The Exotic Enchanter

by L. Sprague Camp

  “Votsy, for two cents I’d —” Shea bellowed, with murder in his eyes. “You’ve dragged us into the play!” He started ominously toward the Czech, clenching his fists.

  “Honest, Harold, I didn’t mean to bring you two along. Polacek tried to scramble to his feet but Shea was on him in a flash, and the unfortunate Czech was wrestled to the ground.

  “Guk, you’re choging me!” gurgled Polacek.

  “If you possessed even half a brain?” raged Shea, “you’d have trouble . . .”

  Belphebe intervened, pulling her husband back, “Vaclav, Harold! Stop this foolishness. Have you not better things to do than fight among yourselves?”

  The Czech sat up, rubbing his neck. “I really meant to come alone, honest!”

  “It’s that damn magicostatic charge.” fumed Shea “Belphebe and I are heavily charged. When you transported yourself here, you pulled us along with you. Doc Chalmers is lucky he wasn’t sitting as close to you as we were.”

  Polacek picked up a book he had dropped, brushed himself off, and stood up, regarding Shea with a cautious gaze.

  “So what’s the big idea, Votsy?” Shea continued. “You know the Doc doesn’t want us doing this till he’s got it perfected.”

  “Look, I just figured I’d jump in here, grab the old man’s daughter and some of his magic books, and beat it back to Ohio. It was no big deal.”

  “Now that’s a hell of a fine plan!” Shea said in disgust. “Prospero is one powerful magician, and he’s got invisible spirits to help him. Besides which, didn’t you think it might be a tad immoral to just kidnap someone? Just how did you propose to kidnap his daughter and steal his library anyway?”

  “Hey, gimme some credit will ya? While you guys were writing reports, I’ve been busy studying this magic business pretty seriously.” Polacek held up the book “This here is the Doc’s latest symbolic magic textbook.” He thumbed through a couple pages. “And I can still read the symbols even though we’re in this continuum.”

  “That’s all well and good, Votsy, but that book is full of untried theory as far as this place is concerned,” grumbled Shea.

  “All tight, already,” answered Vaelav, “how’s about I send you and the Mrs. back to Ohio?” He began flipping pages.

  Harold recalled the geas laid upon him in the world of Irish myth — the requirement that he change things in this world before returning to his own and sighed. “It’s no good, Votsy. We have to alter this place before we can leave.”

  “Nonsense” Vaclav nudged Belphebe closer to Shea. “You two hold bands and think Ohio thoughts.” They did so and Polacek began motioning in the air with his free hand. “If either A or (B or C) is true, and C . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Shea said after a moment of thought, “even if this would work, which it won’t, because you don’t have it right, I’m not leaving you here alone.” He looked off into the hills.

  Belphebe spoke: “We are indeed in a strange land, methinks the very one spoken of in the play.” Suddenly she pointed up into the sky. “Look, there!”

  Shea and Polacek gazed skyward but could see nothing.

  “ ’Tis some sort of creature slowly circling,” she said quietly.

  “Damn! That must be Ariel! We’d better find some cover,” said Shea, “before that spirit reports us to Prospero. I don’t think we’d be too welcome here.” They hurried across the field, heading for the nearest trees.

  Belphebe stumbled, catching her heel in a clump of grass. “These do me no good in this place.” She took off her heels and was about to toss them away.

  “Better keep those, dear,” said Shea, “even if you can’t wear them, they’re still high fashion. Maybe Miranda would like to have them.” Actually, he was remembering just how much he had paid for those shoes only the day before, Belphebe shot him an angry look and continued barefoot, holding the shoes in her hand.

  They soon came to a little stream and splashed across to a grove of trees on the far side. As they worked their way upstream, the sparse brush gave way to dense forest.

  At length, Shea sat down on a rock. “Well, whatever that was in the sky must not have seen us. Let’s stop a moment and take stock of our situation. Votsy, did you bring anything besides the book?”

  The Czech rummaged through his pockets and looked up rather sheepishly. “Sorry! Nothing but a pocket full of change, keys, and my wallet.”

