Moment Of The Magician

by Alan Dean Foster

  Every face turned to follow the Mulmun’s descent. It seemed to fall in slow motion, turning over several times in the moonlight. It landed on an outjutting rocky snag in the center of a large hot pool and shattered noisily. The pieces disappeared instantly beneath the superheated surface.

  “There!” Jon-Tom put his hands on his hips and glared down at them. “See how easy that was? Aren’t you all ashamed? Now you can shake hands with your neighbors for the first time in years. Do you realize what this means? It means that yesterday was the last day any of you had to die for the use of the springs. Now you can share in its bounty equally, as you should have from the beginning.” He smiled beatifically down at his audience. “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

  The silence he had requested before his polemic continued after he’d concluded. Soldiers from Witten glanced uncertainly at hereditary enemies from Fault. Conversation between them was hesitant at first, uneasy, but soon blossomed into earnest discussion. General Pocknet made his way through the crowd to greet his opposite number from Witten. They talked rapidly and with passion before finally shaking hands.

  Then Pocknet turned to gaze upward and said clearly, with the obvious concurrence of the other commander, “Tear out their eyes!”

  The cry was taken up with great enthusiasm by both groups of soldiers, who began scrambling determinedly up the steep but short cliff. Jon-Tom ducked as arrows flew over his head and spears began to land uncomfortably close.

  Mudge led him down the opposite slope. “But I don’t understand,” Jon-Tom muttered dazedly as he ran.

  “I understand, mate.” Mudge spared a backward glance. “I understand that we’d better get a decent ‘ead start out o’ that steep spot or there won’t be nothin’ left to worry about understandin’.” The cries and shouts of their enraged pursuers were loud behind them.

  “Cheer up, guv.” Mudge held onto his hat with one hand as he ran. “At least you got ‘em to agree on somethin’.”

  “But I still don’t understand,” Jon-Tom murmured, also checking behind them to make certain the recipients of his helpfulness weren’t getting any closer. “I did what was best for them, for all of them.”

  “You did wot you thought were best for them, mate, and there’s a small but important difference there. But I ‘ave to ‘and it to you, you did get ‘em workin’ together. Now, shut up and run.”

  Utterly downcast and defeated, Jon-Tom allowed his legs to carry him along—

  Night and mist helped them to shake the determined pursuit, though for a while it seemed as though the prairie dogs were going to chase them to the ends of the world. In addition, the Duggakurra Hills had given way to a low-lying marshy region thick with moss-draped trees and long-petaled flowers that moaned when the slightest breeze disturbed them. Not good country for civilized folk to be prowling around in at night, and so the Wittens and Paultines reluctantly abandoned the chase.

  Insects and tiny amphibians filled the air with a steady humming and buzzing. By the time Mudge located a little hillock that was reasonably dry, Jon-Tom was soaked to the skin from wading through murky water and clinging muck. He watched as Mudge started a fire.

  “Think we ought to risk that here?” He glanced nervously into the darkness. He wasn’t fearful of catching cold. The night was warm and humid. But the marsh might be alive with disease-carrying insects, and he conjured up disturbing images of plague-carrying water bugs and giant leeches.

  “We’re safe enough now, mate, I think.” The otter added a few more twigs to the fire. The green wood sputtered in protest, burning only reluctantly. Mudge eyed the surrounding landscape. “One o’ your mentor Clothagrump’s balmly tropical paradises, wot? This country’s bloody sickenin’, it is. Not that I mind the water, mind. I’m as at ‘ome in it as out, and well you know it.” He plucked distastefully at his filthy vest. “But it plays ‘ell with a gentleman’s wardrobe.”

  Jon-Tom sat down next to the fire and clasped his arms around his knees as he stared into the flames. He was too tired even to eat.

  “I just don’t understand what happened. All I wanted to do was bring them peace and harmony.” He glared suddenly across the flames. “And all you wanted was a piece.”

  Mudge was chewing reflectively on a strip of fish jerky. “Somethin’ you need to learn bad, guv, is to stop messin’ in other folks’ business. Ain’t nothin’ most folks hate worse than good intentions. Might be they’ll be better off now for wot you’ve done this night, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be any ‘appier.

