by neetha Napew
the difference between the pro and the amateur. Or maybe it was only a matter of
getting too stoked to notice the difference.
Whatthehell.
He fiddled a little longer with the pseudo-treble/bass controls. They certainly
improved the music. Why not play something difficult? Stretch yourself, Jon-Tom.
You've nothing to lose. These two critics can't change your career one way or
t'other. There was only one sound he'd ever hoped to reach for, so he reached.
"Purple haze..." he began, and thereafter, as always, he lost himself in the
music, forgetting the watching Talea, forgetting Mudge, forgetting the place and
time of where he was, forgetting everything except reaching for the sound.
He played as hard as he could on that strange curved instrument. It lifted him,
juiced him with the natural high playing always brought him. As he played it
seemed to him that he could hear the friendly prickling music of his own old
electric guitar. His nerves quivered with the pleasure and his ears rang with
the familiarity of it. He was truly happy, cradling and caressing that strange
instrument, forgetting his surroundings, his troubles, his parents.
A long time later (or maybe it was only a couple of minutes) he became aware
that someone was shaking him. He blinked and stopped playing, the last rough
chord dying away, soaked up by the earth and trees. He blinked at Talea, and she
let loose of his arms, backed away from him a little. She was looking at him
strangely.
Mudge also stood nearby, staring.
"What's going on? Was I that bad?" He felt a little dizzy.
" 'Tis a fine chap you are, foolin' your mate like this," said the otter with a
mixture of awe and irritation. "Forgive me, lad. I'd no idea you'd been toyin'
with me all this time. Don't go too harsh on me. I've only done what I thought
best for you and..."
"Stop that, Mudge. What are you blubbering about?"
"The sounds you made... and something else, spellsinger." He gaped at her.
"You're still trying to fool us, aren't you? Just like you fooled Clothahump.
Look at your duar."
His gaze dropped and he jumped slightly. The last vestiges of a powerful violet
luminescence were slowly fading from the edges of the instrument, slower still
from the lambent metal strings.
"I didn't... I haven't done anything." He shoved at the instrument as though it
might suddenly turn and bite him. The strap kept it seeure around his neck and
it swung back to bounce off his ribs. The club-staff rocked uncomfortably on his
back.
"Try again," Talea whispered. "Reach for the magic again."
It seemed to have grown darker much too fast. Hesitantly (it was only an
instrument, after all) he plucked at the lower strings and strummed again a few
bars of "Purple Haze." Each time he struck a string it emitted that rich violet
glow.
There was something else. The music was different. Cold as water from a mountain
tarn, rough as a file's rasp. It set a fire in the head like white lightning and
sent goosebumps down his arms. Bits of thought rattled around like ball bearings
inside his skull.
My oh, but that was a fine sound!
He tried again, more confidently now. Out came the proper chords, with a power
and thunder he hadn't expected. All the time they reverberated and echoed
through the trees, and there was no amplifier in sight. That vast sound was
pouring purple from the duar resting firm on his shoulder and light beneath his
dancing fingers.
Is it the instrument that's transformed, he thought wildly, or something in me?
That was the key line, of course, from another song entirely. But it
rationalized, if not explained, he thought, what was happening there hi the
forest.
"I'm not a spellsinger," he finally told them. "I'm still not sure what that
is." He was surprised at the humbleness in his voice. "But I always thought I
had something in me. Every would-be musician does. There's a line that goes,
'The magic's in the music and the music's in me.' Maybe you're right, Talea.
Maybe Clothahump was more accurate than even he knew.
"I'm going to do what I can, though I can't imagine what that might be. So far
all I know I can do is make this duar shine purple."
"Never mind 'ow you do it, mate." Mudge swelled with pride at his companion's
accomplishment. "Just don't forget 'ow."
"We need to experiment." Talea's mind was working furiously. "You need to focus
your abilities, Jon-Tom. Any wizard..."
"Don't... call me that."
"Any spellsinger, then, has to be able to be speeific with his magic. Unspecific
magic is not only useless, it's dangerous."
"I don't know any of the right words," he protested. "I don't know any songs
with scientific words."
"You've got the music, Jon-Tom. That's magic enough to make the words work." She
looked around the forest. Dusk was settling gently over the treetops. "What do
we need?"
"Money," said Mudge without hesitation.
"Shut up, Mudge. Be serious."
"I'm always serious where money be concerned, luv."
She threw him a sour look. "We can't buy transportation where none exists. Money
won't get us safely and quickly to Clothahump's Tree." She looked expectantly at
Jon-Tom.
"Want to try that?"
"What? Transportation? I don't know what kind..." He broke off, feeling drunk.
Drunk from the after effects of the music. Drunk from what it seemed he'd done
with it. Drunk with the knowledge of an ability he hadn't known he'd possessed,
and completely at a loss as to what to make of it.
