“I have frequently done something similar. I’m sure I’ll have no problems.”
“You’d best not. I won’t have my snap beans ruined!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stephen waited until she had gone, then tied the bottom edge of his robe up about his knees and got to work. He shoveled the manure onto the ground in patches, then returned for the rake—but stopped halfway, staring at the pond.
It was bubbling.
As Stephen watched, the bubbling increased, growing vigorous and frothy—then it lessened again, fading away and changing. Now, the disturbance was different: waves—slight, but still too great for a pond this size—rippled across the surface.
Stephen cautiously drew nearer and peered into the water.
At first, he saw only reflection: the bright sky above, the clouds, and the branches of a single crooked tree. Then a wave broke his concentration, and he looked not at the surface, but through it.
The water went down forever. Where dirt and pebbles and all the other things one finds at the bottom of ponds ought to have been, there was only more water, more and more, darker and darker, until he could see no further, yet still he had the distinct feeling that the water continued ever deeper, perhaps miles deeper, perhaps so deep it had no bottom.
There were fish swimming in the pond, and some of them might have belonged there. But among the minnows and goldfish were trout and groupers and lionfish and a hundred other species that Stephen could not recognize. The fish were of all shapes and sizes, from all reaches of the world: salt-water fish, fresh water fish, fish that had never seen the light of day, and fish that hardly looked like fish at all.
Stephen crouched and picked up a smooth stone from the bank. He held it in his hand a moment, then tossed it into the water with a plunk.
The stone sank straight down out of sight, scattering a school of small, silvery fish.
Or was it all an illusion? Was it possible that this strange vision was a glamour, meant to trick him? What would happen if he waded into that pool—would he sink to the depths of the earth, or only up to his waist?
The viperfish had been real enough.
Stephen dug his fingers into the soft mud lining the pond and massaged it into a small, fish-like creature. He rubbed his fingers carefully over it, imbuing it with a spark of magic—and failed. Panicked, Stephen tried again, reaching inside himself for the power. It wasn’t all drained—it couldn’t be!—he hardly enchanted anything anymore!
No; it wasn’t quite drained. He had found a touch remaining in a dark corner.
Stephen hesitated, reluctant to use this last bit of magic—what if it was all he had left, forever? What if it never grew back?
What if he were left, ordinary and magic-less, for the rest of his life?
Stephen swallowed his fear and pushed the little remnant of his magic into the fish. It would grow back; it had to. Everyone’s magic grew back, grew naturally and constantly, whether or not they were enchanters and could use it. That was the way magic worked.
The fish monster squirmed gently between Stephen’s fingers, and Stephen released it into the water. It managed to swim a little way, shedding mud in its wake, then fell apart with a puff of released magic.
Nothing had tried to attack it, but Stephen thought that, just for a moment, one of the fish had turned toward it, glimpsed it, sensed its spark of artificial life.
Thoughtfully, Stephen scooted forward and dipped one experimental finger into the water—only to yell and fall back as a shark lunged.
Where had the shark come from? He hadn’t seen it before. It had been in the water—but resting in the water somewhere directly beneath Stephen . . . just as if the water went on for miles and miles in every direction, and Stephen was floating atop it, the land—not the water—a glamour.
Stephen knelt again by the edge of the pond and closed his eyes. He could hear birds and breeze, and the faint lapping of water. When he squeezed his eyes tighter shut, he could almost smell the sea air, feel its salty breeze ruffling his hair. It seemed to him that the entire ocean—the entirety of all oceans—was in that pond, stretching on forever in every direction. If he only stepped forward and dived in, he could become a part of that ocean, and be able to travel anywhere in the world that he pleased, so long as there was a drop of water by which to travel.
An alarmed shout broke Stephen out of his reverie. Youngster!
Forgetting the pool, Stephen sprinted back, past his manure, around the house, to the vegetable garden where his friend had been weeding.
Youngster was there, on his feet, apparently safe—but pointing to a wet spot on the dirt. There was someone else with him—a farmhand, by the look of him, shaking his head bemusedly.
“It was there,” Youngster insisted, “when I dropped the bucket! The water pooled on the ground for an instant, and I saw it!”
“I don’t care what you thought you saw,” the farmhand scoffed. “I’m telling you, we don’t have any sharks living in our wells, and certainly not any that could fit into that wee bucket!”
“A shark?” Stephen asked sharply. “Was there anything else—anything strange about the water?”
Youngster blinked up at him, noticing his arrival. “There was, actually,” he said. “The water seemed too deep—impossibly too deep. And the puddle wasn’t very big. When I saw the shark, I couldn’t see all of it at once. It was more like it was swimming past, and the puddle was a window over it.”
“But it’s gone now,” said Stephen.
“If it ever was there,” said the farmhand. He shifted a little, eying Stephen. “Does he often tell stories like this? A little touched in the head, is it?”
