Spellsinger 04 - The Moment Of The Magician

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  more than enough o' vegetables that look like your

  Aunt Sulewac one minute and somethin' out o' a bad

  dream the next. 1 wouldn't go back there even for

  thirty perfect females. Me, I prefer me paramours

  with all their imperfections intact."

  IX

  After the tidal wave of variety provided by the

  mimevines, the monotonous regularity of the Wrou-

  nipai was a welcome change. But as they floated

  further south, the terrain, if not the climate, began

  to change. Tall stone spires cloaked with thick foliage

  began to thrust skyward from the water. Instead of

  granite, the rock was mostly limestone. Creepers and

  bromeliads found footholds in the pitted stone, crack-

  ing and eroding the towers.

  "A semi-submerged karst landscape," Jon-Tom

  murmured in wonder.

  "Just wot I were about to say meself, guv," said

  Mudge doubtfully.

  That night they camped on a sandy beach oppo-

  site a cliff too steep even for creepers to secure a

  hold. While Mudge hunted for dry wood, Jon-Tom

  walked over to inspect the rock wall. It was cool and

  dry, a comforting feeling in a land brimming with

  quicksands and mud.

  Mudge returned with an armful of dead limbs and

  dropped them into the Firepit he'd dug. As he brushed

  dust Syom his paws, he frowned at his friend.

  "Find somethin' unusual?"

  "No. It's just plain old limestone. I was just think-

  149

  Alan Dean Foster

  ISO

  ing how nice it was to find some firm ground in the

  middle of the rest of this muck.

  'This was once the floor of a shallow sea. Tiny

  animals with lots of calcium in their shells and bodies

  died here by the trillions, fell to the bottom, and over

  the eons turned into this stone- As time passed the

  sea bottom was lifted up. Then running water went

  to work here, wearing away open places."

  "Do tell," said Mudge dryly.

  Jon-Tbm looked disappointed. "Mudge, your scien-

  tific education has been sorely neglected."

  "That's because I was too busy gettin' educated

  sorely in practical matters, guv."

  "If you'd Just listen to me for five minutes, I could

  reveal some of nature's hidden wonders to you."

  "Maybe after we eat, mate," said the otter, raising

  a quieting paw, "1 want to enjoy me supper, wot?"

  Following the conclusion of a sparse but satisfying

  meal, Jon-Tom discovered he no longer felt like

  lecturing. His mood tended more toward melancholy.

  Lifting the duar, he regaled the unfortunate Mudge

  with long, sad ballads and bittersweet songs of

  unrequited love.

  The otter endured this for as long as he could

  before rolling up tightly in his blanket. This man-

  aged to muffle most of Jon-Tom's singing.

  "Don't be so damned melodramatic," the insulted

  balladeer said. "After all these months of steady

  practice, my singing must have improved somewhat."

  "Your playin's better than ever, mate," came a

  voice from beneath the blanket, "but as for your

  voice, I fear 'tis still a lost cause. You still sound like

  you're singin' underwater with a mouth full o' pebbles.

  Or would you prefer me to be tactful instead o'

  truthful?"

  "No, no," Jon-Tom sighed. "1 thought I'd im-

  THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

  151

  proved a lot." He strummed the duar's dual strings

  as he spoke.

  Mudge's head emerged from beneath the covers.

  His eyes were half-closed. "Me friend, 'tis late. You

  can pow carry a tune o' sorts, whereas a month ago

  your mouth wouldn't 'ave known wot to do with it.

  That's an improvement o' sorts. 'Tis not willingness

  you lack, but a voice. Be satisfied with wot you 'ave."

  "Sorry," Jon-Tom replied huffily, "but I need to

  practice if I'm going to get any better."

  Mudge made a strangled sound. He couldn't win.

  If he praised the man's singing, then he sang all the

  more enthusiastically, and if he criticized it, then

  Jon-Tom needed his "practice." Life kept dealing

  him jokers.

  "All right then, mate." He burrowed back beneath

  his blanket. "Try and get 'er all out o' your system.

  Just don't wail on till dawn, okay?"

  "I won't be at it too much longer," Jon-Tom as-

  sured him- He sang about days at the beach, and old

  mother earth, and friends he had known back in the

  real world. Then he put the duar aside and pre-

  pared to curl up next to the fire.

  Something gave him pause. More than a pause: it

  was like an electric shock against his retinas. He sat

  up and blinked.

  It was still there, and growing stronger. Or was it?

  Leaning over, he shook the ball of fur and blanket

  next to him.

  "Oh crikey, now wot?" The otter stuck his head out

  for the third time that night. "Listen, mate, you can

  'ave the bleedin' fire. Me, I'll sleep on the raft-

  Hey"—he sat up quickly, suddenly very much awake—

  "you look like you saw a ghost."

  "Not a ghost," he mumbled. "I saw... Mudge, I'm

  not sure what I saw,"

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  152

  The otter studied the darkness. "I don't see nothin'.

  Wot do it look like? Where'd you see h?"

  "Over there." He rose and walked toward the bare

  white cliff. Mudge followed, eyeing the night uneasily.

