The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Surely not mine,” Stegoman said.

  “Nor that of these people below us.” Dimetrolas looked down. “They are well-guarded, after all, for no invader could besiege their castles for long.”

  “True,” Stegoman said agreeably. “It seems the ants may be the jailers, but they are also protectors.”

  “Still, there is no one seeking to invade at the moment.” Dimetrolas' mouth spread wide in a dragon's grin; she lashed her tail. “Let us torch just the one anthill nearest that castle below, so that its people may be free for one single afternoon.”

  “A charitable thought,” Stegoman said, “but I fear I must not join you. I do not know enough of the way of life here. By doing what I think is a kindness, I might truly upset some sort of delicate balance, inviting disaster.”

  “Disaster!” Dimetrolas scoffed. “What disaster could you bring by fusing the sands of this one hill to glass? You would not even kill many of its ants, for they are doubtless deep underground.”

  “But other ants might come to defend them,” Stegoman pointed out, “besieging the castle by thousands instead of hundreds, and keeping its inhabitants closed in even by night. I must not act where I do not know.”

  “Stodgy old prig!” Dimetrolas' lip curled in disdain. “Must you withdraw from any act that might prove frolicsome?”

  “I am indeed boring,” Stegoman acknowledged. “I see little to amuse me in this life. Far better for you to seek the company of someone more gamesome.”

  “Oh, you are impossible!” Dimetrolas snapped and peeled off to dive-bomb an anthill, her fire roaring out fifteen feet ahead of her.

  Stegoman looked down with regret.

  “She expects you to go down there and try to stop her, you know,” Matt told him.

  “We do not always do as one expects,” Stegoman returned, unruffled. “Who knows? Perhaps she is right, perhaps she will do those people a favor. Certainly there are enough ants to repopulate that hill quickly enough.”

  “I don't think ant welfare is the issue she's really concerned with,” Matt demurred.

  “And I am? Well, we must not let her know how foolish she is, then,” Stegoman answered.

  Below, Dimetrolas leveled off, blasting the top of the hill into glass, then veered upward, rising away.

  “It does kind of look like fun,” Matt said, “especially since she's probably right about the ants being far enough underground to be safe.”

  “They will have a longer way to dig in the morning,” Stegoman acknowledged, “but I am sure that they will. In the meantime, they will have difficulty disappearing back into their tunnels.”

  A wail of distress rose, clear even so far above the castle. Looking down, Matt saw Dimetrolas making a second torching run on the anthill. The castle's people gathered on the battlements, and it sounded as if they were lamenting.

  “It would seem that burning the anthill has upset the people in some way,” Stegoman noted.

  “Yes, it surely does,” Matt said. “You're really in for it now, old saur—you were right.”

  Sure enough, Dimetrolas came rocketing back, eyes ablaze with anger. “Did you not see? Or can you not even deign to watch others have fun?”

  “It did seem enjoyable,” Stegoman allowed, “the feel of the wind screaming past, the satisfaction of seeing your fire strike the target squarely, the air bearing you up again—all a warrior's delights.”

  “Oh, how surely you must mean what you say,” Dimetrolas sneered, “for you are so quick to join in the game!”

  “I can at least delight in watching those who can enjoy such frolics,” Stegoman replied with benevolent calm.

  It was just the thing to send Dimetrolas into the stratosphere, of course. “Watch? Am I your clown, then, your mummer's play, to sport and juggle for your amusement? Am I nothing more?”

  “Am I anything less?” Stegoman countered.

  “Less? Aye! You are a wooden sobersides who has absolutely no sense of fun!”

  “That is quite true,” Stegoman agreed gravely, “and I would be a fool to deny it. I have attempted such antics in the past but have never understood why it gives others such pleasure. Nonetheless, I wish them joy of it.”

  “Joy? What of the joy of battle, of the thrill of conquest? Are you a sobersides or a coward? Surely you seem to lack even the courage to engage in a duel of wits! Nay, surely you would turn tail and run from a real battle!”

