Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  It was late afternoon when Talea edged closer to him, listening a while longer to the almost music he was making before inquiring, with none of her usual bitterness or sarcasm, "Jon-Tom, are you a spellsinger?"

  "Hmmm?" He looked up at her. "A what?"

  "A spellsinger." She nodded toward the otter, who was walking a few yards ahead of them. "Mudge says that the wizard Clothahump brought you into our world because he thought you were a wizard who could help him in sorceral matters."

  "That's right. Unfortunately, I'm in prelaw."

  She looked doubtful. "Wizards don't make those kinds of mistakes."

  "Well, this one sure did."

  "Then you're not..." She eyed him strangely. "A spellsinger is a wizard who can only make magic through music."

  "That's a nice thought." He plucked at the lower strings and al-most-notes danced with dust motes in the fading daylight. "I wish it were true of me." He grinned, slightly embarrassed. "I've had a few people tell me that despite my less than mesmerizing tenor, I can make a little music-magic. But not the kind you're thinking of."

  "How do you know you can't? Maybe Clothahump was right all along."

  "This is silly, Talea. I'm no more a magician than I am any other kind of success. Hell, I'm having a hard enough time trying to play this thing and walk at the same time, what with that long staff strapped to my back. It keeps trying to slide free and trip me.

  "Besides," he ran his fingers indifferently along the upper strings "I can't even get this to sound right. I can't play something I can't even tune."

  "Have you used all the dutips?" When he looked blank, she indicated the tuning knobs. He nodded. "And what about the dudeeps?" Again the blank gaze, and this time he had a surprise.

  Set into a recess in the bottom of the instrument were two knobs. He hadn't noticed them before, having been preoccupied with the strings and the "dutips," as she'd called them. He fiddled with the pair. Each somehow contracted tiny metal and wood slats inside the resonator. One adjusted crude treble, the other lowered everything a couple of octaves and corresponded very roughly to a bass modulator. He looked closely at them and then looked again. Instead of the usual "treble" and "bass," they read "tremble" and "mass."

  But they definitely improved the quality of the duar's sound.

  "Now you should try," she urged him.

  "Try what? What kind of song would you like to hear? I've been through this with Mudge, so if you want to take the risk of listening to me...."

  "I'm not afraid," she replied, misunderstanding him. "Try not for the sound. Try for the magic. It's not like a wizard as great as Clothahump, even if his powers are failing, to make such a mistake."

  Try for the magic, he thought. Huh... try for the sound. That's what the lead bass player for a very famous group had once told him. The guy had been higher than the Pope when Jon-Tom had accidentally run into him in a hall before a concert playing to twenty thousand. Stuttering, hardly able to talk to so admired a musician, he'd barely been able to mumble the usual fatuous request for "advice to a struggling young guitarist."

  "Hey, man... you got to try for the sound. Hear? Try for the sound."

  That hastily uttered parable had been sufficiently unspecific to stick in his mind. Jon-Tom had been trying for the sound for years, but he hadn't come close to finding it. Most would-be musicians never did. Maybe finding the sound was the difference between the pro and the amateur. Or maybe it was only a matter of getting too stoked to notice the difference.

  Whatthehell.

  He fiddled a little longer with the pseudo-treble/bass controls. They certainly improved the music. Why not play something difficult? Stretch yourself, Jon-Tom. You've nothing to lose. These two critics can't change your career one way or t'other. There was only one sound he'd ever hoped to reach for, so he reached.

  "Purple haze..." he began, and thereafter, as always, he lost himself in the music, forgetting the watching Talea, forgetting Mudge, forgetting the place and time of where he was, forgetting everything except reaching for the sound.

  He played as hard as he could on that strange curved instrument. It lifted him, juiced him with the natural high playing always brought him. As he played it seemed to him that he could hear the friendly prickling music of his own old electric guitar. His nerves quivered with the pleasure and his ears rang with the familiarity of it. He was truly happy, cradling and caressing that strange instrument, forgetting his surroundings, his troubles, his parents.