  “Seems to me they ‘ad their relationship pretty well worked out. If you’re goin’ to ‘ave a war with your neighbors, you might as well do it on a regular schedule. Everyone’s prepared and ready and there ain’t no nasty surprises sneakin’ up on you in the middle of the night. Me, I wouldn’t care for the lack o’ spontaneity, but J’ve ‘card tell o” far less civilized ways of settlin’ differences between folks.”

  “There’s nothing civilized about it,” Jon-Tom grumbled, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s typical of this whole stinking world.”

  It was quiet for a long time around the fire. Mudge finished his jerky, rummaged through his pack until he found another. Like any incorrigible philanderer, he always went to his assignations prepared to travel in a hurry. He waved the piece of dried fish at his companion as he spoke, using it the way a schoolmaster might use a ruler.

  “Well now, mate, ‘tis true I can’t comment on that without ‘avin’ ever ‘ad the dubious privilege of visitin’ your world, but for the sake of argument let’s just say that you ‘appen to be accurate in your presumptions and that this world is stinkin’ and uncivilized. That accepted, it also ‘appens to be me ‘ome. I ‘ave to live ‘ere, and the sad fact o’ the matter is that you do too. So maybe you ought to climb down off your pulpit and quit prejudgin’ folks accordin’ to otherworldly standards. You might get along a mite better and you’ll certainly save yourself a lot o’ discomfort.”

  “I can’t help it, Mudge,” Jon-Tom replied softly, staring down at his hands. “It’s my legal training, or maybe just my natural disposition, but when I encounter pain and unhappiness and suffering, I have to try to do something about it.”

  Mudge nodded back in the direction of Witten and Fault. “There were pain in that relationship, that’s for sure, but there’s a certain dollop o’ pain in everyone’s existence. Maybe even in your world. As for un’appiness, I suspect that those folks were just as ‘appy and content as could be until you busted in on ‘em.”

  Jon-Tom looked up at the otter. “But it was wrong, Mudge.”

  “Only by your standards, mate. Mind now, I ain’t saying yours ain’t better; only that they’re yours and maybe nobody else’s, and you’d better quit tryin’ to impose ‘em on every bunch you feel sorry or compassionate for.”

  Jon-Tom sighed, moved the duar onto his knees. When he flicked the strings, lonely notes drifted out over the surrounding water.

  “Now wot? You goin’ to try and spellsing me over to your way o’ thinkin’?”

  Jon-Tom shook his head. “I don’t feel like spellsinging now. If you don’t mind, I’m going to indulge in a little musical sulking.”

  He began to play without an eye toward any particular end, to play just to amuse himself and take his mind off their present predicament. Where was the benign tropical land Clothahump had told him about, the land alive with friendly people and ripe strange fruits waiting to be plucked from low-hanging branches and brilliant hothouse flowers? Not within walking distance, that was for sure. They were going to have to find a boat.

  Unless he could spellsing one up. Sure, why not? His spirits rose slightly. He’d done it once before. This time he’d be able to avoid the mistakes which had plagued them on their previous water journey.

  He strained for the right song, a safe and proper boat song. Mudge had been lying on his back, his paws behind his head. Now he sat up sharply, his nose twitching.

  “I thought yo
u weren’t goin’ to try any magic-makin’.”

  “We need a boat. Remember how I did it before?”

  “Oi, I remember. I remember it made you fallin’ down drunk for nearly a week.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Jon-Tom assured him. “I’ll be more careful this time. I’ve reviewed all the lyrics in my mind and they’re perfectly innocuous.”

  “That’s wot you always say.” He retreated behind a large tree to watch as Jon-Tom began his song.

  His first thought had been of “Amos Moses,” but there was no boat directly mentioned and the song possessed disquieting overtones. Another Jerry Reed ditty served fine, however. He modified the lyrics slightly, confident he could call up a fully stocked Everglades-style swamp skimmer to carry them speedily southward through the marsh to distant Quasequa.

  Sparkling, dancing motes appeared in the air around him. Gneechees, the best indication that his spellsinging was working. A different light, yellow and brown, began to form a sheet just above the surface of the water.

  “See, no trouble at all.” He concluded the song with a Van Halenish flourish not exactly appropriate to Jerry Reed, and waited while the object solidified and took form.

