I was cleaning house this morning as per Talea’s instructions and … look, Mudge.” As he sidled closer on the bed, the otter eyed his friend warily. “We’ve been moping around doing nothing, or virtually nothing, for years. Then Buncan and Nocter and Squill ran off and had their little adventure.”
“Little adventure?” Mudge barked sharply. “They ought to ’ave been dead ’alf a dozen times over, the bleedin’ disrespectful rebellious adolescent little sods!”
“I know,” Jon-Tom agreed soothingly, “but they accomplished what they set out to do and made it back in one piece. You heard their story. Didn’t it e
xcite you, make you want to get back out there and see what the distant corners of the world are made of?”
“They’re made o’ dirt, mate.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oi, that I do.” The otter yawned, showing sharp teeth, and lazily scratched his crotch. “I’m afraid I’ve become too good friends with me bed, ’ere. Besides, there ain’t nothin’ needin’ your unsolicited attention. An’ you know wot I mean.”
“Maybe nothing major,” Jon-Tom admitted, “but Clothahump is so busy, and he is getting on in years. It’s possible he can’t keep track of everything. There might be a problem or two he’s overlooked.”
“’Ow old is the ’ard-shelled old fossil fart these days anyway?” Mudge wondered aloud. “Three ’undred? Four ’undred? Not that you can tell any difference by lookin’ at ’im. Turtles don’t age much. Not only that, but ’is bloomin’ back never seems to give ’im no trouble. It ain’t fair.”
“He has to lug that shell around all day,” Jon-Tom reminded his friend. “That’s not fair, either. I’m going to ask him to feel for anything that might be out of balance. I’m sick of sitting around, helping with the housework and spellsinging away common childhood diseases and household infestations. I’m tired of working parties and graduations. I want the old thrill back, Mudge!”
The otter looked thoughtful. “You mean the thrill of wonderin’ whether we were goin’ to be crushed like bugs or ’ave our throats slit or be ceremonially torn limb from limb? That sort o’ thrill? I says, good luck to you in your reminiscin’, mate.”
“You don’t mean that, Mudge. You’re as bored as I am.”
“Sure I am. I’m bleedin’ bored out o’ me wits, mate! But there’s kinds o’ excitement that don’t require riskin’ life an’ limb to experience.”
“Just a small thing, Mudge,” Jon-Tom pleaded. “Something that wouldn’t require much traveling, and no real danger. Just a little change of pace, of locale, of venue.”
“Wot about Talea the thrice-beloved?”
“I’ll leave her a note. She’ll understand.”
“Oh, sure she will. A note. I’ll invent one for Weegee, too.
“Bye, darlin’. Gone off adventurin’. Back before the end o’ next year. Don’t wait up. Oh, she’ll love that, she will.”
“She’ll cope.” Jon-Tom exuded false confidence. “They both will. It’s not like we haven’t gone off before.”
“Think, mate. It’s been a while. A goodly while. I think where that kind o’ waitin’ is concerned, our spouses might be out o’ practice.”
“I don’t have any choice in this, Mudge,” Jon-Tom explained earnestly. “It’s too much part and partial of who I am. Of what I am. And you can’t deny that you’re having the same feelings.” He rose from the low bed. “Come on.”
“Come on?” The otter licked his lips. “Come on where, mate? ’Tis seven-thirty in the morn.”
“Seven forty-two.” Jon-Tom paused at the bedroom door. “To see Clothahump, of course. Surely there’s something happening somewhere. Some lesser, casual causal catastrophe just waiting to be put right with a spellsong or two.”
“Some tiny blade just waitin’ to slip between me ribs,” the otter groused. “I can see you ain’t goin’ to leave me be, so give me a minim to dress an’ I’ll sacrifice a perfectly good sleep-in to humor you.” He shook a short finger at his much taller friend. “But I’m warnin’ you, mate. I ain’t skippin’ away with some dumb smile on me face to watch you put life an’ limb in mortal danger to satisfy some ’idden mindless cravin’. Especially not me life an’ limb.”
“Nothing dangerous, Mudge. I promise. I have a wife and child to think of, too.”
“Oi. Now if you only ’ad a brain to go with ’em.” The otter cursed volubly as he fought to step into a pair of recalcitrant shorts.
Chapter 3
THE GRAND OLD OAK still squatted serene and eternal in the middle of the glade. Twisted and gnarled, prodigious roots spread out from the base of the thick trunk to plunge forcefully into the ground, as if seeking to grip the very center of the Earth. The tree appeared stolid and immovable, unaffected by time or the forces of nature.
Not unlike its occupant, Jon-Tom reflected as he and Mudge approached across the grass. Like his own home, the tree’s interior was far more spacious than seemed possible, the result of a most excellent dimension-expanding spell the old wizard had perfected in his youth.
A terse cobblestone walkway led to the doorway. Jon-Tom halted before the entrance and reached for the button that protruded from the bark.
“’Ang on a minim, mate.” Mudge pointed. “Wot’s that?”
