by neetha Napew
Clothahump stood on the opposite side of the circle from Jon-Tom, who tapped
nervously at the wood of the duar.
"What do I do when we begin?"
"You're the spellsinger. Sing."
"Sing about what?"
"About what we're going to try and do. I wish I could help you, my boy, but I
have other things to worry about. I never did have much of a voice."
"Look," said Jon-Tom worriedly, "the riding snake was an accident. I don't know
how I did that. Maybe we should stop and..."
"Not now, boy," the wizard told him curtly. "Do the best you can. Sing naturally
and the magic will follow. That's the way it is with spellsingers. You do that
and I will do my part."
He slipped into a semitrance with startling speed and began to recite formulae
and trace symbols in the air. There was a great deal of mumbling about time
vortices, dimensional nexi, and controlled catastrophe theory.
In contrast Jon-Tom started to pluck hesitantly at the strings of the duar. They
glowed blue as he furiously searched for an appropriate tune. His thoughts were
confused enough without his having to recall the specifics of a song.
Eventually though he settled on one (he had to select something) and began. It
was "California Dreamin'."
He started to feel the rhythm of the song, the deceptive power of the ballad,
and his voice rose higher, the chords becoming richer as he put all his homesick
feelings and desires into it: "I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A." It grew
dark in the Tree. Brilliant yellow clouds formed in the eenter of the circle.
They were echoed by a thick emerald fog that coalesced just above the floor.
Yellow drops of swirling energy started to spill from the clouds, while green
rain rose skyward from the lazy fog. Where they met they formed a
whirlpool-globe that began to swell and spin.
Jon-Tom's voice echoed around the chamber, his fingers flying over the strings.
The powerful electronic mimicry thundered off the walls, blending with
Clothahump's sonorous and steady chant. A deep, low ringing like the distant
sound of a huge bell being played two speeds too slowly on a bad tape recorder
began to fill the room. A tingling came over Jon-Tom's entire body, a glittering
heat that radiated through him.
He continued to play, though it felt now as though his fingers were passing
through the strings instead of striking them. Glass bottles shattered on the
workbench and books tumbled from their shelves as the very heart of the Tree
quivered with the sound. For all anyone inside knew, the whole forest was
shaking.
The climax of the song was nearing, the end of the ballad, and he was still
within the Tree. He tried to convey his helplessness to Clothahump, his
uncertainty about what to do next. Perhaps the wizard understood his anxious
stare. Perhaps it was just that their timing was naturally good.
A violent yellow-green explosion obliterated clouds and fog and whirlpool-globe.
A great invisible fist struck Jon-Tom hard in the sternum and sent him stumbling
backward. He bounced off the far wall, staggered a couple of steps, and fell to
his right. Scrolls, fragments of skull, some stuffed heads mounted on the wall,
wood shavings and chips, powders and bits of cloth were raining around him.
Within the circle a whitish haze was beginning to dissipate.
He paid it little attention because he could see it, and he should not have been
able to. Even through the shock of the explosion and his subsequent fall he knew
he oughtn't to be able to see haze or Tree. He should be back home, preferably
in his own room, or in class, or even flat in the middle of Wilshire traffic.
Instead he lay on his butt within the same Tree.
"It didn't work," he murmured aloud. "I didn't go back." He felt like the hero
of a war movie who'd set off the magazine of his own ship and gone down with his
captors.
The last of the haze was fading from the circle. He caught his breath, aware of
something besides his own self-pity now.
A tall young woman just a hair short of six feet was sitting spraddle-legged in
the center of the circle. Her arms were straight behind her, keeping her in a
sitting position as she gazed around with an altogether appropriate air of
bewilderment. Long black hair was tied in a single ponytail.
She was clad in an absurdly brief skirt with matching pantyshorts beneath,
sneakers and high socks, and a long sweater with four large blue letters sewn on
its front. Her face was a stunning cross between that of a Tijuana professional
and a Tintoretto madonna. Jet-black eyes, black as Mudge's, and coffee skin.
Shakily she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and looked around.
With Pog's assistance Clothahump was rolling off his back. Once on all fours he
was able to stand up. He started hunting around for his glasses, which had been
knocked off by the concussion. A curved dent in the Tree wall behind him showed
where he'd struck.
"What happened?" Jon-Tom thought to ask, his eyes still mesmerized by the woman.
"What went wrong?"
"You, obviously, did not go back," said Clothahump prosaically, "but someone
else was drawn to us." He stared at the new arrival, asked solicitously, "Are
you by any chance, my dear, an eng'neer? Or wizard, or sorceress, or witch, as
they would be known hereabouts?"
"Sangre de Christo," husked the girl, taking a cautious step away from the
turtle. Then she stopped. Her confusion and momentary fear were replaced by an
expression of outrage.
"What is this place, huh? Comprende tortuga? Do you understand?" She turned
slowly. "Where the hell am I?"
