L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

Shea stretched his sore limbs and washed his wounds as best he could. As he placed his jacket on the ground it suddenly occurred to him that the magic book was gone from his breast pocket, probably back in the hands of Sycorax. He could only pray that Belphebe had somehow escaped; his multiple knocks to the head wouldn’t permit any more complicated thoughts. Soon he set out upstream again. Now that the sun was out, he could tell that he had been traveling north the night before. He stayed in the valley by the creek for over an hour, occasionally climbing a hill to survey his position. There were no goblins to be seen, but neither could he spot the green trees of the land of the spirits.

It was nearly noon when Shea climbed a particularly high brush-covered hill. What he saw made him drop swiftly to the ground. Not fifty yards away were what appeared to be old Roman ruins, consisting of columns, a couple of crumbling buildings, and a large flat tiled floor upon which some goblins were playing what looked like a game of shuffleboard.

Shea watched with detached interest for a while. Then the smell of cooked food attacked his nose, and he began working his way closer by ducking from one bush to the next. Soon he could make out the goblins’ conversation — all about their game and the bets they had made on the outcome. He slipped behind a crumbling building. Inside, their meal was cooling in a pot over a small fire — the smell was entrancing, and drove all other thoughts from his mind.

Shea was on the verge of sneaking in when a fight broke out on the shuffleboard court. One of the goblins had been caught cheating, and the others jumped on the villain. The hapless goblin was tied upside down to a column, where it retched and moaned while the game continued. Shea actually began to feel sorry for the creature. A wild idea came to mind.

He mulled it over for a moment and shrugged, thinking: What have I got to lose?

Harold stood up, looked longingly at the stew pot arranged his ragged suit as best he could, and walked boldly out onto the forum. The two goblins spotted him immediately and one dropped his stick in amazement.

“Good morning, boys.” Shea began. “I’ve been watching your game. You’re both pretty talented players. I myself was once the All-Ohio shuffleboard champion.” He bent over and picked up the dropped slick. “You see, in Ohio, this game is also known as the national pastime.” Shea leaned forward and shoved a rock skillfully across the court. “My name ranks right up there with the all time greats such as Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, and Joe DiMaggio. . . .”

“Loo Gerik?” asked the smaller goblin, its eyes open wide.

The other came to its senses. “Ho, you be the mage sought by the witch. ’Tis a trick!” It nudged its smaller companion.

“Forget the witch. I’ll make you a wager,” Shea went on. “I’ll take on the better of you. If I win, you cut down your noisy companion over there.” He pointed at the goblin hanging from the column. “You give me a meal, and I’m gone.”

“And if I, Pholantus, Win?” the larger goblin asked, defiantly.

“I’m your prisoner.”

Pholantus smiled knowingly, baring a misshapen set of brown teeth. The game began. It soon became clear that Shea was up against a master. Each time they shot, Harold’s stones were consistently knocked off the mark by those of the goblin. Something was rotten in Denmark. Either this goblin was the best shot in the world, or he was using magic to cheat. Shea wondered just how he could put some subtle magic to use to assist his own cause.

At length, recalling the way Heimdall cheated in the cockroach races back in Surt’s stronghold. Harold was fairly certain he could apply the same method to shuffleboard. When the others were admiring a particularly vicious shot of Pholantus’, he mumbled discreetly and made passes with his left hand. The goblin’s rocks began to consistently slide past the mark, while Shea’s stones stopped with mysterious regularity on the highest score. When his total score became larger than that of his opponent, the goblin threw his stick to the deck in anger.

“Damnation! You cozen me and would dance out of your true debt.” Pholantus snarled, “Gretio, this sheep-biter needeth thrashing!” He motioned for his smaller companion to attack. But instead, Gretio stood pat. “Nay, I am afeard of this mage!”

The larger goblin growled and strode forward, taking a swing at Shea, who ducked and then put up his dukes. So it was to be a boxing match! Well, boxing was a lot like fencing, just a matter of balance, position, and timing.

Using fancy footwork, he danced around his slow-witted opponent. Shea slipped several punches, adding to the goblin’s fury. The other goblin, Gretio, seemed quite content to stay in the background and only once made an effort to trip Harold. Shea laughed, letting his guard down. At that moment, the big one landed a fist square on Shea’s jaw, and he staggered backward from the force of the blow.

Now he was angry. Shea recalled the last night he had spent at the fights, and imagined himself the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis. Now he took the fight to the enemy. Harold landed a stiff shot to the goblin’s gut and then connected with a left jab followed by a right cross. The goblin wobbled and then crashed to the mat. Shea turned to face Cretio.

“C’mon, bub, you’re next!” the champ said defiantly, dancing neatly around in a circle. Rather than fight, however, the little goblin shrieked and ran off into the underbrush. “Hey! What’s the matter, you coward?” Shea taunted, shaking a fist at the fleeing foe, He danced around a bit more, shadow boxing, and then came back to reality.

The upside-down goblin hanging from the column was yelling: “Help! Let me down!” Shea walked over to the unfortunate creature.

“If I cut you down, will you promise to help me?”

“Yes, yes! Anything!” So Shea, his head throbbing again, now that the thrill of battle had worn off, loosed the goblins bindings.

“Many thanks,” said the goblin as it fell to the ground. “I’m called Malovio. That was a most impressive display of fisticuffs.” It extended a scaly green hand in friendship.

“Harold Shea here,” he said as he shook the goblin’s hand.

Malovio glanced nervously around and then bent over the unconscious Pholantus. “Methinks we’d best be off before Greito returns with the sergeant.”

“But I’m hungry,” complained Shea, “and they’ve got a pot of soup on. . . .”

“I, Malovio, can always find sustenance. That cheat Pholantus will wake soon and want revenge. Let us away.” The goblin scooted off into the bushes, and Shea followed.

Malovio led the way through the prickly undergrowth with such speed that Shea was amazed. The little goblin trudged on tirelessly. as though they were being chased by an army. But then, maybe they were being chased by an army. They stopped to drink from a stream.

“Hey, Mal,” Shea said “when are you going to find us that meal?” His empty stomach was tying itself in knots.

“Soon, Harold, I know a secret place.” On they went, through endless fields of scrub till they came to a grove of dead trees. There was an eerie look about it. The leafless trees stood like obelisks in a graveyard. Malovio plopped down on a fallen log.

“You, sir, make fire. I shall bring game,” said the goblin. “Know ye that I’m a great hunter.”

“So what is there to hunt on this island?” asked Shea. “I haven’t seen a single animal all day.”

Malovio bent down and picked up a pointed stick. “One must know the land to find the game! he answered casually, and then began walking off. “Make the fire great!” said the goblin as it disappeared behind a bush.

Shea gathered wood for a fire, but with his lighter gone he was afraid he would end up rubbing two sticks together to get it started. At the edge of the grove he stumbled across an old fire pit and carefully laid the wood in the middle. He was also pleased to discover several pieces of flint which somebody or something, had left behind.