by Simon Hawke
The tops of the tables were cluttered with more of these mineral samples, more glass and ceramic jars, blackened iron pots and kettles and various utensils, and iron dishes in which the residue of partially burned substances resided like solidified sludge. There were several small hand bellows for puffing air onto the flames of whatever noxious mixtures Mick burned in those pots and kettles and there were mortars and pestles for grinding things up into a powder.
The floor of the “laboratory,” aside from being littered with the debris of Mick’s experiments, was almost completely covered with wooden buckets and wicker baskets full of dirt-encrusted rocks of all kinds, scummy water and broken glass and pot shards. There was a crude, heavy furnace in one comer and a small writing table with a slanted top and little cubbyholes containing rolled up vellum scrolls. There was also a large, iron-banded wooden chest with a crudelooking lock on it placed against the back wall. It looked just like the chests pirates often used for buried treasure.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Mick, picking his way through the clutter to the center of the room, where he stood proudly and possessively, with his hands on his hips.
Brewster wasn’t quite sure what to say. “It’s, uh... certainly impressive.” Mick beamed.
“It looks like you’ve been busy,” Brewster added.
“Haven’t had all that much success, really,” Mick said. “Still, I come here every chance I have and putter about.” “What have you got locked up in the chest?” asked Brewster.
“Don’t really know,” Mick replied with a shrug. “I’ve never had it open. Don’t have the key, y’know, and ‘tis a shame to break open a perfectly good lock. Aside from that, you never know what might be in there. If a wizard goes and locks something up, perhaps it should remain that way.” “Mmmm,” said Brewster, thinking that the primitive lock really wouldn’t be very difficult to pick.
“You’ll most likely find all you need here,” Mick said proudly.
Brewster glanced about dubiously. “No doubt,” he said, not wishing to hurt Mick’s feelings. “Should we see the rest of the place?” The third and final chamber was largely empty except for a number of large wooden casks stacked up against the wall and a huge, flame-blackened iron kettle.
“This is where I store the wine,” Mick explained. “Not much left now. These casks are mostly empty. Brigands took almost the entire last batch I brewed. Seems I can never make enough.” “How do you make it?” Brewster asked.
“Ah, well, I cook up the roots in that big kettle there until I have a good mash,” Mick explained. “Then I let it cool and add a bit o’ the last batch to get things started. I put it in the casks and store it in a root cellar I have out back, by the stream, where it keeps nice and cool. In the winter, I take it out and open up the casks, so I can skim the ice off the top each momin’ till it doesn’t freeze, and then ‘tis done.” “Hmmm, your basic cold brewing,” Brewster said. “It must be very time consuming.” “Aye, but ‘tis the only way,” said Mick.
“Well, actually, there’s a much easier way,” Brewster replied. “You could make a still.” “A still what?” asked Mick.
“No, still is what it’s called,” Brewster explained. He saw Mick’s frown and added, “It’s short for distillery... an apparatus for brewing. It would greatly speed up the process and allow you to have a greater yield.” “Would it now?” said Mick with interest. “And how does one construct such an apparatus?” “Well...” Brewster scratched his head and thought a moment. “I suppose we could make a fairly primitive, albeit functional, still without too much difficulty. We’d need a big metal pot... like that big kettle there... and then we’d need a smaller pot that could fit inside it, with pegs to keep it off the bottom, and a heavy lid, so we could put water in the big pot around it. Now in this lid, we’d have to have a piece of copper tubing... well, that could pose a problem, but I suppose we could fashion some, if we had the copper...” “Aye, I have plenty of copper,” Mick said excitedly. “Go on. What then?” “Well, we’d make a tube rising up from the lid for, oh, about a foot or so, maybe a little more”-Brewster indicated the approximate measurement by holding his hands apart-“and at the top we would attach a second piece of tubing that’s been wound in a coil. We would have water pouring over this coiled tubing... I suppose something as simple as a couple of leaky buckets would do the trick... and at the bottom of the coil, we’d stretch it out and run it into a container. You’d heat the water in the big pot, only you wouldn’t want it to boil, you understand, just keep it warm and steaming, so it condenses out. That way, you could make your brew anytime you wanted, and you could make a lot more of it, and in a lot less time.” “S’trewth!” said Mick. “And you could show me how to make such a still apparatus?” Brewster shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It really isn’t very complicated.” “Sure, and ‘twould be a great boon to me if you could teach me this thing,” Mick said with wonder. “And we’d split the profits, of course.” “Well, I’m not really interested in that,” Brewster said. “It’s the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality. And if you can help me find my other, uh, magic chariot....” “I’ll see to it the word is spread,” Mick assured him emphatically. “In the meantime, you’ll need a proper place to stay. Come on, then, I’ll show you the rest o’ the place.” They went back into the main chamber, where Mick tied the bush to one of the bench legs. Brewster followed him up the flight of steps to the gallery, then on to the third floor. There wasn’t very much to see. A large room with a wood plank floor laid over the beams, another fireplace, another crudely made wooden table and two benches, and some ancient, torn, and moth-eaten tapestries hanging on the walls. There were mouse droppings on the floor and lots of cobwebs.
