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

by Jack Sharkey

There came a muttering thunder of voices outside, as though the Thrangs were discussing the novelty of the situation. And inside, a sudden groan escaped Timtik, and he smacked his palm to his forehead.

  "Lorn, you crazy creature!” he said. “You're a wood nymph, and this thing is vinous. Tell it to stay shut!"

  "Oh,” said Lorn. “That's right!” She lifted a tendril of ferny frond to her lips and whispered polite instructions, like an empress giving dinner directions to the palace chef. “All set,” she said brightly.

  Outside, the mumbling ceased at that moment, and I figured the Thrangs were going to give it the old college try, because they hefted us up again. I tensed, awaiting the fall. To be sure, they could keep dropping the thing till they brained us, but it seemed a nicer fate than being brained by them in person.

  I realized something was up when the Snatch remained aloft, swaying gently. We were taken someplace else.

  "We're lucky they didn't think of poking a spear into this basket to get us,” I said. “We'd never be able to dodge."

  "Oh, they don't want us dead, Albert,” said Lorn. “That's what's so horrible about capture by the Thrangs."

  "They want us as pets!" explained the faun.

  "Pets?” I moaned. “But the Thrangs ... It looked to me like they were built on the order of mushrooms with frayed tops. Every tentacle on that topside is ridged with spiky things like tenpenny nails! Why, if one of them fondled a pet, it'd either be crushed to death in their grasp, or impaled on one of those horny growths..."

  "That's what makes it ghastly,” sighed Timtik. “They are so damned friendly that they treat pets with the utmost gentleness. Sometimes the pets linger on for weeks."

  "Killed with kindness!” I remarked ruefully, then broke off with a gasp as I caught the glint of sunlight on something ripply beneath the Snatch. “Lorn!” I yelped, with what turned out to be damned lucky intuition, “Reverse your orders to this thing, and quick!"

  Even as she bent to the front and did so, Timtik, who hadn't seen what I had, gave a cry of fright as the Snatch was released again ... and did not hit the ground. It must have been a fifty-foot drop into that lake. An instant after the Snatch opened to Lorn's remanded order, we were all up to our eyebrows in icy water, gurgling our way back to breathing level.

  The lake was small, about ten feet deep, ringed by a solid escarpment of sheer cliffs. Cheering Thrangs ringed the surrounding brink. I trod water valiantly with my companions, wondering what came next.

  Then a heavy vine, with plenty of shoots to grasp, came uncoiling down the cliffside. Timtik was having a difficult time treading with his skimpy hooves.

  Lorn and I grasped his hair and heaved his face above the surface again. Liquid spouted from Timtik's nose in a frothy gush, and his eyes were glassy. “Thanks,” he gurgled.

  Then something tightened under my armpits, and I realized the Thrang's insidious scheme. The end of that tossed vine had swum, eel-like, about us in the water, and was now a firm noose, the other end in the tentacles of strong Thrangs. With numb shock, I found we were being lifted from the water, then bumping and banging our way up the face of the cliff toward the yowling Thrang nation.

  "Albert,” gasped Timtik, still spouting water, “I have a plan. Lorn and I will delay the Thrangs, and your job is to run back into the woods and find the wallet of spells!"

  Before I could ask how, we were on the rim of the cliff. There wasn't a moment to spare. The Thrangs had grown even fonder during their brief frustration, and were at that moment dropping the end of the vine and surging forward as we tugged ourselves free of the now limp looped end.

  "Run, Albert!” yelled Timtik. “This won't hold them long!"

  "What won't?” I squeaked, looking in vain for an open spot between those converging ranks of tentacled affection. Then I saw that Lorn, with crossed legs, was holding Timtik's hand, as he howled mystic words at the sky. It was his thunderstorm spell, and he was giving it his thaumaturgic all.

  The lumbering, spiky, seven foot-tall Thrangs were only a yard short of tentacle-grab. I backed from them, figuring that at worst we three could leap from the cliff and take our chances in the lake again...

  Thunder bammed! Lightning crashed and showered hissing sparks! A torrent of drenching rain poured to the ground.

  The Thrangs reacted instantly. With delight.

  With a happy cheer, they swung their tentacles till the spikes meshed overhead like a zipper's teeth, and their tubular bodies stiffened and stretched upward, the downpour now starting to fill their tulip-shaped tops formed by the meshed tentacles. They were having the Thrang equivalent of a binge.

