The Flying Sorcerers

by David Gerrold

  He didn’t have to repeat himself. I followed Wilville up the ropes. Shoogar was right behind me. Purple had already untied three of the bags and was working on a fourth. The airboat lurched sickeningly. I could not tell if the sinking sensation I felt was me or it.

  There was a flash of light and another crashing slam. It was directly above us. We were headed right into the storm. Purple was muttering wildly to himself, “Damn the bloody — I should have thought about emergency deflations! Orbur, this is too slow and we will never get all the gas out of the balloons through the nozzles. Somebody is going to have to climb up to the top with a knife and cut holes to let the gas out! We’ll patch them up later —”

  “Not now,” I yelped. “If you cut holes now, we’ll fall!”

  “No, not now — after we hit the water,” shouted Purple. “We can’t risk doing it in the air or the balloons might rip!” He untied another nozzle. Seven of them were waving free now, spewing their precious hydrogen unseen to the reddened thunder.

  Another crash of light and sound limned us in stark relief — and sparked us all to move still faster. The black water below rushed up at sickening speed.

  “Tie off the balloons,” shouted Purple. “Slow our descent!”

  Orbur swung precariously from a rear mast section, Wilville only a few yards away. A frantic Shoogar clung to the bird’s nest platform. Purple and I were in the forward section of the rigging. All of us were grabbing furiously for the free swinging hoses.

  The wind whistled and shrieked. I pulled at the aircloth hose and wrapped it around itself. I swung out on the rigging grabbing for another.

  “Hold on!” screamed Purple. Wait —”

  A precious moment of stillness while we fell through the angry sky. Still too fast, too fast — were we slowing at all?

  Another crash of thunder — this one closest of them all. A second flash of whiteness.

  Purple was a stark silhouette. He was grim-faced, but suddenly stern. He stared at the uprushing water with no sign of emotion. Had he miscalculated? Would we hit the water too hard?

  The image of a splintering airboat filled my mind — why had I ever come on this god-cursed journey?

  “Ballast!” he shouted and disappeared from his post. For a moment I thought he had fallen, but with the next crash of thunder I saw him below, tugging at the ballast bags. Wilville was already there, just emptying one over the side.

  “I’ll help!” I hollered, but he yelled back, “Stay where you are, Lant — it’ll be safer — tie off the airbags! Don’t release any more gas until I tell you to!”

  He cast about frantically then, looking for things to throw overboard. His eye lit on a pile of cloth — “What the —?”

  Shoogar yelped from the rigging, Those are my sails!”

  “Good!” And with that, he snatched them up and heaved them over the side. Shoogar began screaming curses, but they were lost in the loudest crash of all.

  The spare windbags followed the sails, as did half our food and water. Wilville had emptied all the ballast bags by now and was helping Purple.

  We were still falling. A sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach told me were about to die.

  Purple called for me to unreel a windbag nozzle, but not to untie it. What was he planning? He grabbed it as it fell, and hooked it to his funnel. He had a ballast bag between his legs; he plunged the nozzle and battery device into the bag of water. I saw him turn the battery up to its maximum release of electrissy. Great gulps of gas roared up the hose — the windbag expanded terrifically.

  Purple waved to Wilville. “Get up in the rigging!” he bellowed. “It’ll be safer!”

  I could see long streamers of foam below us. We were falling at little more than a fast gallop — the sea was a wall of blackness — I could see the individual waves — Cra-a-ack — the boat smacked down with a great splash that sent water in all directions. For a sickening moment all the ropes were slack — then they snapped taut again as the balloons leapt back. There was a yelp from behind me — Shoogar — I turned in time to see Orbur lose his grip and fall into the water, but he surfaced again almost immediately and began paddling for an outrigger.

  Wilville was climbing down from the rigging then to see if Purple was all right, but the magician was screaming: “The balloons! The balloons! We’ve got to finish deflating the balloons!”

  “Then you’d better disconnect that!” pointed Wilville.

