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

by Jack Sharkey

  "That's when the sun goes down,” said Maggot. “Like it was when you and Lorn went on your little tour to Earth."

  "Oh,” said Timtik, returning to his pie. “I thought it was black there all the time."

  I raised an inquiring eyebrow. “No night here at all?” I said.

  "Only on special occasions,” said Maggot, swirling the gluey roiling mess in the cauldron with a long wooden spoon.

  "Such as?"

  "Such as the sun going down. That's always a special occasion."

  I thought this over. The logic seemed a bit circuitous. “How's that again?” I murmured.

  Maggot eased up on her hell-brew stirring for a moment. “You see, we use the same sun you do, but we don't revolve on our axis, so it's always noon, here. The only time it gets dark is during an eclipse."

  "Makes for short nights,” I remarked.

  Maggot shivered. “The shorter the better. When night falls here, the Thrake sleeps, and all hell breaks loose. Kwistians zooming around, killing off creatures for the fun of it, or carrying them off alive for their flame-pits."

  Her statement reminded me of something that had been bugging me since before our arrival, but my attempts at speech had hitherto been shushed by the witch, as she ordered us all to eat first, talk later. As an abstracted wave of her gnarled hand caused three delicate alabaster demitasses to appear before Lorn, Timtik and myself, I assumed it was the hour for after-dinner chatting, and cleared my throat.

  Maggot raised a fuzzy grey eyebrow at me, and her luminous glittering eye fixed me with more absolute attention than I really wanted. “Yes, Albert,” she said, as if with resignation. “Now you can tell me whatever it is that's been troubling you since your arrival."

  I fumbled awkwardly for a starting point, then blurted, “It's about that other Lorn, Maggot."

  "Other Lorn?” she said, dropping the spoon into the cauldron, handle and all. “What other Lorn?"

  "It's okay,” said Timtik, with ill-concealed pride. “I did that!"

  "Did what?” snapped the witch, in a voice so terrible that the three of us nearly turned to stone. “Tikky ... You didn't use the Scapegoat Spell!"

  The faun, his monumental aplomb fading, murmured, “Why, sure I did. Just like you taught me. I made a duplicate of Lorn, to confuse the Kwistians. You said the spell was handy to baffle an enemy, to make him take a false image of a person instead of the real person. I..."

  "Fool!” shrieked the witch, her eyes crackling with red sparks. “That spell is never to be used on others!"

  "But...” faltered Timtik, very pale and afraid.

  "On yourself, fine!"’ howled Maggot, jabbing a forefinger at his chest. “Because even after the bifurcation, you know which is you and which is your false self, and can let the false self be captured with impunity. But on another—” she rasped furiously. “Which Lorn did they take?"

  Timtik's eyes, already wide and apprehensive, turned to Lorn pleadingly. “Lorn?” he said, “this is you, isn't it?"

  "Of course it is,” said the wood nymph, after a swift glance downward to see if she were still present. “I know it is..."

  "How?" spat Maggot. “A Scapegoat Image believes itself to be real, too. But there is a terrible difference between the true creature and the false."

  "What difference?” I asked, with an almost clairvoyant intuition of the terrible truth.

  "Either one,” said the witch, beginning to pace the floor of the hut, her voluminous garments swirling in her wake, “will pass any test of existence one cares to make upon it. But if the true self perishes, then so does the false!"

  "You mean,” I said numbly, “that if the Kwistians have the false Lorn, and destroy her, this Lorn will continue on alive and healthy, but if they've taken the true one..."

  "She will die in the flame-pits, and this one will simply pop into nothingness,” said the witch.

  "Oh, dear!” said Lorn. “What can we do to find out which is which?"

  Maggot regarded her with a smile of irony. “We can sit here and wait, and if you don't vanish, you are the real Lorn."

  "But if the other Lorn is real!” gasped the wood nymph.

  "Exactly!” Maggot said savagely. “Death for both! So waiting is out of the question. Since we are not sure, we must act as though that is the true Lorn who was taken, and proceed accordingly. That other Lorn is in terrible danger. Every second brings her closer to flaming death!"

