It's Magic, You Dope!: The Lost Fantasy Classic

by Jack Sharkey

  "So,” she interrupted triumphantly, “How do you expect me to understand precisely how Drendon came to be when you, an adult male of supposedly average intelligence, cannot even explain the discovery of America!?"

  I stood there, completely stripped of erudition, feeling intellectually naked. What, after all, did anyone know about anything, when you got right down to it? Taking discretion as the better part of valor, I changed the subject violently back to where it had been a few moments before. “Lorn, about this key..."

  "What about it?” she said brightly.

  I almost shouted, then controlled my vexation and said softly, “If, we send this key twig thing to Maggot with a message, then she can save us, can't she?"

  Lorn wrinkled her brow. “I don't know, Albert. But I suppose it is worth a try.” She set the key upon the path, where it stood expectantly on its skimpy root-legs. “Key, can you take a message to Maggot?"

  The key squeaked delightedly. “Yes. What message?"

  "Help!” said Lorn.

  "Isn't that rather brief?” I asked.

  Lorn shrugged. “We'll be lucky if the key remembers that.

  Her brains can't be much bigger than a grain of sand."

  "Help?” giggled the key, scurrying about in an eager dance of impatience. “Help? Is that right?"

  "Perfect,” said Lorn. “Now, hurry!"

  With a shrill snicker of mirth, the key danced away from us over the lavender moss-tufts, screaming “Help!” at every bound.

  "There!” I said, happy that the moss didn't suck it into that corrosive mud with its slithery occupants, “I guess we're all set, now. When Maggot gets the key and hears the message, she'll know we're in trouble, and—"

  "How?” said Lorn, looking suddenly pleased.

  A numb apprehensiveness touched my heart. “Lorn, this key ... it's the only one to the woods, isn't it?"

  Lorn stepped back from me, apparently frightened by my cold intensity. “No. Maggot will give them to any reliable person who wants a peep at the Earth people. Why? Is it important?"

  I smacked the palm of my hand to my brow. “Important? Lorn, how the hell will Maggot know who sent the message?"

  "I don't know. I didn't think of that."

  I turned and stared futilely in the direction the key had gone.

  It was no longer visible, but I could hear a wispy treble repeating, “Help! Help! Help!” in the dim distance.

  I turned and glared at Lorn, my hands clenching. Then, seeing her eyes fill with fright, I melted, and simply reached out and pulled her to me. She tensed as I touched her, then slipped her own arms about me and relaxed against my chest, sniffing softly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I told you I wasn't very bright!"

  Holding her there in my arms, warm, soft and helpless, I couldn't stay even a little angry. “Lorn, Lorn...” I sighed. “I don't know, I just don't know!” I chuckled with helpless hysteria at the stupidity of what had just happened. “You're such a lovable dope!” I kissed her behind the ear. “And I'm nuts about you."

  Lorn sighed and snuggled closer. Then something occurred to me. I looked back at the edge of the green path. It was clear up to my heels, but had advanced no further. “Lorn,” I said elatedly, “we've been here for many minutes, and the path hasn't dissolved any further!"

  She looked. “Is it broken!” she queried hopefully.

  "I don't believe so. It's psychological! It wants to scare us into moving, but doesn't want us falling into the moss fields. By standing still, we call its bluff!"

  "Wonderful,” said Lorn clapping her hands and doing a small dance of delight on that fatal brink before I grabbed her again. “So what shall we do?” she asked.

  "Stay right here,” I replied. “Maybe Timtik will get to Maggot with news of us, or she'll figure out where the key came from. But it's better than walking.” I held her tighter. “Much better than walking."

  "Will we be rescued soon?” asked Lorn, cuddling near me, her flaming hair wafting a scent of fresh blossoms to my nearby nose.

  "I sincerely hope not."

  CHAPTER 6

  TWO hours!” growled Kwist standing arms akimbo in the archway of Cort's laboratory. Cort, jerked awake by the words, took a second to orient himself, and then realized that it was indeed later than he'd expected. Hiding his own puzzlement, he said testily, “So?"

  "So where's the wood nymph? I'm as empty as ... as your head!” the emperor grunted. “And while we're at it, how come no ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ in your responses, eh? I thought we had that out the other day!"