  It had a flat deck and bottom, just like the swamp skimmer Jon-Tom had hoped for. But as he peered into the night he frowned. There was no sign of the airplane prop that should have been mounted aft. He shrugged. A small oversight in the magic. Maybe he’d confused a verse or two. An outboard would serve adequately.

  The craft bumped gently against the shore. Mudge walked down to pick up the rope attached to the bow end.

  There was no inboard. There was no outboard. There wasn’t even a rudder. But there was plenty of board.

  The raft was fashioned of split logs. It was eight feet wide by ten long. Mounted on each side was a large, split-bladed oar that could be used to propel it slowly through the water.

  “An elegant example o’ otherworldly technology,” Mudge observed sarcastically.

  “I don’t understand. I tried so hard, I was so careful.” He strummed the duar. “Maybe if I tried again. . .”

  “No, no, mate!” said Mudge hastily, putting his paws over bare fingers. “Leave us not push our luck. So it ain’t elaborate and it ain’t fast and it ain’t labor-savin’. But it floats, and it beats cuttin” down green trees to try and make one ourselves.”

  “But I can do better than this, Mudge. I know I can.”

  “Best not to get greedy where magic’s involved, guv. You might make it better, ‘tis true. Then again, you might sink wot we ‘ave, and we’d be back to walkin’. A bush in the ‘and’s worth two in the bird, right? No tellin’ wot you might call up a second time.”

  As if to emphasize the otter’s concern, the water at the raft’s stern began to froth and bubble. Mudge raced up the sand to grab for his bow and arrows while Jon-Tom backed slowly away from the water’s edge. Something was materializing at the back of the boat that had nothing to do with its locomotion or seaworthiness.

  Eyes. Eyes the size of plates.

  VII

  They glowed bright yellow against the night, and each was centered with a tiny, bright black pupil. Then there were two more emerging from the water nearby, and another pair, until ten hung staring down at the little islet.

  Trouble was, they all belonged to the same creature. Nor did they operate always in pairs. Instead they drifted with a sickening looseness on the ends of thin, flexible strands that protruded from a smoothly rounded, glowing skull. Arms and tentacles rose from around the raft. Two of them seemed to be holding the bald yellow skull in place, lest it drift off on its own.

  There was a long thin slit of a mouth, dark against the glowing bulbous head. It was a strip of solidity in a mass of insubstantial semitransparent yellow luminosity. You could see swamp water and the raft and trees right through it.

  “Go away!” Jon-Tom stuttered. “I didn’t sing you up! Mudge, I didn’t sing this up.”

  “Right, mate,” said Mudge, his tone indicating what he thought of his companion’s disclaimer. He held his bow at the ready, but what was there to shoot at? He was confident his shafts would pass clean through the apparition.

  “I know wot it is, mate. ‘Tis a Will-o’-the-Wisp, for certain. I’ve heard tell of them livin’ in swamps and marshes and such places, if you can call that livin’.”

  “There is no such thing as a Will-o’-the-Wisp.” Jon-Tom held tight to his duar as though its mere existence might protect them. “They’re not living things, just floating globes of swamp gas.”

  “And what are you?” said the Will-o’-the-Wisp in a surprisingly resonant tone for such an insubstantial creature. “An earthbound sack of water with a few brains floating around inside one end.” It nudged the raft, which was shoved halfway up onto the tiny beach. Swamp water sloshed over Jon-Tom’s boots. “You hit me with this,” the wraith said accusingly.

  “Now, why would you go and say a thing like that, mate?” said an injured Mudge. “Wot would we be doin’ with a bunch o” dead logs like that when we ‘ave this nice, dry little island to spend our lives on?”

  “Don’t lie, Mudge.” The otter threw up his hands and looked imploringly heavenward.

  The Wisp floated out of the water, hovering above the tallest trees. Glowing eyeballs focused on Jon-Tom, all ten of them. Then they shifted to stare down at Mudge.

  Mudge smiled ingratiatingly up at the ghostly horror. “ ‘E’s not with me, guv’nor. I’m goin’ this way, ‘e’s goin’ that way. Now if you’ll just excuse me. . .” The otter turned to dive into the water.