  While Timtik's magic held the field, I did a quick slalom-run between the towering bodies of the Thrangs.

  Then the rain ceased. I looked back to see Timtik keel over wearily. I stopped dead, and turned back, instantly. I grabbed him up in my arms and with Lorn beside me, I raced back through those tall slurping ranks toward the forest rim. “How long will it take them to drink that water?” I panted.

  "Not long,” the faun gasped weakly. “Hurry!"

  Luckily, the Snatch had occupied an area about ten feet square. Not yet overgrown, the wallet was easy to spot in the semi-barren center. I set Timtik back upon his own two hooves again and grabbed it up. At the same instant, the Thrangs started to howl once more, in the distance. The binge was over. I turned the wallet upside-down and shook it.

  Out fluttered the commuters’ ticket. Nothing else.

  "Where's the rest of the things?” wailed Lorn. “I don't even see the sealing-flap!"

  "It must be a sign!” urged Timtik. “Use it!"

  "How?" I gibbered, waving the ticket.

  The crash of Thrang bodies entering heavy shrubbery sent an icy ramrod up my spine.

  I've got to think!” I snarled, my hands trembling. “Ticket ... railroad ... ride ... commute ... poker game ... smoking car ... conductor ... punch...” My heart contracted sharply. “PUNCH!” I yelled.

  The Thrangs crashed into the clearing behind us.

  "Albert!” squealed Lorn, flinging her arms about my neck.

  Then my eyes lighted on Timtik's’ forehead, and the twin horns thereon. “To ride, you got to get the ticket punched!” I hollered, ramming the piece of pasteboard upon the tiny point of his left horn. A neat disc of paper popped out like a conservative's confetti, then, while Lorn still clung to me, I grabbed Timtik up into my arms, and yelled, “Hang on!"

  Steel tracks whizzed across the clearing. Metal screamed and squealed. A hot, sulphurous blast of gases flashed into our faces as something chugged past, its tall metal sides a dynamic blue of hurtling tonnage.

  Then the world jerked wildly and turned upside down as a tugging wrench shot along my frame, a numbing yank that I felt from head to foot...

  The last thing I saw of the Thrangs was a row of stupefied faces as the three of us whizzed swiftly away, the train's mail-pickup hook neatly snagged in the collar strap of my lead cuirass, beside a long car painted with the legend ‘Long Island Railroad.’ And as we went, the tracks vanished neatly behind us.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE little grey-haired man cowered miserably at the far corner of the lurching car, his ears deaf to the clatter of metal wheels beneath him, his eyes blind to all but the sight of his unexpected visitors. There was an adenoidal gape to his jaw, and his breathing was perfunctory at best, coming in short, fast gasps.

  "Are you taking your little boy to the city for some treatments?” he finally managed. The mail car attendant appeared, with his greenish pallor, quite genuinely ill.

  Timtik said, obligingly, “I'm a faun, not a boy. That's why I have goat legs and horns."

  The man clamped his eyes tightly shut.

  And a pretty sight we were to the man, I imagine. Lorn looking like a gorgeous hussy in a green negligee. Timtik with his weird endowments and me looking like an escapee from a Norse saga, with my metal breastplate, leather wallet slung by its strap across shoulder and chest, face su
nburnt where it wasn't covered with coarse stubble, and legs bare and still slightly raw in spots from that brief sojourn beneath the moss.

  "I don't understand,” the man moaned piteously, all at once. “We were just about to pull in at Valley Stream, Long Island. I've never seen this woods before on my route..."

  I felt a twinge of pity for the man. Perhaps if I could explain ... Or would he believe me? While I tugged at this tough mental knot, Timtik suddenly tensed and tugged at my fingers.

  "Albert! The spell's ending!” he shouted, pointing to the wall against which the attendant crouched. As Lorn gasped in delight, I saw that it was indeed ending. The wall slowly grew translucent, then smokily transparent, like a sheet of ice amid a blast of steam. At that moment, the engineer applied the brakes.

  The three of us, caught unprepared for the sudden stop, staggered forward and then plunged toward the floor of the car simultaneous with a loudspeaker over the door blaring, “Valley Stream!"

