The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “It is quite dangerous from the time it hatches out of its egg until it spins its cocoon ” Anthony said, “since it is ravenous and its fire will fry anything it comes near.”

  Balkis wondered what kind of cloth the silk of that cocoon might make. “Could it be moving toward the oasis because it seeks water?”

  Anthony shook his head. “It is made of fire. Water would kill it. No, it seeks food—at the moment, us. We are the ones who need water.”

  Balkis pursed her lips, musing. “If we can conjure up something for it to eat, we can fill our water bags before it chases us again.”

  Anthony considered the idea a moment, then nodded slowly. “A good thought.”

  “What does it most like to eat?” Balkis asked.

  “Anything that lives or used to,” Anthony said, “but the caravan men say it likes poppies most.”

  “Because they are the color of fire?” Balkis smiled. “There is sense to that, at least in magic.” She stilled herself inside, let her eyes lose focus, and summoned a verse Matthew had taught her, written by one Edmund Spenser:

  “Fresh spring, the herald of love's mighty king,

  In whose coat of armor richly are display'd

  All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring…”

  She hesitated, unsure how the last line ran. Anthony, thinking it was his turn, cried,

  “With heaps of poppies gloriously array'd

  To our fireworm your vivid blossoms bring!”

  “Urn … thank you, Anthony,” Balkis said somewhat uncertainly, for she was sure that was not how the original verse had been.

  It worked nonetheless, and very well, too. Sparks flew up from the fireworm, hung dancing in the air, then grew into flame-red blooms and cascaded to the ground before the worm in a huge heap. It tore into the pile without a moment's hesitation—but it did stop to eat.

  Balkis decided she might keep Anthony around for a while.

  “Quickly, now!” Anthony caught her hand. “To the oasis!”

  They ran hand in hand, holding each other up when one stumbled. The water bags weren't much of a hindrance—they were almost flat. Then they were running on soft grass beneath palm trees, and Anthony fell to his knees, gasping, by the pond. He pulled the straps of the waterskins over his head and pulled their stoppers. “Watch and tell me if it comes!” he said, and pushed the skins under the water.

  Balkis looked back, “It has almost finished that whole mound of poppies!”

  “Only a minute more.” Anthony pulled one waterskin from the pond, stoppered it, and handed it up to her. “If worse comes to worse, flay it with a stream of that!”

  Balkis took the skin and slung its weight over her shoulder. It seemed reassuring; she had no doubt a jet of water would indeed slow the salamander awhile. Then she saw the last of the poppies burst into flame as they disappeared into that searing maw, and the blind, questing head rose, weaving from side to side, then steadying on them. “It comes!” she cried.

  “Then we go!” Anthony rose, the other waterskin over his shoulder, and caught her hand. “Come, around the pond and away! Perhaps it will fall into the water as it chases us!”

  They ran, fragments of rhyme chasing one another through Balkis' head as she tried to forge a spell to stop a silkworm made of fire.

  When they were sure they had gained enough distance to be safe, Balkis stopped and looked back; Anthony had to stop with her. They both stared, then Balkis said, “Well, we need no longer fear its chasing us.”

  “Indeed we do not,” Anthony agreed. “That will be a blessing when we need to sleep.”

  The salamander was settling down for a snooze of its own. It had stopped to throw strands of silk between two trees that stood only a few feet apart. As they watched, it crawled out onto the net it had spun between the two and began to spin itself a nightshirt.

  “It would seem your mountain of poppies finally filled it,” Anthony said.

  How like him to overlook his own part in conjuring up the flowers! “Perhaps it did not chase us, after all,” Balkis said. “Perhaps it only sought a place to spin.”

  “Or perhaps the poppies sent it to sleep,” Anthony said. “I have heard they have that virtue.”

  They watched as the creature swathed itself in silk. Balkis was surprised to see how small it was—on the desert floor there had been nothing to show its size, but she knew how tall the palms were, and realized that the salamander couldn't have been more than a foot and a half in length. Had she really been afraid of something no longer than her forearm?

