Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Buncan held out his hands between them. “Give it a rest, can’t you? I’m in agony and all you can do is goof around.”

  Squill frowned at his friend. “’Ere now, you’re really down, ain’t you?” He put a short arm around as much of the human’s back as he could manage, careful not to disturb the duar.

  “It’s just that I’m so bored there,” Buncan explained. “I want to do great things, to challenge the primary forces of existence. I want to spellsing.”

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Neena, “that again.”

  “Nothin’ personal, mate,” said Squill, “but you can’t sing well enough to inveigle a deaf dugong, much less a primary force.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t play a single-stringed bow,” Buncan shot back.

  Squill raised both paws. “Hey, I know that, mate.”

  Buncan gazed morosely at the ground. “I keep fooling myself, telling myself I can get better. But deep down I know I’ll never be able to sing well enough to make magic.”

  “At least you can play an instrument,” said Neena. “I wish I could play anythin’.”

  “Same ’ere,” her brother confessed.

  Buncan slid off the root and turned to face them. “How can I execute spellsongs if I can’t sing? How can I save the world and rescue fair maidens if I can’t work proper gramarye?”

  “Ah!” barked Neena. “Now the truth comes out, it does. You’re just like any other male.”

  He glared at her. “Why do you always have to bring everything down to such a base and common level, Neena?”

  She batted her eyes at him enticingly. “Because I’m a base and common sort of lass, Buns.”

  He turned away from them. “Dammit, I want to do something … something noble and elevating!”

  Squill tapped the growth on which he was sitting. “We could climb this ’ere tree.”

  Exasperated, Buncan whirled on his friend. “Can’t you be serious for just a minute?”

  The otter considered carefully. “Well now, that’s a pretty heavy request, mate.” He glanced at his sister. “But since you’re about our best friend, we’ll make an effort.”

  “Thank you,” said Buncan with exaggerated solemnity. “You know, I can sing well enough to make magic. I just can’t sing well enough to control it.”

  “Don’t sound like a very promisin’ weapon with which to take on the primal forces.” This time Squill didn’t smile. “An’ I wouldn’t rely on your swordwork to get you out o’ any scrapes. I’ve seen you work with a sword.”

  “You’re no match for your father yourself.”

  “’S’truth, Mudge still wields a quick blade,” Neena agreed. “Even if ol’ Daddy-whiskers is gettin’ a bit wide in the gut.”

  “You’d better not let him hear you say that,” Buncan warned her. “He’ll blister your butt.” He walked over and rested both hands on the root. “I can do this. I can spellsing. If I could only find a way to improve my vocalizations.”

  Neena tickled him, and he jumped. “Well, you’d best be careful with it, Bunkle. Like me brother says, you’re about the best non-otter friend we ’ave. You kill yourself and we won’t ’ave no one better to tease.” She exchanged a glance with Squill. “Want to see somethin’ really interestin’?”

  “What?” He tried not to sound too indifferent, knowing she was doing her best to try to cheer him up.

  From a pocket in the lower part of her vest she extracted a flat, squarish black box. A small transparent window was set in the slightly domed top. Intrigued, Buncan took a closer look. His eyes widened as soon as he recognized it.

  “Hey, that looks like…!”

  Neena nodded vigorously. “The CD player your father brought back from his world on his last visit there and gave to Mudge.”

  Buncan was appalled. “If your parents knew you’d taken that from the den they’d shave you front and back.”

  Her whiskers twitched. “Bloody right. But they don’t know.” She winked at her brother. “Mudge didn’t teach us all ’is ol’ techniques for nothin’.”

  “They ’ardly ever let us use it,” added Squill, “so we just sort of appropriated it for the afternoon.”

  “The only problem is that we can’t get it to work.” Neena fingered the black rectangle. “Somethin’ about it needin’ some magic installed before it’ll play. Mudge says it needs ‘better days.’”

