by Simon Hawke
Warrick glanced up irritably. “Didn’t I just say that?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Well, that last chapter gave your narrator a rather nasty turn. Everyone knows fictional characters are not supposed to be able to detect the presence of the narrator and start talking back to him. (This is against all the rules of good writing, just like “breaking the rule of the fourth wall,” which is what happens when an actor breaks character and starts talking to the audience, or when a narrator addresses the reader directly, which is exactly what I’m doing now, so I suppose it serves me right.) Anyway, in all the books I’ve written, I’ve never had this kind of experience before, and I don’t mind telling you, I’m not quite sure what to do about it. It’s pretty weird. (Not to mention potentially confusing.) However, if you look at it another way, perhaps it really isn’t all that strange.
Writers are always going around talking about how their characters suddenly “take on a life of their own,” or how the story starts “telling itself and all they’re really doing is writing it down as it goes along. A lot of writers tend to say those kinds of things, for some peculiar reason, as if it were a form of false modesty, like they really don’t create the stories somehow, but they’re only “vessels through which the wine is poured” and stuff like that. To be perfectly honest, I’ve always thought it was a lot of nonsense. I’ve written a lot of books and the only thing that’s ever been poured through me was lots of beer, and believe me, I was the one who did the pouring. However, I’m older and wiser now and I rarely drink anything stronger than coffee, so I’m stone-cold sober as I’m sitting here pounding on the keyboard, which means I can’t claim being drunk as an excuse. Frankly, this sort of thing just isn’t supposed to happen.
This is going to take some thought. (Bear with me, otherwise there’s no telling where this book is liable to wind up. Christ, I can hear the critics now....) As we’ve already discovered, the rules of reality in this particular universe are rather different from the ones we’re used to, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. If you’ve got a universe where magic works, and leprechauns study alchemy, and bushes uproot themselves and start wandering about like triffids, then maybe it’s not unreasonable to assume that a powerful adept can detect the presence of the narrator. I suppose it’s my own fault, in a way. I wanted to make him really powerful, so that we could have ,a truly nasty villain, and I guess I simply went too far. Well, okay, that’s my responsibility; I’ll simply have to live with it.
So far, it seems he can detect my presence only when the story focuses on him, and even then, it seems to come and go. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean his sensitivity won’t increase. (Now why did I have to go and write that? Boy, I am just asking for trouble....) Obviously, I’m going to have to be very careful what I write when Warrick is the viewpoint character, because he’s already picked up that the “mysterious apparatus” is a time machine. He doesn’t exactly know what that means yet, but he already knows a lot more than he should. (At least, he knows a lot more than he should know by this point, according to the way I’ve plotted the story, which means I’m going to have to really watch it or else I’ll lose control completely.) Anyway, you’ve been very patient through this weird digression, and by now you’re probably having some serious doubts about trusting your narrator, and frankly, I don’t blame you. But remember, we’re all in this together, and if you haven’t thrown the book across the room by now, chances are we’ll make it through this thing. (I hope.) So, let’s get back to Brewster, shall we? The once-dilapidated keep had undergone a transformation. Wooden scaffolding now covered most of the tower, with people clambering all over it, tuck-pointing the stone bricks. The elevated aqueduct bringing water from upstream to the top of the water wheel had been finished and the smaller wheels powering the water lift had been installed. The buckets attached to the crude, but effective rope conveyor belt ran up the side of the tower, tipped over into the trough that filled the cistern, and traveled back down again to be refilled. While it was running, the water lift made rather pleasant, creaky, splashy sounds, and the people who had been involved in its construction watched it with fascinated admiration and no small amount of pride. Truly, it was magical and wondrous, and the spell it cast upon them was directly proportional to the amount of work they had put into it, which was considerable.
The leaching field for the septic tank had been completed. Brewster figured it would be only a matter of a week or so until he had functional indoor plumbing. In the meantime, he made sure the work crews used the latrines that had been dug an environmentally correct distance from the stream, under the supervision of Shop Foreman Bloody Bob, who was just as proud of his new title as he was of his newest and most prized possession, the bronze-mounted magic visor that not only improved his vision beyond all expectations, so that he could now identify every animal drawn on the eye chart, but gave him a most fearsome and dramatic aspect, as well.
