Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  skeletons of orange-lipped black ash that writhed and shrank in the night.

  Close by the main harbor gate stood several clusters of nervous animals. Some

  were in uniform, others only partially so. Behind them were several large

  wagons, three axled, sporting hand pumps. The rudely awakened soldiers waited

  and held tight to their axes and spears while handlers behind them tried

  frantically to control the baying, hissing lizards yoked to the wagons.

  Tubes trailed like brown snakes from each wagon back through the partly opened

  gate and doubtless from there out into the river. It was clear that the

  Polastrindu fire department was equipped to fight fires, but not the black and

  purple-blue behemoth they could hear raging and roaring behind the wall of flame

  that had engulfed the barracks.

  "Clothahump! Where's Clothahump?" Pog yelled as the little group raced across

  the cobblestones toward the gate.

  The leader of one of the fire teams gazed at the bat uncomprehend-ingly for a

  moment before replying. "The wizard turtle, you mean?" He gestured indifferently

  to his left. Then he returned his attention to the spreading conflagration,

  obviously debating in his mind if it was worth the risk of attracting the

  dragon's attention in order to try to at least contain the vanguard of the

  blaze.

  They found Clothahump seated nearby on a low hitching bench contemplating the

  fire. From time to time thunderous bellows and Hephaestean threats could be

  heard from somewhere inside the blazing barracks.

  They clustered around the motionless wizard, looked at him helplessly. He

  appeared to be deep in thought.

  "What happened, sir?" asked Flor concernedly.

  "What?" He looked around, frowned at some private thought. "Happened? Oh yes.

  The dragon. The dragon and I were talking pleasantly. I was doing quite well,

  boy." The wizard's glasses were bent and dangled precariously on his beak. His

  carapace was black with soot and he looked very old, Jon-Tom thought.

  "I was rationalizing my end of the discussion efficiently when a pair of our

  guards joined us unexpectedly. They wondered where you were and I informed them

  you were all asleep, but they remained. I think they were attempting to prove

  their bravery by remaining in the dragon's presence.

  "Falameezar greeted them as comrades, a word I explained to them. We all began

  to talk. I would have made excuses, but the dragon was enthusiastic about the

  chance to have a serious talk with members of the local proletariat." Despite

  the proximity of the blaze, a cold chill traveled down Jon-Tom's spine.

  "The beast inquired about their aspirations for their huge commune and their

  eventual hopes for strengthening proletarian solidarity. None of that made any

  sense to the guards, of course, but then it doesn't make any sense to me either,

  so I was hard put to rationalize their replies.

  "But that was not what ignited, so to speak, the problem. Soon both guards were

  boasting uncontrollably about their plans for leaving the army and getting rich.

  I tried to quiet them, but between explaining to the dragon and attempting to

  silence them, I got confused. I could not work any magic to shut them up.

  "They went on and on about their supposedly wealthy friends, one of whom was a

  merchant who had a hundred and sixty people working for him, slaving away making

  garments for the trade. They boasted about how cheaply he paid them, how

  enormous his profits were, and how they hoped they would be as fortunate some

  day.

  "I think what finally set the dragon off was the offer one of them made to

  employ him to work in a foundry, helping to make weapons so the local police

  could clear the streets of 'the pitiful beggars who infest decent

  neighborhoods.' That appeared to send him beyond reason. I could no longer

  communicate with him.

  "He started raving about revolutions betrayed and capitalist moneymongers and

  began spewing fire in all directions. It was only by tucking my head into my

  shell and scrambling as fast as I could that I escaped. The two rabbit guards, I

  fear, exploded like torches when the dragon exhaled at them." He sighed heavily.

  "Now he insists he will burn down the entire city. I'm afraid the only thing

  that has kept him from destroying more of the town thus far is his own rage. It

  chokes him so severely he cannot concentrate on generating fire."

  "Why don't you make him stop, wizard?" Talea was leaning close to his face and

  practically shouting into it. "You're the all-powerful sorcerer, the great

  master of magic. Make him stop!"

  "Stop, yes? I was trying to think." Clothahump leaned his chin on stubby

  fingers. "Dragon spells are as complicated as their subjects, you know. The

  right ingredients are required for a truly effective cast. I don't know..."

  "You've got to do something!" She looked back at the searing blaze. Then she

  looked at Jon-Tom. So did everyone else.

  "Now the lad's willin' and good-natured," said Mudge caution-ingly, "but 'e

  ain't no fool. Are you, mate?" The otter was torn between common sense and the

  desire to save his own highly flammable skin.

  But Jon-Tom already had the duar swung around against his belly and was trying

  to think of something to sing. He could remember several rain songs, but that

  might only anger the dragon and certainly wouldn't solve the problem. Falameezar

  might not burn Polastrindu down, but from the smashing and crunching sounds

  issuing from behind the flames Jon-Tom judged him quite capable of tearing it

  down physically.

  He marched out toward the barracks, ignoring the single plea that came from

  Flor. None of the others tried to dissuade him. They had not the right, and they

  knew he had to try. They wanted him to try.