  Of course—if that something burned white-hot.

  “We have only to wait until the creature is done spinning,” Anthony said. “Then we can go back to the oasis for a proper rest. After all, if it is asleep in its cocoon, it will not be hungry or hunting.”

  Balkis nodded agreement, watching, fascinated. The net that held the salamander didn't burn, nor did the cocoon it crafted, but its own fire still enveloped it. Even after it had closed the hole at the top and settled down to sleep, the pupa was wrapped in flame—but the silk that held it suspended between the palms insulated the trunks from the blaze.

  “I always wondered how the caravans harvested the cocoons they carried to market,” Anthony said. “Now I know— they found them at oases all along their road!”

  Balkis still gazed at the fiery cocoon. “Does each caravan bring a wizard to make the worms harmless?”

  Anthony shook his head. “The drivers tell me that once the salamander has wrapped its cocoon around itself, it becomes harmless, and to kill it one need only drown the blaze. Then the merchants can take the silk to sell.”

  Balkis stared. “Now I know that form! I have seen palace servants buying giant silken eggs like this in the marketplace of Maracanda when the first caravan from the south comes!”

  “The marketplace of Maracanda!” Anthony gazed off into space, his head filled with shining visions. He shook off the mood and asked, “What use have your people for cocoons?”

  “They weave the silk,” Balkis explained. “Spinsters carefully wind the thread onto spools and give it to weavers, who make it into cloth.”

  “Cloth? From salamander cocoons?” Anthony asked, wondering. “Why would anyone want them more than robes of true silk? The traders have shown me silken cloth, and it is beautiful!”

  “This is even more so,” Balkis told him, “and it lasts far longer, and is amazingly easy to clean! When they wish to wash the garments made of this cloth, the servants have only to put them into fire, and they come forth fresh and clean. They last so long that many people inherit them from their grandparents, and of course they never burn.”

  “How wonderful it must be in Maracanda,” Anthony exclaimed, his eyes glowing, “if everybody there wears such silk.”

  “Not everyone, silly!” Balkis smiled, feeling quite the sophisticate. “Such cloth is very expensive, of course. Garments made of it are for royalty and nobility”

  “So only the people who live in palaces can wear such cloth?” Anthony asked, disappointed. Then he shrugged, turning his face toward the north. “Even so, I wish to see Maracanda, for if it is your home, it must be wonderful indeed.” He turned back to grin. “And if it is your home, I wish to take you there.”

  Heart warmed, Balkis smiled up into his eyes. “Thank you, my friend.” She wondered why her voice had gone all throaty.

  Anthony noticed; his grin widened and his eyes gleamed in a way that made her both excited and frightened at the same time—though whether she was frightened of the emotion she saw in him or of the feelings his look aroused in herself, she could not say.

  Then Anthony turned back to the north. “It lies there, northward—but how far?”

  Balkis shrugged. “I cannot say. I know only that its winter is much, much colder than this.”

  “Months away at least, then.” Anthony shook his head regretfully. “Why did I not ask the caravan drivers how long it took to reach Maracanda? I only asked them
how distant it was, and they always answered, Tar, very far.'”

  Balkis' stomach sank. “I cannot ask you to go so far from your homeland.”

  “But you did counsel me to leave that home behind and seek my fortune,” Anthony reminded her.

  Balkis felt a touch of pique; it might be true, but it was scarcely gentlemanly of him to remind her. “I do not recall saying anything about seeking your fortune.”

  Anthony looked up at the sharpness in her tone and saw he had erred. “You spoke of Maracanda, did you not? And surely my fortune lies there!”

  Balkis gazed at him a second or two, then smiled. “I think it does, yes—not your fortune, perhaps, but your destiny.”

  “Then let us go!”

  Balkis shook her head in amazement at his boundless optimism—or his foolish refusal to think of failure. Whichever it was, he would be pleasant company—for there was no question of her not doing all she could to return to Mara-canda. “We shall, then—but let us rest while we may.”