  If true, why had we sat calmly eating pie? I trembled with frustrated rage. “We've got to do something! Can't you bring the other Lorn here as you brought us? Then maybe Timtik can kind of ... um ... merge the two, again..."

  Maggot nodded kindly. “A good thought, Albert. But you see, although such a merger is possible, it cannot be done unless the other image is present, and I am afraid that Cort, the wizard, has a neutralizer enchantment on Sark. My magic won't work in Sark from so great a range. If I were there, of course, but that's impossible. I cannot leave the Thrake. The forest folk count on me."

  "But your house moves,” I insisted. “Can't you—"

  "It won't go near the castle,” explained Lorn sadly. “Cort has the forest bugged with proximity alarms that shoot thunderbolts if the Thrake gets within range."

  "But,” I said to Maggot, “you've got to do something!"

  "I can do nothing,” she said pointedly. Then, she, Timtik and Lorn turned their heads slowly until their eyes rested on my face. I felt uneasy under their unblinking gazes. “I can help,” said the witch, “but I can't, go in person. We need someone who is willing to risk his life, to face terrible danger, to dare the journey to Sark..."

  "Me,” I realized, my stomach hollow and cold and sinking. “You want me to go..."

  Timtik and Lorn nodded eagerly, hopefully. Maggot watched me through slitted eyes, her bated breath keeping her nostrils aflame. “Yes,” she hissed softly. “You are the logical one. Timtik is too young, too little. Lorn is too weak, too stupid. I am too valuable right here. Whom else have we to send? You're our only hope."

  I looked at Lorn—if this was Lorn—with her deep blue eyes, copper brows, flaming hair ... Could I chance her being the true Lorn? Could I stake her young life on odds no better than a coin-flip? I took a deep breath, faced Maggot, and gave a short, mute nod.

  "You'll go?” said Timtik, half rising from his place. Maggot clenched her gnarled fingers till the blood-throb showed in her old white knuckles. Lorn sat tensely, her beautiful eyes locked in half-hope, half-despair, upon my face.

  "I'll go,” I said.

  "But why not?” whined Timtik, irritably stamping his pointed cloven hooves.

  Maggot was at her wit's end. “No!” she rasped, nearly in tears, her voice suddenly as old as her appearance. “You can't go with him, it's too dangerous!"

  "But Albert doesn't know the forest. He doesn't realize the dangers; he almost got killed by that hotsy!” Timtik rationalized, tugging at her copious skirt.

  Maggot sat down and held her head in her hands. “But Tikky, you're all I've got ... If anything happened to you..."

  "But it, won't!” Timtik sobbed furiously. “I know all the spells you've taught me, and even without them, there's nothing in Drendon can catch me when I run full speed. And you're giving Albert some protective spells, and you can watch us through the crystal and help us out. Please, Maggot, please?"

  Maggot gave a hopeless shake of her grey head, and smiled wryly at me. “I suppose I'd be annoyed if he didn't feel this way. I've raised him to be considerate of others, and kind, and I guess he's learnt his lessons too well...” She looked at Timtik. “Very well,” she said, wiping at the tip of her nose, and sniffling miserably.

  And I found, abruptly, that I had become fond of the ugly old creature. “Look,” I said clumsily, “I don't think I need tell you I'll try my best to look out for him."

  Maggot's withered hand pressed shakily down upon mine. “I know you will, Albert,” she sighed. “You're a good man. And Lorn will be a help, too,
if she doesn't do something imbecilely fatal, as is sometimes her wont."

  She went to her cavernous trunk, still sniffling. “I wish it were possible to give you a map, but it would be no use in Drendon. The forest layout changes constantly."

  "Tribes move about,” Lorn amplified, “animals change their water-holes, trees decide to ungrow and turn back into seeds. A map a minute wouldn't keep you up to date."

  Maggot, rummaging through the trunk, grunted happily and set something on the floor beside her with a clink. I thought it looked suspiciously like a bottle of Schlitz. “It is,” said Maggot, before I could word my query.

  Then she took out a crisp piece of pasteboard and tossed it onto the floor beside the bottle. I squinted curiously at the printing upon it. Maggot again answered my unspoken question over her shoulder. “Commuter's ticket: Long Island Railroad."

