The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Hither shall they fly, so sing

  Of their glory in loyalty!”

  “That is where you wished me to improvise, is it not?” he asked anxiously.

  “None better.” Balkis clung to his arm with a sigh of relief.

  Sure enough, two extravagantly plumed, flame-colored birds soared into sight, all trailing pinions, flowing crests, and undulating tails. They came flying from above the forest, calling out in musical tones that penetrated the sounds of battle.

  The birds gave voice in a sound like a cataract and swirled in a huge half-circle to join the royal couple, surrounding them on all sides, some even flying on ahead, trilling a warning to all who encountered them.

  The little people stared, letting their nets and weapons fall, eyes wide, drinking in a sight they had never seen, no doubt memorizing every detail to relate to their grandchildren.

  The birds filled the sky now, and Balkis realized that others were streaking in from all points of the compass. Toward the east they flew, away from the sunset, darkening the earth below, but the sinking sun backlighted them in a golden glow. Then the sky began to clear as the huge flock soared away over the horizon. In its center, the king and queen of birds flew on, glorious song spilling from their throats, calling more and ever more of their kind to them.

  Anthony stood transfixed, and Balkis was no better; the royal birds were so glorious that she had no thought for anything else in the world, all her mind devoted to drinking in the sight and engraving it upon her memory.

  Then they were gone, the spell broken, and they were left two strangers in a foreign vineyard, surrounded by natives two-thirds their size but armed with spears and bows, slowly turning toward the two bigger people who had invaded their land.

  But the little folk dropped their weapons as they approached. They were all sweating and some were wounded, scored with the red trails left by birds' beaks, but grinning and bowing their thanks. They saluted the companions, and like the women warriors and the ant workers, they spoke the language of Maracanda with a heavy accent.

  “Welcome, strangers!” said a gray-headed man. “I am Bunao, hetman of this village. Our great thanks for banishing the birds as you did!”

  Anthony protested, “Surely we had little to do with—”

  Balkis elbowed him in the ribs, and the hetman, grinning, said, “Be not so modest. Never before have the birds left us with so brief an attack—or so many grapes. We saw you pointing at them and chanting—but how did your call summon the yllerion?”

  Anthony stared, and Balkis explained, “We only called for the king and queen of birds.” She, at least, knew enough to accept her due credit in a strange land.

  “You called well,” Bunao said, “for the yllerion do indeed rule over all other fowl in the world. They are fiery of hue, their wings are as sharp as razors, and not even eagles can stand against them.”

  “How is it we have never seen them?” Anthony asked. “Is it because I am from the mountains, and they do not wish to roost there?”

  “No, it is because there are but two of them in the entire world,” Bunao explained. “They live for sixty years, after which span they fly off to plunge into the sea.”

  “It would seem we were fortunate to be summoning them at the end of that cycle!” Balkis said.

  “So it would,” Bunao agreed, “but it was definitely your magic that brought them here, for we have never seen them before, neither the oldest among us nor our ancestors, and doubly grateful are we for having seen the sight.”

  “If they fly to the sea to end their lives,” Anthony asked, “how will there ever be more yllerion?”

  “Oh, before they begin their flight, the queen lays two or three eggs, and they take turns sitting upon them for forty days. If the young ones have not already hatched, the royal couple will not have to begin their final journey. But it must have occurred, for what you have seen here is what we have been told happens—that all the birds who meet them fly as escort with them until they are drowned”

  “The poor creatures!” Balkis cried.

  Bunao shrugged. “I am sure their end is quick, for the water quenches their lives as it turns the fire of their wings to steam.”

  “But the nestlings!” Anthony protested. “How shall they survive with no mother or father?”

  Bunao eyed him curiously. “You have a good heart. But fear not, for the nestlings are now the new king and queen, and the birds who served as final companions to their parents return to the fledglings, feeding and defending them until they have grown up and can fly and look after themselves.”

  “A most singular breed,” Balkis murmured, turning to Anthony with wide eyes.