The next project Brewster was considering was wiring the keep for electricity. He figured he could rig up a belt driven off the water wheel shaft, which was now turning with more force thanks to the aqueduct raceway dropping it a full ten feet onto the paddles. He planned to hook up the salvaged alternator from the time machine by constructing differentsized wooden pulleys, connected by a crude belt that was actually a rope plaited from vines. Mick had said this rope was very strong and held up well, which was proving to be the case so far with the water lift. To prevent the rope from slipping, Mick used a rosin made from bees’ wax. Initially, Brewster figured, wire could be salvaged from the remains of the time machine, but eventually, he could show Mick how to draw it out of copper or gold, heating it and pulling it on a crank. He’d have to paint it with something for insulation, pitch, perhaps, or some other kind of substance. He didn’t think any of that would present much of a problem. The problem was light bulbs. He tried explaining it to Mick.
“You see, Mick, to make a light bulb you need a small piece of wire, like I showed you, only smaller, heated to incandescence. That means it’s heated to a point where it gives off a bright yellow sort of glow. The problem is, we’d need a vacuum to prevent the heated wire from burning up. I figure we could probably manage to blow some kind of glass bulb, but the trouble is getting the vacuum, you see.” “Va-kyoom,” said Mick, carefully enunciating the unfamiliar word. He liked the sound of it. It sounded very magical, indeed. “Yes, that’s right,” said Brewster. “Vacuum.” “And this va-kyoom prevents the wee piece of wire from bumin’ up, is that it?” “Exactly.” “Ah,” said Mick. “I see.” “You do?” said Brewster with some surprise. He had expected Mick to ask for a more detailed explanation.
“Aye,” Mick replied. “ Tis a bit like a Prevent Bum spell, this va-kyoom.” “Uh... well, yes, I suppose so,” said Brewster with a wry smile. “The only trouble is... well, how can I put it? I don’t really have the proper apparatus here to make a vacuum.” Mick frowned. “Ah. Pity. And we must have this vakyoom? A simple Prevent Burn spell on this heated wire would not do?” “Well...” Brewster hesitated. He was, after all, supposed to be a sorcerer, and he didn’t want to disillusion Mick by admitting that he didn’t know any simple Prevent Bum spells. He wondered where Mick got such peculiar ideas. “I’m... uh... not really used to doing it that way,” he replied.
“Sure, and I understand,” said Mick, nodding. “I’m like that when it comes to maldn’ swords. There’s some that don’t finish ‘em off as well as I do, and for an ordinary fightin’ blade, there’s really not much need for that, but ‘tis a matter of craft, you see, and you like to do the job the best way you know how.” “Exactly,” Brewster said, relieved and thinking that he’d have to give a bit more thought to this sorcerer nonsense. So far, it had proved helpful for these simple, superstitious people to accept science as sorcery, but it wouldn’t do to have them thinking he could do absolutely anything.
“Say no more.” said Mick. “I understand completely. ‘Twould be beneath your dignity to resort to
such a simple spell. Leave it to me.” Brewster raised his eyebrows. “Leave it to you?” “Aye. S’trewth, and I’m only a beginner, not a great sorcerer like yourself, and such simple spells are but fey magic to us little people. We do them all the time.” “You do them all the time?” said Brewster, raising his eyebrows.
“Aye. Tis no great matter.” Mick picked up a wood splinter from the construction site and held it upright. He mumbled something quickly in a language Brewster didn’t understand, and the tip of the wood splinter burst into flame. Mick mumbled something else, made a quick pass over the piece of wood, and though the flame continued to bum brightly, the wood itself was not consumed.
“ ‘Tis handy to light your way on a dark night in the woods,” said Mick. “True, ‘tis wood this, but I see no reason why ‘twould not work with your wire.” Brewster stared wide-eyed at the burning, yet not burning splinter. “That’s a good trick,” he said after a moment.