  “‘Batteries,’” Buncan corrected her. “I’ve watched Jon-Tom use them at our tree. They’re four little magically charged cylinders that fit in here. See?” He turned the rectangle over and showed them the compartment and the four cylinders nestled like larvae within. “The spell runs down and Dad has to revitalize it before it’ll work again. I don’t remember the exact words to the spell. Something about a rabbit that keeps going.” He shrugged as he resealed the cylinder compartment.

  Neena considered. “’Ere now, Bunco, if you’re any kind o’ spellsinger at all, you ought to be able to recharge a simple little spell like this.”

  “Jolly right!” Squill took the player and set it down on the ground. “Get on it, mate.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Buncan looked uneasy. “This involves some serious magic. Electrons and rabbits and all kinds of stuff. I don’t know if I should be messing with Mudge’s property.”

  Neena sniffed disdainfully. “An’ you want to rescue damsels and battle evil. Right.”

  “But this is a device from the Otherworld.”

  “Blimey, give it a try, Buncan,” Squill implored his friend. “’Ow bad can you bung it up?”

  “Well…” He slid the duar off his back and plucked hesitantly at the double set of strings. A soft golden glow began to coalesce at the place where the strings intersected. “This is risky.”

  “You think you won’t meet any risks on a quest?” Neena challenged him. “Come on, you can do it.”

  Taking a deep breath, he began to sing. The instrumental accompaniment was exalting, exquisitely rendered, but the words … It was a struggle for the otters to keep their paws off their ears.

  The CD player twitched a couple of times, but did not otherwise react.

  After his best effort drew form only a brief whine from the device’s tiny internal speaker, Buncan let his fingers fall from the duar. “There, you see?” he said angrily. “I told you it wouldn’t work.”

  “You play beautifully, Bunky,” Neena told him.

  The trio regarded the quiescent player regretfully, until Squill unexpectedly let out a yip of inspiration.

  “Oi! I’ve an idea, I ’ave!”

  “Now there’s an odd notion,” said Neena.

  Squill ignored her. “Me sister and me, we ’ave wonderful voices, we do. An’ we’re bloomin’ quick with wordplay.” He twirled a whisker. “Otters are quick with everythin’.”

  “I ’ave to admit that this one time me squish-brained brother ’appens to be right,” Neena agreed. “Though I don’t see ’is point.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Squill eyed Buncan eagerly. “Wot if you played an’ we took care o’ the singin’?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Spellsinging’s not a cooperative enterprise.”

  “Says who? Don’t wizards ofttimes work together to homogenize a big spell?”

  “Sure, but that’s different.” Isn’t it?

  “We’ve known each other all our lives.” Neena enthusiastically took up her brother’s suggestion. “We’ve grown up together. We’re personally and emotionally compatible. Lots o’ times.”

  “Being friends is different from making magic together,” Buncan argued.

  “Bein’ friends is a kind of magic,” she countered. “Much as it pains me deep to admit it, me brother might ’ave somethin’ worth pursuin’ ’ere.” Her eyes shone brightly.

  “It’s worth a try, mate,” Squill added. “Wot’s to lose?”

  “We can try that new kind of music.” A delighted Neena clapped both paws together. “The kind that Jon-Tom brought back from his last visit to
the Otherworld, that our parents don’t like. That’s a good reason to use it.”

  Buncan pondered. “You mean that rap stuff? I don’t know if I can play to accompany that.”

  “Oh, sure you can, mate.” Squill exuded confidence. “It’s all beat. Just follow us. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I suppose.” Who is the spellsinger here? he found himself wondering.

  This wasn’t going to work, he told himself. But what else was he going to do? Slink homeward? Time enough for that. Time enough to deal with his parents, and Master Washwurn.

  “Okay. I’ll suggest some words-of-power I picked up from listening to Dad. You work them into whatever lyrics you improvise, and I’ll back you the best I can.” He hefted the duar, his fingers hovering over the strings.

  The otters looked at each other. “Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill asked his sister. “We can’t just imitate one o’ those Other World songs we’ve ’eard. It ’as to be specific to the situation.”

  “To the player.” Neena nodded at the black rectangle, which lay motionless on the ground in front of them.