“Very nice,” said Brewster with a wan grimace.
“Oh, perhaps ‘tisn’t much now,” said Mick placatingly, “but a bit of cleanin’ up and some new wall hangin’s and you’d be surprised at what a difference ‘twould make.” “I’m sure,” said Brewster dubiously.
“And now, the top floor,” Mick said, heading for the stairs.
“Penthouse suite,” Brewster mumbled as he followed Mick.
The fourth floor of the tower was also a large, open room, similar to the one below, only with one difference. It had a bed. Or rather, what was left “of one, which was little more than a crude, dilapidated wooden frame.
“All the comforts of home,” Brewster mumbled.
“I can fix up that bed as good as new, never fear,” Mick assured him. “But look at the view, eh?” Brewster looked out the window. “Very nice.” “ Tis even better up top,” said Mick.
“Up top?” “Aye, come on,” said Mick, going up a narrow flight of stone steps at the back of the room.
Brewster followed him up to the top of the tower and out onto the battlement.
“Well, it is a rather nice view,” Brewster admitted, looking out over the wall. “And I can see company coming.” “Aye, you can easily see anyone approachin’ from up here,” said Mick.
“No, I mean I can see company coming, right now,” Brewster said, pointing.
Mick looked in the direction he was indicating, where two figures had just come out of the woods and were crossing the clearing.
“Sure, and ‘tis Robie McMurphy, as I live and breathe,” he said with a frown. “And that great, big, lumberin’ oaf with him can be none other than Bloody Bob. Ach! He’ll be needin’ a new sword again, I’ll wager. This’ll be the fourth time since last winter.” The two figures stopped just inside the ruins of the wall and the man Mick identified as Bloody Bob put his cupped hands up to his mouth and called out in a deep basso voice that was loud enough to raise the dead, “Ey, Mick! Mick O’Fallon!” “Come on, then,” Mick said with a sigh. “We’d best get down there before that great oaf’s yellin’ makes the mortar crack.” They hurried downstairs.
“Best let me do most o’ the talkin’,” Mick said as they descended the stairs. “Bobby’s got himself a nasty temper, he h
as. Tis on account of his infirmity, y’see. Best make no mention of it.” “What sort of infirmity?” asked Brewster.
“He’s blind as a bat, he is,” Mick replied. “Bob was a fearsome warrior in his time, y’see, but now Tie’s with the brigands. Still strong as a bull, but he’s gettin’ on and he doesn’t see so well now, though he flat refuses to admit it. Goes around squintin’ all the time and knockin’ into trees, then challengin’ them to fight him. Can’t see much past his big red nose.” “So then he’s nearsighted?” Brewster said.
“Aye, I suppose ‘tis one way you can put it,” Mick agreed, having never heard the term before. “Sees only what’s near him, and that none too well. But makin’ mention of it only goads him to a bloody fury, and that’s right dangerous. But he’ll suffer more from me than others, on account of I make wine for the brigands and they need my services as an armorer, y’see. Especially old Bob. He’s one of my best customers, though ‘tis a cryin’ shame the way he keeps losin’ the perfectly good swords I make for him.” By this time, they’d reached the ground floor and come out through the front door. Standing a short distance in front of them were Robie McMurphy and the biggest, most fearsome-looking man Brewster had ever seen.
Bloody Bob stood close to seven feet tall and weighed three hundred pounds or more. His chest was massive, his arms were huge, and his girth was considerable, as well. His physical dimensions were formidable enough, but his appearance made him look even more frightening. Most of his face was covered by a huge gray beard and his graying hair was worn down to his shoulders. He had a weathered, ruddy complexion and a large scar on the side of his face, partly hidden by the beard. His hands were huge, easily twice the size of Brewster’s, and looked perfectly capable of crushing skulls. He wore chain mail over a leather jerkin, a metal helmet with a spike on top, old buckskin trousers, and knee-high, laced leather moccasins. Brewster thought he looked like a cross between a Viking and a Hell’s Angel.