  A long time later (or maybe it was only a couple of minutes) he became aware that someone was shaking him. He blinked and stopped playing, the last rough chord dying away, soaked up by the earth and trees. He blinked at Talea, and she let loose of his arms, backed away from him a little. She was looking at him strangely.

  Mudge also stood nearby, staring.

  "What's going on? Was I that bad?" He felt a little dizzy.

  " 'Tis a fine chap you are, foolin' your mate like this," said the otter with a mixture of awe and irritation. "Forgive me, lad. I'd no idea you'd been toyin' with me all this time. Don't go too harsh on me. I've only done what I thought best for you and..."

  "Stop that, Mudge. What are you blubbering about?"

  "The sounds you made... and something else, spellsinger." He gaped at her. "You're still trying to fool us, aren't you? Just like you fooled Clothahump. Look at your duar."

  His gaze dropped and he jumped slightly. The last vestiges of a powerful violet luminescence were slowly fading from the edges of the instrument, slower still from the lambent metal strings.

  "I didn't... I haven't done anything." He shoved at the instrument as though it might suddenly turn and bite him. The strap kept it seeure around his neck and it swung back to bounce off his ribs. The club-staff rocked uncomfortably on his back.

  "Try again," Talea whispered. "Reach for the magic again."

  It seemed to have grown darker much too fast. Hesitantly (it was only an instrument, after all) he plucked at the lower strings and strummed again a few bars of "Purple Haze." Each time he struck a string it emitted that rich violet glow.

  There was something else. The music was different. Cold as water from a mountain tarn, rough as a file's rasp. It set a fire in the head like white lightning and sent goosebumps down his arms. Bits of thought rattled around like ball bearings inside his skull.

  My oh, but that was a fine sound!

  He tried again, more confidently now. Out came the proper chords, with a power and thunder he hadn't expected. All the time they reverberated and echoed through the trees, and there was no amplifier in sight. That vast sound was pouring purple from the duar resting firm on his shoulder and light beneath his dancing fingers.

  Is it the instrument that's transformed, he thought wildly, or something in me?

  That was the key line, of course, from another song entirely. But it rationalized, if not explained, he thought, what was happening there hi the forest.

  "I'm not a spellsinger," he finally told them. "I'm still not sure what that is." He was surprised at the humbleness in his voice. "But I always thought I had something in me. Every would-be musician does. There's a line that goes, 'The magic's in the music and the music's in me.' Maybe you're right, Talea. Maybe Clothahump was more accurate than even he knew.

  "I'm going to do what I can, though I can't imagine what that might be. So far all I know I can do is make this duar shine purple."

  "Never mind 'ow you do it, mate." Mudge swelled with pride at his companion's accomplishment. "Just don't forget 'ow."

  "We need to experiment." Talea's mind was working furiously. "You need to focus your abilities, Jon-Tom. Any wizard..."

  "Don't... call me that."

  "Any spellsinger, then, has to be able to be speeific with his magic. Unspecific magic is not only useless, it's dangerous."

  "I don't know any of the right words," he protested. "I don't know any songs with scientific words."

  "You've got the music, Jon-Tom. That's magic enough
to make the words work." She looked around the forest. Dusk was settling gently over the treetops. "What do we need?"

  "Money," said Mudge without hesitation.

  "Shut up, Mudge. Be serious."

  "I'm always serious where money be concerned, luv."

  She threw him a sour look. "We can't buy transportation where none exists. Money won't get us safely and quickly to Clothahump's Tree." She looked expectantly at Jon-Tom.

  "Want to try that?"

  "What? Transportation? I don't know what kind..." He broke off, feeling drunk. Drunk from the after effects of the music. Drunk from what it seemed he'd done with it. Drunk with the knowledge of an ability he hadn't known he'd possessed, and completely at a loss as to what to make of it.

  Make of it some transportation, dummy. You heard the lady.

  But what song to play to do so? Wasn't that always the problem? No matter whether you're trying to magic spirits or an audience.

  Beach Boys... sure, that sounded right. "Little Deuce Coupe." What would Talea and Mudge make of that! He laughed wildly and drew concerned looks from his companions.