  Shea looked at his wife. “Anything useful in your purse?” She frowned and dumped out a small pile of assorted cosmetics. He began to wish he had not tried quite so hard to convert her to twentieth-century fashion.

  “Well, that’s just great,” Shea said heavily as he searched through his suit and produced a cigarette lighter and a pocketknife. “As you can see, we’re well equipped for life in the wild.”

  Belphebe grabbed the knife. “With this I can fashion a bow and arrows, though ’tis a shame that I left such a fine one at home.” So saying she darted off into the woods.

  “Say, Harold,” said Vaclav, “you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette to go with that lighter, would you?”

  Shea pulled a pack out of his breast pocket and tossed it to the Czech. “Here I’m trying to quit.”

  Polacek put a cigarette in his mouth and flipped open the top of the lighter.

  “You realize,” said Shea, with a cynical smile, “that thing wont work here! Remember how Brodsky’s gun wouldn’t fire in Xanadu?”

  Vaclav calmly flipped the wheel. A spark flew onto the wick and produced a flame. Shea stared in amazement, then grabbed the lighter and tried it himself. Again there was fire. Shea remembered with disgust how his matches would not work when he had bled to light a fire for Thor and Loki.

  “Looks like some of our physical principles apply to this world,” said Polacek, triumphantly. “At least flint and steel can make oil burn,” He blew a puff of smoke into the air.

  “Or maybe were still somewhere in the USA. Hand me that book and I’ll try some magic,” said Shea.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Vaclav said defensively. “I’ve been studying the art, you know, I’ll do the magicking.” He thought for a moment. “How’s about I summon up some chow?”

  Shea grimaced in disgust and reluctantly agreed. Two weeks with Reed Chalmers was definitely not enough training for Votsy, but what else could he do?

  Harold was put to work gathering small twigs. Meanwhile, the Czech searched the nearby trees until he found a small blue caterpillar. He carefully built a framework of the twigs and placed the insect on top of it. Shea wondered just what kind of meal could be made from a blue caterpillar, then decided that he really did not want to know.

  Polacek began waving his hands in the air. Then he recited:

  “I’ve never seen a purple cow.

  I’ve never hoped to see one.

  But I can tell you anyhow!

  I’d rather see than be one!”

  Shea suddenly realized what was happening and, horrified, yelled: “No! Stop!” but it was too late. A sudden rush of air was followed by a dense cloud of purple smoke rising from the caterpillar. The smoke stung Shea’s eyes — he rubbed them, and when he opened them, Vaclav Polacek was gone.

  There, standing before Shea, was an immense, sad-eyed, purple cow. It mooed plaintively and began munching some grass by the edge of the stream.

  “Well, Votsy, at least you proved we’re not in Ohio,” said Shea, “And, I might add, I’m not sure that I can change you back.” The cow moaned and rolled its eyes. “It takes time to learn the nuances of the magic in the worlds we enter.” Shea leaned over and picked the book up from under the purple cow.

  He still preferred the cards he had made for his last set of adventures, but the book did have certain advantages . . . if it could be read. Shea studied the logic symbols and frowned. He was unable to decipher the notes scribbled in English around the edge of the page, but the pictograms showed how to summon a medium-sized animal. Since he could no longer read English. he wondered j
ust what language they were speaking here; probably a mixture of Italian and Old English.

  Suddenly, a sinister laugh seemed to float out of the treetops behind him. Shea turned to look but could see nothing unusual. The laugh came again, this time from a bush across the stream. Once again, he saw nothing.

  “Hee, hee, hee,” cackled the mysterious voice without form, this time originating behind the cow, who was now calmly munching the underbrush.

  “Who’s there?” cried Shea as he looked around desperately for something he could use as a weapon. He spotted a fallen branch, gabbed it, and began snapping off the twigs. Not much defense, he thought, but better than nothing. The laugh came again, this time from behind the tree nearest him. Shea lifted his makeshift staff.

  “Some minister of magicks thou art,” the voice said mockingly. “Wouldst change thyself into such a beast as well? The air in front of Shea began to blur and ripple. In a flash, an enormous birdlike creature appeared before him. Its wings beat noisily back and forth, stirring up leaves. Atop its body was the head of a dark-haired woman. The entire creature was frazzled and dirty.

