RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer

by Simon Hawke

  “Of course, ‘tis the agin’ process that makes all the difference,” Mick continued, refilling his own tankard. He held the jug up and raised his eyebrows, but all Brewster could manage was a violent shake of his head and an emphysemic wheeze.

  “So then,” Mick continued, taking another hearty swallow of the odious brew, “if I understand correctly, your chariot has brought you here from a distant city known as London, but there was somethin’ to the spell that went amiss, as this was not the intended destination of your journey, am I right, then?” Brewster gasped for breath and nodded weakly. His vision was starting to blur.

  “ Tis the sort of thing that happens, sometimes, with a spell,” said Mick, nodding sympathetically. “Even to the best of wizards. It’s happened to me, y’know, with some of my potions, not that I claim to be an adept, of course. Far be it from me to do any such foolish thing. I know the law, I do. I’m merely a student of the art of alchemy. ‘Tis a hobby, bein’ as I’m one of the little people and therefore fey, though ‘tis a shame we’re not permitted to join the Guild.” While Mick loquaciously warmed to his subject, Brewster simply sat there with his eyes glazing over. He didn’t really hear what Mick was saying because of the loud buzzing in his ears.

  “Not that I’m complainin’, mind you,” Mick continued. “I’m sure the directors of the Guild know best, and I would never gainsay them, but I do think we little people have somethin’ to contribute. Tisn’t true, y’know, that we’re all mischievous and devious tricksters. I’ve no idea how that rumor got about, for there’s not a grain of truth to it. Still, there you have it.” Brewster’s pupils had become extremely dilated. He couldn’t move a muscle.

  “My customers come to me because they know my reputation as a craftsman,” Mick went on. “You’ll not find a better blade in these parts than one forged by Mick O’Fallon, mind you, yet each and every one of them comes thinkin’ that I’ll cheat them. ‘Tis what they’ve been brought up to expect from leprechauns, y’see. Malicious gossip. Not a word of truth in it. Don’t ask me how it all got started, I haven’t the faintest clue. Unless it was the elves. I wouldn’t put it past them. Never did trust elves. Bloody great lot of troublemakers, if you ask me. Never did a lick of honest work in their lives. Spend all their time sittin’ ‘round in coffeehouses, playin’ their guitars and talkin’ about philosophy and whatnot. Ever try to have a conversation with an elf? ‘Tis like openin’ a book in the bloody middle.” Without a word, Brewster slowly keeled over and crashed to the floor.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mick, staring at his inert form on the floor. “Poor chap must’ve been tired from his journey, and here I am, talkin’ his ear off. Well, we’ll make up a nice straw bed for you in the smithy and let you have a nice rest, shall we? Then in the momin’, perhaps if you’re not too busy, you might take a look at my alchemical laboratory.” He got up from his chair, went around the table, and effortlessly picked Brewster up in his arms. He was as stiff as a dead carp.

  “Never had the benefit of a real sorcerer’s advice, y’know,” said Mick. “Always had to muddle through sort of on me own. Still, if you’re stuck here till you can build another magic chariot, well then, perhaps you might consider takin’ me on as an apprentice. I’m a good worker, I am. Learn fast, too. Never can tell, if I get good enough, I might even convince the Guild to let me join, though of course, that’s probably too much to hope for.” He smacked Brewster’s head against the door frame as he carried him out of the house to the smithy.

  “Ooops. Sorry about that. Feelin’ no pain, are you? Good. Be a bit of a bump though. Tell him he got it when he fell over. Aye, that’s what I’ll do.” He carried Brewster into the smithy and prepared a straw bed, well away from the forge, just to be on the safe side. Then he laid him down gently and covered him with a frayed and faded blanket.

  “There, I guess that’ll do you proper. Sleep well, Brewster Doc. In the mornin’ we’ll see about gettin’ you settled. We haven’t had a sorcerer in these parts for quite a spell, no pun intended. Folks will be right pleased and excited. Never know, you might even consider stayin’. I imagine there’s many adepts in a big city like your London. What’s one less, eh? Sure, and they’ll never miss you.” Brewster awoke in the morning to something rubbing up against him. It felt scratchy. He grunted and rolled over onto his other side. He frowned. His bed felt funny. He had always liked a hard mattress, but the bed felt very soft for some strange reason and it crackled when he moved. It also felt somewhat bristly. He frowned and lay still for a moment, still on the edge of wakefulness. Something rubbed up against him once again and he felt a pricking sensation.