  “I do not see much to fear in an ant,” Stegoman replied, “but I do fear to upset a balance between Nature and humanity, for Nature has its ways of revenging itself upon those who injure it. In that, yes, I must be a coward.”

  “Then you shall live and die a lonely old bore,” Dimetrolas spat, “for cowards deserve nothing more, and those who will not play must live without playmates!” She banked and shot away, arrowing toward the sun.

  “Am I supposed to chase after her again?” Stegoman asked wearily.

  “Well, now that you mention it,” Matt said, “yes. You're also supposed to explode in wrath at being called a coward.”

  “I might, if I were not so sure of my courage,” Stegoman replied, “but you know as well as I, Matthew, that I have fought in several battles and never shrunk from the fray. I know my courage well and feel no need to prove it again, especially not upon so frail a female.”

  Dimetrolas looked about as frail as a bulldozer to Matt, but he did have to admit that next to Stegoman, she looked fragile. “Even so, she meant to hurt enough to anger you, and stings like that are more painful coming from a female. I'm amazed you were able to stay calm.”

  “She surely will not anger me by questioning the one virtue of which I am certain. If she insulted me for being cruel or petty, I might indeed respond with anger, for I know myself to be a selfish bully.”

  “You could fool me,” Matt said. “In fact, you have—I would have said you always put your friends' welfare before your own, and I don't think you've ever attacked anyone who wasn't a real danger, not even an ant. As to being cruel, the term ‘soft-hearted’ comes to mind.”

  “I thank you.” Stegoman inclined his head. “She did not accuse me of cruelty, though, but of being prudent and careful, which is only true, and anyone who thinks it an insult is obviously someone with whom I desire no further acquaintance.”

  But Matt heard pain beneath those words and the fire of anger rumbling deep below, and knew that the last thought, at least, had held nothing of truth.

  Anthony and Balkis came to a halt, even though it was only mid-morning. They stared at the gloom of the forest before them for several minutes. Then Anthony said, “I have never seen so many trees together. Is it not threatening somehow?”

  “Not a bit.” Balkis' eyes shone. “It is much like the great forest in which I grew up. I am sorry if it bothers you, Anthony, but it will be like coming home to me.”

  “Well… if you see no threat, I shall hold myself foolish,” Anthony said. He went ahead again.

  As they came under the first boughs, Balkis breathed a sigh of pleasure. “It is so cool after that sizzling sun of the desert! So moist, so fragrant!”

  “So dark, and the air so oppressive.” Anthony glanced around him warily. “Is the air always so thick in these lowlands?”

  “Yes, my poor friend.” Balkis turned and caught his hands. “I fear this journey will be a sore trial to you, who are used to the brisk, dry air of your mountains.”

  “Well, I wanted adventure “Anthony sighed, “and I shall not complain if it becomes somewhat… inconvenient. Still, I think I begin to understand the trader who told me that, after years of travel, the most important thing he had learned was that the best place in the world was the village of his childhood.”

  Balkis tried to smother feelings of alarm, telling herself once again that Anthony was a friend and not a possession. She turned away, saying, “Come, then! Before you fare back to your mountains, see a little of my forests!”

  After a quarter of an hour, though, even Balki
s began to feel that there was a presence about them that did not like them. She looked at Anthony anxiously and saw his lips pressed tight with the determination to ignore his own fears. “I shall recite a spell to protect us,” she told him.

  Anthony nodded, obviously relieved that she seemed to feel the danger, too. “Wise.”

  Balkis thought a moment, then recited.

  “ 'Gainst forest sprites who'd mean us harm We shall raise a warding arm Of unseen shields that all make good This dark impenetrable wood, Deflecting as a buckler should…”

  As usual, she ground to a halt, and Anthony said, “I have the final line in mind.”

  “I should have known.” Balkis flashed him a smile. “Hold it there until we've need.”

  “I shall.” Anthony smiled in answer.

  They went on together, feeling the menace grow. Then they saw grass at the bough-arch ahead and a minute later stepped into a sunlit meadow.

  Balkis caught her breath and squeezed Anthony's arm, pointing with her other hand. Looking, he froze, staring in wonder.