  Purple looked, saw his battery and funnel device lying in a puddle of water at the bottom of the boat. The puddle boiled. Purple yelped and leapt for it.

  The boat rocked as Orbur climbed into it, his fur plastered wetly to his body. He started up the rigging to join us, then stopped. He cocked his head oddly — “Wait a minute!” he called. “Don’t deflate the balloons yet.”

  “Huh?” Purple cried. “What are you —” Then he stopped too. There was a distant cough of thunder. Behind us. Far behind us.

  “The storm is over,” said Orbur. “We’re past it.”

  “We fell through it,” muttered Shoogar. He began climbing down. The bird’s nest, where he had been holding onto it, was bent out of shape.

  The rolling sea lifted us up and dropped us down. Lifted us up and dropped us down.

  The boat lay askew in the water. One of the outriggers had snapped halfway off and had to be retied before we dared to ascend again. Wilville and Orbur were working on it now.

  The balloons — nearly empty now — dropped flaccidly above us. They had barely enough gas to hold themselves aloft. We had been sitting in the sea for half a day now. The red sun was seeping into the west, and the day was ever darkening. Purple sat glumly in the rear of the boat with his battery and his filling framework. Shoogar was half-heartedly bailing water. Apparently we had sprung a small leak somewhere.

  I staggered aft, stumbling once. “How bad is our situation, Purple?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s not good, I can tell you that. I used an awful lot of power in my attempt to pump up the balloons.”

  “But you had to — you had no choice.”

  “I shouldn’t have panicked though. I was so afraid we were going to be struck by lightning that I let the gas out of the bags too fast, then I used up too much power trying to replace it. And I don’t think I did that much good. All I did was make steam. I’m sure some oxygen got mixed up with the hydrogen.” He peered upward at the limp airbags. “I’m afraid this may be the end of our journey, Lant.”

  I looked around me. Fortunately, Shoogar and the sons had not heard. Or, if they had, they showed no sign. “Are you out of power completely?”

  “No, but I’m not sure there’s enough to refill the balloons, Lant —”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Purple nodded. “Yes, of course — we will have to try it. The only thing is, I have to save some power with which to call down my flying egg. I’m not sure I have enough to do both.” He scratched thoughtfully at his chin hair.

  I thought hard. “Why don’t we use another ballast spell? Throw away some more weight?”

  He started to shake his head to that, then — “Wait! You’re right, Lant. We can lighten this boat considerably. We can’t be that far from land!” He stood up, began looking around for things to throw overboard.

  He tugged at a bundle. “What’s this?”

  The spare windbags. Orbur found them floating in the water.”

  “Oh,” He started throwing them over again. “I’m sorry, Lant,” he said to my shocked expression, “But it’s the same situation as when we were falling. It’s either us or them. Now, what else — what’s in here?”

  “Quaff skins, water skins, sour melons, sweet melons, smoked meats — Purple, what are you doing?”

  “Throwing it overboard, Lant. We packed enough food for three or four weeks. We don’t need that much. I’m keeping only enough for two more days.” He began dropping armloads of it over the side.

  “Not that!” I pr
otested, but he ignored me — the Quaff went too.

  We stumbled forward, looking for other things to throw out. The sea rolled around us, rocking the boat and carrying away our hard-won treasures. Our Quaff.

  The blankets followed the food, all but three — which Purple agreed might be necessary. He picked up a twisting tool, “Orbur, are you through with this?” Orbur nodded.

  “Good,” said Purple. It splashed over the side. He moved forward again. “What’s this junk —”

  “Not that!” yelped Shoogar. “That’s my spellcasting equipment!”

  “For God’s sake, Shoogar — what’s more important, your life or your spells?”

  “Without my spells I wouldn’t have a life,” snapped Shoogar.

  For a moment I wondered if maybe Purple wasn’t considering throwing Shoogar over too. But instead he thrust his spell kit back at him. “Here, this must be as important to you as my battery is to me. If something this light is enough to make a difference — well, if we’re that far gone it won’t matter one way or another. Keep it.” Shoogar took his kit and examined it carefully.

