L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“Ariel,” Shea said quickly, as Sycorax appeared at the entrance of the cave, “you have to let us go!”

“Kill them!” commanded the witch.

Shea reached into his pocket and produced the tiny lock of hair that Bitter-Root had given him. “See this,” he said in desperation, “Bitter-Root wants you back You don’t work for this damned witch!”

A took of obvious consternation came over the spirit’s face. Suddenly, Shea and Belphebe were once again standing on solid ground. Harold stepped forward and pressed the lock of hair into the spirit’s hand.

“C’mon sweetheart lets scram!” He and Belphebe then raced off into the bushes. The witch issued a volley of curses and shot a lightning bolt at Ariel, who calmly dodged the fiery blast. Amid the turmoil, a crowd of ugly green goblins began pouring out of the mouth of the cave.

“To the brooms!” Shea yelled as he and Belphebe crashed through the thorny bushes to the top of the hill. A small army of goblins followed hot on their heels. At the top of the hill, they found both brooms and Belphebe’s bow. But there was no sign of Polacek or Snag. They quickly mounted and Shea hurriedly chanted the flight commands.

The two shot into, the air mere seconds ahead of the irate goblins and Shea banked into a slow turn. As they circled overhead, Belphebe put arrow to bow and covered their retreat, Shea searched for Polacek and Snag, but they were nowhere to be seen.

On the next pass over the hilltop, they were met by a shower of rocks, thrown up into the air by the surviving goblins. One rock clipped Harold square on the head. The last thing he heard was Belphebe’s shriek.

* * *

The next thing Shea knew, he was bound tightly hand and foot and hanging upside down from a long pole, carried by a group of goblins. He craned his aching head for a better look. All he could see was a procession of the green creatures marching along a rocky trail. It still seemed to be evening, and the sky was overcast. There was no sign of Belphebe. His arms were numb, and his head throbbed painfully; this was a fine mess he had gotten himself into!

The goblins marched on in the growing dark, and Shea endured the pain, until at last they stopped for the night. They dropped him, pole and all, roughly onto some wet sod. At least it eased the pressure and allowed a little blood to circulate into his aching extremities.

Shea turned his attention to the camp. There was a good deal of shouting going on. The dispute seemed to be over the lack of fire. Everything was still damp from the storm, and none of the goblins could start a fire.

As Shea struggled to achieve a more comfortable position, his elbow brushed against his pocket. They hadn’t taken away his lighter! A plan began to form in his throbbing skull.

“Psst! Hey, you!” Shea called out to a sullen-looking goblin, who had been watching the attempts to make a fire. It ambled toward Shea with a puzzled look on its face. “Yeah, you! I can show you how to make a fire. You’ll be a big shot.”

The goblin knelt down over Shea. “What wouldst thou, prisoner?” it growled. “’Tis too damp for fire.”

Maybe for you guys. “But I know some magic tricks that’ll get you a roaring blaze in no time.”

“So show me,” the goblin answered.

“You must untie me first, so I can work the spell and don’t worry, I wont run away,” said Shea.

A little more haggling followed before he could convince the goblin, but finally Shea sat up and sighed with relief as his hands were untied. He gave his lighter to the goblin and showed the creature how it worked. It was enormously pleased and stood up to rush over and show its companions.

Shea grabbed the goblin by the and and said, “Hey, wait that’s only half the show. Now we’ll make some fire-water to go with that. I need a bucket of water and some wood.” Shea untied his feet while the goblin hurried off for the water.

The creature returned with a dented pewter bowl, half full of muddy water, and a wet, rotten tree branch. Shea placed the bowl ceremoniously on the ground and dropped in some broken bits of the branch. On a larger piece of wood, he scratched out some letters with a rock:

H H H H

H C C C C H

H H H H

He thought a while longer. It had been some time since organic chemistry. The stuff he wanted was made of several complex molecules. He snatched out a formula for an iso-paraffin, a napthene, and an olefin. Shea began stirring the mixture with the large stick and recited:

“As From the ground comes the bubbling well,

The nectar of Standard and Phillips and Shell,

Internal combustion, petroleum’s jewel.

Change now, I command thee, to high octane fuel!”

The color of the liquid suddenly darkened to a deep reddish brown, and other goblins who had wandered over to watch, murmured in awe. Shea sniffed his concoction.

It smelled potent enough. He handed the bowl to the goblin with the lighter.

“Place this on top of your pile of wood over there and do your stuff.” He wiggled his thumb at the goblin, and winked. The goblins all walked off to do the deed. Harold began to edge away as inconspicuously as possible, waiting for the fateful click.

* * *

Even he did not expect the extent of the explosion, which shook the valley to its roots. The resulting pillar of fire caused quite a stir, Shea slipped quietly off into the bushes and then scooted up and over a gravelly hill, ripping his pants on a thornbush as he ran. He stopped for a moment on the next ridge to listen. He could hear goblins nearby.

There were fewer thornbushes along the top of the hill, and Shea made better progress. Goblins were running below him now, yelling to each other and cursing his very existence. The slope curved sharply upward. Shea found himself rock climbing and his pursuers closing in fast.

Shea stopped and his heart sank. Before him was a thirty-foot drop, and at the bottom were masses of thick brambles. A rock whizzed past his head. He swallowed the lump in his throat closed his eyes, and leaped over the edge. V

Shea landed with a crash in the thorny scrub. It was thicker than it looked from above and he plowed through several layers of thornbush. At last his feet hit the ground, and after a struggle he extricated himself from the tangled mass of vegetation. Once free, he took off running again, down the valley. Perspiration stung the numerous tiny cuts made on his hands and cheeks by the thorns.

Harold splashed into a brackish creek and turned upstream, hoping to cover his footprints. He soon slowed to a walk and then to a stagger, as the last glimmer of daylight and his energy simultaneously gave out. Fortunately, he could no longer hear any pursuers; and with the final bit of strength left in his ravaged body, Shea struggled up the bank and into a grassy clearing, where he curled up into a ball in some tall weeds and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The first rays of a sunny morning climbed over a hill and shone cheerfully down on Shea. He opened his eyes with a start, then shivered and remembered where he was. He had been dreaming of an automobile chase. Belphebe was driving their Chevrolet and he was in the backseat while she took corners on two wheels. He’d have to talk to her about that. . . . Belphebe! He had forgotten completely about her. Was she still alive? Desperately, Shea sat up, rubbing his hands together to generate some heat. His muscles ached, and the myriad of cuts and scratches added to his general discomfort. His empty stomach complained, and he crawled slowly down to the creek for a drink. There were brown things floating in the water. He had no idea what they were, and was too thirsty to care; the water tasted good.