  He nodded. “How fortunate we are to have seen them!”

  “As though you had nothing to do with their approach,” Bunao scoffed, and stretched out a hand. “Come! You must be our guests for the night, and let us honor you!”

  “Oh, we could not intrude—” Anthony began, then grunted as Balkis' elbow dug into his ribs again.

  “But it is very kind of you to offer,” she finished.

  “Not so kind as the lives you have saved by driving away the flocks! Indeed, we often lose a dozen or more of our people in this battle, and scores more die for lack of food in the winter. Everyone in this land of Piconye is in your debt. You must let us honor you for at least one night!”

  “Well … perhaps only one night,” Balkis said, with a meaningful glance at Anthony.

  He looked down at her elbow and said, “One night will not slow our northward progress so terribly much. I must accept with thanks, good hetman!”

  “Then come!” the hetman cried to his people, and the throng shouted with joy, then pressed in around the strangers as Bunao led them toward his village. They were surrounded by joyful singing, and if the warriors had picked up their spears and arrows again, at least none were pointed at their guests.

  At the edge of the vineyard hundreds of horses were tethered—but what horses! They were as small as sheep, and the Piconyans swung aboard them bareback, taking the reins and turning them homeward.

  “I regret that we have no mounts large enough for you, honored guests,” Bunao said.

  “We are accustomed to walking,” Balkis assured him. “Your warriors appear quite proficient with their weapons. Must you march to war often?”

  “Only against the birds,” Bunao said. “We have no other enemies. We are content to spend our time laboring in the vineyards and going to worship the Christ on Sundays— though we also practice our archery and spear-play on the sabbath. It may not be rest, but for us it is recreation.”

  As they came to the village they saw another troop, even larger, approaching. At their head rode a man with an austere countenance, dressed in a loincloth like the rest of them, but wearing also a purple cloak and a crown of gold topped by ostrich plumes of purple and white. Like all his people, there was a shield over one shoulder and a quiver over the other, and he carried a bow and spear slung at his saddle. A man at his right called, “Bow to Tutai, King of Piconye!

  “Hail Majesty!” Bunao cried, and fell to his knees.

  All his people followed his example, leaving Balkis and Anthony standing in their midst, unsure what to do. Then Anthony shrugged, said, “Royalty is royalty,” and bowed.

  “Rise, good Bunao,” the king said, “and introduce me to these strangers. Then explain how the birds have left.”

  “These are the wizards who called up the yllerion, Your Majesty, and bade the flock follow them away,” Bunao said as he rose. “I fear I have not asked their names—one never knows, with wizards.”

  “We trust you well enough to tell you,” Balkis said, smiling, “for the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I am Balkis, and this is Anthony.”

  Anthony held up a hand in greeting, somehow certain that Balkis wasn't being quite as trusting as she claimed. “Hail, O King!”

  “Hail, O Wizards,” the king returned, saluting them with an open palm. “How knew y
ou of the yllerion, if you are strangers?”

  “We called the king and queen of birds, Your Majesty, though we had never seen them,” Balkis explained. “In truth, I was not sure there were such royalty among the feathered kind.”

  “A lucky guess, then.” Tutai smiled, apparently relieved. “We thank you for kind rescue—this battle would have cost many lives without you!”

  “It would seem that you shall not have as many birds to roast now, though,” Anthony said regretfully.

  “That is a small price to pay.” But Tutai looked thoughtful. “In truth, most of those we slay go to waste—but now that you mention it, there should be some way to trap them when they come for the grapes next year. Perhaps we could ensnare them and gain as much food from their bodies as we lose to their beaks.”

  “A good thought,” Balkis said with an admiring glance at Anthony. “Do you know anything about catching birds?” she asked him.

  Anthony shrugged, seeming to swell visibly from her unspoken praise. “Only bird-lime and nets—but it would take many, many webs to cover all these vines.”

  “We have the whole winter to weave them,” Bunao pointed out, “but what is bird-lime?”