Make of it some transportation, dummy. You heard the lady.
But what song to play to do so? Wasn't that always the problem? No matter
whether you're trying to magic spirits or an audience.
Beach Boys... sure, that sounded right. "Little Deuce Coupe." What would Talea
and Mudge make of that! He laughed wildly and drew concerned looks from his
companions.
His hands moved toward the strings... and hesitated. "Little Deuce Coup"? Now as
long as we're about this, Meriweather, why fool around with small stuff? Try for
some real transportation.
He cleared his throat self-consciously, feeling giddy, and started to sing.
"She's real fine, my four-oh-nine."
In his cradling arms the duar began to vibrate and glow mightily. This time the
luminescence spread from the strings to encompass the entire instrument. It was
like a live thing in his hands, struggling to break free. He hung on tight while
awkwardly picking out the notes. Rising chords sprang from his right fingers.
Talea and Mudge stepped back from him, their eyes wide and intent on the open
grass between. A pulsing, yellow ball of light had tumbled from the duar to land
on the earth. It grew and twisted, swollen with the music. Jon-Tom was facing
away from it, preoccupied with his playing.
When Talea's cry finally made him turn the glowing shape had grown considerably.
It was working, he told himself excitedly! The shape was beginning to assume a
roughly cylindrical outline. He hoped the lemon-yellow convertible would
materialize with a full tan
k of gas (he didn't know any songs about gasoline).
Then they would continue in luxury through the forest in a vehicle the likes of
which this world had never imagined.
He really was a little drunk now. Too much pride can stupefy the brain as
readily as alcohol. He began to improvise stanzas about AM/FM radios, CB's,
racing stripes and mags and slicks. After all, as long as he was conjuring up a
vehicle he might as well do it up right.
Abruptly there was a loud bang, a toy thunderbolt like a thousand capguns all
going off simultaneously. It knocked him back on his butt. The duar flopped
against his stomach.
There was something long and powerful where the contorting yellow cylinder had
been. It did not boast slicks, but of its traction there could be no doubt.
There were no racing stripes and certainly nothing electronic.
The headlights turned to look at him. They were a bright, rich red save for the
black slashes in the centers. A long tongue emerged from the front and flicked
questioningly at his sprawled form.
There was a noise from the "vehicle." He looked frantically over at it, and it
back at him.
In contrast to his evident terror, both Talea and Mudge appeared anything but
cowed. They were inspecting the vehicle casually, admiringly. That gave him the
courage to sit up and take a closer look at his conjuration.
It was sight of the reins that brought understanding. There was no bit in the
enormous snake's mouth. No living thing could control that single mass of muscle
by pulling on its mouth. Instead, the reins were linked to the two ear openings
set just in back of the eyes.
Talea moved around in front of the snake and gathered in the reins. She gave a
short, sharp tug and barked a single word. Twice as thick as Jon-Tom was tall,
the immense reptile turned and docilely dropped its head to the ground. Red eyes
stared blankly straight ahead.
Jon-Tom had climbed to his feet and allowed himself to be pulled along by an
exuberant Mudge. "Come on then, mate. Tis one hellaciously fine wizard you be!
Sorry I am that I made fun o* you."
"Forget it." He shook himself out of his mental stupor, allowed himself to be
led toward the great snake. It was at least forty feet long, though its immense
bulk made it appear shorter. Four saddles were mounted on its back. They were
secured not by straps around the belly as with a horse but by a peculiar suction
arrangement that held the seats tight to the slick scales.
Having calmed down a little, he had to admit that the snake was quite lovely,
clad as it was in alternating bands of red, blue, and bright orange that ran
like tempera around its girth. This then was the "vehicle" his song had ealled
up. The magic had worked, but translated into this world's terms. Apparently his
abilities weren't quite powerful enough for the forces of magic to take his
words literally.
"Is it poisonous?" was the first thing he could think to ask.
Mudge let out his high, chirping otter-laugh, urged Jon-Tom toward one of the
rear saddles. "Cor, you're a funny one, mate." Talea had already taken the lead
position. She was waiting impatiently for her companions to mount up.
" 'Tis a L'borean riding snake, and what pray tell would it need poison for t'
defend itself against? 'Cept one o' its own relatives, and its teeth are plenty
big enough t' 'andle that occasional family chore."
"What the devil does something this size feed on?"
"Oh, other lizards, most. Any o' the large nonintelligent herbivores it can find
in the wild."
"Even so, some of them are tamed for riding?"
Mudge shook his head at the obvious joke. "Now what were you imaginin' these
were for?" He rapped the leather saddle loudly. The stirrups were a bit high for
him, but strong arms pulled him to where he could get his feet into them.
"Climb aboard, then, mate, and ride."