  The pile grew; to the ticket and the beer were added a spool of thread, a tube of depilatory cream, and a solid gold molar, roots and all. Then Maggot lifted out something quite heavy from the bottom recesses of the trunk, and set it on the floor with a grunt. It was an ancient Spanish-style cuirass, dull grey, and rather thick, with heavy leathern straps to anchor it upon the wearer's breast.

  Maggot stood up and dusted her palms together. “There!"

  Realization suddenly flashed upon me. “Those?” I choked, waggling a forefinger at the heap. "These are the spells?” I felt a sudden letdown, like the time I had, at the tender age of six, received a new suit for Christmas when I'd been praying for a bicycle.

  "Certainly,” said Maggot. “Hold on while I get you a wallet for them."

  From a stumpy peg on the wall, she lifted down a dusty leather wallet, the old-style wallet, the kind worn with a long shoulder-strap, and is about the size of a fishing creel. She lifted its upper flap and began to drop the first five items into it, one by incomprehensible one. The beer, the ticket, the tube of cream, the spool of thread, and that molar. As she did so, she chuckled.

  I came forward and slowly took the filled wallet from her. “Maggot—” I didn't quite know what to say, but once again she was ready with an answer to unspoken questions.

  "You Earth people!” she snorted in disgust. “What did you expect, Albert? I have to make do with whatever is on hand, don't I? These items happened to pop through into Drendon, so they're as good as anything. Remember, a spell is judged not by its trigger, but by its effect! I suppose you were expecting mystic powders, distillations of ogre sweat, magic wands..."

  I felt silly, but I nodded. “Something like that."

  "Mark me well, Earthman,” said Maggot. “These spells will work when you need them. Have no doubts on that!"

  Timtik was jumping up and down impatiently, and Lorn seemed to be starting a slow fidget. “Let's hurry,” said the faun. “That other Lorn may be on the brink of the flame-pit right now!"

  "Hush, Tikky,” said Maggot. “Albert, you three will have to get there before those Kwistians arrive at Sark with the other Lorn. This...” She placed the cuirass upon my breast, fastening the straps tightly with a magic word, “you must not remove until it is time.” She halted my question with an upraised finger. “You will know it, when the time comes. I promise you."

  "'But the spells—” I cried aloud.

  "Use one for each peril,” Maggot advised. “It really doesn't matter which is used for which, much, but now and then one will adapt better than another."

  "But how do I set them off? What do I do? Or say?"

  "You'll figure it out,” said the witch. “The usage may not always be the same, so I won't burden you with instructions that could be subject to change in certain circumstances. They will serve you well, though. Really."

  I was staggering slightly under the weight of the metal breastplate. Timtik clutched my hand and tugged me toward the door, which opened of its own accord to permit the two of us to emerge into the sunlight. Lorn and Maggot trailed after us, but Maggot halted in the doorway. “This thing must be made out of lead,” I remarked uncomfortably.

  Maggot smiled gently. “It is, Albert,” she said, waving farewell.

  "But...” I said. The door resealed, and Maggot was gone inside the hidden recesses of the false Wumbl. Already I was sweltering in the heavy armor, as the sun beat down through the overhanging fronds and leaves of the thicket.

  I looked helplessly at Timtik and Lorn, who were awaiting me at the edge of the woods. “But why is it made out of lead?” I asked them. “Why not iron or steel?"

  Timtik shrugged. “In case we meet a radioactive dragon, you dope!"

  Lorn and Timtik entered the forest, and I followed uneasily after them. “How thoughtful of Maggot—” I mumbled, going frozen-hearted despite the external heat.

  "You never know,” said Timtik, darkly.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE forest of Drendon is a large one, spreading for a mile upon mile, toward where a horizon should be, but never is. It can match the actual antiquity of Earth, and easily surpass that planet's recorded history by many centuries. Forever new, forever old, always moving outward into the vast chaotic wastes that marked its perimeter, taming the unknown with infiltrating soil, burgeoning shrubbery, creeping trees, and a living population of beasts and horrors that moved with the woods.

  Into this treacherous entity, only slightly aware of the danger, I was marching, my only protection and hope of further life a childlike faun and lovely but not too bright wood nymph, plus a wallet full of spells none of us could be sure of employing correctly in the face of imminent disaster.