  "We did, Kwist, and I won the toss, remember?” Cort deliberately turned his back on the emperor and stalked to his lab table, his huge white wings rustling in fury.

  "Ha!” shrieked Kwist. “You used some of that stinking magic of yours to win. You never lose a toss!"

  "All the more fool you for bothering to call the toss.

  Kwist strode to his vizier and spun him about with a snarl. Then he took a quick backward step as Cort's sparking yellow eyes flashed ominously. “Don't you ever do that again, Kwist! Let's get it straight who's running things around here. You wouldn't last that long,” he flipped thumb and forefinger with a sharp crack, “without my science and wizardry to back you. I'm the power behind your throne, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better for all of us!"

  Kwist seethed in impotent rage. “All right. Maybe I can't run the empire alone, but listen here: You have certain responsibilities, whether you like it or not and the primary one at the moment is the getting of food for the rest of us! And I simply wish to know, WHEN IS IT?"

  His anger was a physical pain, setting his great wing-muscles quivering.

  Cort, albeit the brighter, was the weaker of the two, almost in inverse ratio. He frowned, uneasily, at the visible tension in the other's tall powerful frame. “I don't know,” he replied desultorily. “Let me look at the indicator board."

  He waved a hand through a bank of lights on the wall, and a large blank panel glowed into topographic life, a map of the moss fields. From the black square at its base, marking the location of Castle Sark, a thin green ribbon ran erratically up the board. Its upper extremity, within the heart of the moss fields, lay motionless.

  "Damn that wood nymph! She's staying put!” snapped Cort. “I thought those creatures were too dumb to reason out the path's operation."

  "Are you sure it is a wood nymph?” asked the emperor.

  Cort quirked a feathery eyebrow. “Certainly. If any other creature fell into the moss fields, it would sink and be destroyed. Only a wood nymph can activate the path. Once activated, of course, it will take any amount of traffic that cares to join her in her fate, but there must be at least one wood nymph present to trigger the path's initiation."

  "Well,” said the monarch, impatiently, “what do we do about her? Let her loaf while we starve?"

  Cort looked coldly at the emperor. “You're the ruler around here; pull some rank on your Imperial Guards, and send a couple of them out after her."

  Kwist, about to challenge the other's impertinent attitude, decided it could wait until his hunger was assuaged. He simply nodded. “All right, Cort.” Then he had an afterthought. His physical advantage was of no use when Cort used wizardry or science against him. Might as well make harmony among the upper echelons. “And,” he said with bad grace, “I'm sorry I shouted at you like that. Lost my head."

  "Ha ha,” Cort said mirthlessly. Kwist turned a bit pink, but spun about and strode away without further argument, vanishing through the great stone archway. Cort listened to the monarch's voice raging in a distant corridor and then the air in the courtyard below his open casement was thumped by great pinions. In another moment, two graceful Imperial Guards, tridents poised deftly, soared up into the open sky and sailed swiftly out over the path snaking through the moss fields, seeking their prey.

  "Let's lie down,” said Lorn, adding, as my eyes bulged a bit, “I'm tired of just standing here.” My voice wouldn't quit
e work, so I nodded bravely and slowly lay back onto the shimmering green pathway. Lorn flopped gracefully beside me and we lay there in silence.

  "The path is cold and hard, Albert,” said Lorn. “May I rest my head upon your strong warm shoulder?"

  "Oh ... why not?” I croaked, nervously.

  Her head, with its glorious tresses, snuggled down against my right biceps and pectoral. There was a lull. Then...

  "May I slip my arms about you?” she asked gently.

  While I tried to think of a reply that wouldn't abet the adolescent squeak which was starting to possess my larynx, she went ahead and did it anyhow. Another lull. Then...

  "May I give you a fond kiss?” asked Lorn.

  I tried to come up with an answer, pursed my lips in deep thought, and then her soft warm mouth was pressing lightly down upon mine, and if I had felt about one percent happier, my hair would have caught fire.

  "Comfy?” Lorn whispered, returning her head to my shoulder.

  "Uh-huh,” I grunted, after swallowing three times in succession.

  "Ssh!” Lorn held a finger to my lips. “Don't talk. It spoils it."

  "I won't,” I promised.

  "Now,” she sighed, “let's have a nap, and maybe when we waken, Maggot will be here, and we'll be rescued."

