THAT DARN SQUID GOD

by Nick Pollotta

  Placing his makeshift dagger on the counter, Einstein lifted the book and read from the cover. "The Al A. Kazam Big Book of Magic. Copyright - The Year The Mayor Got Stomped by the Giant Toad." He flipped to an inside page. "Attention, Seeker of Wisdom! Whosoever holds this volume has in his hands a thing of great and terrible power: dark knowledge known only to a few who have dared to face the infinite. Guaranteed to be sure fun at parties, fetes, and galas."

  Half of the street gang was gone by now, while the customers were loudly betting on the outcome of the confrontation.

  "Bah. P-phooey," the leader quaked, tugging his stained shorts into place. "E-everybody knows that page. It's the one the Guild does for free!"

  Controlling his anger over being refuted, the professor riffled through the pages and chose another. "Page 147: To Summon A Demon >From Hell," Einstein read, making a weird gesture. As his hand snaked about, the professor's left pinkie created a glowing contrail in its wake. The pink lines soon formed an inverted trapezoid suspended in the empty air. An ominous moan of power filled the tavern, and the air grew noticeably cooler.

  "First, you place your two knees close up tight," Professor Einstein echoed in stentorian tones. "Then you swing them to the left, and then you swing them to the right…"

  A scream interrupted the incantation as the remainder of the gang took flight. Most of them used the door, but two departed through the window. As before, the glass repaired itself with a bizarre sucking sound, and the crowd of patrons erupted into applause.

  "Splendidly done, sir!" Lord Carstairs cried, slapping the professor on the shoulder. "What else does this book contain?"

  Recovering from the friendly blow, Professor Einstein straightened his knees. Zounds, the man is strong! "Here, lad, read this secret table of contents for yourself."

  Briefly, the lord scanned the listing. "Ah, then we won't need to buy weapons. Excellent."

  "Magical weapons?" Red Jack gasped aloud, seeming to have trouble breathing. There are weapons listed in the book? "Wait! Let's the three of us talk straight dagbloon and no by-products!"

  It was suddenly obvious to the two British gentlemen that the local bartender was about to start lying on an unprecedented scale. With a curt gesture, Professor Einstein cut off the barrage of incoming horse feathers, accidentally leaving a brief pink contrail behind. Oops.

  "Look here, my good man, we've had a busy day, so I'll tell you what we're going to do," the professor said, patting the book. "You're going to direct us to a reputable stable and give us enough gold to pay for quality horses and to purchase supplies, along with a map of the fastest route to that big mountain to the west. In return for this, you will select one spell from this book, and if it is a spell that we can do without, then you shall have it."

  In righteous indignation, Red Jack silently demanded a better deal with a hurt expression, then woebegone, and finally pitiful, but the professor remained adamant. There followed a hushed discussion as to which spell would be used. Steadfast, the bartender overruled the professor's suggestions of 'Water Into Wine' or 'Instant Sobriety' and finally decided upon 'Golden Touch', despite the misgivings of Lord Carstairs.

  The deal was cinched and money exchanged. Lord Carstairs kept the other patrons away, as Professor Einstein guided the bartender through the complex spell, and even helped Red Jack to make the appropriate motions. As the last cryptic word was spoken, the spell book gave off a pyrotechnic burst of colors and, with an audible pop, the page went blank.

  "Is that it?" Red Jack asked, inspecting his glowing hand.

  "Touch something and see," Professor Einstein said, sliding the book away. "I modified the spell slightly so that it would not work on living flesh, so there's no danger of you sneezing and becoming a statue."

  "A-are you a wizard?" the barkeeper asked in awe.

  "Good lord, no! Just an amateur linguist and member of the Southbank Good Grammar Society."

  Hesitantly looking about for a test subject, Red Jack stopped and grinned. With his hand visibly twinkling with ethereal magic, he touched the counter. In a rippling motion of color, the wood transformed into solid gold, shining as if freshly forged.

  "Yes!" Red Jack cried in delight, grabbing his face in delight. The man froze in horror, but when nothing happened, he exhaled in relief.

  Then, frowning slightly, Red Jack felt a rush of panic as he started to rise above the counter. Good lord, I'm becoming a giant! No, the counter is sinking lower. And lower...