“McMurphy said you might be here, Mick,” rumbled Bloody Bob.
“Aye, I’m here,” said Mick. “What is it you’ll be needin’ from me?” The huge man looked a bit embarrassed as he towered over little Mick. He shuffled a foot and cleared his throat, a sound similar to that made by a bear with a lousy disposition.
“I’ll be needin’ a new sword, Mick.” “And what happened to the last one that I made for you?” Mick asked, a touch belligerently.
“Uh... somebody must have stolen it.” “Stolen it, you say? And who, might I ask, would have the temerity to steal from a great, big, overblown bear such as yourself, eh?” “I dunno, Mick. If I’d have caught the blackguard, I’d have torn him limb from limb, I would have, but ‘twas some dastardly footpad made off with it.” “A footpad, was it? The last time ‘twas a burglar, was it not?” “Aye, a burgler,” the big man said, nodding emphatically.
“And what might be the difference ‘twixt a footpad and a burglar?” Bloody Bob frowned. “Well, uh... one’s a footpad... and one’s a burglar.” “Aye, and the last time before that ‘twas-a thief.” “Uh ... I believe ‘twas, aye.” “A thief, and then a burglar, and then a footpad,” Mick said sarcastically. “You seem to be plagued by criminals these days. Faith, and I don’t know what the world is comin’ to when you can’t even trust your fellow brigands.” “Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing,” said Bob, nodding.
“Oh, come on now, Bobby, tell the truth,” said Mick. “You lost it again, didn’t you?” “Uh, no, Mick, ‘twas a thief...” “You mean a footpad.” “Aye, a footpad.” It seemed strangely incongruous and almost comical to Brewster that such an imposing and fearsome-looking giant should be so deferential to a man who barely stood higher than his kneecaps, and yet Bloody Bob stood there, squinting down and shuffling his foot in the dirt and looking very much abashed.
“A footpad, my buttocks,” Mick repeated wryly. He sighed. “I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do with you, Bobby. I keep makin’ great big blades for you and you keep losin’ them. You know how much work goes into making a sword for a great big oaf the likes of you?” “I know, Mick, I know,” Bloody Bob said apologetically. “I’m right sorry about this, I am. But I’m needin’ another sword, Mick. Please?” “Please, he says.” Mick glanced over at Brewster with a long-suffering expression. “What’s a body to do. Doc, eh?” Bloody Bob peered around, squinting hard. “There somebody with you, Mick? Where’s he hidin’? Tell him to come out, I won’t be hurtin’ him if he’s a friend of yours.” “Why, he’s standin’ right in front of you, you great ox!” said Mick with exasperation.
“Oh, so he is,” said Bloody Bob, squinting even harder and obviously not seeing a thing.
Mick rolled his eyes. “Say hallo to my friend, Brewster Doc, Bob. And be civil about it, mind you.” “Pleased to meet you,” Bloody Bob said, sticking out his hand. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he held his hand out in a direction about two feet to one side of where Brewster was standing.
Brewster obligingly moved to where he could shake the big man’s hand. Once again, he was clasped around the forearm instead of by the hand, and he returned the grip.
“He’s a sorcerer,” McMurphy whispered.
Immediately, Bloody Bob stiffened, and probably by reflex, his grip on Brewster’s arm briefly tightened to the point of pain before he let go abruptly.
“A sorcerer!” “Aye,” said Mick, “so you be on your best behavior, hear?” “Call me Doc,” said Brewster. “Could I ask you to bend over a bit?” Bloody Bob looked puzzled. “Bend over?” “Yes, just bend down toward me a little.” “You won’t be puttin’ a spell on me, will you?” “No, no, I just want to see something.” “Do as the man says, Bobby,” Mick said, cleariy wondering what Brewster had in mind.
Hesitantly, the big man bent down toward Brewster, who reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his hom-rimmed glasses. He was nearsighted, as well, but though he often wore contacts because Pamela liked him better without his hom-rimmed frames, he never went anywhere without his glasses. He’d lost his contacts on more than one occasion.
He slipped the glasses onto Bloody Bob’s face. “Try that,” he said.