  “I mean you no harm,” the Wisp told them. “I was only curious because this”—and he nudged the raft all the way out of the water—”seemed to appear from Nowhere. Nowhere is a land my kind usually have to ourselves, except for the occasional tourist.”

  “It was an accident,” Jon-Tom explained. “We needed some transportation, so I called this up. I didn’t know you were anywhere around.” He hesitated, asked, “Are you sure you aren’t just swamp gas?”

  “I should be insulted,” replied the Wisp, “but I am not, because the fact is that I am largely swamp gas.” To demonstrate this truism, several tentacles broke free and drifted off into the distance. They were rapidly regenerated.

  “I just don’t like being called swamp gas, that’s all.”

  “No harm intended,” said Jon-Tom. “We all have pet names that we dislike. For instance, not long ago someone called me a preppie. Say, maybe you can help us out. We’re heading south from here for a place called Quasequa. Anything about the country between here and there you can tell us about?”

  “I linger longest in Nowhere,” the Wisp informed him. “Does this Quasequa lie in that region?”

  “I hope not,” Jon-Tom confessed.

  “Then I do not know of it. But this I do know. If you go south from here, you have the great Wrounipai to cross, and that is very near to Nowhere.”

  “You mean there’s much more o’ this filthy disgustin’ ‘ell ahead o’ us? I want to be sure,” Mudge added pleasantly, “before I slit me friend’s throat.”

  The water glowed where it foamed around the Will-o’-the-Wisp’s body.

  “A great deal more, travelers. Even I do not know its full extent.”

  “Tropical flowers.” Mudge was staring forlornly at the dark water. “Compliant lasses waitin’ to greet you with open arms.” He turned angrily on Jon-Tom. “You know wot, mate? I always did ‘ave a ‘ankerin’ to try some turtle soup.”

  Jon-Tom smiled up at the Wisp. “We thank you for that information, even if it’s not quite what we wanted to hear.”

  “We don’t always get to hear what we want to, do we?” The energetic phosphorescence curled about itself. “Now, I”—and the multi-eyed skull floated frighteningly near to Jon-Tom—”happen to like music. I heard yours. Could you sing me a little more?”

  “Why, I’d be glad to.”

  Mudge put his paws over his ears. �
��Saints preserve us, not another music lover, and this one ain’t even got the decency to ‘ave proper ears.”

  The unfortunate otter was kept awake all that night as Jon-Tom sang every old Halloween song he could remember. The eerie chords drifted out over the calm swamp water while the Will-o’-the-Wisp danced delightedly in the air, tossing off sparks and glowing splinters of its gaseous self and making lowly lichens and algae flare with rainbows.

  Jon-Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an appreciative audience. Sadly, when the Will-o’-the-Wisp’s interest finally evaporated, it did, too.

  The otter’s mood hadn’t improved much by the time morning dawned. “Wonder if this wondrous Quasequa even exists,” he grumbled. “Probably some poor fallin’-down mud-town if it does. Wouldn’t be the first time ‘is sorcererness ‘as lied to us.”

  “He doesn’t lie, Mudge. It’s against the wizard’s code to lie. He told me so.”

  Mudge sighed and looked disgusted. “The companions fate ‘ands you.” His voice rose. “Suppose this bloomin’ paradise do exist? Suppose ‘tis everything your ‘ard-shelled instructor says it is? Wot ‘e neglected to tell us before we set out on this little stroll is that there’s a thousand leagues o’ swamp between ‘ere and there, wot? Wot a load o’ wizardly crap!”

  Jon-Tom looked unhappy. “He wasn’t too specific about the distance to be crossed. I admit I didn’t press him on the point.”

  “I’d like to press ‘im on the point,” Mudge said grimly, savoring the thought as he fingered his short sword. “I’d like to press the point right through the back o’ ‘is deceiving shell and use the ‘ole for a—”

  “Careful, Mudge,” Jon-Tom said warningly. “It’s not healthy to be disrespectful of a sorcerer’s powers even if he’s a fair distance from you.”

  “Frog farts! I tell you, mate, I’m gettin’ fed up with these bloody surprises o’ yours. For ‘alf a gold piece I’d leave you now and ‘ead back to the good ol’ Bellwoods.”