A long time Keawe stood and looked in the doorway. At first he was struck stupid; and then fear fell upon him that the bargain had been made amiss, and the bottle had come back to him as it came at San Francisco; and at that his knees were loosened, and the fumes of the wine departed from his head like mists off a river in the morning. And then he had another thought; and it was a strange one, that made his cheeks to burn.
“I must make sure of this,” thought he.
So he closed the door, and went softly round the corner again, and then came noisily in, as though he were but now returned. And, lo! by the time he opened the front door no bottle was to be seen; and Kokua sat in a chair and started up like one awakened out of sleep.
“I have been drinking all day and making merry,” said Keawe. “I have been with good companions, and now I only came back for money, and return to drink and carouse with them again.”
Both his face and voice were as stern as judgment, but Kokua was too troubled to observe. “You do well to use your own, my husband,” said she, and her words trembled.
“Oh, I do well in all things,” said Keawe, and he went straight to the chest and took out money. But he looked besides in the corner where they kept the bottle, and there was no bottle there.
At that the chest heaved upon the floor like a sea-billow, and the house spun about him like a wreath of smoke, for he saw she was lost now, and there was no escape. “It is what I feared,” he thought. “It is she who has bought it.”
And then he came to himself a little and rose up; but the sweat streamed on his face as thick as the rain and as cold as the well-water.
“Kokua,” said he, “I said to you to-day what ill became me. Now I return to house with my jolly companions,” and at that he laughed a little quietly. “I will take more pleasure in the cup if you forgive me.”
She clasped his knees in a moment, she kissed his knees with flowing tears.
“Oh,” she cried, “I ask but a kind word!”
“Let us never one think hardly of the other,” said Keawe, and was gone out of the house. Now, the money that Keawe had taken was only some of that store of centime pieces they had laid in at their arrival. It was very sure he had no mind to be drinking. His wife had given her soul for him, now he must give his for hers; no other thought was in the world with him.
At the corner, by the old calaboose, there was the boatswain waiting. “My wife has the bottle,” said Keawe, “and, unless you help me to recover it, there can be no more money and no more liquor to-night.”
“You do not mean to say you are serious about that bottle?” cried the boatswain.
“There is the lamp,” said Keawe. “Do I look as if I was jesting?”
“That is so,” said the boatswain. “You look as serious as a ghost.”
“Well, then,” said Keawe, “here are two centimes; you just go to my wife in the house, and offer her these for the bottle, which (if I am not much mistaken) she will give you instantly. Bring it to me here, and I will buy it back from you for one; for that is the law with this bottle, that it still must be sold for a less sum. But whatever you do, never breathe a word to her that you have come from me.”
“Mate, I wonder are you making a fool of me?” asked the boatswain.
“It will do you no harm if I am,” returned Keawe.
“That is so, mate,” said the boatswain.
“And if you doubt me,” added Keawe, “you can try. As soon as you are clear of the house, wish to have your pocket full of money, or a bottle of the best rum, or what you please, and you will see the virtue of the thing.”
“Very well, Kanaka,” says the boatswain. “I will try; but if you are having your fun out of me, I will take my fun out of you with a belaying-pin.”
So the whaler-man went off up the avenue; and Keawe stood and waited. It was near the same spot where Kokua had waited the night before; but Keawe was more resolved, and never faltered in his purpose; only his soul was bitter with despair.
It seemed a long time he had to wait before he heard a voice singing in the darkness of the avenue. He knew the voice to be the boatswain’s; but it was strange how drunken it appeared upon a sudden.
Next the man himself came stumbling into the light of the lamp. He had the devil’s bottle buttoned in his coat; another bottle was in his hand; and even as he came in view he raised it to his mouth and drank.
“You have it,” said Keawe. “I see that.”
“Hands off!” cried the boatswain, jumping back. “Take a step near me, and I’ll smash your mouth. You thought you could make a catspaw of me, did you?”