  A unicorn stepped into the meadow from the other end of the path, stepping daintily over a fallen log and lowering its head to graze. Its coat was white, its mane and tail golden, but its horn was black.

  Balkis and Anthony gazed, spellbound by the creature's beauty and rarity.

  The unicorn looked up toward the side, then bleated.

  Balkis and Anthony looked and saw another unicorn entering the meadow. This one's coat was also white, but its mane and tail were silver and its horn green. It came trotting over to the first unicorn and nuzzled it briefly, bleating in greeting; then both turned to graze side by side.

  Balkis squeezed Anthony's arm again, wanting to exclaim, to marvel aloud, but not daring to make the slightest noise.

  Another bleat sounded. Both unicorns looked toward the west; so did Anthony and Balkis. There came a third unicorn, its coat golden, its mane and tail silver, and its horn white. The first two lowed in greeting; the third joined them, rubbing noses with them. Finally they turned to cropping grass, all three side by side.

  Balkis let her breath out in a whispering sigh and glanced up at Anthony, to find him smiling at her with bright eyes. She smiled back; they might not exclaim, but both proclaimed their wonder silently.

  A guttural roar broke the stillness, and a lion paced out of the wood, mane a tawny glory, tail lashing.

  All three unicorns whirled to face the beast, heads down and horns leveled, neighing warnings—and two lionesses sprang from the trees to either side, bounding in silence toward the backs of the unicorns.

  Balkis couldn't help herself; she cried out, and the white-horned unicorn whirled, saw the danger, and bleated warning.

  The male lion roared in anger at the spoiling of his ambush and paced toward the trio, but the black-horn charged and the lion swung aside. The unicorn turned its horn, though, and raked a trail in the lion's side as it passed. The beast roared in pain, but the other two whirled to surround it, thrusting with their horns, one skewering the lion in a foreleg, one catching it in a ham. Baffled and outraged, the lion leaped back in among the trees. One of the unicorns stayed on guard against him while the other two turned to meet the lionesses' charge.

  Faced with two long, sharp horns, the lionesses aborted their attack, leaping aside and roaring in frustration. Then followed a few minutes of standoff with lioness and unicorn circling one another, watching for an opening. A unicorn saw one and charged, horn lancing the lioness' flank. She tried to leap aside, and certainly saved her heart, but the tip of the horn came away reddened as the unicorn sprang back out of reach.

  The other lioness roared with anger and charged the unicorn who dared stab her sister—but the unicorn whirled to attack from the side and the other unicorn stabbed. The wounded lioness leaped in to join the fray, but the third unicorn left sentry duty long enough to stab at her eyes, and she leaped away, coughing in confusion. The other lioness leaped away, too, both limping back in among the trees.

  The unicorns shied away from the woods, too wise to venture in where a lion could spring from a branch, and came together again in a ring, hindquarters in, horns out, watching and waiting.

  “They are wondrous!” Balkis breathed. “Who would have thought a unicorn could best a lion?”

  “I would not want to go up against one of those horns,” Anthony whispered back.

  Quiet though they were, they still made enough sound for the unicorns to notice; the beasts looked up, horns half lowered, but when the humans made no threatening moves—no movement at all, really—the unicorns slowly lowered their heads to graze again. The companions watched, spellbound, until the grass-eaters had filled their stomachs. Two of them sauntered off into the woods, side by side, wary and watchful. The third lay down about ten feet from the trunk of a huge spreading oak, under the shade of its broad canopy, curled its head into its forelegs and fell asleep.

  Then Balkis sank her fingers into Anthony's forearm, pointing with her other hand.

  “I see,” he whispered, wincing.

  The male lion came silently out of the underbrush, creeping between the unicorn and the tree. As Balkis and Anthony watched, horrified, it roared. The unicorn sprang up, still half asleep and confused. It saw an enemy and charged.

  The lion sprang aside at the last second. The unicorn was going too fast to stop. Its horn struck deeply into the trunk of the oak with a meaty sound. It set its heels and yanked back, yanked again and again, but the horn wouldn't come out. Unable to free itself, the unicorn thrashed about in panic, bleating for help.