  “Ouch! Pamela, stop that,” he mumbled. “Your nails are long.” He shifted in bed and once again felt it crackle beneath him. It also smelled strange, he suddenly noticed. He sniffed several times experimentally. The scent was not unpleasant. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying on a bed of straw.

  Straw? For a moment he felt disoriented. And then something started rubbing up against him once again, with a rustling sort of sound, and he felt that same scratchy, prickling sensation.

  “Pamela...” He rolled over and got a faceful of leaves and sharp little moms. He cried out with pain and surprise, recoiled, and rolled out of the straw bed onto the floor. With a convulsive, rustling movement, the small bush recoiled in the opposite direction, scuttling off toward the wall, where it seemed to huddle fearfully, it’s reddish-gold, heart-shaped leaves trembling slightly.

  “What the hell...” said Brewster, staring at the little bush, wide-eyed.

  Tentatively, the little bush scuttled forward, moving toward him a few feet. Brewster backed away, crablike, across the floor. The little bush stopped, its leaves rustling. Then it started moving toward him once again.

  Alarmed, Brewster scooted back against the opposite wall. “Get back!” he cried out.

  The little bush scuttled backward a few feet, its leaves trembling once again.

  “Ah, so you’re up then,” Mick said. He picked up a straw broom from the comer and urged the little bush away. “Go on now, off with you! Go on, get! Stop annoying the company, you foolish thing, you!” Bewildered, Brewster watched as the little red-gold bush retreated from the broom wielded by the little man. “What is it?” he asked, astonished.

  “What, this useless thing?” Mick jerked his head toward the bush, now cowering uncertainly in a comer, its leaves trembling violently. “Why, ‘tis a peregrine bush. Doc.” “A peregrine bush?” “Aye, you’ll recall I was tellin’ you last night how y’have to chase the damn things down to make the brew? Peregrine wine, I call it.” The bush started to tremble even more violently.

  “Oh, calm down, you silly thing,” Mick snapped at it. “I’m not for cookin’ you up yet, though if you don’t behave yourself, I just might toss you in the pot for good measure.” He turned to Brewster. “Wouldn’t do much good, really. This one’s still too immature. Make the wine taste bitter and it wouldn’t be nearly so potent, y’see.” Brewster rubbed his head. “It seemed pretty potent last night,” he said, though strangely, he didn’t have anything resembling a hangover. Only a slight bump on his head he must have got from falling over. Just the same, that one swallow had been enough to paralyze him.

  “Ah, well, it takes some gettin’ used to,” Mick explained.

  “I’ve never heard of a bush that could move,” said Brewster, “except for tumbleweeds, and they’re blown by the wind.” “Are they, now?” said Mick. “Well, I’ve never heard of these tumbleweeds myself, but there’s more peregrine bushes than you can shake a stick at in these parts. Most of the time, they just stay planted in the soil, as any decent, self-respectin’ shrub should do, but sometimes they just uproot themselves and take to wanderin’ about. Every year around this time, they pull up their roots and start travelin’ like a great big thorny herd, from Bimam Wood all the way to Dunsinane Hill. Faith, and I don’t know why. They just do, that’s all. Bimam to Dunsinane, Dunsinane to Bimam, back and forth,
like a bloody, great ambulatory hedge. Like enough to drive you mad, and there’s no tumin’ ‘em. You get yourself caught in their path and you’re liable to get sliced to ribbons.” “That’s incredible,” said Brewster. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Migratory bushes!’ “Aye, silly, isn’t it? But there you have it. This one’s just a wee sprout. I keep it about to amuse me, and so’s I can learn a bit about their habits, the better to catch ‘em when their roots are ripe, y’see. But it’s a bloody stupid thing. Harmless, really, but always gettin’ underfoot. Still, it kind of grows on you. Grows on you! That’s a good one, eh? Grows on you!” Mick cackled and slapped his muscular thigh.

  Brewster eyed the little thorn bush apprehensively. Its leaves seemed to be drooping dejectedly.