“What do you mean?” cried Keawe.
.”Mean?” cried the boatswain. “This is a pretty good bottle, this is; that’s what I mean. How I got it for two centimes I can’t make out; but I am sure you shan’t have it for one.”
“You mean you won’t sell?” gasped Keawe. “No, sir,” cried the boatswain. “But I’ll give you a drink of the rum, if you like.”
“I tell you,” said Keawe, “the man who has that bottle goes to hell.”
“I reckon I’m going anyway,” returned the sailor; “and this bottle’s the best thing to go with I’ve struck yet. No, sir!” he cried again, “this is my bottle now, and you can go and fish for another.”
“Can this be true?” Keawe cried. “For your own sake, I beseech you, sell it me!”
“I don’t value any of your talk,” replied the boatswain. “You thought I was a flat, now you see I’m not; and there’s an end. If you won’t have a swallow of the rum, I’ll have one myself. Here’s your health, and goodnight to youl”
So off he went down the avenue towards town, and there goes the bottle out of the story.
But Keawe ran to Kokua light as the wind; and great was their joy that night; and great, since then, has been the peace of all their days in the Bright House.
Leprosy.
Whites.
Humor and fantasy ought to be natural companions, but true wit is as sadly lacking in the genre as it is in contemporary “serious” fiction. One happy exception is the Ebenezum series of CRAIG SHAW GARDNER, a personable young New England bookdealer who moonlights as a deliciously mad fantasist. The sorcerer Ebenezum and his “Archie Goodwin” amanuensis, the apprentice Wunt, have a knack for getting into scrapes with ghosts, demons, dragons, witches and other terrifying critters. Fortunately, Ebenezum is a magician of great power. Unfortunately, he is allergic to magic; it makes him sneeze, which louses up his most potent spells. For those of you who know the Ebenezum tales and wonder how he first acquired his occupational hazard, read on. “A Malady of Magicks” is the first of the series, and it tells all. It won Craig the honor of appearing in the DAW anthology, Year’s Best Fantasy Stories (1978), edited by Lin Carter.
A Malady of Magicks
By Craig Shaw Gardner
(I)
“A good magician always watches his feet. It also does no harm to be constantly aware of the nearest exit.”
—from The Teachings of Ebenezum, Vol. 3.
May I state now, once and for all, that I did not see the bucket.
My master, the wizard Ebenezum, was expounding at great length to a potential client concerning his abilities to sniff out sorcery wherever it might occur. He was also carefully avoiding any mention of the affliction that allowed him to do this so well.
I was crossing the room with a full load of firewood. The last of it, I might add, which we could ill afford to burn, save that, in those days and that place, the best way to attract a client was to pretend that you didn’t need one. Thus the roaring fire on a day only moderately cool. And Ebenezum, who filled the room with grand gestures while speaking smoothly from beneath his great gray beard. Like any magician worth his runes, he could easily talk a customer into enchantment before any magicks were expended. Such an expert was he in fact, that I got caught up in the conversation and did not watch my feet.
Curse that bucket anyways! Down I went, spilling firewood ac
ross the table between the wizard and his client, neatly breaking his spell. Ebenezum turned on me with eyes full of cosmic anger, another trick he was all too good at. “See!” the client shrieked in a high voice. “I am cursed! It follows me wherever I gol” He hugged short arms around his pudgy body.
The wizard turned back to him, anger replaced by a smile so warm it would melt the ice on Midwinter Eve. “You don’t know my apprentice,” he said softly. “Cursed, no. Clumsy, yes.”
Pudgy’s hands, came back to the table, “B-but . . .”
“The only curse here is when I signed a seven-year contract for his services.” The magician smiled broadly. “I assure you, no magic is involved.”
“If you say so.” The client managed to smile. I picked myself off the bench and smiled back. Just joy and happiness all around. “I feel I can trust you,” the client continued. “Will you look at my barn?”
“Certainly.” The magician managed to cough gently without losing his smile.