“Youngster is always truthful,” said Stephen, “and his eyes are good enough—as are mine.” Then, to Youngster, “Come out back. There is a pond there and, when I looked in it, there were waves, and fish—fish like the one we pulled out of the stream. And when I gazed into the water, I thought the whole ocean must be in there.”
“Either you’re crazy too,” said the farmhand, “or you’re trying to avoid work while still getting paid. No matter; I’m not too proud to put off my own labors a little longer, to see a sight like that. Let’s go find out what you’ve done to the pond.” He strode ahead, leaving them to follow.
“Be careful of the pond,” Stephen warned. “Don’t touch the water.”
“Don’t touch it—hah!” scoffed the farmhand, reaching the pond. “It’s a normal pond—nothing less and nothing more. I don’t know what you think you saw, but it certainly isn’t here now!”
Stephen and Youngster looked down into the water and saw the farmhand was right: it was perfectly ordinary water. The pond was just a pond.
“It was a nice joke,” said the farmhand, “but I’ve got to be going—and you’d better get back to work. Sharks! Wait until I tell the others about this.”
Stephen and Youngster watched him go, then exchanged a look. They knew what they had seen, and trusted what the other had seen, and knew it was no illusion or game or joke.
XXI
Therein lies a mysterious lady,
Who met her fate all in blue
That night, Mrs. Beanstraw was generous enough to grant the company the use of the barn, and plenty of fresh hay to cushion and warm them. They thanked her profusely, and accepted all the food that she thrust upon them cheerfully enough, but a cloud of uneasiness lay over them, and they could not relax. Nor had they the comfort of talking among themselves, for Mrs. Beanstraw had sternly admonished them to be quiet, that the rest of the household might sleep peaceably in preparation for another long day’s labor.
Despite his fatigue, Stephen lay awake for several hours and then slept only fitfully. Waters disturbed his dreams, deep and unfathomable. Waves tore at his ankles and sharks swarmed beneath him, snapping whenever he drifted too close. He lifted his hands to bring forth terrible magic; he knew without a doubt that a single enchantment would save him. Oh, he could build himself a boat of water to c
arry him ashore, or stiffen the very air that he might walk over it, or fly, or summon a hurricane to carry him. But no matter how he reached for his magic, it stayed illusive, as if something was draining every ounce of it as it grew back. . . .
The following morning Stephen rose early, silently, leaving Youngster and Craggy to gain what rest they might. He slipped out of the barn and raised his face to the sky, so that the early morning sunlight might warm it. Comforted, he knocked upon the farmhouse door.
Mrs. Beanstraw, with every appearance of alertness despite the early hour, opened the door. “Good morning, young man,” she quavered. “Having a bit of a lie-in this morning? I told the boys to be quiet and not wake you.”
“That was very kind of you, Mrs. Beanstraw,” said Stephen, “and shows a rare but true selflessness of spirit. It lifts my heart concerning the reason that has brought me here—and my request.”
“If you need another day’s work, I daresay—”
“Not quite, Mrs. Beanstraw, no. But thank you. You see, what I am here to request has to do with magic. I’m not sure if you’ve realized it, but despite all my good traits and fine humor, I am by trade an enchanter. I enchant weapons and build wards and all the other necessary trivial magic. But of late, I’ve begun to see the error of my wicked ways, and my magic has been fading. Unfortunately for me, while the fading of magic may be a blessing upon my soul, it will soon kill my physical body if old enchantments and nemeses catch up—and so I have come to you with this earnest request: I would like to purchase a shovel.”
Mrs. Beanstraw wrinkled her brow, utterly nonplussed. “A shovel? Is that some sort of magic device? Because I don’t hold with such things.”
“Ah, no; you mistake me. I want a perfectly ordinary shovel, one of those which I saw in your shed. You have many shovels, but I don’t have even one, nor any opportunity to buy another soon . . . and it’s always useful to have some good, solid iron around, I always say. I really would appreciate it, Mrs. Beanstraw—and I would be happy to pay you for it.”
“I don’t know . . . a shovel? We don’t have as many shovels as all that, not that I’d like to get rid of one. No, no; I think maybe not.”
“An iron hoe?”
“A hoe? Let me think. No, no; we need all our hoes; we can ill-afford to lose any. Besides, I don’t like what I’m hearing about you being an enchanter . . . and I don’t think I can, as a good citizen of Locklost, hand over a potential weapon to you. Who can say what you might do with it?”
“Save my own life, I hope—by force if not by magic. Please, Mrs. Beanstraw, don’t turn me away.” To his horror, so intent was he as he said this woman’s name that he took on his most enchanterly pose, and felt a soft sliver of magic sift into his voice. It wasn’t much—the smallest fragment imaginable—but it was more than he had intended . . . more than he thought he had inside him.
So it was growing back, if barely.
“A shovel . . .” Mrs. Beanstraw murmured, sagging a little under the faint, almost imperceptible, compulsion of bedazzlement. “Why yes, now that you mention it, I suppose we do have a few extras, and I would be happy to part with one. Come with me to the shed, young man, and I’ll show you which you can take—for free, mind; I’m not about to take your money for some old shovel. I’m sure you’ll make good use of it.”