  His hands moved toward the strings... and hesitated. "Little Deuce Coup"? Now as long as we're about this, Meriweather, why fool around with small stuff? Try for some real transportation.

  He cleared his throat self-consciously, feeling giddy, and started to sing. "She's real fine, my four-oh-nine."

  In his cradling arms the duar began to vibrate and glow mightily. This time the luminescence spread from the strings to encompass the entire instrument. It was like a live thing in his hands, struggling to break free. He hung on tight while awkwardly picking out the notes. Rising chords sprang from his right fingers.

  Talea and Mudge stepped back from him, their eyes wide and intent on the open grass between. A pulsing, yellow ball of light had tumbled from the duar to land on the earth. It grew and twisted, swollen with the music. Jon-Tom was facing away from it, preoccupied with his playing.

  When Talea's cry finally made him turn the glowing shape had grown considerably. It was working, he told himself excitedly! The shape was beginning to assume a roughly cylindrical outline. He hoped the lemon-yellow convertible would materialize with a full tank of gas (he didn't know any songs about gasoline). Then they would continue in luxury through the forest in a vehicle the likes of which this world had never imagined.

  He really was a little drunk now. Too much pride can stupefy the brain as readily as alcohol. He began to improvise stanzas about AM/FM radios, CB's, racing stripes and mags and slicks. After all, as long as he was conjuring up a vehicle he might as well do it up right.

  Abruptly there was a loud bang, a toy thunderbolt like a thousand capguns all going off simultaneously. It knocked him back on his butt. The duar flopped against his stomach.

  There was something long and powerful where the contorting yellow cylinder had been. It did not boast slicks, but of its traction there could be no doubt. There were no racing stripes and certainly nothing electronic.

  The headlights turned to look at him. They were a bright, rich red save for the black slashes in the centers. A long tongue emerged from the front and flicked questioningly at his sprawled form.

  There was a noise from the "vehicle." He looked frantically over at it, and it back at him.

  In contrast to his evident terror, both Talea and Mudge appeared anything but cowed. They were inspecting the vehicle casually, admiringly. That gave him the courage to sit up and take a closer look at his conjuration.

  It was sight of the reins that brought understanding. There was no bit in the enormous snake's mouth. No living thing could control that single mass of muscle by pulling on its mouth. Instead, the reins were linked to the two ear openings set just in back of the eyes.

  Talea moved around in front of the snake and gathered in the reins. She gave a short, sharp tug and barked a single word. Twice as thick as Jon-Tom was tall, the immense reptile turned and docilely dropped its head to the ground. Red eyes stared blankly straight ahead.

  Jon-Tom had climbed to his feet and allowed himself to be pulled along by an exuberant Mudge. "Come on then, mate. Tis one hellaciously fine wizard you be! Sorry I am that I made fun o* you."

  "Forget it." He shook himself out of his mental stupor, allowed himself to be led toward the great snake. It was at least forty feet long, though its immense bulk made it appear shorter. Four saddles were mounted on its back. They were secured not by straps around the belly as with a horse but by a peculiar suction arrangement that held the seats tight to the slick scales.

  Having calmed down a little, he had to admit that the snake was quite lovely, clad as it was in alternating bands of red, blue, and bright orange that ran like tempera around its girth. This then was the "vehicle" his song had ealled up. The magic had worked, but translated into this world's terms. Apparently his abilities weren't quite powerful enough for the forces of magic to take his words literally.

  "Is it poisonous?" was the first thing he could think to ask.

  Mudge let out his high, chirping otter-laugh, urged Jon-Tom toward one of the rear saddles. "Cor, you're a funny one, mate." Talea had already taken the lead position. She was waiting impatiently for her companions to mount up.

  " 'Tis a L'borean riding snake, and what pray tell would it need poison for t' defend itself against? 'Cept one o' its own relatives, and its teeth are plenty big enough t' 'andle that occasional family chore."

  "What the devil does something this size feed on?"

  "Oh, other lizards, most. Any o' the large nonintelligent herbivores it can find in the wild."

  "Even so, some of them are tamed for riding?"

