The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

Oriabel was holding her own against the other nixie, when she noticed the weapon wielded by Guilhem’s opponent. “That’s my pin!” she cried out in her insect whine. “These little thieves have looted our belongings!”

  The nixies must have understood her, because they exchanged a few words and then split up, fleeing in different directions. Guilhem hovered in the air, irresolute, but Oriabel obviously felt no hesitation because she pursued the one brandishing the pin. Guilhem flew after her, thankful for the exercise, which warmed him despite the chilly weather.

  With two mosquitoes trailing him, the nixie had no chance of evading them and was soon cornered between two rocks. Oriabel perched atop one of the rocks while Guilhem lit on the ground in front of their prisoner and tried to talk sense into him.

  “You know me,” he said. “In a manner of speaking, that is. I am a fairy friend.”

  The nixie leaned forward, his long green hair tumbling forward over his scowling, froggy face. “You speak truth,” he said reluctantly. “I sense it on you. How have you come to be a mosquito?”

  “It’s rather a long story,” Guilhem said. “We are human beings in actuality. My companion up there,” and he pointed his proboscis at Oriabel, glowering on her rock, “is a witch. She transformed us so that we could fly after you.” If he had had a tongue, he would have thrust it into his cheek, if he had a cheek; with any luck the nixie wouldn’t think to ask why the humans had changed into mosquitoes rather than birds or bats.

  “What we require from you,” Guilhem said hurriedly, “is to tell us how you came by our property, nixie. I thought those of your race never stray far from water.”

  “My name is Baubaruva,” said the nixie; a bit sullenly, Guilhem thought. “What you say about water is true.” He gestured around. “But see—there is snow everywhere, and it is naught but frozen water. When it rains or snows, therefore, we venture out with relative freedom. That chamber in which the strigoi imprisoned you is well-known to us, for a small hole at the rear wall leads to our underground rivers and streams, and the tunnels in which we commonly live. Your capture suggested that you had a camp nearby; a few questions to the forest animals gave us its location. My brother Uvaxshtra and I went to scavenge.” He grinned and held up one of his feet, spreading its toes to show the webbing stretched between them. “We have built-in snowshoes, so travel in winter is easy for us. At your camp site we searched for such trinkets as we could find.” He shrugged. “The stickpin was one.”

  “I see,” said Guilhem. “And your brother has run off, doubtless back to your warrens. Now then, Baubaruva, do you tell me where our campsite is, for we have become lost, and we will release you unharmed to follow him.”

  The nixie relaxed, but retained a suspicious expression on his face. “I suppose that is reasonable,” he said, pulling thoughtfully at one of his ears. “Very well, attend.” And he gave Guilhem directions to the camp.

  But as he spoke Guilhem became conscious that he was growing hungry, and his attention was wandering because of it. There was no fruit to be had in the winter landscape, and he realized with a chill that things might go ill for him if he was unable to locate some in the relatively near future. Worse, what he craved was not fruit juice at all, but blood: which in his current form he could not ingest. Fruit would sustain him but would not reduce the gnawing desire he felt for blood.

  As the nixie finished speaking, an even more chilling thought occurred to Guilhem: Oriabel must be growing hungry too. And fruit was not what she required.

  With that thought came a flurry of wings as the witch dropped down from the rock and plunged her needle-sharp beak into the nixie’s neck. The nixie and Guilhem cried out together, the sprite in fear and pain and the duke in alarm and astonishment.

  He flew at Oriabel and knocked her away from her victim, who sank to the ground in a swoon. A small trickle of blood stained his throat.

  “What are you doing?” Guilhem demanded. “Control yourself! The little rat can assist us! He already has done, by telling us where our camp is.”

  “I am sorry... I could not help myself.” She seemed genuinely contrite. “My instincts addled my thinking. I was starving; it was as if I had been taken over by an evil spirit. I am so hungry!”

  “You were overwhelmed by your mosquito nature!” he raged. “Kindly remember that I cannot drink blood! If you wish to make yourself useful, then follow Baubaruva’s directions: go find your ridiculous bird and get yourself returned to human shape while I tend to this fellow.”