  "But isn't the castle over that way, more toward the moss fields?” I asked, keeping carefully apace of Lorn.

  Timtik, ahead of us in the sunspattered underbrush, shook his head. “It is, but if we are to make it to Sark before those two Kwistians get there with that other Lorn, we have to take the long way around. They have a start of nearly a half an hour on us, and it will take them another half hour to finally arrive at the castle."

  "I don't get it,” I protested. “If they're flying, in a straight line, and we're walking, on a long curve through this tanglewood, they'll be there hours before we will!"

  "No,” said Lorn. “You see, Albert, according to Maggot's calculations, we should arrive there at the same time they do, if not shortly before. Time is a little different in our dimension.

  "How so?” I said, dubiously.

  "Well,” said Timtik, skirting a green mound of a rough basketball-shape in his path, “you live on a curved surface, where the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So, conversely, we live on a plane surface, where the shortest distance is a curve.

  "Don't think of Drendon as a simple plane; think of it as a Mercator projection of a globe of the world. Remember what Lorn told you about the orange-peel and you'll see at once that certain apparent distances are actually much shorter than some longer-looking ones. Remember that the entire top edge of a Mercator map represents a single point, the pole; so that whole edge has no length at all in actuality, see?"

  "I-I think so,” I said, trying to equate the comparison with my limited knowledge of Drendon. “But,” I started, as my forward foot stepped squarely onto that rotund green mound. Instantly, off in the depths of the forest, a whistle blew two sharp hoots, a gong reverberated brazenly, and a chorus of bloodthirsty shrieks began to sound, louder by the moment.

  Lorn muttered a lady-like curse at me, and Timtik whirled, his face blank with surprise. “Albert!” he croaked in his tinny voice, “Did you step on the Snitch?"

  "That little green thing?” I said, having hastily withdrawn my foot.

  "Odds bodkins!” muttered the faun. “The whole Thrang nation will be alerted. Come on, we'll have to run for it!"

  I felt quite frustrated. “I thought you were going to be my guide!” I complained as Lorn and I ran up abreast of the faun, who was impeding his fleet pace to accommodate us.

  "Albert,” said Lorn, trotting easily beside me, “Timtik can't think of ever
ything! He simply forgot you'd never seen a Snitch before."

  "Shut up, you two, and run!” grumbled the faun, diving headlong over a wide stretch of vinous growths which a moment later caught me on the instep and sent me sprawling into Lorn and knocking her down with me.

  In another moment, the forest seemed to fall in on us. I could hear Timtik's shriek of dismay as he, too, was swept up in the disaster I'd triggered. A heavy jungle of writhing vines and twigs was interlacing rapidly in all directions, sewing the three of us up like dressing inside a turkey.

  "What happened?” I gasped.

  Timtik's voice in the leafy tangle was low with disgust. “You kicked a Snatch!"

  * * * *

  Drums were beating frenziedly as the bearers toted the ball of tight foliage into the center of the compound. Through the thick leaves and stalks of the Snatch, I had been unable to see our captors clearly, but from the noise they were making, I wasn't sure I wanted to. Timtik, whom I could make out only dimly beside me in the tangled green fronded interior, wasn't even speaking to me.

  "But Timtik,” I pled, “how could I have known? I thought you were diving over the Snatch to make better time. How was I to know it was in cahoots with the Thrangs, too? You know I didn't mean to drop the wallet; that Snatch kind of shook me up, and I just naturally got uncoordinated for the moment..."

  "Oh ... Damn it all,” Timtik muttered wearily. “I guess you're right. If I only had some genie powder, I could magick it back to us. If I knew the spellchant."

  As I nodded sympathetically, the Snatch suddenly fell to the ground and snapped open flat, as swiftly as a popping corn kernel, giving me my first view of our captors. One look was a lifetime's worth. I gave a terrified moan and kicked down hard on the surface of the flattened Snatch with my heel. It resnapped shut instantly, and there was a concerted howl of annoyance from the Thrangs outside.

  "Nice thinking, Albert!” said Timtik, openly admiring.

  "Are we safe now?” Lorn hoped brightly.

  "Till it opens again,” I muttered. “Get your hooves ready, Timtik!"