L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

The harpy cackled and before Shea could regain his balance, his face was buried in a mass of smelly feathers. Something whacked him on the back of his head, and the world became a shower of stars.

* * *

Harold Shea dreamed he was packed in a snowbank. It was deep and cold and he was frozen solid. He could see little snowmen with long carrot noses building an igloo around him, my how pleasant they seemed. . . . “Hey! wait a minute?”

He woke to find himself buried up to the neck in a low mound of dirt near the bank of the stream, The back of his head throbbed as though it had been used as the ball in the Army/Navy football game. He shivered and tried to move. Nothing. He was trapped. It was almost as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him, for there was a smooth carpet of grass all around him, and the soil was not broken.

He craned his head painfully from side to side, No sign of Vaclav or Belphebe. There was the rock he had sat on. There was his club, The book of magic was nowhere to be seen, not that he could see much from his current viewpoint anyway.

Shea yelled for Belphebe and then listened carefully. No answer. After calling a while longer, his head began to pound so horribly that he had to stop. How does one get oneself out of the cold ground? he wondered. He remembered being buried in the sand up at HeadlandsBeach by Lake Erie in happier times. He had wriggled himself free, but then he had been buried horizontally and in loose sand. He began moving his neck in a circular motion, pushing back a small amount of dirt.

Two minutes and a sore neck later, he stopped and sighed. Practically no progress. At this rate, he would be buried for a very long time.

A stick snapped in the woods nearby. Shea froze. Out of the forest loped a medium-sized gray wolf, It snuffled around in the grass for a moment and then headed straight for him.

So this was it. The great Harold de Shea was about to meet his end, chewed up by a wolf while burled in a dirt pile in the middle of Shakespeare’s The Tempest . He swore that his ghost would get revenge on a certain Czech!

The wolf trotted up to the strange head rising out of the ground. Shea let out a fierce bark. The animal stopped in its tracks. Shea did not know if he could cast any kind of spell with only the verbal elements at his command, but it was certainly the time to find out. What was it Chalmers had said when he changed Votsy back from a werewolf? Shea began to chant:

“Wolf, oh, wolf. Wolf of the noble Bard,

Wolf of Shakespeare;

Now ’tis that I conjure you from beneath the yard;

Leave me, and disappear!”

Since his hands were not available, Shea gestured wildly in the air with his nose. The animal stared at him for a moment, then turned and trotted off between the trees the way it had come! Shea Sighed. Had that really been magic, or only a bored and unhungry wolf? He was glad Chalmers had not been around to witness this particular encounter.

But at least the sudden rush of fear had made him forget how cold he was. Shea resumed his neck motions in an effort to free the top of his body from the earth. At length, his neck hurt so much he gave up struggling and stared miserably up into the trees.

“Harold? Is this you?” Suddenly, before him was a red-bearded face with eyes where the mouth ought to be. He shook his head and blinked.

“Belphebe! Thank God. Get me out of here!”

* * *

The fire crackled pleasantly, but Harold Shea was feeling anything but pleasant. It had taken Belphebe over an hour to dig him out of the ground, and he was just now beginning to warm up. And he had the world’s worst headache. Nothing had dug that hole; he had been inserted into the earth magically. He looked at a dirt-encrusted sleeve and frowned. His pin-striped suit would never be the same.

“Be of good cheer, my husband,” Belphebe said as she turned a fat rabbit on a stick over the fire. “Our supper is nearly done.”

“Vaclav is a mauve Hereford wandering around loose, the book of symbols is gone, our daughter, little Voggie, is home with a babysitter in another universe, and we’re lost in a world we know nothing about . . . with no weapons!” grumbled Shea “Why should I be of good cheer?”

Belphebe touched him on the cheek. “Meseems you do forget, you are not alone, my dearest. Lady Florimel will look after our daughter until our return. Certes you will have us back to Ohio in no time at all. Such is your power, my good husband.”

* * *

Even without salt, the rabbit was the best meal he had eaten in recent memory. Belphebe was not satisfied with her new bow; but it was good enough, thought Shea. The sun set and the air grew cooler. They dragged several large branches into camp to stoke the fire. Belphebe took the first watch, and Shea was soon asleep with his head in her lap.

Sometime later that night, Shea awoke to the sound of voices. The fire was burning low and he could dimly see Belphebe, but no one else. Vaclav? He sat up abruptly.

“Hello?”

Belphebe answered, “Good morrow, dearest Harold, we are joined by a friend.” Directly across from her he could just make out a wispy female form. It was wearing next to nothing, had golden hair . . . and enormous shimmering wings. He leaned forward and squinted for a better view.

“Greetings, good sir,” the creature said in a soft voice, “I am called Bitter-Root. Welcome to our Island.” She extended her hand. Shea reached out and touched it gently.

“Harold Shea at your service,” He smiled. “I guess you and Belphebe are acquainted. So where are we? Is this Prospero’s Island?”

“I know not of Prospero. This is Setebos’ isle, a happy place, once. liv’d in by sprites and spirits and the beasts in peace and harmony. But now we are set upon by the wretched Sycorax, who doth bespoil the trees and the land with pricking-goss and brine pits . . .”

“Wait a minute!” Shea interrupted. “you mean to say that witch is still alive and kicking?”

“Would that she were perish’d,” Bitter Root said with a sigh. “The vile hag hath raised legions of foul goblins and taken our fair Ariel to her dirty service. I fear ’twas Ariel, himself, who stole your book for her. But Belphebe has spoken much of your brave deeds. Surely such a great mage as thyself needs not his library to practice his magicks.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Shea said with a wry grin. “So far our magic hasn’t been too successful here.” He paused a moment and rubbed his chin. “So there’s a war between you guys and Sycorax?”

The spirit looked confused. “I know not of war. That Sycorax is evil, there is no doubt. Her storms on the seas bring shipwreck’d sailors. These she turns to stones and plants. Those spirits who refuse her chores are lock’d in the heart of trees to suffer and cry.”

Shea looked around into the woods. “Are we safe here, Bitter-Root?”

“Aye, fortune brought you to our side of the island. Her magic is not so strong in these woods. The unicorns hold back the goblins. But now Ariel’s her servant, I fear all’s lost.”

Shea thought about Vaclav. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a large purple cow wandering around anywhere?”

Belphebe laughed. “’Twas he who sent Bitter-Root unto us.”

“Certes,” said the spirit. “We found him near our cell. ’Twas but a simple task to make him right.”

Shea mumbled something obscene under his breath. He could just picture Polacek stretched out on his back while a bevy of beautiful half-naked spirits stuffed peeled grapes into his mouth.

Bitter-Root suggested they follow her to her cell, which was not too far away. A unicorn was called to carry Belphebe.

“What about me?” asked Shea. “Don’t I get a lift?” The spirit began to explain how unicorns have an intense dislike of men. “Oh, right, I knew that,” muttered Shea. There was no candy handy for him to make treats to win this one over to him.