  She hesitated. “I hope that Rámon is there.”

  “What? You told me the bird’s loyalty is assured.”

  “It is... well, it should be. But he will want to find a warm place to stay while waiting. And let me remind you, we had better be back in our given bodies and far from here before the strigoi set out in search of us.”

  “This story gets better and better,” Guilhem complained. “Just go away. Find out if any of our belongings can be salvaged before this little perisher wakes up and sees you.” She flew off with obvious reluctance while he perched above the unconscious water sprite and fanned him with his wings, meanwhile becoming gradually more uncomfortable from both the cold and growing hunger.

  His only consolation was that the strigoi would never find them; but that was very little solace indeed, he thought. Sadness overwhelmed him. Was he never to see Poictiers again? Was he never to hold the incomparable Phillipa in his embrace? Would he never write another song?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN WHICH THEY SOJOURN WITH NIXIES AND ORIABEL TELLS A TALE

  Baubaruva had not regained consciousness by the time Oriabel, now in human form, returned, bearing a sack and accompanied by Rámon. Catching sight of her, Guilhem rose, buzzing, into the air. “Make me human again!” he whined through his wings, hoping she still understood the mosquito “language.”

  Apparently she did, or else she rightly guessed his mind; because she said: “I know what you want, my lord, but do you take nourishment in your current form. It will sustain you until we find proper food for human beings.” She dug into her robes and drew forth a withered apple core. “There will not be much juice in this,” she said, “and for that do I apologize—but there will be some, and it will provide sustenance.”

  A heavenly scent came to his sensitive mosquito antennae, banishing all save the most immediate concern: Food! He smelled the apple, and knew immediately it was something he could ingest in his insect incarnation. He remembered, with a thrill, that he had brought a few dried apples from the inn to eat along the way.

  He plunged his needle of a snout into the fruit’s flesh and sucked up the little moisture hidden there. Moments later he withdrew his proboscis, moved a bit to one side, and pierced the shrunken apple again. And then again; and within minutes he was refreshed and renewed.

  Oriabel, watching him closely, spoke the transformative spell that returned him to his human form.

  Guilhem found himself sitting in the snow, likewise in naked, human form, with an apple core lodged in such a place as to cause him great discomfort. Chuckling, Oriabel opened the sack she carried and tossed him some clothing. As he hurriedly dressed, she described her recent adventure.

  Flying at the fastest speed she could muster, Oriabel had made it back to their camp within an hour, all but exhausted by the time she arrived. To her consternation, there was no sign of Rámon.

  “Worse,” she said to Guilhem, “most of our food supplies had been devoured by animals and our other belongings scattered and ransacked by the marauding strigoi, save for some clothing and a few small things, like my stickpin, that the nixies, I now know, had stolen.

  “Though the sun had come out and shined through the leafless branches all around me, I heard or saw no forest creatures. Larger animals would be hibernating, and smaller ones were snug in their burrows or tree holes. There could easily be a dozen birds and squirrels within a hundred feet, safely tucked away. But how could I find them before my situation became dire? I w
as already both suffering from exposure, and even though the sun was shining, the cold would kill me, and soon, unless I found nourishment and sheltering warmth.

  “Then, suddenly, there came a rush of wings out of the sky and dear Rámon settled onto a bare branch, his feathers fluffed up against the cold. Never was I so happy to see him.

  “‘Tells me to wait, mama does,’ he muttered to himself, and clacked his beak in annoyance. ‘But it’s so cold, and poor Rámon is freezing. He cannot spend much time outside, but must flee back to the warm hidey-hole he has found in a tree. Alas, Alas. Sad, loyal Rámon.’

  “I flew toward him as fast as I could and buzzed around his head, close to his ear so he could hear me.

  “‘Good Rámon,’ I said, ‘you have waited for me.’ And I asked him to let me bite him, so that I could take some of his blood.