  Jen-Torn pointed at the rock. "There. That's where

  I saw it. And there was something else. Just the

  slightest quivering under me as I lay down.*A tremor,

  like"

  "Mate, this 'ole country's on shaky ground."

  "No, this is solid rock under this sand, Mudge. It

  was an earthquake. I'm sure of that. There's lots of

  earthquakes where I come from, and I know what

  one feels like."

  "I didn't feel anything."

  "You were asleep."

  "Right. So wot were this thing you saw up against

  this 'ere rock?"

  "Not up against it, Mudge." He put his hand on

  the limestone and rubbed it. It was coot, solid,

  absolutely unyielding. Impenetrable. "It was m the

  rock"

  A dubious Mudge also ran a paw across the solid

  stone. He spoke carefully, as if speaking to a cub.

  "Couldn't 'ave been nothin' 'ere, mate. There ain't a

  crack in this cliff."

  "Not in the cliff," Jen-Tom corrected him firmly.

  "In the rock." He turned abruptly on his heel, returned

  to the campsite, and picked up his duar. He started

  to repeat the last song he'd sung.

  Nothing. Mudge stood near the cliff looking angry,

  tired, and frustrated all at the same time.

  Then it was back. Just the slightest trembling in

  the earth, hardly enough to disturb one's sleep.

  They would have slept right through it ifJon-Tom

  hadn't seen it as well as felt it.

  This time Mudge saw it, too. Jon-Tom knew he did

  because the otter was ba
cking quickly away from the

  THE MOMBffT OF THE MAGJCMJT

  1S3

  cliff. The earth tremor faded and returned, but the

  thing in the cliff remained.

  "You see it, too, Mudge. You do!"

  "Not only do 1 see it, mate," the otter whispered.

  **I see them."

  jon-Tom continued to play. More and more of the

  wispy, ghostly creatures materialized. They were not

  slipping or crawling over the face of the rock: they

  moved easily through the unbroken limestone itself.

  Faintly glowing worm-forms about the size and shape

  ofJon-Tom's arm. Oversized, brightly luminous eyes

  showed against the front of each specter. Barely

  discernible designs flickered to life on glowing sides

  and backs, each different from the other, no two

  alike.

  As Jon-Tom and Mudge stared in fascination, they

  linked together head to tail, forming a long line that

  snaked through the rock. The line gave a twist, and

  jEhe earth underfoot trembled again. Then the line

  -broke apart and they scattered, a bunch of insubstan-

  tial big-eyed flatworms swimming through the stone.

  Jon-Tom stopped singing. They began to fade

  away, only that wasn't right. They didn't fade away:

  they dove down into the solid rock. He moved as if

  in a trance toward the cliff. There, a minuscule crack

  BO wider than a hair, running through the rock and

  down into the ground. That was where they'd con-

  gregated when they'd formed the link and the last

  tremor had struck. They'd lined up along the tiny

  stress fracture and twisted, and when they'd twisted,

  the ground had convulsed.

  "I wonder what they are," he muttered aloud.

  "I don't know, mate, but they seem to be going on

  their way, and I ain't about to ask 'em to linger." The

  otter was retreating toward his blanket, his gaze

  fastened to the rock. "I've seen enough of 'em."

  A few still swam across the cliff face. Jon-Tom

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  154

  put his Fingers on the duar's strings. "All right, I

  guess we've seen enough. I called them up, so I

  guess 1 can make the last of them go away."

  "That is what you think," said one of the worm-

  shapes in a breathy, barely audible voice.

  Jon-Tom's Fingers froze halfway to the strings.

  "My God, they talk!"

  "Of course we talk." The voice was like a distant

  breeze, a faint rustling against his tympanum.

  Mudge was too mesmerized to retreat. "How can

  they talk," he asked, "when there ain't nothin' to

  *em?"

  "There's something to them, Mudge, Just not very

  much. But they're there, they're real."

  "Of course we are real. Such conceit." The faint

  words were precise, very proper and clear, though

  Jon-Tom saw no movement of lips. indeed, the spec-

  tral worm had no mouth. "As a matter of fact, we can

  talk quite well, but there is no reason to practice

  conversation with those who live on the world's skin."

  "Then why are you talking to us now?" Jon-Tom

  wondered.

  "Your singing fetched us forth from our homes in

  the crust. Most extraordinary singing." The shaped

  glow momentarily vanished, only to reappear sec-

  onds later at another place in the cliff. It moved

  easily, fluidly, as if traveling through water.

  "We are sensitive to vibrations. Good vibrations."

  "The last song I sang," Jon-Tom mused. "I'll be

  damned."

  "We are also in the business of vibrations," it told

  him. "Normally we ignore those who inhabit the void

  above the earth, as we ignore the vibrations they

  make. But yours were pleasing and unusual, extreme-

  ly much so. We came to feel your vibrations, and to

  return the favor to you."

  THE MOMKfIT OF THE MAGICIAN

  169

  "Return the fav—"Jon-Tom considered. "You mean

  you made the little earthquakes?"