  "Good thinking,” I mumbled. The sun was warm and soothing, and I felt I had been awake an awfully long time. Even Lorn's presence didn't alleviate the weariness in my body, more used to sitting in a chair while I pored over dusty tomes, than pushing its way through a tanglewood. I closed my eyes, sighed and relaxed.

  When I was still hovering on the border of sleep, I felt Lorn stir. I guess she'd grown tired of leaning on me, once my attention had lagged. Not to mention the sharp stubble sprouting on my face, undoubtedly irritating to a wood nymph's tender skin. I peeked up at her, but she was only standing with a hand shading her eyes, peering out over the fields in the direction the key had taken. Then my fatigue caught up with me, and I dozed off...

  * * * *

  Blue water foamed on baked sand, and white froth boiled about my waist, while surging seas tugged strongly against my legs. I was watching her, there on the shore. Rosemarie, my first, love. I was ten, and she was seven. I waved to her, shouted her name, and then she saw me, and immediately pretended she didn't until I plowed my way against the resisting water to the shore. She turned then, shyly, and gazed serenely at me with warm brown eyes. Her smile was gentle, mature for her years. I returned her gaze, unashamed, she blushed and lowered her eyes.

  Then those selfsame eyes opened very wide, and her mouth followed suit. “Your knees!” she said, backing away and pointing. “Albert! You're knock-kneed!” A giggle broke from her, and then she was joined by a covey of girls her own age.

  "Albert is a knock-knee, Albert is a knock-knee!” They sang it loudly, and gestured at me, and one imitated my stance as she crossed her eyes and stuck out her pink tongue.

  I turned about and plunged once more into the concealing waves of ocean, striking out for the horizon, my face stinging hot with agonized mortification. I wanted to drown, to die, to get a chill, to never see them or anyone again. Then I got a mouthful of water, and it gagged me, and I sputtered and turned back. Drowning was much too unpleasant a termination. But I would never speak to Rosemarie again. Never!

  * * * *

  THE taste of salt was strong in my mouth as I came awake, but as the hot flicker of the burning sun dappled my closed eyelids with lemon and orange Rashes, the taste faded along with the mental image from my childhood, and I realized that it had been, after all, only a painfully traumatic dream-memory. I lay there a moment, eyes shut, thinking. Thinking about Lorn, with whom-Susan-side or no Susan-side, I was suddenly very much in love, the very least reason for which being that although the moss had eroded my trousers to the thighs, exposing to her eyes my secret shame, she'd never said a word, cast a glance, smothered a smile. My heart thumped cheerily in my chest, percolating with passion.

  Lorn,” I said, sitting up on the path and blinking my eyes into focus.

  "Albert, Albert!” carried her voice.

  I got my vision functioning and stared. About thirty feet down the path, Lorn was running frantically toward me, her face alight with happiness. For a moment, I couldn't see how our situation was any different than it had been, then I followed her line of sight and saw the short, straining figure moving toward us through the moss.

  Timtik, balancing precariously upon the upper curve of a vaguely saurian-shaped log, was shoving strenuously into the deep black bog beneath the moss with a long hardwood pole, and actually making progress toward us in that muck. Behind him, twisting into the distance lay his wake, where the thick black ooze had not yet been recovered by the furry purple growth. His progress must have been about one foot per stroke of that pole and the strain was showing in his face. His upper body, the non-goatish part, was a perfect scintilla of shiny sweat.

  "Hi!” he croaked weakly, in that tin-telephone voice, as the nose of the log nuzzled the end of the path near my heels. “You dopes could've stopped walking about a mile back, couldn't you!” he grunted. “This is hard work."

  "Oh, Timtik,” Lorn said compassionately, “You look nearly dead."

  "Don't worry,” he said in his grumpy way. “On the return trip, Albert can do the work. This is my contribution to this rescue. Let his muscles sprain for awhile."

  Lorn had run to the edge of the path, and was about to step aboard the log, but Timtik waved her back. “Hold it, dopey!” he snarled. “Let Albert get aboard first. Soon's you step off, the path'll vanish, and I'm not up to tugging Albert out of the moss."