  The near barracks' wall suddenly collapsed in a Niagara of flaming embers and

  hot coals. He shielded himself with the duar and his green cape. There was a

  roaring in his ears from the flames, and wood exploded from the heat ahead.

  "You! Deviationist! Counterrevolutionary!" The epithets emerged fast and

  accusing from the fire, though so far without accompanying arcs of flame.

  Jon-Tom looked up from beneath his cape and found himself only a couple of yards

  away from the glowering visage of Falameezar. Red eyes burned down into his own,

  and plate-sized teeth gleamed in the orange light as the dragon-skull dipped

  dowr toward him....

  XXI

  "Lies, lies, lies! You lied to me." A massive clawed foot gestured toward the

  inner city. "This is no commune, not even in part, but instead a virulent nest

  of capitalistic vice. It needs not to be reformed, for it is beyond that. It

  needs to be cleansed!"

  "Now hold on a minute, Falameezar." Jon-Tom tried hard to sound righteous. "What

  gives you the right to decide what should happen to all these workers?"

  "Workers... pagh!" Fire scorched the cobblestones just to Jon-Tom's right. "They

  have the tasks of workers, but the souls of imperialists! As for my right, I am

  pure of philosophy and dedicated in my arms. I can tell when a society is

  capable of achieving a noble state... or is beyond redemption! And besides," he

  spat a petulan
t burst of fire at a nearby market stall, which immediately burst

  into flame, "you lied to me."

  Since indecision was clearly the path leading to imminent incineration, Jon-Tom

  replied boldly. "I did not lie to you, Falameezar. This is a commune-to-be, and

  most of the population are workers."

  "It means naught if they willingly condone the system which exploits them."

  "How much choice does an oppressed worker have, comrade? It is easy to speak of

  revolution when you're twenty times bigger than anyone else and can spit fire

  and destruction. You expect an awful lot of some poor worker with a family to

  take care of. You don't have those kinds of responsibilities, do you?"

  "No, but..."

  "Then don't condemn some poor bear for protecting his family. You're asking them

  to sacrifice cubs and children. And besides, they don't have your education.

  You're expecting revolutionary sophistication from uneducated workers. Shouldn't

  you try and educate them first? Then if they reject the True Path and continue

  to accept the capitalistic evils they live with, then it will be time for

  cleansing."

  And by that time, he thought hopefully, we'll be safely away from Polastrindu.

  "They still willingly countenance an antibourgeois life," said Falameezar

  grumblingly, but with less certainty.

  Meanwhile Jon-Tom was still furiously trying to recall an anti-dragon song. He

  didn't know any. "Puff the Magic Dragon" was pleasant but hardly restrictive.

  Think, man, think!

  But he had no time to think of songs. He was too busy trying to tie the dragon's

  tale into semantic knots.

  "But would it not be best for all concerned if a warning was to be given?"

  Falameezar's head rose high against the glowing night. "Yes, a warning! Burn out

  the evil influences so that the new order can be installed. Down with the

  exploiting industries and the factories of the capitalists! Build the commune

  anew, beneath the banner of true socialism."

  "Didn't you hear what I just said?" Jon-Tom took a worried step backward.

  "You'll destroy the homes of the innocent, ignorant workers."

  "It will be good for them," Falameezar replied firmly. "They will have to

  rebuild their homes with their own hands, cooperatively, instead of living in

  those owned by landlords and the bosses. Yes, the people must have the

  opportunity to begin afresh." He turned his attention speculatively to the

  nearest multistoried building, considering how most efficiently to commence

  "cleansing" it.

  "But they already hate their bosses." Jon-Tom ran parallel to the loping dragon.

  "There's no reason to put them out in the rain and cold. What's needed here now

  isn't violence but a sound revolutionary dialectic!"

  Falameezar's claws scraped on the cobblestones like the wheels of a vast engine.

  "Remember the workers!" He shook his fist at the unresponsive dragon. "Consider

  their ignorance and their personal plights." Then, without thinking, his fingers

  were flying over the duar, the necessary words and music having come to him

  abruptly and unbidden.

  "Arise ye pris'ners of starvation!

  Arise, ye wretched of the Earth.

  For justice thunders condemnation, a better world in birth.

  No more tradition's chains shall bind us.

  Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!"

  At the first stirring words of the "Internationale," Falameezar halted as if

  shot. Slowly his head swung around and down to stare blankly at Jon-Tom.

  "Watch 'im, mate!" sounded the faint voice of Mudge. Similar warnings came from

  Caz and Flor, Talea and Pog.

  But the dragon was utterly mesmerized. His ears remained cocked attentively

  forward as the singer's voice rose and fell.

  Finally the anthem was at an end. As Jon-Tom's fingers trailed a last time over

  the duar's strings, Falameezar slowly emerged from his stupor, nodding slowly.