  It rose into the air and hovered above Shea, extending an enormous clawed talon. “I’ll thank thee for that tome,” shrieked the creature. “My mistress would have’t on her shelf.” The purple cow let out a baleful moan and trotted off into the woods.II

  Shea threw his club in the general direction of the monster, grabbed the book, and made a dash for the woods. The fleeing cow had cleared a path which Harold followed, hoping the trees would interfere with the flying monster. There was little undergrowth to slow Shea down, but the ground was uneven and littered with fallen trees. He ran clumsily down the rude path and leaped over a dead tree trunk. He turned left abruptly and dodged behind a large bush. The harpy was hot on his trail, beating its wings and hissing loudly. It was having absolutely no trouble negotiating the tree branches.

  Shea circled around the bush twice, with the harpy right behind him. Finally the creature wised up, flew over the top of the bush, and landed directly in front of him. Harold turned and ran back the way he had come. He bounded over a log and almost cleared another but his foot caught on a branch and he tumbled to the ground. The creature was directly above him now, hissing malevolently. Twigs and dirt clouded the air, stirred up by the beating of its great wings.

  Shea crawled to his knees; escape seemed hopeless. And then, before him, almost in his hands, lay a large dead branch . . . the club he had thrown away. In a flash he grabbed it and stood up to face the monster.

  Shea had trouble keeping his eyes open against the buffeting down drafts created by the creature’s beating wings. What he wouldn’t have given for his trusty saber now! He mustered all his strength and swung the club at an outstretched claw. The monster pulled back at the last moment, and Shea whirled around like a baseball player who has just swung at a bad pitch.

  The harpy cackled and before Shea could regain his balance, his face was buried in a mass of smelly feathers. Something whacked him on the back of his head, and the world became a shower of stars.

  * * *

  Harold Shea dreamed he was packed in a snowbank. It was deep and cold and he was frozen solid. He could see little snowmen with long carrot noses building an igloo around him, my how pleasant they seemed. . . . “Hey! wait a minute?”

  He woke to find himself buried up to the neck in a low mound of dirt near the bank of the stream, The back of his head throbbed as though it had been used as the ball in the Army/Navy football game. He shivered and tried to move. Nothing. He was trapped. It was almost as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him, for there was a smooth carpet of grass all around him, and the soil was not broken.

  He craned his head painfully from side to side, No sign of Vaclav or Belphebe. There was the rock he had sat on. There was his club, The book of magic was nowhere to be seen, not that he could see much from his current viewpoint anyway.

  Shea yelled for Belphebe and then listened carefully. No answer. After calling a while longer, his head began to pound so horribly that he had to stop. How does one get oneself out of the cold ground? he wondered. He remembered being buried in the sand up at HeadlandsBeach by Lake Erie in happier times. He had wriggled himself free, but then he had been buried horizontally and in loose sand. He began moving his neck in a circular motion, pushing back a small amount of dirt.

  Two minutes and a sore neck later, he stopped and sighed. Practically no progress. At this rate, he would be buried for a very long time.

  A stick snapped in the woods nearby. Shea froze. Out of the forest loped a medium-sized gray wolf, It snuffled around in the grass for a moment and then headed straight for him.

  So this was it. The great Harold de Shea was about to meet his end, chewed up by a wolf while burled in a dirt pile in the middle of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. He swore that his ghost would get revenge on a certain Czech!

  The wolf trotted up to the strange head rising out of the ground. Shea let out a fierce bark. The animal stopped in its tracks. Shea did not know if he could cast any kind of spell with only the verbal elements at his command, but it was certainly the time to find out. What was it Chalmers had said when he changed Votsy back from a werewolf? Shea began to chant:

  “Wolf, oh, wolf. Wolf of the noble Bard,

  Wolf of Shakespeare;

  Now ’tis that I conjure you from beneath the yard;

  Leave me, and disappear!”

  Since his hands were not available, Shea gestured wildly in the air with his nose. The animal stared at him for a moment, then turned and trotted off between the trees the way it had come! Shea Sighed. Had that really been magic, or only a bored and unhungry wolf? He was glad Chalmers had not been around to witness this particular encounter.