  “I don’t seem to remember very much about last night,” he said. “Did you bring me here?” “Aye, that I did, after you passed out. Never did see it hit anyone quite so hard before, but I suppose if you’re not used to it, the wine can have a bit of a kick.” “I’ll say,” said Brewster.

  “You’ll say what?” asked Mick.

  “That it can have a bit of a kick,” said Brewster. “Strange, though, I feel particularly refreshed this morning.” “It has that effect on you,” Mick replied, nodding. “You have to be careful, though. Drink enough of the stuff and you’ll want to be takin’ on an army all by yourself. The brigands buy it from me by the cartload, they do. Use up just about every batch I brew each year. Drink so much of it, they’re all a bit touched in the head.” Mick tapped his cranium for emphasis.

  “Brigands,” Brewster repeated. “Brigands and migratory bushes. What sort of place is this? Where am I, exactly, Mick?” “S’trewth, and this London of yours must be terribly far off. Well, to be exact now, you’re in Mick O’Fallon’s smithy, next to Mick O’Fallon’s cottage at the edge of the Redwood Forest, by the Gulfstream Waters.” “That sounds vaguely familiar, for some reason,” Brewster said, frowning, “though I can’t for the life of me remember why.” Without realizing it, he hummed half a bar of “This Land Is Your Land.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Can’t place it. We are still in England, though, right?” “Ing Land?” Mick said, frowning. “Faith, Doc, ‘tis not Ing Land. S’trewth, and I’ve never heard of this Ing Land. You are in the Kingdom of Frank.” “The Kingdom of Frank!’ said Brewster.

  “Aye, the Kingdom of Frank. It used to be the Kingdom of Corwin, y’see, only Frank the Usurper had him murdered and then usurped the throne, bein’ as that’s what usurpers do. He issued a decree that had the name changed to the Kingdom of Frank. ‘Twas a long time ago, and all the kings since then have been named Frank, y’see, because ‘tis easier than changin’ the name of the kingdom every time a new heir to the throne comes along.” Brewster looked as if he wasn’t sure if Mick was pulling his leg or not. “Are you pulling my leg?” he asked. “Well, now why would I want to do a thing like that?” asked Mick, puzzled.

  “We are in the Kingdom of Frank!’ “Aye, the Kingdom of Frank, in the Land of Dam.” “ ‘Dam’?” said Brewster, looking totally confused. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Dam?” said Mick with surprise. “Faith, and y’must have come a fair long way, then. Aye, I suppose you must have, for I have never heard of Ing Land, neither.” “Where is Dam?” Brewster asked.

  “Why, on the edge of the Gulfstream Waters, of course,” Mick said. “Tis named for Dam the Navigator, who first discovered it, y’see.” “Dam the Navigator?” Brewster said, staring at Mick blankly.

  “Aye. He discovered it by mistake. He was lost, y’see.” Brewster closed his eyes. “This isn’t really happening,” he said. “I’m just having a dream. None of this is real. I’m going to wake up any minute now and Pamela will be lying right beside me, wearing her green face mask.” “You sleep with a wench that wears a mask?” said Mick. “S’trewth, and if she was that ugly, why did you take up with her? Or is it that she came with a grand dowry?” “Nope,” said Brewster, shaking his head. “Nope, this isn’t happening.” He glanced toward the comer. “Come here, bush.” The bush rustled slightly. “Come on, I won’t hurt you,” Brewster cajoled. “Come over here.” Hesitantly, the bush rustled over toward him. Brewster reached out and stuck his hand into its thorny branches.

  “OW!” The bush rapidly retreated to its comer, where it huddled, quaking.

  “Well, now what did you want to go and do a thing like that for?” Mick asked, frowning at him.

  Brewster stared at the scratches on his hand. They weren’t very deep, because the bush was small and its thorns weren’t very long, but it had hurt just the same. He watched as thin lines of blood welled up in the cuts.

  “I’m not dreaming,” he said in a dazed tone, “unless I’m dreaming this, too.” He tried to recall if he’d ever dreamed of feeling pain.