The big man’s eyes suddenly grew very wide and Brewster could see that they were a startling bright blue. Bloody Bob’s jaw dropped in amazement.
“S’trewth!” he exclaimed.
“Is that any better?” Brewster asked him.
“I can seel” said Bloody Bob, glancing all around him.
“How well?” asked Brewster. “I mean, is your vision sharp now or are things a little vague and blurry?” The big man gazed at him with awe. “I can see you well enough. Sorcerer,” he replied, “but in the distance, things still look as if I’d had too much to drink. Yet, truly, I never thought to see this well again! Tis a wonder to behold!” He took off the glasses and held them gently, staring at them reverently, then put them back on again and held his breath with astonishment.
“ ‘Tis a magic visorV he said. “I would give anything for such a wonder!” “Well...” said Brewster, “that, uh, ‘magic visor’ is mine, but I think we might be able to make you one of your own. I saw some glass blocks in Mick’s laboratory back there, and if we could make the right sort of wheel, I could try grinding up some lenses for you. It would have to be a process of trial and error, you understand. We’ll probably have to make several pairs before we get it right, because I’m not an optometrist and there’s no way I can establish a prescription. Still, with your help and a bit of luck, I’m sure we could improve your vision beyond what it is now.” “And what would you be askin’ of me for such a wondrous boon?” asked Bloody Bob. “Name your price, Sorcerer, and I shall pay it if it takes a lifetime!” “Well...” said Brewster, “I’m a stranger here and, uh, I could use some help...” The giant dropped down to one knee and bowed his head. “I will serve you faithfully, Great Wizard, if you would help me to regain my sight.” “Sure, and I think you’ve made a friend for life, Doc,” Mick said.
&nbs
p; There was a clattering, banging sound and they turned to see the peregrine bush come rustling out through the front door, still tied to the wooden bench and dragging it along. It came up to Brewster, stopped, and raised its branches toward him.
“Two friends,” said Mick wryly. “An ox and a shrub.” “Three,” said Brewster, putting his hand on Mick’s shoulder.
“Nay, four!” said McMurphy.
Brewster grinned and clasped forearms with the farmer. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Come on, then. We’ve got a lot of work to do!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced technology would seem like sorcery to those who didn’t understand it. (That was only a paraphrase, of course. Clarke said it a lot more elegantly, which is why he gets the big bucks.) And it’s quite true. It is an inescapable fact of human nature that we often tend to fear that which we do not understand, or at the very least, we respond to it with a disquieting uneasiness. And it was with a disquieting uneasiness that Brewster’s newfound friends regarded him, for while he seemed to be a nice enough fella, he was also one heck of an adept, as far as they were concerned. They knew enough about adepts to treat them with respect. Even to fear them. Some of them were downright terrifying.
Brewster didn’t know it yet, but he was not the only sorcerer around, even if he was the only one in the general vicinity. (He had yet to learn about the Guild, but we’re getting ahead of the story again.) Mick, as we have seen, has some slight skill with magic, but not because he is a sorcerer (which requires years of disciplined study and staying up nights cramming for exams). It’s because he’s fey. This is a characteristic shared by all leprechauns and nymphs and fairies (and to some extent, by elves), and it does not, as is often supposed, refer to campy mannerisms, but to being touched by enchantment. (If you don’t believe me, look it up. I’ll wait.) When a human is said to be fey, it means that person has a sensitivity to things that are magical-which, perhaps, is why some people see such things as ghosts and others don’t. Otherwise, the term means that enchantment is inherent in the creature itself. Mick, being a leprechaun, possessed some inborn magical abilities, but his abilities were little more than parlor tricks compared to what a real sorcerer could do. (Natural talent is all well and good, but it’s no substitute for hard work, training, and experience. So stay in school, kids, do your homework, and don’t goof off in study hall. The preceding has been a public service message from your narrator.) Since he was unable to distinguish between sorcery and science, Mick was convinced that Brewster’s knowledge of the thaumaturgic arts was quite extensive. Robie McMurphy was equally impressed, but no one was more overwhelmed than Bloody Bob, for in loaning him his glasses-or, as Bloody Bob put it, his “magic visor”-Brewster had temporarily restored to him his sight. As it happened, while Brewster’s prescription lenses were not exactly right for Bloody Bob, they did improve his vision significantly. Of course, in Bloody Bob’s case, just about anything short of a blindfold would have been a significant improvement.