  “‘Very well, just one bite, then,’ he said. I refreshed myself, and then he spoke the spell, and I was human once more. Like you, duke, I plopped on to the ground naked, on my fundament.” She chortled. “Most undignified! I soon retrieved what rags and scraps of clothing the strigoi had left, gathered up what I could find for you, and came here as quickly as I could.”

  After donning the clothes she had brought, Guilhem turned to the witch and said, “We need to be off, and soon. The strigoi will no doubt be searching for us, and they may well take it into their heads to seek us here, knowing we must return to gather our effects before we flee the region.” Oriabel concurred.

  Guilhem knew that they would sorely miss their horses, but those loyal beasts were in the keeping of the wolf-people now, and he could see no way of rescuing them. He and Oriabel would have to proceed on foot, and purchase new mounts further down the slopes of the mountains in Spain. They would need food, too—which brought up an unpleasant possibility. “Are we, are you, still reliant on blood?”

  “I think not,” she replied after a moment’s thought, gazing down at the senseless form of Baubaruva, stretched out on the ground at their feet. “That appetite should have been shed along with our insect bodies.” She looked around the clearing. “But we do require food and clothing. The strigoi have taken most of our possessions.”

  “Yes. Along with what coin I brought with me,” Guilhem said. “We are at a severe disadvantage. The closest village is at least a day’s march away on foot. We are no better than beggars. Though no fault of ours, of course; nevertheless, it hurts my pride.”

  “I can see but one solution,” she said after a moment’s thought. “But I doubt not that you will dislike it.”

  He sighed. “Tell me.”

  “I can transform us into nixies... or, should I say more properly, reduce us to their stature. Then, with Baubaruva to lead us, we enter their settlement, which must be somewhere nearby, and do what we can to earn money for new provisions. You being a fairy friend and all, they should be willing to accommodate us—at least, to some extent.”

  “You’re right,” Guilhem said. “I don’t like it.”

  She shrugged. “If you’ve a better idea, I’m happy to give it consideration.”

  “I have none, and you know it,” he said, and ground his teeth.

  Baubaruva stirred, drawing the attention of both humans. He looked up fearfully at what were, to him, giants.

  “There is no escape,” Guilhem said. He squatted down so as not to be so intimidating. “In truth, there is no need to fear us, Baubaruva. In fact, perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

  The nixie stared suspiciously up at them. “How now?”

  “You have played fair with us so far,” Guilhem said in as friendly a tone as he could muster. Aside from trying to steal our belongings and then running away to avoid capture. But he said nothing of that. “Our situation is precarious, as you must appreciate. We have no money, no food, no mounts, and have many leagues to go on a journey of great import.” He went on to outline Oriabel’s plan.

  Baubaruva scrunched up his face as he considered it. He ran a long, web-fingered hand through his green hair. “I suppose it is an equitable bargain,” he said. He scowled at the witch. “I warn you, though: I, in common with most of my people, do not like magic. Its effects are too unreliable, and unnatural. Yet it may be of use to you if you go among us. If you employ it, I do not wish to know.” To Guilhem, he said: “You are a fighting man, clearly. It so happens that my nation, Fagertärn, is about to war with a neighboring tribe, the Caervinens. We can no longer tolerate their insults and thievery, and their attacks on our way of life. Were you, as an outsider, to join forces with us against our foe and put your experience with the blade in our employ, it would be seen as a goodly thing.”

  Guilhem exchanged a look with Oriabel. “It would certainly remove us from the ken of those cursed strigoi,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose it would,” she said, with evident reluctance. “Very well, nixie, we agree to your terms.”

  Baubaruva bridled, and his wide frog mouth compressed into a thin line. “Stop calling me ‘nixie’! We refer to ourselves as the Persons.”

  “Calm yourself, Person Baubaruva,” Guilhem said. “We will put ourselves in your service. But first we need food. We passed a small lake on our way here. Even at this time of year it will contain fish. As much as I hate to subject myself to yet another transformation at your hands, Mistress Witch, I suggest that as an otter I might be able to catch enough for us to eat.”

  Baubaruva agreed to a brief delay to allow the humans to allay their hunger. Guilhem picked him up and sat him on his shoulder.