  Purple stumbled forward and began to empty out the small cabin framework there.

  Wilville climbed back into the boat then. “The outrigger is fixed,” he announced.

  “Good,” said Purple, dumping an armload of things. He wobbled back to us and began throwing the tools overboard. That done, he straightened and said, “I guess we’re ready to ascend now. Orbur, will you pull down the first of the windbag nozzles while I ready the gasmaker?”

  Orbur nodded and started to climb the rigging — that is, he tried to — what happened was that he pulled the balloon down to where the rest of us could reach it. “Umph,” said Purple, “that is limp, isn’t it?”

  He attached the hose to the funnel and battery and lowered it into the water. “I am going to fill these very carefully,” he said to no one in particular and switched on his battery.

  While he worked the rest of us began to fill the ballast bags. “You won’t need those,” said Purple when he saw what we were doing. “We’re going to have to make it without ballast,”

  “Yes, but we’re going to need some in the boat while you fill the balloons,” I said.

  “Yes, of course — you’re right, I forgot.” He turned back to his gas making.

  After two balloons had been filled, Wilville and Orbur climbed out onto the outriggers and began pedaling. The boat rode up and down the ocean swells. Five balloons later, it stopped riding the waves. Instead, the water just slapped at the bottom.

  Shoogar and I exchanged a glance. “We need more water in the boat,” he said and reached for the bucket. I helped him for a bit, then something occurred to me.

  “Why are we doing it the hard way?” I asked. “Just pull the plug and let the water flow in.” As I spoke I was already tugging.

  There was a yelp from the stern. “No!” shouted Purple, but it was too late. Water spurted up and struck me in the face.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Purple cried. “Stop it!”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it! Don’t ask why! Just do it!” He dropped his gasmaker and came splashing back, slipped in the water and fell. “Stop it Lant!”

  “But — but —” The water was rapidly filling the boat and I began to understand. “I can’t! I let go of the plug when the water hit me!” And then we were all down on our hands and knees feeling around for it under the rising water. It was cold and it surged into the boat eagerly — a spouting fountain marked the spot where the hole was.

  We scrambled around frantically in that cold wetness and then suddenly I had it — something small and round and hard. The plug! I tried to jam it back into the hole, but the water was up to my thighs already — I went down on my knees, but then I had to stretch my neck to hold my head above the water, and after a few seconds even that didn’t work. Shivering, I took a deep breath and went under. I pressed hard on the plug, but I couldn’t get the leverage, and the water continued to pour in too fast.

  There was another pair of hands on top of mine — Shoogar’s — he was trying to help. But it wasn’t working — Even the two of us couldn’t press hard enough. I surfaced for air. Wilville and Orbur were shouting at me from their outriggers. They were up to their necks in water already — and still pedalling furiously. Purple was bailing frantically with the bucket.

  And then the water stopped rising.

  It was up to our chests, and waves were sloshing over the sides of the boat. We had stopped sinking. The windbags held the boat just a few hand’s-breadths from total immersion. We stood there up to our chests in cold sea water and glared at each other. I said, “Well, don’t just stand there treading water, Purple! Do something!”

  He glared at me. Shoogar glared at me. Wilville and Orbur glared at me.

  The bags of wind hung over us, the restless sea tossed around us. The red sun began to seep behind the horizon. We had perhaps an hour and a half of daylight left.

  Well, since nobody else was going to do anything.

  I trod water to the center of the boat and ducked under. I came up with a ballast bag, pulled it to the rim — I could not have lifted it without going under — opened the mouth and poured the ballast over the side. I ducked, found another bag and emptied it.

  Purple began to laugh.

  Shoogar had gotten the idea and was helping me empty the bags of water overboard. It wasn’t enough. The windbags tugged upward on the boat frame, but they couldn’t lift it. They could only keep it from sinking into the uneasy swells. Shoogar searched around for some more ballast bags, ducking under the feeling around with his hands. The dumping of ballast did not help noticeably. The rim of the boat frame continued to show only as an outline in the water.