“How’d you do it?” But before Mick could reply, there was an alarmed cry from the keep, followed by Shannon shouting, “’Doc! Doc, come quick!” Thinking that perhaps someone had been injured, Brewster ran back into the keep, followed by Mick and most of the brigands on the work crew. They found Shannon in the lab, as Brewster now thought of the room where Mick kept his alchemical equipment. With all the work that had needed to be done, no one had done anything in the lab and Mick didn’t like anyone going in there, so no one had disturbed the messy clutter. No one, that is, except Shannon, who had not been able to resist the temptation of the iron-banded chest left behind by the keep’s former occupant. She had picked the lock and the lid of the trunk was wide open. There was nothing inside but cobwebs, dust, and little spiders. The sole object the trunk had contained had been removed and it now sat on one of the worktables. It was a dust-covered chamberpot, made of solid gold and set with precious stones below its rim.
Shannon stood about six feet away from the table, a dagger clutched in her hand. She was staring fearfully at the chamberpot. She glanced toward Brewster and the others as they came running in, then looked back toward the chamberpot on the table.
“I spoke!” she said.
“What?” said Brewster.
“It cried out!” said Shannon, pointing at the chamberpot with her dagger. “And then it spoke!” “Of course I cried out, you silly wench, what did you expect? You’d cry out too, if someone started poking at you with a dagger!” “You see?” Shannon said excitedly, waving her dagger about. “It speaks! The pot speaks! ‘Tis enchanted!” Everybody looked at Brewster. Brewster, in turn, looked at everybody else. He did not, for a moment, think that the chamberpot had actually spoken. Someone was throwing their voice. He glanced beneath the table, expecting to see someone hiding under there and giggling. Maybe this was an example of brigand humor, he thought, some kind of practical joke. Maybe they were playing a trick on him to see what he would do. Maybe Shannon had something sneaky up her sleeve. Maybe they suspected that he really wasn’t a sorcerer, after all.
“Is this a test?” he said uncertainly.
“ ‘Tis Brian!” said Pikestaff Pat with awe. “ ‘Tis the werepot prince!” “The werepot prince!” the others echoed in hushed voices. “You opened the wizard’s trunk!” said Mick, looking at Shannon accusingly. “The werepot prince?” said Shannon. “You mean Brian the Bold, the werepot prince of legend?” “How many other werepot princes do you know?” asked the chamberpot sarcastically.
Brewster frowned. He approached the table and looked down at the pot. He bent over and peered at it intently. Then he wondered what he was looking for. Quite obviously, there couldn’t possibly be any hidden little speakers. Someone in the room clearly had a talent for ventriloquism.
“If you brush some of the dust off me, you’d be able to get a better look,” the pot said wryly.
Brewster jerked back. It was really startling. The voice had actually seemed to come from the pot.
“Sure, and I knew that trunk meant trouble,” Mick said. “Anytime a wizard locks something away, ‘tis prudent to leave it be. Faith, and I should have tossed the bloody thing in the river!” “Oh, thank you very much,” the chamberpot said sarcastically. “How would you like to be locked up in a trunk and tossed into a river?” Brewster scratched his head. There had to be a point to this, a punchline or something. He decided to play along and wait for it.
“How long have you been in there?” he asked. “Seems like forever,” the chamberpot replied. “I had almost given up hope of ever getting out of there when the wench picked the lock and opened the trunk. I was about to thank her, until she started trying to pry my jewels loose with that pigsticker.” “It cried out,” said Shannon as everyone turned to stare at her.
“That’s because it hurt, you stupid trollop.” “Who are you calling a stupid trollop?” Shannon said, raising her dagger and advancing on the pot menacingly.
“Wait a minute,” Brewster said, grabbing her arm, which was not the wisest thing to do, but she was so surprised he did it that she stopped and simply stared at him with disbelief. Aside from which, she did not know what a minute was and found the remark confusing.