  For a fleeting moment I saw the high concrete-and-steel platform, and row upon row of cottages, then the floor rushed up at my face with a rapidity that caused me to release myself from Timtik's grip on my fingers, and to throw my arms protectively before my eyes...

  The faun and I thumped heavily into hot, sandy earth, and rolled from the brunt of the impact. I sat up and dusted sand from my eyes and stubbly whiskers and mouth, looking stupidly about me. There was an echo of squealing brakes hovering upon the warm, still air then it faded to silence. The train was gone. We were once more in the forest of Drendon.

  We walked for about a mile, finding this stretch of woods less densely overgrown than the part where we'd begun our journey. Going was relatively easy, what with wider lanes between the trees, and less briary shrubbery to dodge, close on Lorn's bush-controlling heels.

  The average distance between the trees began to stay at pretty much of a constant, but I suddenly realized that the character of the trees was changing. Boughs no longer nodded politely as Lorn went by, and the terrain, too, was undergoing a topographical metamorphosis.

  I halted suddenly. Lorn and Timtik did so at the same moment. Timtik moved nearer to me, his tiny hand finding its way into mine. Lorn edged to my other side, gripped my arm, and the three of us stood quite still, downright unsettled inside...

  Where the forest we'd started in had been choked with thick vegetation and sodded with rich loam, this section had neither fern nor bush upon the earth. The ground was of hard-baked clay and slate-like rock. I noticed that the trees, which in the prior woods had been rich chocolate-color on bole and branch, were grey-black and starkly barren of even the tiniest trace of foliage. I pressed an exploratory finger against the trunk of a dull black elm. The surface was cold, hard, and slippery-smooth. “I think they're petrified,” I said.

  Then, in the distance, lost in outlying clumps of gnarled dead trees, a mournful howl sounded, rising, then chopping off in a short series of angry barks.

  Timtik embraced my right leg. “So am I!"

  * * * *

  The sun still shone, but its light was no longer warm yellow; a chilly blue-white, almost like moonlight, bathed us. And the sky had sickly grey clouds lying long and emaciated against its paler grey skein. The howl sounded again. It sounded closer.

  I clutched at the wallet of spells where it hung athwart my hip. I was going to be sure I didn't drop it this time.

  A grey gauzy cloud slithered deftly in front of the sun, and the cold grew bitter as the atmosphere darkened to sudden frosty twilight. A swift darting form bounded from behind a tree not ten paces from where we stood, and vanished behind a thick black boulder. "What was that?” we said in unison, taking simultaneous backward steps like a soft-shoe trio. The howl repeated.

  "He's trying to scare us,” faltered Lorn.

  "He's doing a fine job,” quavered Timtik.

  I found myself frantically shaking the upended wallet, trying to jar loose a new spell. Nothing came out. The wallet wouldn't even open to my fingers.

  A flicker of movement outside the direct line of my vision caused me to jerk my head up sharply, my eyes alert, my breathing raspy.

  "He moved again!” said Lorn. “He's closer, behind that big oak. It looks like a man. Sort of..."

  "He's got a furry face, and funny teeth,” appended the faun.

  The truth dawned upon me, icily. “I think I know what it is,” I said, pointing at the sun, which shone a bleak silver-white through the grey finger-like clouds. “That's supposed to look like a full moon, because during the full moon, the” I swallowed, and my dry throat received the saliva like a load of dust. “The werewolves,” I finished, unsuccessfully trying to keep blind terror out of my voice. “Men by day, beasts by night. I saw it once in a movie."

  "Are they vulnerable to anything?"

  "To anything silver—” I said plumbing my memory.

  "Do you have anything silver on you?” asked Lorn.

  "Only the fillings in my teeth."

  Timtik, considering this, said sincerely, “Well, you better take the first bite!"

  "Look,” I said, in my cowardly way, “as long as we know which way it's coming from, why don't we run the other way?"

  "Run?” said Timtik, as the loudest howl yet arose from behind the oak. “I can't even Now!"

  With a lithe spring, the beast appeared. Landing in a menacing crouch before us, beady eyes glittering hungrily, sharp yellow fangs slavering and dripping froth, its thick deadly claws flexing on humanoid hands matted with lustreless grey fur. It looked decidedly unfriendly. But the item that drew my attention was its vest. Across the lower part of it arced a short gold watch chain. I knew that vest and chain.