  "The vibrations, yes." The worm-light paused and

  linked kself to several of its kind. Once again they

  Une<^ up along the hairline crack in the cliff. Once

  again they gave a sharp twist. The sand shifted

  under Jon-Tom's feet.

  The chain dissolved and many of its component

  individuals fled back into the rock.

  "But this is impossible. You can't live in solid rock."

  "Solid? Most of what appears to be solid is empty,"

  the creature told him. "Do you not know this to be

  ^ so?"

  ^ It was quite right, of course. Matter was composed

  ^.of protons and neutrons and electrons and far smaller

  ^fclts of existence like quarks and pi-muons and all

  sorts of exotic almost-weres. In between them all was

  , nothingness, bridged by forces with even more bi-

  1 Zaire names like color and flavor. The planets them-

  selves were largely composed of nothingness.

  So why not creatures which would find such empti-

  ness spacious and comfortable? Of course they would

  have to be composed largely of nothingness themselves.

  "What do you call yourselves?" In his own world

  they would be called ghosts—frightening, rarely

  glimpsed creatures of luminous insubstandality. They

  didn't look anything like dead human beings, but

  then, manatees didn't look much like mermaids, either,

  and look how many sailors had mistaken them for

  wateriogged sirens.

  Why shouldn't these worm-shapes be responsible

  for the reports of ghosts in many worlds? Vibrations

  could call them forth, psychic in his own world, his

  spellsinging here. It made a certain sort of supernat-

  ural sense.

  "We do not name what is, and we simply are," said

  the glowing nothing.

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  Alan Dean Foster

  TUB MOISEHT OF TBB MAGICIAN

  157

  "Sing another song." whispered a voice in Jon-

  Tom's ear. "Sing another song abou^ the earth we

  live in." '

  He did so, drawing on every tune he could remem-

  ber that mentioned the earth, the ground, the rocks.

  The cliff came alive with dozens of the warm-glows,

  all cavorting to and delighting in his spellsinging and

  the vibrations the duar and his voice produced.

  From time to time they linked up to produce minute, ,

  no longer disquieting earthquakes. '7-

  "What a pity you cannot follow and sing always ^

  among us," the speaker said. "Such exquisite rip- '^

  plings in the fabric of reality. But you cannot live in • ^

  our world, just as we cannot exist in the void you call ' V

  yours." 'ji

  "It's not a void." Jon-Tom reached out and touched 1|

  the stone. "There's atmosphere here, and living , •f

  creatures." ^

  "Nothingness," said the worm speaker, and before "'

  Jon-Tom knew what was happening it had glided

  into his hand. He stared openmouthed at his fingers.

  Mudge let out a little moan. "Nothingness, except

  for those few solid things that move."

&nb
sp; His hand was on fire, radiating light in all directions.

  There was no pain, only the strangest trembling, as

  though the bones had fallen asleep. It traveled all

  the way up to his elbow, then slid back down to his

  fingers. He pressed them to the cliff and the light

  went back into the rock.

  "That hurt," said the worm-glow, "and I could not

  do it for long. There is practically nothing to you,

  near vacuum. The earth is better, more compact, *

  room to move about without losing oneself. Now it is

  time to go. Proximity to the void you are depresses

  us."

  Only the speaker remained. The others had all

  vanished into the rock.

  "Sing for us some other time and we will try to stay

  longer."

  "I will." Jon-Tom waved. He didn't know how else

  to say farewell to something that barely existed.

  The head went first, followed by the rest of the

  worm-shape in a continuous, sinuous curve. It melted

  into the cliff. Then it was gone. There was a last

  feeble earthquake, accompanied by a distant rumble.

  Analog to his wave? Perhaps. Then sound and shaking,

  too, had ceased.

  "Good-bye. They were saying good-bye to us," he

  murmured, enchanted by the memory of their visitors.

  "What a world this is."

  Mudge sucked in a deep breath. "I do so wish,

  mate, that you'd let me know in advance when you're

  planning on doin* some spellsingin'."

  Jon-Tom turned from the cliff. "Sorry. I didn't

  know I was doing any. I was just singing."

  Mudge sat down and pulled his blanket over his

  legs. It was starting to drizzle. "I ain't sure you can

  just 'sing,' guv." Raindrops sizzled into oblivion as

  they contacted the fading campfire.

  Jon-Tom curled up beneath his cape, careful to

  make certain the duar was also out of the rain.

  "I mean," the otter continued, "it seems you can't

  control the magic when you're tryin' to spelfsing and

  you can't control it when you're not, wot?"

  "At least I didn't conjure up anything dangerous

  this tame," Jon-Tom countered.

  "Blind luck. They were an interestin' lot, though."

  "Weren't they? Kind of pretty too. I wonder how

  much of the earth they claim for their home. Maybe

  ail the way to the molten inner core."

  "Molten wot? Now that's a unique conception,

  guv'nor,"

  "Nothing unique about it." Jon-Tom pulled his

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  188

  cape over his face to keep ofi the rain. "What do you

  think the center of the planet is, if not molten rock?"