  "Thank you,” I said sincerely, hurrying forward and stepping carefully onto the rough cylinder. Balance, I could see at once, was going to be somewhat of a problem. I was actually grateful when he handed me the end of the pole. Poling might be work, but it'd keep me upright. I hung on tightly, as Timtik sheathed his claws and assisted Lorn gracefully onto the corrugated bark surface. The instant her rearward foot left the path, the entire green serpentine hissed like a drop of ginger ale on a hot griddle, and shimmered quietly out of existence.

  Lorn took a seat near the shoreward end of the log, leaning comfortably back against the upthrust of a short stumpy limb. How she managed comfort with her bare back against that rough surface, I don't know; I guess her being a wood nymph had something to do with it. She was quite at home with anything wooden.

  Timtik lay gently down upon the log top on his back and lazily crossed his fetlocks. “Pole away, Albert,” he smiled, and shut his eyes.

  I shoved with the pole, aiming the shoreward end of the log by means of Timtik's still visible wake in the bog, and we started moving. My stroke was just a bit better than his, if only because I had longer arms, and we started sliding slowly over the muck at about three feet per effort. After ten hearty shoves, my back and shoulders started mumbling polite protests. After twenty, they were murmuring uneasily, and after twenty-five they were starting to whimper. And Lorn and Timtik let me struggle alone.

  "Hard work,” I said between tight lips, shaking my head to flick away the sweat droplets from my eyebrows.

  "What did you think it would be?” asked the faun, with an unpleasantly contented smile.

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Lorn, sensing a hum of antagonism in our tones, interrupted deftly, “Timtik, tell us what happened since we last saw you. Why didn't you answer when we called?"

  "Didn't hear you,” he said simply. “And of course, I never expected you to go near the moss fields; I forgot you had old Fumblefoot along."

  "Now look—” I muttered angrily.

  "Please tell us what happened,” said Lorn, swiftly.

  "Oh, all right,” said the faun, with easy nonchalance. “Right after Albert started chasing me, I located Maggot..."

  As his metallic voice droned onward, I managed to cut down slightly on my stroke. If they noticed, they were nice enough not to mention it. And
I listened in interest to his tale.

  * * * *

  In the shadowy thickets of Drendon, beside a sluggish swampy morass of dank fetid earth, lurked a blob. It gave a quiver now and then, its off-pink color deepening to red, then back to off-pink. Every so often it hissed and seemed to shrug. To most of the forest folk, it had the outward appearance of a Wumbl. A Wumbl, to the uninitiated, was a protoplasmic atavism. Very like an amoeba, it differed mainly in size. It stood about eight feet high (when it was standing), but attained a mean horizontal diameter of about thirty feet when it flattened out to expand its pseudopods and flow along the ground after food. Worse still, it took on the color of the ground over which it slithered, and unless a traveler were quite care about where he set his foot, he might suddenly find himself ingested whole into that loathsome body, encased abruptly in tough, rubbery walls filled with a viscous jelly which would then begin to ooze digestive juices all over him. Wumbls were very unpleasant creatures.

  But, as noted, this thing had a Wumbl's outward appearance. Actually, it was not any such thing, but just seemed to be, as camouflage from prying eyes. No one who spotted a Wumbl ever paused to check its authenticity. Wumbls could move faster than whippets when aroused, and they were aroused by anything that looked even a little bit edible, and they ate anything at all, so...

  Well, it was at this particular thing that Timtik ran, full tilt, just after avoiding my clutching fingers. Had he been an elephant, he might possibly had stood to defeat a Wumbl, for his tusks could rip a gaping hole in the hideous body and let the viscous matter burst out, sure death for a one-celled creature. But Timtik's horns were barely long enough to be worthy of the name, and he would be helpless against such a monstrosity.

  But rather than cease his precipitate pace, he only moved the faster when he espied it. “Ho, Maggot!” he cried, dashing up to the side of the awful thing. There was a moment's quivering hesitation in the Wumbloid, then a rectangular slab appeared in its side, and swung outward on creaky hinges.

  "Come in, Timtik,” said Maggot the witch. Timtik sprang lithely through the gap, and the gap sealed over immediately. Maggot looked up at the faun from over a steaming cauldron of noisome stuff, her coarse grey hair dank from the rising fumes, her eyes bleary from lack of sleep. “You're late,” she chided as she stirred the mess. “Sit down and have your supper."