  But at least the sudden rush of fear had made him forget how cold he was. Shea resumed his neck motions in an effort to free the top of his body from the earth. At length, his neck hurt so much he gave up struggling and stared miserably up into the trees.

  “Harold? Is this you?” Suddenly, before him was a red-bearded face with eyes where the mouth ought to be. He shook his head and blinked.

  “Belphebe! Thank God. Get me out of here!”

  * * *

  The fire crackled pleasantly, but Harold Shea was feeling anything but pleasant. It had taken Belphebe over an hour to dig him out of the ground, and he was just now beginning to warm up. And he had the world’s worst headache. Nothing had dug that hole; he had been inserted into the earth magically. He looked at a dirt-encrusted sleeve and frowned. His pin-striped suit would never be the same.

  “Be of good cheer, my husband,” Belphebe said as she turned a fat rabbit on a stick over the fire. “Our supper is nearly done.”

  “Vaclav is a mauve Hereford wandering around loose, the book of symbols is gone, our daughter, little Voggie, is home with a babysitter in another universe, and we’re lost in a world we know nothing about . . . with no weapons!” grumbled Shea “Why should I be of good cheer?”

  Belphebe touched him on the cheek. “Meseems you do forget, you are not alone, my dearest. Lady Florimel will look after our daughter until our return. Certes you will have us back to Ohio in no time at all. Such is your power, my good husband.”

  * * *

  Even without salt, the rabbit was the best meal he had eaten in recent memory. Belphebe was not satisfied with her new bow; but it was good enough, thought Shea. The sun set and the air grew cooler. They dragged several large branches into camp to stoke the fire. Belphebe took the first watch, and Shea was soon asleep with his head in her lap.

  Sometime later that night, Shea awoke to the sound of voices. The fire was burning low and he could dimly see Belphebe, but no one else. Vaclav? He sat up abruptly.

  “Hello?”

  Belphebe answered, “Good morrow, dearest Harold, we are joined by a friend.” Directly across from her he could just make out a wispy female form. It was wearing next to nothing, had golden hair . . . and enormou
s shimmering wings. He leaned forward and squinted for a better view.

  “Greetings, good sir,” the creature said in a soft voice, “I am called Bitter-Root. Welcome to our Island.” She extended her hand. Shea reached out and touched it gently.

  “Harold Shea at your service,” He smiled. “I guess you and Belphebe are acquainted. So where are we? Is this Prospero’s Island?”

  “I know not of Prospero. This is Setebos’ isle, a happy place, once. liv’d in by sprites and spirits and the beasts in peace and harmony. But now we are set upon by the wretched Sycorax, who doth bespoil the trees and the land with pricking-goss and brine pits . . .”

  “Wait a minute!” Shea interrupted. “you mean to say that witch is still alive and kicking?”

  “Would that she were perish’d,” Bitter Root said with a sigh. “The vile hag hath raised legions of foul goblins and taken our fair Ariel to her dirty service. I fear ’twas Ariel, himself, who stole your book for her. But Belphebe has spoken much of your brave deeds. Surely such a great mage as thyself needs not his library to practice his magicks.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Shea said with a wry grin. “So far our magic hasn’t been too successful here.” He paused a moment and rubbed his chin. “So there’s a war between you guys and Sycorax?”

  The spirit looked confused. “I know not of war. That Sycorax is evil, there is no doubt. Her storms on the seas bring shipwreck’d sailors. These she turns to stones and plants. Those spirits who refuse her chores are lock’d in the heart of trees to suffer and cry.”

  Shea looked around into the woods. “Are we safe here, Bitter-Root?”

  “Aye, fortune brought you to our side of the island. Her magic is not so strong in these woods. The unicorns hold back the goblins. But now Ariel’s her servant, I fear all’s lost.”

  Shea thought about Vaclav. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a large purple cow wandering around anywhere?”

  Belphebe laughed. “’Twas he who sent Bitter-Root unto us.”

  “Certes,” said the spirit. “We found him near our cell. ’Twas but a simple task to make him right.”