  "Watch out!" Lord Carstairs cried, grabbing the professor and hauling him away.

  With the sound of splintering wood, the mega-ton metal counter thunderously crashed through the old wooden floorboards, leaving a perfectly rectangular hole behind as if cut from a toolmaker's die. A second crash closely followed, along with an assortment of minor smashes and the shattering of glass.

  "Whee! Do again!" Winslow called from somewhere in the murky darkness of the cellar.

  Clutching his chest, Red Jack fainted and toppled over, his solid gold shirt slamming against the floor with a strident clang.

  With a wordless roar, the rest of the patrons rushed closer, carefully skirting the gaping hole in the floor, and gathered around the moaning barkeep to start pressing small items into his glowing hand. As the object became gold, the owner rushed away and another took his place.

  "Time to go, sir," Lord Carstairs advised sagely, edging towards the door. "By tomorrow morning, this whole village will be on the silver standard, and our gold coins will be worthless."

  Hugging the book, the professor blinked at that. Egad, I didn't think about the devaluation aspect!

  "Think we can make all of our purchases tonight?" the professor asked, as they ran along the empty street.

  "With a bag full of gold?" Carstairs asked, moving past the burning corpse swaying in the breeze. "Most certainly!"

  Just then, the ground shook. In gradual stages, the dark city became infused with a brilliant amber radiance. Casting a furtive glance backwards, the two explorers stumbled as they saw that the entire two-story tall tavern was now solid gold, and beginning to sink into the soft ground. Scrambling out of the second story windows, patrons started jumping to the sidewalk with small golden items in their arms. Then, they frantically ran away in every direction.

  "But we'd better be quick about it, sir," the lord stated earnestly, increasing the pace of his stride.

  Chapter Twenty

  Racing to the other side of town where the hubbub and clamor of the sinking golden tavern could not be heard, Professor Einstein and Lord Carstairs searched for a stable with living quarters directly above. This was a much nicer section of town, where the prostitutes had teeth and uniformed guards patrolled the neatly paved streets.

  After locating a suitable establishment, the explorers woke the owner by loudly banging on his door, and then appeasing his fury over being awakened, by jingling a lot of coins.

  Purchasing the needed supplies and horses only took a few minutes, but clothing was a problem because of the unusual size of Lord Carstairs. A tailor was summoned, and his stock ransacked under the musical urging of the jingling coins. Soon enough, the professor and the lord were comfortably dressed in soft leather boots, black pants, and tan tunics.

  After paying off the merchants, Einstein and Carstairs checked the saddles on their horses, and looked over the bags of supplies. Their saddlebags bulged with tack, gear, food, and battered tin canteens of cheap watered wine. They had observed that the sanitary facilities of the town were not very impressive, and decided that a touch of alcohol in their drinking supply might indeed be a wise precaution.

  By the time they were ready to depart, excited people were on the street talking about something odd happening at the Boozarama across town. Taking that as their cue to leave, the explorers mounted their horses and rode directly to the west gate. The guards waved them through without incident. Once they were in the clear, Einstein and Carstairs took off at a full gallop into the night. When they w
ere out of view of the city guards, the explorers crisscrossed their trail a few times just in case of pursuit. The local constabulary did not seem very formidable, but since this was the home dimension of the Squid God, anything could be coming after them next. Literally. The notion was quite, well, unsettling.

  On through the night, Einstein and Carstairs traveled at a brisk pace, resting the horses only when necessary. They knew that only a day and a half remained in the real world before the moon would finish turning, and then…

  To save time, the lord and the professor ate and slept in shifts, each guiding the other's horse as a strange trio of different sized moons rose in the black starless sky. The motion of the animals was not a problem, as any decent archeologist could sleep soundly astride a racing horse. However, both men knew that if one wanted true comfort, a hippopotamus made the best ambulatory bed.

  In gradual stages, the wild forest thinned to lush fields of grass, and finally changed into barren scrub, with only a few gnarled weeds dotting the landscape. By dawn, the weary explorers reached a dry riverbed. On the opposite side was a shifting expanse of sandy desert, the dunes stretching to the horizon where jagged mountains rose into the azure sky.