  They sat down by the pond. As Anthony rummaged in his pack he voiced misgivings he'd been hiding. “I will be a stranger and a bumpkin in Maracanda. Dare I go there?”

  “All are welcome unless they come in war,” Balkis told him. “Every high holy day brings caravans of pilgrims who come to visit the shrine of St. Thomas.”

  “St. Thomas?” Anthony looked up, startled. “Doubting Thomas? The one who would not believe the Lord had risen from the dead unless he could put his finger into the nail holes in His palms and his hand into the rent the spear had made in His side?”

  “Yes, and the one who, when the Lord appeared before him, dared do no more than kneel,” Balkis said with a smile. “You did know it was St. Thomas who brought the Gospel to India, did you not?”

  “To India, and thereby to all these lands of Asia,” Anthony assured her, “but I did not know he had taken his preaching as far north as Maracanda.”

  “He died there,” Balkis told him, “and his body sits in state in a golden chair in the cathedral that is part of Prester John's palace, preserved and uncorrupted, looking as though he only sleeps—but during the great holy days of the year, St. Thomas comes to life and preaches to the people.”

  “Truly?” Anthony's eyes were as round as saucers.

  “I have not seen it myself,” Balkis confessed. “I have a dislike of crowds.” She knew why—she had a cat's fear of too many huge, booted feet stamping and shifting without regard for what lay beneath them. “People tell me the saint's body also gives communion, but closes its hand over the wafer if an unbeliever comes.”

  “Amazing!” Anthony exclaimed. “My family are Nestorian Christians. Will the saint count us as unbelievers?”

  Balkis tried to hide her amusement. “Most of the Christians of Prester John's domain are Nestorians.”

  “Then let us find a caravan and go to Maracanda with it!” Anthony cried.

  “Why, what a perfect notion!” Balkis clapped her hands. “It will surely be safer to journey with a caravan than by ourselves. But did you not say they do not travel in winter?”

  Anthony nodded. “The trading season is over until spring, still a month away, but the first caravans should be leaving India even now—and did you not say we would be months on the road?”

  “I did,” Balkis admitted.

  “Surely we will meet a train of camels long before we come to Maracanda!”

  Balkis smiled; his enthusiasm was infectious. “Let us seek your caravan, then—but for now, let us eat, then rest awhile longer.”

  “We certainly shall not lack for a campfire,” Anthony agreed, with a glance at the flaming cocoon.

  “Is it safe, do you think?” Balkis asked, watching the flames.

  Anthony nodded. “The fire will burn until the moth is grown—but it will not reach much beyond the chrysalis. If it did, it would devour the trees that hold it!”

  Balkis could see the truth in that. “Not that it needs height for protection.”

  “The only creatures who would not be frightened away by its blaze are people.” Anthony grinned. “Small wonder it did not chose to spin near the pond!”

  “We should be safe enough,” Balkis agreed.

  They drank from their waterskins and ate dates from the palms with their journeybread and dried beef. As they finished the meal, the talk drifted to their pasts.

  “Father taught us that we and all the people in our part of the hills are part Greek,” Anthony told her. “Our ancestors were soldiers in the army of Alexander the Great. When he died and his generals settled down to rule the empire, his troopers followed Alexander's example and married women from the tribes around and about.”

  “So that is the source of your yellow hair and blue eyes!”

  “Probably,” Anthony said, “but the legends tell us that there were always redheads among these hill folk even before Alexander came, and my hair is as much red as yellow.”

  “Golden,” Balkis agreed, trying to ignore the sensations that studying Anthony's looks aroused in her. “I expected all your folk to have black hair, though, as do so many of the peoples of these lands.”

  “Black hair and yellow skin, like the caravan drivers from the east? Yes. But our legends say the first mountaineers in these hills came from a wild people who crossed the mountains to conquer India,” Anthony told her. “Their skins were bronze and their hair was red, brown, or black. But if so many in Asia have slanted eyes and yellow skin, how is it your eyes are round and your skin golden?”