“That’s right—you haven’t been here in a while, have you? It’s a concept from my own world. I described it to Clothahump and I guess he was kind of taken with the notion. It’s called a doorbell. More efficient than knocking. I wasn’t sure he could make one function here.” He jabbed the white button with a forefinger.
From deep within the tree a choir of trumpets blared sonorously, ringing out an impressive fanfare. Simultaneously, a septet of exquisite birds-of-paradise materialized to proclaim a greeting in what sounded to Jon-Tom’s ears vaguely like avian Latin. As the resounding trumpets faded, the seven birds vanished, to be replaced by a pair of black bantam-sized storm clouds flanking the portal. Thunder pealed across the cobblestones as miniature lightning bolts struck and illuminated the nameplate fastened to the middle of the door.
The declaratory nimbuses mellowed and turned white, whereupon a petite rainbow no wider than Jon-Tom’s waist arced from one puffy cloud to the other, forming a perfect fulgent archway over the door. As the last trumpet echoed from an unseen distance, the minuscule rainbow and tiny clouds shattered like soft glass, dusting the two visitors with a shower of pure color that adhered only to their memories.
“In retrospect,” Jon-Tom murmured as the door swung inward to admit them, “I probably shouldn’t have challenged him. I think he may have gone and overdone it a little.”
A stocky figure clad in cloak and simple vestments stood just inside the entrance, gazing back at them. Jon-Tom sighed. Clothahump was not the easiest wizard to work for. The turtle went through famuli as fast as a pneumonic elephant went through nose drops.
The sloth before them blinked slow eyes and spoke carefully. “I am Ghorpul, Clothahump’s famulus. I—”
“You don’t have to go through the formalities, Ghorpul. I know who you are.” Jon-Tom indicated his companion, who was eyeing the new assistant curiously. “This is my friend Mudge.”
“Ghorpul,” Mudge barked. “What kind of a name is Ghorpul?”
The sloth was slow, but not dense. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone named Mudge.” He turned sideways in the hall and beckoned. “Enter, Master Jon-Tom. And,” he added disapprovingly, “friend.”
Clothahump was not to be found in any of his several studies, nor in the great library. When finally he arrived in the audience chamber, it was clear he had been napping.
“Jon-Tom, what are you doing here today?” He yawned, his beak stretching wide.
“Why not today, Master?”
“It’s Crixxas.”
“Who’s ass?” quipped Mudge.
The wizard peered over his glasses at Jon-Tom’s companion. “Ah, the otter,” he murmured, as if that explained everything. Which it did. He returned his attention to the tall human.
“Crixxas is one of the more important wizardly holidays. A time for meditation on the great mysteries, for scrutiny of the Higher Plenum, for consideration of matters of time and space most profound. For unsullied cogitation and noble reflection.” He gestured with a thick-fingered hand.
“Yet I see that you abjure all that in favor of traveling attire, on a morning when all responsible sorcerers and wizards and spellsingers should be devoting themselves to hermetic contemplation.”
“My apologies, Master. I guess I didn’t look at my calendar. I’ve been kind of preoccupied late
ly.”
“So I’ve noticed.” The turtle looked resigned. “Well, no matter. You are here. Sit and unburden yourselves.” He glanced over at the sloth. “Ghorpul, go back to your cleaning.”
“Yes, Master.” The sloth shuffled off into the hallway.
Clothahump plumped himself down into a deeply concave chair, snugging his shell into the egg-shaped receptacle.
“Slowest famulus I’ve ever had.”
“I was meaning to ask you,” said Jon-Tom, “why a sloth?”
“You know why, lad. He has an excellent memory, a real mind, and some notion of what honest study involves. This contrasts with the attitude of many previous assistants, who all too often seemed to have nothing between their ears except a lump of flavored sponge cake. Ghorpul’s only drawback is that it takes him twice as long as it should to perform the simplest tasks.” The wizard gazed longingly at the ceiling.
“Perhaps someday I’ll finally find a famulus who combines speed and efficiency with intelligence. A brilliant otter, perhaps.” He squinted appraisingly at Mudge, who was slumped in the chair he’d chosen, short legs spread wide, his stained vest hanging open and one finger up his nose.
“Then again,” the wizard concluded thoughtfully, “perhaps not.” He shifted his attention back to Jon-Tom. “Now that you have broken my concentration, what is it so urgent it makes you forget even Crixxas?”
Jon-Tom looked over at Mudge, who was ignoring him with practiced finesse. Finding no support from that quarter, he looked hopefully at the wizard.
“Really not much of anything, Master.”
“Come come, lad. You can tell old Clothahump.”
“I just did, sir. That is the problem. Nothing’s the matter. Anywhere.”
Clothahump looked dubious. “I fail to see why you should regard that as a disturbing state of affairs.”
“Frankly, Clothahump, Mudge and I are bored.”
“Ah!” The wizard’s face lit with understanding. Which in Clothahump’s case meant it actually took on a slight, pale evanescence. “Adventure self-denial. A not uncommon malady among individuals of your age and intellectual-emotional type. I, of course, am immune to such juvenile disorders. I presume you have given some thought to a possible course of treatment?”
Chorus Skating Page 3