Her eyes narrowed as they located Jon-Tom. "You... don't I know you from
someplace?"
"Am I correct then in assuming you are not an eng'neer?" asked Clothahump
despondently.
She looked back over a shoulder at him. "Engineer, me? Infierno, no! I'm a
theater-arts student at the University of California in Los Angeles. I was on my
way to cheerleading squad practice when... when I suddenly find myself in a
nightmare. Only... you are not very frightening, tortuga.
"So if this is no nightmare... what is it?" She put a hand to her forehead,
staggered a little. "Madre de dios, have I got a headache."
Clothahump looked across the demolished circle. Jon-Tom was still staring
open-mouthed at the girl, his own failure now forgotten. "You know this young
lady, spellsinger?"
"I'm afraid I do, sir. Her name is Flores Quintera."
At the mention of her name the girl spun back to face him. "I thought I
recognized you." She frowned. "But I still can't place you."
"My name is Jon Meriweather." When she didn't react to that, he added, "We
attend the same school."
"I still can't place you. Have we had a class together, or something?"
"I don't think so," he told her. "I'd remember if we had. I have seen--"
"Wait a minuto... now I know!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I've
seen you working around campus. Sweeping the halls, working the grounds at
practice."
"I do that occasionally," he replied, embarrassed. "I always managed to be out
> gardening whenever the cheer squad had practice." He smiled hesitantly.
Loud, high-pitched feminine laughter came from behind him. Everyone turned to
see Talea sitting on the wood-chip floor, holding her sides and roaring
hysterically.
"I don't know you," said Flores Quintera. "What's so funny?"
"Him!" She pointed at Jon-Tom. "He was supposed to be helping Clothahump cast
for an engineer to switch places with. So he was thinking back to his home, to
familiar surroundings. But he couldn't keep his mind on his business. It was
drifting while he was spellsinging, from engineering to something more pleasant,
I think."
"I couldn't help it," Jon-Tom mumbled. "Maybe it was something about the song. I
mean, I don't remember exactly what aspects of home I was concentrating on. I
was too busy singing. Maybe it was the line, 'If I had to tell her....'" He was
more embarrassed than he'd ever been in his life.
"So you're responsible for my being here," said the raven-haired amazon,
"wherever 'here' is?"
"Sort of," he mumbled. "I've kind of admired you from afar and when I should
have been thinking of something else, my thoughts sort of... drifted," he
finished helplessly.
"Sure. That clarifies everything." She fluffed her hair, looked around at man,
woman, otter, turtle, bat. "So since this guy is too tongue-tied to explain,
please would one of you?"
Clothahump sighed and took her by the hand. She didn't resist as he led her to a
low couch and sat her down. "It is somewhat difficult to explain, young lady."
"Try me. When you come from the barrio, nothing surprises you."
So the wizard patiently elucidated while Jon-Tom sat off to one side morose and
at the same time perversely happy. If he was going to be marooned here, as it
seemed he was, there were worse people to be trapped with than the voluptuous
Flores Quintera.
Eventually Clothahump concluded his explanation. His intense listener rose from
the couch and walked over to confront Jon-Tom.
"Then it wasn't entirely your fault. I think I understand. El tortuga was very
enlightening." She turned and waved around the chamber. "Then what are we
waiting here for? We have to help these people as best we can."
"That is most commendable of you," said an admiring Clothahump. "You are a most
adaptable young lady. It is a pity you are not the eng'neer we sought, but you
are bigger and stronger than most. Can you fight?"
She grinned wickedly at him, and something went all weak inside Jon-Tom. "I have
eleven brothers and sisters, Mr. Clothahump, and I'm the second youngest. The
only reason I'm on the cheerleading squad is because they don't let women play
on the football team. Not at the university level, anyhow. I grew up with a
switchblade in my boot."
"I am not familiar with the weapon," replied a pleased Clothahump, "but I
believe we can arm you adequately."
Talea had stifled her amusement and had walked over to gaze appraisingly up at
the new arrival. "You're the biggest woman I've ever seen."
"I'm tall even for back home," said Quintera. "It's been a drawback sometimes,
except in sports." She smiled dazzlingly down at Talea and extended a hand. "Do
you shake hands here?"
"We do." Talea reached out hesitantly.
"Bueno. I'd like for us to be friends."
"I think I'd like that too." The two women shook, each taking the measure of the
other without conceding anything.
"It's just like I've always dreamed," Quintera murmured, eyes shining.
"You mean you're not upset?" Jon-Tom gaped at her.
"Oh, maybe a little."
Pog grumbled steadily as he began cleaning up the debris created by the
explosive collapse of the interdimensional vortex.
"But I've always wanted to be the heroine in shining armor, ever since I was a
little girl," Quintera continued.
"No need to worry, then," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I've learned quite a bit since
I've been here. I'll make sure no harm comes to you."
"Oh, don't worry about me," she replied gaily.