  “Maracanda has grown rich on trade,” Balkis told him. “Caravans come from the west and south as well as the east, bringing not only goods but travelers. Some of the pilgrims choose to stay. My ancestors came from all lands.”

  “If all their descendants are like you, their mingling has produced a beautiful people!”

  Balkis lowered her gaze, hoping he wouldn't see her blush. “You are kind to say so…”

  “Not at all,” Anthony breathed.

  “… but I think that all peoples are handsome, though others may not see it,” Balkis went on, firmly ignoring his comment—but she kept her eyes, and her face, downcast. When her skin had cooled, she looked up and asked, “But what of this rhyming game of yours? Did Alexander bring that, too?”

  “No one knows,” Anthony said frankly, “though we think it was there before him. It is a contest for whiling away the long winter nights, after all.”

  Balkis gazed off into space, thinking, and nodded. “There is little point in sitting around the fire in summer, aye. But do you not sit out in the twilight, then?”

  “We do,” Anthony said, “but there is little time between evening chores and bed, for we work in the fields as long as the light holds. There is much work to be done if we wish to wrest a living from the rocky ground of the slopes.”

  “I suppose there must be.” Balkis thought of the wide, flat fields around Maracanda and saw his point. “Do you never tire of retelling the old tales?”

  “Never, for there are many of them, and some, like the Ma-habhurata, are very long.” Anthony seemed to see nothing odd in a Christian knowing a Hindu epic. “And, of course, you must never use a verse, or even a line, that you have used before.”

  “So you must always put the story into new words?”

  Anthony nodded. “Always new rhyme and meter straight from your head, made up then and there. Some play it only as a game, but Father has always declared it to be a competition between his sons. At the end of the night, we discuss who has done best, and Father rules who won and who lost.” His gaze slipped away and his face darkened. “Almost always, they agree I have lost, for I am clumsy in my rhyming and keep breaking the meter.”

  “Not the verses I have heard.” Balkis felt a dark anger growing. “You seemed quite deft and your rhymes ingenious. Have you ever won?”

  “Oh, of course not!”

  “Of course,” Balkis echoed with sarcasm. “You are the youngest, after all—how could they ever let you be first?�
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  Anthony frowned. “It is not their fault that I am slow.”

  “I am not certain of that,” Balkis said, and before he could object again, added, “after all, they never let you begin the tale. You must always fit your thoughts to someone else's meter.”

  “Well, true.” Anthony gazed out at the desert. “I have gained a great deal of practice at keeping the story going, though. Surely I will gain their respect someday, even though I may never win.”

  “Not theirs,” Balkis said, “but mine, and that of any others who hear you.”

  “Yes, if someone else makes up the first verse!” Anthony said with a rueful grin. “I have little originality and less imagination.”

  “Or so your brothers would have you believe,” Balkis said sharply. “I suspect your imagination is only lacking in regard to your own talents. For myself, I can memorize any verse at one hearing and coin a new verse easily, but I have a bitter time of it trying to finish a final couplet.”

  Still, Anthony had already proved that he was very good at improvising verses to add to her own spells. If she could start a spell, he could finish it, and make it much stronger in the process.

  He did not say so, but looking into his eyes, Balkis saw that he realized it, too. She flushed and turned aside, not wanting to relegate him to being the clean-up man, even as his brothers had—but she had to admit his talent was useful. She resolved to give him a great deal of practice at beginning poems.

  Anthony reached out for her hand but didn't quite touch it. “What are you thinking?”

  “Only that it is a long way to Maracanda.” Balkis took his hand. “A long way, and months in which to come to know one another. Let us sleep while we may, and when the sun is low, we can manage a few hours' more walking.”

  They walked northward until dark, with the setting sun on their left. They sheltered in the lee of a huge rock that stood alone and unexpected in the midst of the waste. Anthony kindled a small and smokeless fire with the dry brush that straggled about them while Balkis changed into a cat and crept downwind of some mice, watching them scurry about the brush finding dried berries to eat. Then a nighthawk found the mice, Balkis found the hawk, and they had fresh meat for dinner.