  While Buncan waited impatiently they discussed various approaches among themselves. Finally Squill indicated their readiness. Facing each other, the otters commenced … to rap. Music flowed from the duar as Buncan matched them chord for word.

  “Got no music and we got no sound

  Got to hear it clear if we wanna go ’round

  Play it loud and play it neat

  Play it in the forest ’cause we ain’t got no Street

  ’Cause we wanna hear the beat

  Dig it, wig it, feets for the beat!”

  Certainly it was the first rap ever heard in the Bellwoods. The otters were nothing if not enthusiastic and facile improvisers. Buncan was hard-pressed to match their energy with music.

  The radiance at the nexus of the duar intensified, darkening from pale pink to a deep rose hue. It expanded to envelop his fingers, then his hands.

  The CD player began to quiver.

  Chapter 4

  THE OTTERS CONTINUED TO sing as the black rectangle bounced on its edges. Bounced in time to the music, Buncan noted. As he looked on, a miniature golden vortex issued from the transparent, domed cover. Music began to emanate from the tiny built-in speaker. He didn’t recognize the song: He was too busy playing.

  Abruptly the otters ceased their rapping so they could stare. Buncan’s fingers stilled.

  The player was now floating four feet off the ground, still jiving and bouncing to the music which issued from within. The words meant nothing to any of them, but that didn’t matter. Not now.

  “Let’s make it louder.” Squill was enthralled by his own accomplishment. His sister nodded slowly, her eyes focused on the perambulating player. They resumed their rapping, while Buncan hastened to back them. Or were they backing him? He had no time to wonder.

  In response to their efforts the music pouring from the player grew louder. Much louder. The black rectangle was now rotating rapidly on its axis, pierced through from top to bottom by the golden vortex. Around the trio the forest began to vibrate, the Belltrees ringing in time to me rap. Insects and small flying reptiles scattered in panic.

  Buncan’s initial hesitation had vanished completely, his earlier depression displaced by the ecstasy of pure performance.

  “This is great!” He had to shout to make himself heard above the music erupting from the energized CD, the harmonic vibrato of the duar, and the pounding pulse of hitherto never heard otter-rap. Sparks flew from the duar’s nexus. They were matched in intensity by bursts of celestial light that were flung off from the golden vortex. He’d been wondering what that was ever since it had first appeared. Now he felt that he knew.

  It was music made visible.

  And then, as the otters finished off a particularly zesty phrase, the vortex containing the CD player shot straight upward, climbing toward the clouds. Neena squealed in surprise.

  At that the player paused, seemed to shudder slightly, and stopped. The vortex hummed energetically as it hovered motionless at treetop level.

  The incipient spellsingers gathered beneath it, staring upward and occasionally dodging drizzling shards of effervescent music. As soon as these struck the ground they melted away like ice in a frying pan, notes sinking in descending scale into the music-moistened earth.

  “Great.” Buncan brushed an errant b-flat from his forehead. “Now what do we do?”

  Squill balanced his cap on his head as he craned his neck to study the player. It showed no inclination to descend from its lofty position.

  “Don’t ask me, mate. You’re the one wot wants to be a spellsinger.”

  Buncan felt his blood pressure rising. “You two got me into this.” He blinked. “Hey, what am I upset for? It’s not my dad’s player.”

  The otters looked at him. “You can’t just leave it like this,” said Squill. “You’ve got to ’elp us.”

  Buncan shrugged. “That’s the way the magic falls.”

  Neena clutched at his arm. “We’ve got to get it down, Bunky. If we don’t, Mudge will kill us.”

  “Not to mention wot Mom’ll do.” Squill tried not to envision Weegee in a rage.

  “We sang it up there,” Buncan pointed out. “If we try that again, it’s liable to vanish completely. But I don’t know what else to do.”

  Squill looked unhappy. “Me neither.”

  “Of course, we could get some help,” Buncan said thoughtfully. “Corander the raven could just fly up and pluck it out of the air.”