  Purple had been clinging to the rigging and chortling helplessly while we worked. It seemed a singularly rude act. Now he found his voice and said, “Stop. Please stop. You’re only emptying water out of water.”

  “But it’s ballast,” said Shoogar.

  “But it’s water too — it just replaces itself as fast as you bail it.” He swam over to us. “Put the plug in first then bail.”

  I looked at the plug in my hand and shrugged. Why not? — I ducked into the water and felt around for the hole. There was no pressure to fight this time, and the plug slipped in easily. I surfaced with a gasp.

  “Is it in?” asked Purple. I nodded. He dove under to check it himself. He came up beside me. “All right, it’s firm enough.” He gave Shoogar and me a look. “You two start bailing while I finish refilling the balloons. Wilville, Orbur, keep pedaling.”

  “We have to,” they called back, “Otherwise we’ll sink.”

  Grumbling, Purple splashed aft. Shoogar and I grabbed buckets and set to work. We bailed fast and furiously. By the time Purple had two more balloons refilled, we had the water level down to our thighs. “You know,” I mused, “this might be a good way to keep boats from sinking — hang them from windbags.”

  Purple only glared at me.

  I went back to my bailing.

  The red sun seeped down behind the horizon, leaving only a festering glow across the western edge of the world. We worked in shivering darkness. The water splashed coldly about our knees.

  After a while I became aware that we were rocking more noticeably. “Purple,” I called, “we’re riding higher m the water.”

  He looked up from his battery device, peered over the edge. “So we are.” He tied off the neck of the balloon — the tenth to be filled and slogged forward to where we stood. “One more balloon and we should be out of the water altogether.”

  “How is your battery holding up?”

  “Better than I had hoped,” He tugged at the rigging, pulled down another nozzle. “It’s getting awfully cold, isn’t it, Lant? Why don’t you break out the blankets?”

  “You threw them overboard,” I said. “All except for three — and those are soaking wet.”

  “Everything is soakin
g wet,” grumbled Shoogar.

  “Oh,” said Purple. He sloshed aft for his battery. There was nothing more to say.

  Shoogar and I paused in our bailing to hang the sodden blankets across the rigging, hoping to dry them out. I imagined that tiny icicles were forming on the ends of my body fur.

  “Our food supplies are a mess too,” said Shoogar, sniffing at a package. “The hardbread isn’t.” He tossed it soggily over the side.

  “You should have said a ballast blessing over it,” I said, but it was a cheerless joke.

  He didn’t appreciate it anyway — this was no time for joking. Purple was just filling the twelfth balloon, and we were miserable and cold.

  “Shoogar,” I said.

  He looked at me from where he was huddling in his damp robe. “What?”

  “Feel! We’re not rocking anymore! We’re out of the water!”

  “Huh?” He turned to the railing and looked. I joined him.

  In the last fading glow of red sunset, we could just make out the black water skimming effortlessly below.

  There was no doubting it — and every moment we rose higher and higher. The twelfth balloon was bulging taut overhead. “Purple,” I called, “we’re in the air!”

  “I know,” he called back. “Wilville! Orbur!” he shouted to the outriggers. “How high are we?”

  “At least a manheight. The airpushers are just out of the : waves —”

  Purple unclipped his flashlight from his belt and aimed it at the balloons above. Only four still hung limp, the rest were swollen with the familiar and friendly bulge of hydrogen gas. He stepped to the side of the boat and aimed the light over the side. The water gleamed five manheights below.

  “I will pull the plug,” I said. “It must be safe to drain the rest of this water now.” I splashed toward it; the water was I still knee-high in the boat.

  “No!” shouted Purple and Shoogar together. Wilville and Orbur too. “Don’t touch that plug.”

  “Huh?” I stopped, my hand on the bone cylinder.

  “Don’t do it, Lant! Don’t touch the plug unless I tell you to!”