  The lion closed in for the kill.

  “This must not happen!” Balkis cried and thought of the grass higher than her head, of how the meadow must smell with the mingled scents of lion and unicorn—and the world went out of focus as the grass and trees seemed to shoot upward, swelling to giants.

  The lion, alarmed by her shout, turned to defend itself, but saw only a puny human who was rooted to the spot. It didn't see the little brown cat at his feet, saw only prey that would wait, and turned back to finish the unicorn.

  Balkis sprang up from the grass at its feet and tried to speak in the limited language she had learned from other cats, something to the effect of felines needing to stand together, tales of better food only a day or so away. The lion gave her a cough of contempt and a swat of its huge paw. Pain exploded all through Balkis' side; the grass and trees reeled about her as she shot through the air, spinning.

  “Beast!” Anthony shouted, and ran to pick up his cat.

  The lion growled in anger and swatted. Anthony shot into the air and landed on the ground, hard. The lion advanced on him, roaring. He struggled to sit up, hand on his dagger, but the lion swung a roundhouse blow and knocked him down, then put a huge paw on his chest and opened its cavernous jaws to bite.

  Balkis had wanted to save the unicorn, but not this badly! She started to recite the protective spell with a feeling of despair, knowing it would be too late, that Anthony would no longer be able to speak by the time she finished her part of the verse…

  Something small and bronze-colored shot out of the trees, moving so fast it was a blur. It leaped upon Anthony.

  “Anthony, roll!” Balkis screamed in her cat-voice. He heard and rolled without asking why as the lion's head plunged and its jaws closed—on the metal-hard body of the giant ant.

  The ant turned its head and sank its mandibles into the lion's neck. The lion dropped it with a roar of pain, then swatted at it with a huge paw—but the ant danced aside and shot in to tear flesh from the lion's leg. Then it danced back to bolt down the delicacy, for though the hunting had been better recently, it was still famished.

  With a bellow of pain, the lion collapsed on one side.

  Balkis dashed over to Anthony and started changing back into a woman.

  The ant charged in. The lion swatted at it with its good paw, but the ant danced aside from the blows and fastened its jaws in the lion's throat. The beas
t reared back, bellowing in pain and swatting at the small creature that plagued it, but the ant was still hungry and chewed as it held on. Finally a blow from a huge paw connected, sending the ant spinning, but it rolled, came up to its feet, and charged back in for more dinner.

  Balkis caught Anthony under the arms and started dragging him toward the cover of the forest.

  The lion reared to swat at the ant but lost his balance when the creature struck and fell onto his back. The ant sank its mandibles into whatever flesh was nearest, which happened to be the lion's deep chest. It raged with pain, drawing its huge hind legs up to rake and claw. A piece of the ant's carapace went flying, then the whole ant itself—but with a piece of lion-flesh in its jaws. Bellowing with pain, the lion tried to roll up to meet its next charge, but the ant dodged between its swatting blows and followed the scent of blood to sink its mandibles in where it had begun. They grated as they broke through ribs, then sank deeply under into the heart of the lion itself. The beast gave one last rattling cough, its body spasming, legs pulling in and kicking in one last blow—and tore the ant's body from its head. The jaws went on chewing for a few seconds more, as though the insect were not aware that its body was missing, that it was itself dead. Then the jaws tightened in the realization of death, its body ten feet away stopped kicking even as the lion did, and the two lay silent in the stillness of mutual murder.

  But Balkis didn't notice; it was another murder that concerned her. “Help!” she cried, forgetting all caution. “Whoever can hear, come and aid! My love is dying!”

  She knelt over Anthony's unconscious, bleeding body, weeping and pressing her hand over his heart, feeling the erratic beat, beside herself with terror as she realized too late that she really did love him.

  “What a deal of nonsense!” said a grating voice.

  Balkis broke off her lament and looked up, staring.

  “I have seen dead fish, dead rats, and dead lizards, damsel,” the voice said, “and I assure you that the man you bewail is none of them—neither fish, rat, nor lizard, nor, for that matter, dead.”