  I was staring at the Drendon form of Garvey Baker, Susan's father. This, then, was the enchanted version of a night watchman. I'd never been able to reason with Garvey Baker in his Earth-form; in his Drendon form, I wasn't even going to try.

  "Guh-raaaah!” said the beast, snarling deep in its thick furry throat. It took a shuffling step forward. We took a shuffling step backward. "Guh-rowww!" it said, taking a scuttling step to the left. We instantly took a step to the right.

  Two gambits made, no men lost on either side. Werewolf and trembling trio eyed each other warily. I shook the wallet once more, but still nothing came forth. The sudden motion made the werewolf cringe back for an instant. I noted the motion with sudden hope. Perhaps this was a timid werewolf, a craven? I pried Timtik from my leg, shoved Lorn gently away from my side, and took a careful step toward it, then waved my arms suddenly, and yelled "Boo!"

  The werewolf sprang upright from its menacing crouch, threw back its head, and gave vent to a barking howl of hate that made the ground tremble. That did it.

  As one person, Lorn, Timtik and I leapt past the momentarily preoccupied monster and ran hell-for-leather toward the thicker woods ahead. I ventured a glance backward as we fled, and was horrified to see that the thing had dropped to all fours and was bounding after us, ten feet at a jump.

  "Run, run!” shrilled Lorn. We were barely into the clump of dead trees when the werewolf was at its edge, and capture and death seemed momentary. I shoved Lorn to my left and Timtik to my right, and then grabbed at a low-hanging petrified branch and swung my feet high.

  My timing had been lucky. The pouncing greyish form met only empty air in its dive, and then the furry head met the stone bole of a thick oak with a pleasant smack. The beast-man sat on the ground, shaking its head and growling. We had a brief respite of danger.

  "Up here, quick!” I cried, clambering further into my tree haven. Timtik sprang for my extended hand and I swung him onto a fork in the limb. Lorn shinnied up near the trunk and joined Timtik and myself. The werewolf, regaining its feet, looked around for us, its heavy jawed head snapping left and right in a terrible manner. Overhead, I shivered in silent anticipation of the chill moment when it would espy us in our arboreal sanctuary. It did so, finally, with a sudden backward step and satisfied yelp.

  It roared, le
aped to the base of the tree, and clutched recklessly at the branches.

  "Climb!” I urged my companions, hopelessly. We were in a petrified crabapple tree and these don't grow too tall. They tend to burgeon more outward than upward, and this one was no exception. And below us, the monster was placing first one foot, then the other, beginning his ascent.

  There was not, however, much farther we could travel. Soon, the three of us were perched helpless on the highest branch that would bear our combined weights, watching the relentless approach of the ghastly creature. Would he kill us? Maybe eat us? Or just chew on us till we screamed for mercy?

  Anything was better than sitting dully and waiting for those fangs. I decided to say something. Anything.

  "Look here,” I extemporized. “You're making a terrible mistake."

  The hideous face hesitated, scant feet below my bare toes. The beast-man smiled toothily. “I don't think so."

  "Oh, yes you are,” I said, thinking up objections as I talked, anything to forestall his arrival. “You are ... um ... an ordinary run-of-the-forest man by day, right?"

  "So they tell me,” said the creature, not halting its upward climb.

  "Well,” I said, trying to sound authoritative, “you're going to look pretty silly when I tell you, but it's daytime!"

  For the first time, a quirk of doubt appeared above the monster's shaggy eyebrows. “But the full moon up there—"

  "Ha ha,” I said, a forced laugh that didn't quite come off as planned.

  "What's so funny, huh?” snarled the thing, champing its wicked fangs, blue-white froth running from the wide savage mouth. I manfully repressed an urge to scream.

  "That's not the moon,” I said in a calm little croak. “It's the sun. The day's just a bit overcast with clouds."

  "Just a minute,” said the beast-man. “If that wasn't the moon, I wouldn't look like a wolf. Who you trying to kid?"

  I stared into that grizzled face, my brain whirling, and had the answer. I knew at last why the bag of spells hadn't opened before: The werewolf's thinking hadn't been conditioned. The flap opened to my touch, this time. I dipped a hand inside and withdrew the proper item, holding it in my clenched fist.