  Squill shook his head doubtfully, the feathers in his cap fluttering. “The bloody thing might take off with ’im, too. That’d be ’ell to try an’ explain. No, spellsingin’ put it up there, it’d best be spellsingin’ we use to try an’ get it down.”

  “You could climb that nearest tree,” his sister suggested, “and take a jump at it.”

  He glared at her. “Wot, am I a flyin’ squirrel?” He made an obscene suggestion.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Buncan plucked at the duar’s strings. “Let’s get it over with. But you’d better be prepared for it not to work.”

  “It ’as to work.” Neena and her brother backed up slightly and conferenced.

  “Get on with it,” snapped Buncan after a while. He wasn’t impatient so much as he was nervous.

  Neena glared at him. “We ’ave to be careful, Bickles. Fok up the first time an’ we might not get a second chance, wot?” She brushed glistening notes from her shoulders.

  They began to sing, a slow, relaxed rap this time, almost languorous. Caught off guard by the unexpected shift in tempo, it took Buncan a moment to figure out the correct fingering.

  “Sounds too high, my oh my

  Don’ wanna send it up in the sky

  Put it down on the ground

  Where it can be found

  Sound, sound, pound it in the ground

  Beats for the feet, feets for the beat!

  We’ve ’ad our treat, now takes a seat.”

  The duar’s nexus pulsed softly, an ethereal pale blue this time. It did not look or feel promising. Indeed, the CD player actually rose another few feet instead of descending. Then it stopped and hovered, seemingly confused.

  Still pounding out tracks from the disc spinning within, it commenced a steady regression, descending in time to the otter’s slow-paced rap. The golden vortex attenuated, contracting in upon itself, until it was no thicker than a rotating golden pencil. A few random, ersatz notes flaked off, but they were few now and chords between.

  As the rap concluded, the player settled to the ground. The supportive vortex vanished utterly. When it had winked out completely, Squill made a dive for the device. It tried to squirt clear of his grasping fingers, but sometimes even magic isn’t as quick as an otter. He got one paw on the box, then the other, rolled over and sat up, waving it triumphantly. Exhausted, it didn’t so much as quiver in his hands. The music from within ceased.

&n
bsp; Neena hurried over for a look. “Is it all right? Is the bloody thing damaged?”

  Squill was turning it over in his fingers, careful to keep a firm grip on the plastic in case it was playing dead, waiting for an opportunity to jump free.

  “Seems okay to me.”

  Clutching the duar by its neck, Buncan came over for a look. “Pop the cover.”

  Squill complied. The motionless silver disc inside was warm to the touch but otherwise unchanged. Buncan picked out a loose f-sharp and dumped it aside. It landed discordantly near his boots.

  The otter snapped the cover shut and shoved the player into his pouch. “That were too bleedin’ close. Thought we’d lost it for sure.”

  Neena’s eyes were flashing. “We spellsang! Bugger me if we didn’t, Buncan!”

  “We did, didn’t we?” He eyed the duar thoughtfully. “I wonder why your father never tried singing along with mine.”

  “Cor’, mate,” said Squill, “’ave you ever ’eard Mudge sing? ’Is voice is worse than yours an’ Jon-Tom’s put together, it is.”

  “That might explain it,” agreed Buncan dryly.

  Neena put an arm around her brother. “We got our voices from our mum, we did.”

  “You realize what this means?” Buncan said slowly.

  “Yeah,” piped Squill. “We can ’ave music anytime we want.”

  “It means,” continued Buncan solemnly, “that while I can spellsing by myself, with your help I can do serious magics. I can realize my dreams.”

  “Wot dreams?” Neena was suddenly wary.

  “Save the world. Defeat evil in all its manifestations. Rescue fair damsels in distress.”

  Squill sauntered back to the arching tree root. “Far be it from me to divert your current, Buncan, but I’m real ’appy swimmin’ and eatin’ and sleepin’. I ain’t got no crawfish on me tail spurrin’ me to save the blinkin’ world. Let the world take care o’ itself, says I.” He wore a reflective expression as he lay down on the root. “Though I ’ave to admit the fair damsel part sounds intriguin’.”