Stephen followed Mrs. Beanstraw outside and back around the house to the shed. As he walked, he tried to scold himself for using illegal magic and superseding her will. No matter how he scolded himself, however, he couldn’t seem to make himself sorry. He was too elated to know that his magic was growing back—although it had been such a very light magic that it hardly counted. It had been more of a suggestion than a compulsion; she could have said no if she really had needed to.
Besides, he had already broken the law so many times in these past months that once or twice more hardly mattered.
And it wasn’t as if he had bedazzled her on purpose, not really. He had hardly known he had been doing it until it was too late—how could he have known?
But he had done it. He could excuse himself until the sun fell from the sky, but he had still bedazzled her.
Why didn’t he care? What was happening to him?
Mrs. Beanstraw presented Stephen with a shovel. It was by no means new or particularly clean, but it was sturdy and in good condition, and Stephen thought it would do nicely. He poked one finger near the blade, then snatched his hand away from the cold.
Perfect.
Mrs. Beanstraw and Stephen returned to the farmhouse, with the intent of tea and breakfast. Youngster and Craggy were up and waiting for them by the door.
“We saw you were gone,” Youngster explained, “and thought we’d better hurry before you ate all the breakfast.”
“Not to worry,” Mrs. Beanstraw assured him, “I have plenty of food for you to eat and more for you to take on the road. Never let it be said that Mrs. Beanstraw lets her guests go hungry, either in her house or leaving it!”
“Mrs. Beanstraw,” said Stephen, leaning the shovel against the wall beside the breakfast table, “is a very generous woman.”
After an excellent breakfast wherein Mrs. Beanstraw’s generosity was amply demonstrated, the company set out once more. It was now a little after nine in the morning, and the beginning of a fine, clear day. They walked at a good pace, Stephen using his shovel as a walking stick, although Noble Steed had valiantly nudged him, offering to bear its weight. Youngster and Craggy eyed the shovel, but did not say anything. By now, they had learned that their enchanter was liable to be a little odd, and if his oddness had purpose, they would discover it in the fullness of time.
“When we arrive in the capital,” Youngster was saying, “the first thing I’m going to do is take a bath. No; I might eat first, take a bath second.”
“I’m going to apply for new robes,” said Stephen, “or try to earn enough money to buy them from a licensed vendor. These are embarrassingly shredded, and hardly decent anymore.”
“Of course,” mused Youngster, “and at some point—after we’ve been there a day, maybe, and managed to clean up, but not too long—we’ll need to go visit the king and tell him what happened . . . and the fate of the Jolly Executioner.”
“I hope he doesn’t hold it against us,” said Stephen.
“Hold what against us? The J.E.’s death? Nonsense! We’ll be lauded as heroes for our faithful message. The only question is, what happens next? Will we become generals for his war with Faerie? Will we become tactical advisors? Or will we just be rewarded with mounds of gold and sent on our merry ways?”
“Somehow,” said Stephen, “I doubt that a war with Faerie would be wise. Even if our soldiers can see through the fairy glamours, the Fairy Queen could smite them with her little finger. We’d lose before we began.”
“Maybe not that, then. But we three could still be generals—even in peace, such men are needed—and I’m sure the laws against enchanters could be revoked for your sake, or you could be given an exception—”
“And pigs will fly and the Fairy Queen’s glamours will turn real and all the dead shall rise and will all shout ‘hurrah,’” Stephen finished, grinning.
They walked all that day and the next, and on the third came upon a small lake. The King’s Road drew close to the lake’s side, splitting and circumnavigating it both west and east. So close did it come to the edge of the lake that years of erosion had eaten away at it, and small shrubs grew between its chipped stones, from the times when the lake flooded and claimed the road for itself.
As the company approached the shore of the lake, the water bubbled. They stopped and stared. The water bubbled more vigorously, then split violently apart and lifted something from its depths. A figure.
The Blue Lady was raised slowly through the water until she stood level with the lake’s surface. Then the water lifted her higher, into the air and out to the edge of the pond, water from all sides constantly rushing up into a plume to support her, then falling
away in an endless fountain.
On level ground, the Blue Lady would have stood no higher than Stephen’s chin. Now, from atop her plume, she gazed down at him.
As her name suggested, the Blue Lady was . . . blue. Everything about her was blue: her skin was blue, her hair was blue, her dress was blue . . . and not only blue, but similar shades of blue, as if she had been drawn entirely with the same pen.
In form, the Blue Lady was humanoid and, at first glance, vaguely human. At second glance, one began to notice how she shimmered and glimmered, as if her skin were not skin at all, but millions of tiny fish scales. Then one saw the hugeness of her circular eyes, the webbing between her fingers, the length and sharpness of her fingernails as they clutched a small canvas bag.
The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter Page 29