“I can appreciate a practical joke as well as anyone,” said Brewster, “but don’t you think this has gone on long enough? There’s still a lot of work to be done and we’ve all got a full day tomorrow. Frankly, I’m tired and I’m not really in the mood for pranks.” They all stared at him with puzzlement.
“Frank?” said Shannon. “What prank?” “Well, it’s very clever,” Brewster said, “and whoever’s doing the talking for the pot is very good, but I’m afraid I wasn’t really taken in. It’s a good trick, though.” “ ‘Tis no trick!” said Shannon. “The pot speaks! You heard! ‘Tis the werepot prince!” “Yes, yes, I heard Pat tell the story,” Brewster said with a smile. “It was really quite a setup and I’m sorry if I’ve ruined the joke, but you didn’t really think I’d fall for this, did you?” “No, of course not,” said the chamberpot. “A clever man like you? You are clearly far too wise to believe in talking chamberpots. Should have known from the start that we couldn’t take in the likes of you.” “All right,” said Brewster with a sigh. “Come on now, boys, enough’s enough. You’ve had your little joke, but we still have a lot of work to do, you know.” “Yes, run along now,” said the chamberpot. “Back to your chores, or whatever it is you were doing.” “Okay, now look...” said Brewster, picking up the chamberpot.
“Put me down, you oaf!” Brewster dropped the chamberpot.
“Ow! Careful, you idiot!” Brewster stared at the pot. It had felt warm to the touch, not like cold metal at all, but more like... like body temperature, he thought irrationally. And when it spoke, it seemed to vibrate slightly.... When it spoke? Come on now, get a grip, he thought to himself. He shook his head, as if to clear it.
“Okay, very funny,” he said with an awkward chuckle. “Now if you’ll all-“ His voice trailed off as he turned back toward the others. Aside from Mick, Shannon, and Bloody Bob, there was no one else in the lab. He heard the sounds of running footsteps receding through the keep.
Bloody Bob had his hand on his new sword. It was difficult to see his eyes behind the homemade prescription visor, but his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Shannon kept glancing uncertainly from Brewster to the chamberpot and back again, her body tense, poised as if she were ready to either strike or flee. Mick stood with his arms folded across his chest, his lips pursed, a thoughtful expression on his face as he gazed at the golden pot.
“It doesn’t look very dangerous to me,” he said. He shrugged. “Sure, and it speaks, but... what can it do?’” “You want I should cleave it in twain. Doc?” asked Bloody Bob, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.
“Keep that big ox away from me!” the pot cried out.
Bloody Bob’s sword rasped free from its scabbard.
“All right, now stop!” said Brewster.
They looked at him expectantly.
“You don’t really e
xpect me to believe this, do you?” Brewster asked.
“Believe what you like,” said Shannon, stepping forward with a determined expression on her face, “but I’m for prying free those jewels.” “Now hold on there!” Mick said, stepping forward to block her way. “That pot happens to be my property!” “Your property?” she said.
“That’s right,” said Mick. “You found it in that trunk there, which was in my laboratory, I’ll have you know, and that makes it my property!” “You tell her. Shorty,” said the pot.
“Shorty?” Mick said, slowly turning back toward the pot and glaring at it malevolently.
“Step aside, Mick,” Shannon said.
“You stay right where you are, Mick,” said the pot. “That crazy wench is dangerous.” “I still think I should cleave it in twain,” Bloody Bob said, hefting his sword.
“Right, that does it! Everybody out!” shouted Brewster angrily.
They all turned to stare at him.
“I said, ‘out,’ “ He pointed toward the door.
Bloody Bob looked down at the floor sheepishly, then sheathed his sword and shuffled out. Shannon took a deep breath, trying to control her temper, for she wasn’t used to being ordered about like this, but on the other hand, she hadn’t seen this kind of firmness from Brewster before and he was a sorcerer, after all. She gave Mick a hard look, sheathed her dagger, spun on her heel, and stalked out without a word.
“You, too,” said Brewster, looking at Mick.
“But, Doc-“ “Out!” Mick quickly followed the others, leaving Brewster alone in the lab. With the pot.