  As Einstein and Carstairs slowed the horses to a walk and took them across the cracked mud of the riverbed, a jet of dust shot up to form a geyser on the opposite bank. Spreading wide, the spray hardened into a large rectangle atop a pole. Dumbfounded, the explorers watched as a glowing green line scrawled across the board: WELCOME TO THE BADLANDS, EINSTEIN AND CARSTAIRS.

  "I think before progressing any further we should see about those weapons," Lord Carstairs sagely suggested, dismounting and using the leather reins to tether his beast to the ground.

  "Indubitably," the professor said, with a straight face.

  Sliding off his mount, Lord Carstairs chuckled at that.

  Tethering their mounts to a scraggly bush, Carstairs kept guard with the newly purchased crossbow, while Einstein chose a comfortable rock to use as a chair. He then opened the book of magic to study the list of incantations.

  "Ah, Here We Go," The Professor Said After A Few Minutes. "Chapter Seventeen: 'A Spell to Summon the Most Powerful Offensive Weapon'."

  Biting off a chunk of honeybee jerky, Lord Carstairs chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. "Is it possible to alter the spell to read 'The Most Powerful Offensive Weapon Tailored to My Personal Abilities and Limitations?'"

  "Good thinking, lad!" Professor Einstein said, flipping through the book. "Umm, yes, there is a hidden addendum in 'Appendix B'."

  Finishing the jerky, Carstairs lowered the crossbow and extended a hand. "Do you mind if I try it first?"

  "Any reason?"

  "In case of a mishap, I am less prone to damage than you."

  "Ah. True enough."

  Accepting the book, Lord Carstairs carefully followed the chart, made the necessary corrections with the wording, and rattled off the spell with the appropriate hand gestures. As he finished, there was a crackling explosion of light and colors. When the smoke cleared, the page was blank and Carstairs had been radically changed.

  His crossbow and the clothing from the village were gone. Now the lord was wearing a sort of military uniform composed of mottled forest colors, high-topped black boots, and a round metal hat. A canteen and knife were strapped to his waist, along with a holster and angular pistol of extraordinary size. A huge, rectangular pack covered his back from neck to hips. From the top of the backpack came a silvery metallic belt that looped downward to the bulky weapon strapped to his chest. Supported by a body harness of steel braces and shiny black straps was some sort of gun, or cannon, with multiple barrels set to rotate about a central mechanism. On the top of the machine was an enclosed handle with a trigger set towards the rear.

  "Good heavens," Lord Carstairs whispered, staring at his new accoutrements. "What in the world is this device?"

  Retrieving the magic book from the dust where it had been dropped, the professor smiled as a distant memory flared, of a lecture he had caught at the British War Museum.

  "That is a Gatling gun!" Einstein cried in delight, slapping the book clean on his thigh. "By George, these spells don't play cheap, do they?"

  "Actually," Carstairs said, reading from a tiny manual attached to the handle, "this is a United Kingdom, Mark 17, electric Vulcan mini-gun, firing 10mm caseless, armor piercing, high explosive rounds with a maximum discharge of 8,000 rounds a minute."

  "Bah, that's scientifically impossible," Professor Einstein said, leaning in close to see the pamphlet. "You must be reading that wrong."

  "It is in American," Lord Carstairs admitted. "But I do have a passing familiarity with the language."

  After reading the little manual twice, the professor shrugged in resignation. "I don't understand a lot of that technological jargon," he admitted. "But it does sound most impressive."

  As he started to hand the booklet back, Einstein gaped at the rear cover. "Merciful heavens, lad, this pamphlet is copyrighted 2018!"

  "You mean the year 2018?" Lord Carstairs asked, checking it for himself. It was true. "Fantastic! Do you think we should get another?"

  Patting the book of magic, Professor Einstein shook his head. "The spell vanished after you read it, remember? Besides, if you have a physical weapon, then I should acquire a magical one. We would be better balanced."

  "Good point, sir. Oh, another thing."

  "What?"

  "Observe."

  Squinting, the professor could only see the dust trails of the departing horses.

  "How totally inconvenient," Einstein cursed, and then started flipping through the book. "Maybe we can find a spell for making horses. Perhaps flying horses! That would be nice. Once, in Persia, I had to capture a winged horse to save a blind princess from a one-legged…"

  "Weapons, first, Professor. Amazing tales later."