  Mick came over and stood before him, staring at him with concern. “Sure, and it’s no dream you’re havin’. Doc,” he said. “I can see you’re troubled, what with your magic chariot bein’ broke and all, but in time, you can build yourself another. In the meantime, ‘tis not as if you’re all alone, y’know. You’ve got Mick O’Fallon to stand by you.” Brewster sighed. “You don’t understand, Mick,” he said morosely. “It’s not that easy. You’ve been very kind, and I appreciate your hospitality, but my, uh, magic chariot is beyond repair, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to build another one. I’ll simply never be able to find the necessary materials here. The conditions seem much too primitive. I’m afraid I’ve traveled a great deal further than I intended. And there may be no way back.” “Well, the journey may be long,” said Mick, “yet each journey begins with but a single step, y’know. In due time, after you’ve rested and we’ve made some plans, you can make your way to the coast and find a ship that’ll take you across the Gulfstream Waters, back to your London, in the Land of Ing.” “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mick,” said Brewster. “Where I need to go, no ship can take me, unless it’s a ship that can travel across time.” Mick frowned, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Brewster took a deep breath. “Well, it’ll take some explaining,” he said. “And, quite frankly, I don’t think you’ll believe me. It’s a long story.” “Is it now?” said Mick with a smile. “Well, it just so happens that I’m in the mood for a good story. Come on, then. You can tell me all about it over breakfast.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brewster had never been in the habit of having much more for breakfast than a cup of coffee and a piece of toast or two. Yet, despite the fact that he was rather hungry for a change, Brewster knew he could never even make a dent in all the provender that Mick had laid out on the table. He now knew where the phrase “groaning board” had come from.

  “There, now, I think that should do for a wee momin’ snack,” said Mick, surveying the table with pleasure and smacking his lips over the smoked meats, the huge circular bread loaves, the jars of preserves and jams and jellies, the basket of hard-boiled eggs, the sausages, the vegetables, the roast turkey, the fruits, the flapjacks, the pot of tea, and of course, the jug of peregrine wine.

  “Dig in, Doc, before your belly starts a-rumblin’.” Brewster watched, astonished, as his host tore off a large turkey leg and devoured it in less time than it took him to put honey in his tea.

  Breakfast with a leprechaun can be a rather disquieting experience if you’re not used to it, as only dwarfs anddragons are known to have greater appetites. Dwarfs, however, are slightly larger in stature than most leprechauns, and dragons are considerably larger, but Brewster didn’t know about either dwarfs or dragons yet. In fact, he didn’t even know about leprechauns, exactly, because he still hadn’t fully realized what sort of situation his time machine had popped him into and he thought Mick was a midget.

  To be perfectly fair, Brewster’s ignorance up to this point was not entirely inexcusable. While Mick had made a point of mentioning that he was one of the “little people,” the term also happened to apply to midgets in the world that B
rewster came from, so Brewster had not connected it with leprechauns. Perhaps he might have noticed that Mick’s ears were unusually large and slightly pointed (unlike elves, whose ears are in proportion, but are very pointed), only Mick wore his hair rather long and shaggy and Brewster never really got a good look at his ears. And the previous night, while Mick had been discussing things like elves and such, Brewster had not been in any condition to pay very close attention.

  Now, the peregrine bush did, indeed, come as a bit of a surprise to him, and you might think that would have clued him in to the fact that he wasn’t in Kansas anymore, as a little girl named Dorothy once put it. However, if there’s one thing scientists know, especially the very bright ones, it’s that there is an awful lot they don’t know. This is why they’re scientists.

  Botany was never Brewster’s field of expertise. Though he had never heard of migratory bushes, he knew that didn’t necessarily mean such things did not exist. Quite obviously, they did exist, for he had seen one. And been scratched by one, no less. Had Brewster been a botanist, he would have known there was no record of any such plant as a peregrine bush. However, in that case, rather than immediately leaping to the conclusion that he had somehow been transported to another world, chances were he would have thought he’d made a new discovery. He would undoubtedly have become tremendously excited, with visions of publication and Latin names such as Philodendron Brewstoricus dancing through his head. But Brewster was not a botanist, and as is often the case with scientists, he was not terribly concerned with any new developments outside his chosen field. He found the peregrine bush merely a peculiar curiosity and nothing more.

  For the moment he had a rather more pressing problem on his hands. Namely, trying to figure out where the hell in space and time he was. This is how scientists are, you understand. When they’re working on a knotty problem, they tend not to let little distractions like ambulatory bushes get in their way.