  Mudge shook his head at the obvious joke. "Now what were you imaginin' these were for?" He rapped the leather saddle loudly. The stirrups were a bit high for him, but strong arms pulled him to where he could get his feet into them.

  "Climb aboard, then, mate, and ride."

  Jon-Tom moved to the last saddle. He got a good grip on the pommel, put his right boot in the stirrup, and pulled. His left foot dragged against the side of the creature, which took no notice of the contact. It was like kicking a steel bar.

  He found himself staring past Mudge at the beacon of Talea's hair. She uttered a low hiss. The snake started forward obediently, and Jon-Tom reached down and used the curved handle-pommel to steady himself.

  The movement was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Not that he'd ever ridden any animal other than the ponies who once frequented his hometown, but it still seemed incredibly gentle. He was put in mind of the stride of the lizards who had pulled their lost wagon; only having no legs, the snake produced an even smoother ride. Technically, it had no gait at all.

  There was no jouncing or bouncing. The snake glided like oil over bumps and boulders. After a few minutes of vibration-free ride Jon-Tom felt confident in letting loose of the handle. He relaxed and enjoyed for a change the passing sights of the forest. It was amazing how relaxed the mind could become when one's feet no longer hurt.

  He made certain the duar was secured across his belly and his fighting staff was still tight on his back, then settled back to enjoy the ride.

  The only thing difficult to get used to was the feeling of not knowing where they were headed, since the snake's slithering, rippling method of making progress was quite deceptive. Eventually he learned to keep a close eye on the reptile's head. It was more like traveling in a tacking sailboat than on a horse.

  Smooth as the ride was, the constant moving from right to left in order to proceed forward was making him slightly queasy. This was solved when he directed his attention sideways instead of trying to stare straight ahead.

  "I didn't mean to call this monster up, you know," he said to Mudge. "I was trying for something completely different."

  "And what might that 'ave been?" A curious Mudge looked back over his shoulder, content to let Talea lead now that he'd given her a heading.

  "Actually, I was sort of hoping for a Jee
p Wagoneer, or maybe a Landcruiser. But I didn't know any songs--any spells--for them, so I tried to come as close as I could with what I had."

  "I don't know wot the first might be," replied Mudge, meticulously preening his whiskers and face, "but a 'landcruiser' be wot we 'ave, if not just precisely the variety you'd 'oped for."

  "I guess." Jon-Tom sounded thoughtful. "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't know any songs about tanks. No telling what we might have ended up with."

  Mudge frowned. "Now that's a peculiar thing t' say. Wot would we 'ave needed with extra water, wot with streams aboundin' throughout this part o' the Bellwoods?"

  Jon-Tom started to explain, decided instead that this was not the time to launch into a complicated explanation of otherworldly technologies. Mudge and Talea appeared quite pleased with the snake. There was no reason for him not to be equally satisfied. Certainly its ride was far smoother than any meehanized vehicle's would have been.

  Idly he ran his fingers over the small strings of the duar. Delicate harplike notes sauntered through the forest air. They still possessed the inexplicable if familiar electronic twang of his old Grundig. Blue sparks shot from beneath his fingers.

  He started to hum a few bars of "Scarborough Fair," then thought better of it. He didn't want anything to divert them from their intended rendezvous with Clothahump. Who knew what some casually uttered words might conjure up? Possibly they might suddenly find themselves confronted with a fair, complete with food, jugglers and minstrels, and even police.

  Play to amuse yourself if you must, he told himself, but keep the words to yourself. So he kept his mouth shut while he continued to play. His fingers stayed clear of the longer upper strings because no matter how softly he tried to strum those, they generated a disconcertingly vast barrage of sound. They remained linked to some mysterious magickry of amplification that he was powerless to disengage.

  He'd hoped for a four-wheel drive, tried for two-wheel, and had produced a no-wheel drive that was far more efficient than anything he'd imagined. Now, what else would add to his feeling of comfort in the forest? An M-16 perhaps, or considering the size of the riding snake and its as yet unseen but possibly belligerent relatives, maybe a few Honest John Rockets.