  "Oh, I suppose."

  Finding the appropriate page in the book, Professor Einstein performed the required ritual. Once more the explosion came, but this time when the smoke cleared there was revealed only a simple sledgehammer standing upright on the sandy soil.

  "That's it?" Lord Carstairs asked in disbelief.

  In consternation, Professor Einstein looked at the blank page, then at the hammer again. "Well, it is supposed to be magic, lad, so we must not judge these things for their appearances alone."

  Grabbing the handle experimentally, the professor tried to lift the masonry tool, but it refused to budge.

  "Allow me," Lord Carstairs offered, cracking his knuckles.

  Waving the lord onward, Einstein watched as his friend proved equally unable to budge the hammer so much as an inch. Then in a flash on comprehension, the professor pulled his grunting friend away.

  "Don't bother, lad. A hundred men couldn't move that weapon," Professor Einstein stated sadly. "Unless, I miss my guess, we have conjured Mjöllnir."

  Lord Carstairs arched an eyebrow. "The hammer of Thor, the Norse god of Thunder?"

  "A weapon with the storms of nature at its command. Rain, blizzards, lightning, tornadoes, et cetera."

  "Well, that is a splendid weapon!"

  "If only I could use it," the professor noted sourly.

  Rolling up both sleeves, Professor Einstein took hold with both hands, bent his knees, and put his entire body into the effort. But the thunder weapon remained motionless.

  "It must not consider you holy enough," Lord Carstairs suggested, tilting back his metal hat.

  "Guess I am not, at that," Einstein admitted, finally letting go. The man flexed his hands, trying to restore circulation. "I am not Norse, nor do I worship Odin."

  "Forget 'tailored to your abilities and limitations', eh, Professor?" Lord Carstairs chided softly.

  Rolling his eyes sheepishly, Einstein admitted it was true.

  "Is there another magic weapon spell?" the lord asked.

  Thumbing through the pages, the professor checked the Table of Contents. "Yes and no."
/>
  "Explain that, please."

  "There is a spell for magic swords, but it requires the caster to sacrifice five years of his life."

  Lord Carstairs frowned. "Indeed. How old are you?"

  "Fifty-six."

  Setting the safety on his massive weapon, Carstairs reached for the book. "Then I will do the spell for you. Shouldn't be too difficult to make the spell a gift."

  The softly moaning desert air blew over the two men as the professor struggled to speak. "Lad, I'm flabbergasted by your offer. What can I say as thanks?"

  "Piffle, sir. I am only twenty-nine. Five years won't harm me a bit."

  "I will never forget this, Benjamin," the professor said with unaccustomed frankness.

  "Think nothing of it, sir," Lord Carstairs replied gallantly.

  Besides, he added privately, it never hurts to have your future father-in-law owe you a favor.

  Studying the book, Carstairs made the proper corrections, took a deep breath, and spoke the words of power. There was the usual pyrotechnic thunderclap and, as the smoke cleared, Professor Einstein was wearing a plain bronze crown on his head, with a sword in a dull scabbard belted about his waist.

  Very hesitantly, Einstein drew the sword free, the silvery blade singing as it left the scabbard. Nearly a full yard in length, the straight blade shimmered in the daylight like an oiled gem. But the handle was wrapped in old leather, worn and sweat-stained. It was a weapon that had seen much use on the battlefield somewhere.

  Doffing the crown, Professor Einstein saw that it was similar in design to the Iron Crown of Italy, only this circlet bore a coiled dragon about the rim. It was very familiar, and Einstein felt positive that he should know the crown and sword. There was something at the back of his mind about such a pair of famous weapons…

  "Does it feel magical?" Lord Carstairs asked hopefully, studying the blade. The sunlight glinted along the edge as if it was sharp as a surgeon's scalpel.

  "Not really, lad," Professor Einstein replied forlornly, turning his wrist to inspect the sword from different angles. "The balance is excellent, and it's as light as a feather, but so is my bamboo fishing rod." He swung the sword at a nearby rock for a glancing blow in order to listen to the song of the steel: a crude but effective way to test the tensile strength of the blade. Unfortunately, he seemed to miss, as the sword passed by the stone without a sound.