Pog appeared with an armful of old weapons. "Got 'em since ya left," he told the
curious Jon-Tom. "Boss thought it'd be a good idea t'have a few lizard-stickers
around in case his magic really got rusty."
Flores Quintera immediately knelt over the pile of destruction and began sorting
through it with something other than doll-like enthusiasm. "Hoy, but I'm looking
forward to this."
"It could be very dangerous." Jon-Tom had moved to stand protectively close to
her.
"Well, of course it could, from what Clothaheemp... Clothahump tells me... watch
your foot there, that ax is sharp." He took a couple of steps backward. "It
wouldn't be any fun if it didn't have any danger," she informed him, as though
addressing a complete fool.
"Oh, this looks nice," she said brightly, hefting a saw-edged short sword. "Can
I have this one?" It was designed for someone Mudge's size. In her lithe hands
it looked like a long, thick dagger.
She moved as if to put it in her belt, became aware she wasn't wearing one.
"I can't go marching around in this," she muttered.
"Oh God!" Mudge threw up his paws and spun away. "Not again. Please, I can't go
back to Lynchbany and go through this again."
"Never mind." Talea was studying the towering female form. "If the wizard can
conjure up some material, I think the two of us can make you something, Flores."
"Call me Flor, please."
"I don't know about conjuring," said Clothahump carefully, "but there are stores
in the back rooms of the Tree. Pog will show you where."
"O' course he will," snorted the bat under his breath. "Don't he always?"
The two young women vanished with the bat into yet another section of the
seemingly endless interior of the tree.
"I 'ave to 'and it t' you, mate." Mudge smacked Jon-Tom's back with a friendly
whack from one furry paw and leered up at him. "First you make friends with
Talea and now you materialize this black-maned gable o' gorgeousness. Would that
I were up t' such, wot?"
"I'd rather have switched places with an engineer," Jon-Tom mumbled.
He considered Flor Quintera. Her personality somehow did not seem to match his
imagining of same. "This new lady, Flor. I've seen her a lot, Mudge, but I'd
always imagined her to be somewhat more, well, vulnerable."
" 'Er? Vulnerable? Kiss me bum, mate, but she seems as vulnerable as an ocelot
with six arms."
"I know," said Jon-Tom sadly.
Mudge was looking at the doorway through which the women had disappeared. "
'Crikey but I won't mind unvulnerablin' 'er. It'd be like climbin' a bloomin'
mountain. I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' t' go explorin' through the peaks and
valleys of a challengin' range, wot." He moved away from the distraught Jon-Tom,
chuckling lasciviously.
Jon-Tom shuffled across to the workbench. Clothahump sat there, inspecting his
shattered apparatus and trying to locate intact bits and pieces with which to
work.
"I'm really sorry, sir," he said a little dazedly. "I tried my best."
"I know you did, boy. It is not your fault." Clothahu
mp patted Jon-Tom's leg
reassuringly. "Rare is the man, wizard, warrior, or worker, who can always think
with his brains instead of his balls. Not to worry. What is done is done, and we
must make the best of it. At least we have added another dedicated fighter and
believer to our ranks. And we still have you and your unpredictable but
undeniably powerful spellsinger's abilities, and something more."
"I don't suppose we could try again."
The wizard shook his head. "Impossible. Even if I thought I could survive and
control another such conjuration, the last of the necessary powders and material
have been used. It would take months simply to find enough ytterbium to
constitute the necessary pinch the formula requires."
"I hope you're right about my abilities," Jon-Tom mumbled. "I don't seem to be
much good at anything here lately. I hope I can think of the right song when the
time comes." He frowned abruptly. "You said we have my abilities and 'something
more'?"
The wizard nodded, looked pleased with himself. "Sometimes a good shock is more
valuable than any amount of concentration. When I was thrown against the Tree
wall by the force of the trans-dimension dissipation, I had a brief but
ice-clear image. I now know who is behind the growing evil." He gazed
meaningfully up at the staring Jon-Tom.
"Tell me, then. Who and what are--"
But the turtle raised a restraining hand. "Best to wait until everyone has
returned. There is ample threat to all in this, and I shall not begin to play
favorites now."
So they waited while Jon-Tom watched the wizard. Clothahump sat quietly,
contemplating something beyond the ken of the others.
The women returned with Pog muttering irritably behind them. Jon-Tom was a
little shocked at the transformation that had come over the delicate flower of
his postadolescent fantasies.
In place of the familiar cheerleader's sweater and skirt Flor Quintera was clad
in pants and vest of white leatherlike material. The sharply cut vest left her
arms and shoulders bare, and her dark skin stood out startlingly against the
pale cream-colored clothing. A fringed black cape hung from her neck and matched
fringe-topped black boots. The long dagger (or short sword) hung from a black
metal belt and a double-headed mace hung from her right hand.
"What do you think?" She twirled the mace gracefully and thus indicated to