The client, who had obviously dealt with artists long enough to know what such coughs meant, reached within the blue silk sash that circled his ample waist and pulled out a small purse. It thunked most satisfyingly when he dropped it on the table.
The client shrugged. “My crops have been good . . .” He frowned. “ ’Till late.”
“They shall be good again. When shall we—”
“As soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow, at dawn?”
The wizard’s face did not betray the slightest agony at the mention of so early an hour, a fact which conclusively proved our dire straits.
“Dawn then, good Samus,” he said. They bowed, and the gentleman farmer took his leave.
“Put out that fire,” were the wizard’s first words to me. He scratched his neck below the beard. “Interesting. Your fall shortened our negotiations considerably—yet favorably. Mayhaps there is a way we can even get your clumsiness to work for you. We’ll make a wizard of you yet!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I have to check my scrolls. Clean up in here. We start work all too early on the morrow.”
(II)
“Illusions can be created in multitudinous forms, and vary in effectiveness to the degree your customer wishes to be fooled.”
—The Teachings of Ebenezum, Vol. 12
“If my calculations be right,” Ebenezum said with a tug at his beard, “the farm should be over the next rise.”
I silently thanked all the gods, few though they were, who looked kindly on sorcerers’ assistants. Ebenezum had loaded such a variety of magical paraphernalia into the pack on my back that I was near to doubled over with the weight. Only my stout oak staff kept my head from reaching my feet, and even that sturdy wood seemed to bend considerably every time I leaned against it.
Ebenezum studied my discomfort for a moment, then raised his hand in the way he does when on the verge of a great pronouncement.
“Remember, Wunt,” he said. “The total sorcerer must develop both mind and body.” He waved me to follow him with an ease of motion made possible by the fact that he carried nothing at all.
We reached the top of the hill. There was the farm, laid out before us in the full colors of dawn. The light hurt my eyes.
“Come, come, good Wunt!” Ebenezurn called as he started down the hill. “Granted that the hour is ungodly. Still, this is a small job at best, finished before the end of morning.” He tugged his beard again. “What could it be? Some crops trampled, a few animals loose from their pens? A minor elemental, at worst!”
The beard-fingers came free to wave in the air. “There is, of course, the matter of the dead sow. In my opinion, however, that turn of events was as much the sow’s fault as the elemental’s. In all, an easy day’s work!”
Despite my back, I must admit that it cheered me to see Ebenezum once again embarking on a professional errand. A few mystic passes, a quick spell, and the sprite would be on its way. Even Ebenezum should be able to manage that before his malady overtook him. And that meant money in the coffers, not to mention an opportunity to reconfirm a reputation.
There were certain malicious types in the local mystical community who claimed that Ebenezum’s wizardry was done. Just jealous of his great power, they were. Certainly, the outcome of Ebenezum’s recent battle with that major demon of the third Netherhell had had its unfortunate side. The demon had, of course, been removed. Quite possibly destroyed. But the highly charged struggle had had its effect on the wizard as well. He had emerged from his trance to discover that he had developed an aversion to all things sorcerous. In fact, any great concentration of magicks would cause Ebenezum to go into an uncontrollable fit of sneezing.
A misfortune of this type might have totally defeated a lesser mage, but not Ebenezum. He had immediately set to discovering strategies in which he might use his malady to advantage.
All thoughts of magicians and misfortunes fled from my morning-dulled head, however, when I saw the girl.
I was to discover, when we were at last introduced, that she was farmer Samus’ daughter, Alea. But what need had I for names? The vision of her alone was enough to keep me for the rest of my waking moments. Her skin was the color of young peaches plucked fresh from the tree and, highlighted by the colors of dawn. Her hair took the color of sunlight breaking through the clouds after a spring rain. The rest of her? How could I possibly describe the rest of her?
“Wunt!” Ebenezum called over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or have you decided to grow roots?”