  "Yes, you are right, comrade. I will do what you say. For a moment I forgot what

  is truly important. Compassion was lost in my desire to establish proper dogma

  among the proletariat. I had forgotten the more important task before us in my

  rage at petty injustice." His head drooped low.

  "I lost control of myself, and I apologize for the damage."

  Jon-Tom whirled and frantically waved his arms, shouting the all-clear.

  Immediately the wagons of the Polastrindu fire brigade trundled forward,

  trailing hoses like brown slugtracks. Hands and paws were laid to pumps, and

  water was soon attacking the burning barracks. Thicker dark smoke filled the sky

  as the flames were pushed back and hot embers sizzled.

  "I shall cause no more trouble," said the downcast dragon. "I will not forget

  again." Then the great lean skull turned to one side, and a crimson eye locked

  on Jon-Tom. "But before long we will make revolutionary progress here, and the

  bosses will be thrown out."

  Jon-Tom nodded rapidly. "Of course. Remember that first we have to defeat the

  most repressive, most brutal bosses of all."

  "I will remember." Falameezar sighed and a puff of smoke emerged from his mouth.

  Jon-Tom winced instinctively, but there was no flame. "We will strike to protect

  the workers." He curled up like a great cat, laid his head across his right

  foreleg.

  "I'm very tired now. I leave the night in your hands, Comrade." With that he

  closed his eyes, oblivious to the activity and smoke and yelling all around him,

  and went peacefully to sleep.

  "Thank you, Comrade Falameezar." Jon-Tom turned away. He was starting to shiver

  now, recalling the feel of heat on his face and the fury in the dragon's gaze

  when he'd first confronted him.

  His friends were cautiously running to him. Their expressions were a mixture of

  relief and awe.

  "What in hell did you sing?... What spell did you use?... How did you do it?"

  were some of the amazed comments.

  "I don't know, I'm not sure. The words just came to me. Old studies that stick,"

  he muttered as they walked back toward the city gate.

  Clothahump was waiting there to greet him. The old turtle solemnly offered his

  hand. "A feat worthy of a true wizard, whether you believe yourself that or not,

  my boy. I salute you. You have just saved our journey."

  "I'm afraid my principal motivation was to save myself, there at the last." He

  couldn't meet the wizard's eyes.

  "Tut, motivation! It is accomplishment and result that count. I welcome you to

  the brotherhood of magicians." Jon-Tom found his fingers clasped in the cool but

  emphatic grasp of the elderly sorcerer.

  "Perhaps it would be a good thing if you were to teach me the words to that

  spellsong, in case something were to happen to you. My voice is not particularly

  melodious, but at least I would have the words. It sounded especially powerful,

  and may serve to control the beast another time."

  "It specializes in control, for all sorts of beasts," Jon-Tom replied.

  The others listened as well, but the words had no special effect on them. Across

  the courtyard the fire brigade was bringing the last of the blaze under control.

  Falameezar snored unconcernedly nearby, his rage spent, his conscience assuaged.

  Possibly it was because of Fa
lameezar's tantrum, but in any case the summons to

  council came the following day. A much subdued beaver informed them that the

  representatives they'd wished to meet were already assembled and waiting for

  them.

  Jon-Tom had spent much of the previous night coaching Caz in socialist jargon,

  realizing that Clothahump could not remain behind this time. The fact that the

  rabbit had volunteered to remain behind and keep a watch on the still somnolent

  dragon pleased Jon-Tom.

  The fact that Talea and Flor had decided to remain and assist him did not. So he

  was in a foul mood as they neared the city hall.

  "My boy," Clothahump was telling him, "if ever you live to be half my age you

  will learn that love is a lasting thing, while lust is but transitory. Are you

  so sure that you've sorted out the degree and direction of your feelings?

  Because if you are drowning in the former, then you have my wholehearted

  support. If merely the latter, then I can only sympathize with your subservience

  to the follies of youth, which are locked to but physical matters."

  "It's just physical to me." He slammed the butt end of his staff angrily into

  the road with each stride. "Anyhow, you can't be objective about it. Aren't

  turtles by nature sluggish in such matters?"

  "Occasionally yes, sometimes no. What is important is one's mental reaction,

  since it is the mind that makes the separation between love and lust, not the

  body. You let your gonads do your thinking, my boy, and you're no better than a

  lizard."

  "That's easy for you to say. I'd imagine the internal fires are barely simmering

  after two hundred and a few odd years."

  "We are not talking about my situation but of yours."

  "Well, I'm trying to control myself."

  "That's the good lad. Then I suggest you stop trying to find water beneath the

  street."

  Jon-Tom eased up on his staff.

  Mudge strode cockily alongside the youth. He was basking in the attention of the

  pedestrians who stopped on the street to stare at them, in the curious looks of

  others peering down from windows. Pog fluttered and soared majestically

  overhead, darting past aerial abodes with seeming indifference to their

  feathered inhabitants. While Clothahump did not anticipate treachery, he'd still

  insisted the bat remain safely out of arrow shot. Pog was their link with the