  Anthony started to answer, but Balkis laid a hand on his arm and said, “Let us discuss it as we dine.”

  “An excellent thought!” said Tutai. “Lead us to your village pavilion, Bunao. We shall feast with these wizards and fashion a plan for dealing with the birds!”

  As the sun warmed the earth, though it was hidden behind gray pearly clouds that filled the sky, an ant the size of a fox dug its way out of the sand dune that had sheltered it during the night. The day before, it had had a narrow escape from a shouting horde of women who seemed not to know they should be afraid of it, instead chasing it with horrible clanging things that bit from twenty feet away and more. It could run much faster than they did, though, and had doubled back twice to bite some of them, deeply, too—it hadn't liked the flavor— but their insane comrades had chased it all the more angrily for that. Finally it ran out into the desert, and they had not followed. It then burrowed into a sand dune to spend the night.

  Now, though, it followed the scent of its property—a tang no human could have detected but that the ant knew well: its own acidic scent mingled with the smell of gold. Strangely, the carrier seemed to have come this way, too, and the ant followed the trace far faster than any human could have run. To the ant, though, it seemed to be running slowly, and for good reason—its middle was hollow with hunger. It had to find food, and quickly.

  Suddenly, there was a human foot in front of it.

  The foot was at least twice the size of the ant. Looking up, though, the insect saw a human being not much larger than the ones in its valley. But where a normal human had hips that forked into two legs, this one had only one leg the width of its whole body, a massive column, slightly bent at the knee, which descended into the huge flat foot that lifted as the creature hopped into the air then plummeted down, its foot spread wide to crush the ant.

  The ant stared, not understanding—never had it seen an ant being crushed. At the last second, though, it connected with a memory of a tree falling on another worker-ant and dashed to the side. The huge foot slapped down into the sand, and the uniped man bent his knee deeply, crying, “Vermin!” then hopped high and forward.

  His foot caught the ant on its underside and hopped up again, sending the ant flying twenty yards. The impact hurt, but the ant had felt worse; it scrambled up and ran from the uniped man. Shouting, the man came hopping after it, but the ant was far faster than any human, especially one hopping. It ran until the uniped sank below the horizon behind it.

  Then the ant slowed, its antennae probing for anything that might be edible. It quickly found a lizard, one almost gelled solid by the night's chill. Shortly after, it found a family of mice. As it was eating, though, it heard a distant thud. Looking up, it saw the uniped hopping toward it.

  Ants don't have a wide range of emotions, but it did feel anger at the man's tenacity. It gobbled up the rest of the mice, turned and ran again.

  Running is hungry work, and half an hour later, with the one-footed man out of sight, it slowed to hunt some more. It found some prickly vines and managed to eat the vines and leave the prickles. It was just finishing when it heard a thud again.

  It looked up at the approaching hopper with fresh anger, then turned and ran north. Once more it slowed as hunger turned to famishment, and cast about, seeking something to eat. It found little except sand and another very small lizard before it heard another thud.

  The ant looked up in a fury. Would the uniped never stop? Would it have to kill the uniped to get a little peace?

  The thought struck it with pleasure—a way to satisfy both ends at the same time, safety and appetite. It streaked back toward the uniped, wary of that great slapping foot but also very much aware that the man was made of meat.

  The uniped shouted with anger, hopping high and aiming for the ant. At the last second the ant dodged aside and, before the man could hop again, ran up his leg and over his hip and chest, its mandibles reaching for his throat. After all, when two anthills fought one another, biting off your enemy's head always stopped it, and if it worked with an ant, why not with a human?

  But the uniped man shouted in anger and struck the ant with a huge fist. It fell, rolling, and struggled up to see that huge foot descending right toward it.

  The ant dodged again, but when it tried to climb the leg a second time, the uniped was ready; the fist swung down out of nowhere and the ant went spinning. It sprang to its feet and ran in a half-circle, the great foot thudding behind it. Around and around the ant ran, watching out of its faceted eye as the uniped man spun about, stamping and shouting. Then, dizzy, he toppled.

