Spellsinger

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