Jon-Tom moved to the last saddle. He got a good grip on the pommel, put his
right boot in the stirrup, and pulled. His left foot dragged against the side of
the creature, which took no notice of the contact. It was like kicking a steel
bar.
He found himself staring past Mudge at the beacon of Talea's hair. She uttered a
low hiss. The snake started forward obediently, and Jon-Tom reached down and
used the curved handle-pommel to steady himself.
The movement was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Not that he'd ever
ridden any animal other than the ponies who once frequented his hometown, but it
still seemed incredibly gentle. He was put in mind of the stride of the lizards
who had pulled their lost wagon; only having no legs, the snake produced an even
smoother ride. Technically, it had no gait at all.
There was no jouncing or bouncing. The snake glided like oil over bumps and
boulders. After a few minutes of vibration-free ride Jon-Tom felt confident in
letting loose of the handle. He relaxed and enjoyed for a change the passing
sights of the forest. It was amazing how relaxed the mind could become when
one's feet no longer hurt.
He made certain the duar was secured across his belly and his fighting staff was
still tight on his back, then settled back to enjoy the ride.
The only thing difficult to get used to was the feeling of not knowing where
they were headed, since the snake's slithering, rippling method of making
progress was quite deceptive. Eventually he learned to keep a close eye on the
reptile's head. It was more like traveling in a tacking sailboat than on a
horse.
Smooth as the ride was, the constant moving from right to left in order to
proceed forward was making him slightly queasy. This was solved when he directed
his attention sideways instead of trying to stare straight ahead.
"I didn't mean to call this monster up, you know," he said to Mudge. "I was
trying for something completely different."
"And what might that 'ave been?" A curious Mudge looked back over his shoulder,
content to let Talea lead now that he'd given her a heading.
"Actually, I was sort of hoping for a Jeep Wagoneer, or maybe a Landcruiser. But
I didn't know any songs--any spells--for them, so I tried to come as close as I
could with what I had."
"I don't know wot the first might be," replied Mudge, meticulously preening his
whiskers and face, "but a 'landcruiser' be wot we 'ave, if not just precisely
the variety you'd 'oped for."
"I guess." Jon-Tom sounded thoughtful. "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't
know any songs about tanks. No telling what we might have ended up with."
Mudge frowned. "Now that's a peculiar thing t' say. Wot would we 'ave needed
with extra water, wot with streams aboundin' throughout this part o' the
Bellwoods?"
Jon-Tom started to explain, decided instead that this was not the time to launch
into a complicated explanation of otherworldly technologies. Mudge and Talea
appeared quite pleased with the snake. There was no reason for him not to be
equally satisfied. Certainly its ride was far smoother than any meehanized
vehicle's would have been.
Idly he ran his fingers over the small strings of the duar. Delicate harplik
e
notes sauntered through the forest air. They still possessed the inexplicable if
familiar electronic twang of his old Grundig. Blue sparks shot from beneath his
fingers.
He started to hum a few bars of "Scarborough Fair," then thought better of it.
He didn't want anything to divert them from their intended rendezvous with
Clothahump. Who knew what some casually uttered words might conjure up? Possibly
they might suddenly find themselves confronted with a fair, complete with food,
jugglers and minstrels, and even police.
Play to amuse yourself if you must, he told himself, but keep the words to
yourself. So he kept his mouth shut while he continued to play. His fingers
stayed clear of the longer upper strings because no matter how softly he tried
to strum those, they generated a disconcertingly vast barrage of sound. They
remained linked to some mysterious magickry of amplification that he was
powerless to disengage.
He'd hoped for a four-wheel drive, tried for two-wheel, and had produced a
no-wheel drive that was far more efficient than anything he'd imagined. Now,
what else would add to his feeling of comfort in the forest? An M-16 perhaps, or
considering the size of the riding snake and its as yet unseen but possibly
belligerent relatives, maybe a few Honest John Rockets.
What'd he'd likely get would be a sword or something. Better to rely on his wits
and the war staff bouncing against his spine. Or he might produce the weapon in
the firing stage. He would have to be very, very careful indeed if he tried to
sing up anything else, he decided. Perhaps Clothahump would have some good
advice.
He continued to play as they slithered on through increasing darkness. When
asked about why they were continuing, Talea replied, "We want to make as much
distance as we can tonight."
"Why the sudden rush? We're doing a helluva lot better than we did when we were
walking."
She leaned to her left, looked past him, and pointed downward. "We weren't
leaving this kind of trail, either." Jon-Tom looked back and noted the wake of
crushed brush and grass the snake was producing. "Outriders from Thieves' Hall
will surely pick it up."
"So? Why should they connect that up with us?"
"Probably they won't. But L'borean riding snakes are available only to the
extremely wealthy. They'd follow any such track, especially one not leading