  The ant sprang in, mandibles wide, reaching for the uniped's neck—but the huge foot swung around, knocking it off its feet and through the air. This time the ant struck against a rock and landed dazed. It saw the huge foot approaching, hop by hop, but couldn't get its legs working again. The great sole lifted one last time to fill the sky, then descended…

  The ant's legs started working and it shot out from under just as the great extremity slapped earth where it had been. All thoughts of food abandoned, the ant ran north, the direction the scent of the gold had been going. This time it knew better than to stop, and ran and ran northward, not even pausing to look back.

  But as it ran, the clouds blew away, and the naked sun baked the desert with its rays. Between the heat and its hunger, the ant slowed, then finally stopped, trembling, and looked back— to see the uniped man hopping over the horizon. But he, too, had slowed, and now stopped, wiping his brow and lifting a waterskin for a long drink. Then, to the ant's astonishment, he lay down on his back and raised his foot. Its shadow fell across him, providing the uniped with shade in the'heat of the day.

  But he had also put himself low enough for the ant to reach.

  Slowly now, shivering with hunger, fatigue, and heatstroke, the ant went back toward the man. This desert's heat was a far cry from the moist jungle of its home valley—but it was beginning now to suffer from thirst, treading as lightly as possible until it was ten feet from the uniped, angling around so it came upon him from beyond the crown of his head, where the stupid blind human could not see. Then it rushed. The uniped never knew what bit it.

  Matt pulled his cloak tighter about him; the wind of Stegoman 's flying was chill, especially at this altitude. He drew a forearm across his face to shield it, and beyond the folds of his cloak he saw a sinuous shape flanking them and veering closer. “Female flying object at nine o'clock,” he warned.

  “I see her,” Stegoman said in a carefully neutral tone.

  Dimetrolas converged on their course in a matter of seconds, and Matt decided he had definitely been away from Ali-sande too long—he was actually thinking the female dragon's graceful S-curve was attractive. It was either pure aesthetics or having been with Stegoman long enoug
h to perceive as he did.

  “I have heard something of your woeful travels, wizard,” Dimetrolas jeered. “What manner of man are you, who had the chance to fertilize dozens of females and refused?”

  Matt felt a spurt of anger at the intention of the insult, if not its substance. “The only kind of man I respect, Dimetrolas— one who is faithful to his mate!”

  “Oh, aye, even as dragons mate for life!” Dimetrolas jeered. “Have you been so long with this great scaly hulk that you have begun to think like our kind?”

  Matt gave her a funny look, one he'd been practicing. “Humans mate for life, too, dragonette.”

  “Not those I have met, silly male! In truth, even those I have seen who claim to be married are quick to couple with any females who offer!”

  “The more shame to them for offering,” Matt called back. “I'm sorry you've only met such low examples of my kind.”

  “Every human male whom I call friend has been faithful to his mate, save one,” Stegoman rumbled. “In truth, you have seen such sordid samples!”

  But Dimetrolas picked up the mention quickly. “Save one? And who might that be?”

  “A ragtag poet called Frisson, who rose to rule a kingdom as a wizard.”

  “And you call him friend even though he is unfaithful to his wife?”

  “He is unmarried,” said Stegoman, “and so far as I know, refuses to couple until he falls in love.”

  “He is a madman and a fool!” Dimetrolas snorted.

  “He is a poet,” Stegoman replied.

  “As I said, a madman and a fool—and a paltry excuse for a male, as are you, O Most Celibate of Dragons!”

  “Are you not celibate also?” Stegoman countered.

  Red though she was, Dimetrolas's whole body turned redder. “Oh, then, let us praise the celebrated Stegoman! Would your fame be half what it was if folk knew you feared a female?”

  “You have heard of me since last we met, I see,” Stegoman replied, “but I fear no female, though some disgust me.” He added pointedly, “And I have no fame.”