I hoisted my pack more firmly on my shoulders and hurried after him, never taking my eyes from the girl. Perhaps I might talk to her. And then, of course, there were touching, and kissing, and other activities of a similar nature.
“Ho!” Ebenezum called. I dragged my eyes away from perfection to discover he wasn’t calling me at all. Rather, he was hailing a small knot of men involved in animated discourse slightly up the road.
The group turned to look at us. There were four of them. From their drab garb, I guessed three of them to be farmers. Probably hired hands or sharecroppers for the richer Samus. Two of these were virtually identical in appearance. Short and broad, their shoulder width close to their height, they both wore caps, earth colored like the rest of their garments, pulled close to their eyes. One of them picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. The other absently twirled a finger about in his ear. Beside this, they were mirror images.
The third hand was thinner, taller and younger than the other two; close to my age and height. Of course, he did not carry himself with one-tenth my stature, but what can you expect of farmers? Besides this, his eyes were much too small, brown bugs darting about in his face. Altogether not a fit companion for the young lady in the nearby field.
Now that I had suitably disposed of the first three, I turned my attention to the last member of the group. He was dressed differently, even flamboyantly, his coat a riot of red and blue, his pantaloons a yellow-green. And the conical black cap that rose at an angle above his head of curly red hair carried a seal. The seal of the magician’s guild. I turned to Ebenezum.
He waved an arm clad in the much more respectable royal blue, inlaid with threads of gold, in the other’s direction. “A merchant mage,” he said, his voice heavy with distaste. “Sometimes you just can’t avoid them.”
The gaudily clad pretender to the sorcerous arts bowed low as we approached. “Greetings, fellow practitioners!” he called behind a smile that cut across the lower third of his face. “I am Glauer, master magician.”
Although the merchant stood a good two inches taller than my master, Ebenezum still managed to stare down at him. “Ebenezum,” he said, his tone quiet and clear in its authority, “and Wuntvor, his apprentice.”
“Ebenezum,” Glauer whispered, and his eyes shifted away for a minute, stunned by the presence of so great a mage. But his gaze snapped back just as quickly, his eyes filled with a cunning that brought new meaning to his merchant smile. Glauer had heard the rumors.
“I have been t
alking to these good citizens,” the merchant continued; his voice, if possible, even bolder and more brash than before. “They tell me that their employer is having a bit of trouble with the spirits. ’Tis probably far too small a matter for one of your eminence, but I thought I might offer my humble assistance.”
“Magician Glauer,” Ebenezum intoned in a voice so powerful that it caused the farmhands to take a few steps back from the merchant. “These are my people. They are my trust. No task is too large, nor too small; where the people of this village are concerned!”
Glauer stepped closer, his voice and expression both subdued. “I meant no disrespect, sir. We in the profession must do everything we can to help one another. I have heard of your recent misforunes, and would like to offer my not insubstantial services. Very discreetly, of course. And for the merest portion of the fee you will receive from the grateful farmer. Come now!” He touched my master’s deep blue sleeve. “Surely you could use my services?”
“Services?” Ebenezum shook away the other man’s hand, his voice full of wizardly rage. “I can think of nothing of yours we can use. We have no need at the moment for pots or pans!”
He turned toward the others. “Now, can someone tell us where we might find Master Samus?”
The thin hand pointed. “He’ll be in the main house, beyond the barn there.”
Ebenezum nodded and strode briskly toward the main house, leaving me hard pressed to keep up. Behind us I could hear the twin laughter of teeth and the ear, and I imagined the merchant still scowled in our direction. The other man seemed not to have reacted one way or the other to the incident. Rather, the last time I glimpsed him, he had stared thoughtfully off toward the horizon.
We rounded the barn enclosure and spied the great stone house, closer to a mansion than a cottage, with a bit of a fortress thrown in for good measure. The place looked as if it had been built to withstand any discretion of man or nature. It occurred to me that there was only one power that the formidable structure was not proof against; magic.
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