  They walked to the lake which, because the weather had not been overly frigid, was not entirely frozen. There Oriabel obligingly turned Guilhem into an otter. He slid across the ice to the open water in the middle of the lake, enjoying himself in animal form for once, and plunged beneath the surface.

  He found himself in a world of dim cold liquid that somehow exhilarated him and filled him with joy. After a little experimentation, he found that he could close his ears as well as his nostrils, to keep water out. His vision beneath the surface was better than he would have expected. The sunlit jagged bottom of the ice, above his head, and the smooth undulating plain of brown mud below made him feel as if he was in a cavern of some sort. The water was clear, and floating in it were myriad little specks of plant matter and tiny fish that he had never noticed when he was human-sized. Not that I ever spent much time underwater, he thought, and gave his tail a flip that shot him forward. But if I were an otter, I certainly would! He realized that he was holding his breath longer than he was used to, which was a surprise. He cruised as fast as he could swim along the ice toward the middle of the lake, which he reached within seconds. As near as he could tell, he had been under for at least five minutes, but when he broke the surface and sucked in air, he still didn’t feel as though he was desperate for breath.

  The landscape around the lake was still and silent, and his whiskers twitched as he looked around. He saw Oriabel on shore, busying herself starting a fire. That reminded him of his task, so he dove down once more in search of prey. Before long he spotted a large perch swimming slowly along ahead of him. The fish, seemingly oblivious to his presence, moved torpidly. You’d make a good breakfast, my beauty, Guilhem thought, arrowing toward it. He sank his teeth into the fish, which thrashed wildly but could not dislodge its powerful assailant. Moments later Guilhem surfaced near the shore and dropped the fish on the ground beside Oriabel’s fire. Then he went back to see if his luck would enable a second catch. It did, and soon another perch joined the first. Oriabel returned Guilhem to human form. They cleaned the fish, roasted them on stout sticks, and devoured them. Baubaruva acquitted himself well at the meal, downing a large fillet.

  Guilhem was licking his fingers and feeling much more kindly disposed toward the world in general—and even Oriabel, in particular—when a strange noise in the woods nearby caught his attention. It sounded like some small animal squeaking. The sound grew louder, nearer. He had just stood up to ge
t a better view of whatever was approaching when another nixie appeared, riding a water rat and carrying a small lance made from a long thorn. Catching sight of him, the nixie yelled something and charged. Guilhem, too astonished to move, stood open-mouthed as the tiny warrior rode straight up to him and stabbed him in the ankle with his lance.

  Guilhem cursed and snatched the nixie up into the air.

  “No! No!” Baubaruva cried. “Harm him not! It is my brother! Uvaxshtra, cease your struggles. I am here!”

  The water rat fled into the woods. Uvaxshtra, not noticing his brother, writhed in Guilhem’s hand, squealing insults at him and even spitting.

  Guilhem held the nixie close to his face and shook him. “What the devil is wrong with you?” he demanded. To Oriabel, who came to stand beside him, he said, “I’m going to find a rock and smash him with it.”

  Oriabel grabbed his arm. As the nixie screamed insults and curses, she said, “No—show mercy.”

  “Mercy? The little wretch stabbed me! Look, my foot is bleeding!”

  “Tis no more than a scratch,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s harmless. As Baubaruva said, they have no real magic. They’re merely small; anyone with sharp eyes can see them, if they know where to look. I daresay there are hundreds of them living in and around your castle back home.”

  Guilhem shuddered. The idea that tiny people might be spying on him within the walls of his very own stronghold...! “I’ll be sure to get another cat. Look at him: he’s completely berserk. He doesn’t even know his brother is here. I’ve seen soldiers in this maddened state before. There’s only one thing to do.” He carried the little fellow to the frozen edge of the lake. Using his boot, he stomped on the ice until some open water leaked through toward the shore, and dunked the nixie two or three times. The sprite screamed in fury at each dunking, affording Guilhem some sour amusement, but after the last one he ceased fighting and dangled, sodden and panting, from Guilhem’s hand.