L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

It took him a good bit of smashing stones together to find the right combination, and even longer to persuade a little mound of dry moss to start smoking, but at last he had a fine crackling fire going. Moments later, Malovio came wallking proudly back into camp; Harold shuddered when he saw what the goblin had hanging from the stick over his shoulder. A brace of fat rats!

Neither had a knife, so the catch was roasted the way it came, fur and all. Shea was a bit squeamish at first, but the gnawing in his stomach soon took control of his senses.

While supper sizzled, Malovio dug under a pile of branches and produced a small, well-used copper kettle.

“Stew?” asked the goblin.

“Y’know,” said Shea, “I’d rather have beer?”

Malovio gave him a puzzled look. “Beer?”

“You’d be surprised what I can do. Fill that thing with water and I’ll put my magical powers to work on it. We’ll have us some fine brew to go with our supper.”

Malovios eyes lit up. “Most assuredly!”

Shea gathered some grasses that resembled barley and scratched out the formula for alcohol on the end of a stick. He could have made finer stuff with sugar cubes, but one had to make do. He surveyed the sorry pile of ingredients and sighed.

Malovio returned with the kettle full of water, and Shea dumped in the grasses and began to stir it with the stick, chanting:

“Beer, Beer, beautiful beer,

Fill this pot up with it,

Clear up to here!”

A corny verse, but it was the best he could come up with after being knocked out so many times. A brown froth began forming in the pot. Shea stuck his finger in the mix. Not bad, he thought to himself. He put the kettle to his lips and took a healthy swig. Then the goblin grabbed it greedily and took a long series of draughts, spilling the dark liquid down from his green lips onto his ragged coat.

“Fair magic,” said Malovio, smiling. “thy liquor is unearthly.”

Shea thought it had a muddy aftertaste and was very “earthly” Indeed, but it did pack a punch. Soon he and the goblin were best of friends, laughing and telling each other inane jokes. The roasted rats tasted as good as gourmet chicken. When the meal was done, the goblin went for more water and insisted Shea brew up a second batch. As night settled in around them, the goblin grew maudlin and Harold began gently to question him for information.

“Before that witch Sycorax, our life on this isle were full-easy. In Firemount we lived, and served the great drake, which was little enough trouble. Yet now we are but stevedores and whipping boys.”

“So, you goblins aren’t too fond of the witch either,” suggested Shea.

“Verily! In defiance now I lead the renegade life, and ’tis not an easy trip,” complained Malovio.

“What is this great drake?” asked Shea, sensing a potential ally against the witch.

“At the root of the Firemount now sleeps a mighty drake, once a hot and noisome thing. Yet if we served it did treat us fairly. Then Sycorax came to our land, accurst the drake, and full seven years hath it slept.” Malovio sighed heavily. “And now slaves we are to the witch. The life of a goblin is not easy.”

Harold was about to ask more of the drake and if the goblin knew the whereabouts of Belphebe, when Malovio took a long drink from the kettle, grinned, and passed out. Shea poked a stick around in the coals, finished the kettle of earthy beer, and watched the fire die out. He thought wistfully of his wife and determined to set out after her at first light. Then he, too, fell asleep.

* * *

It was nearly noon the next day when Harold regained consciousness. His head throbbed. Too much beer, no doubt! Malovio was nowhere to be found. Shea struggled upright and kicked around the smoldering embers on wobbly feet, trying to think what to do next.

It was way past time to continue his search for Belphebe and the spirits. With a sense of urgency, he left the grove and headed for the nearest hill. Some movement caught his attention and he quickly hid behind a tree trunk. It was fortunate he had not slept or delayed any longer, for a party of twenty or more goblins came stomping up and began milling around the fire site. Shea carefully edged away from the camp, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the goblins.

He climbed the next hill, but saw nothing but more bramble bushes and dead trees. The dead zone created by the witch had a queer, depressing effect on Shea. As he wound his way up, down, and around the hilly terrain, not a single living tree could be seen. The only plants were the various brown and olive-drab thorn bushes, and even they seemed only half alive. The overcast sky only added to the general gloom. When ho had flown over all this on his broom it has seemed such a short distance.

The day wore on, and Shea stopped for a drink from yet another murky stream. His stomach, empty once again, complained; but he had seen no edible plants, and the rats and lizards he encountered managed to escape his clumsy attempts at capture. At least, he had not met any servants of Sycorax.

Just as he was thinking about how alone he was, Shea climbed to the top of a high hill and saw a view that restored his morale. To the east were the lush green forests of the Spirits, still unspoiled by the witch. He was close! Even as he gazed on the beautiful woodlands, the sun broke through the clouds and shone cheerfully on the living half of the island. Shea sat down to catch his breath.

The moment passed, and the clouds returned. Harold rose wearily to his feet again, and pushed on. Now he was picking his way through the disgusting tangle of thornbushes as best he could and heading generally northeast. He no longer looked back to the dead zone he was leaving behind.

Near sunset, he climbed into a tree near the top of a high hill. By now, the sky was glowing red with twilight, and if Shea had not been tired, hungry, injured, and lost in a strange land, he probably would have enjoyed the sight. He thought how much Belphebe would have enjoyed this with him, then prayed she was safe and vowed that he would find her come hell or high water.

Soon it was too dark to continue. Shea stopped wearily and picked up a small stick. Maybe he could cast a light spell upon it, so he could see his way through the mounting darkness. He spent several frustrating minutes mumbling all sorts of incantations, but none of them sounded very poetic, and what was worse, none of them worked. He threw the stick away in anger and thought of trying to make another flying broom, but, search as he might, he could not find a bird feather in this desolate place.

Pitch-black night came on and a thoroughly discouraged Halold Shea began to clear a sleeping area in a meadow of tall grass. He had just settled down to an uncomfortable night’s rest with a rock poking him in the side, when a flash of light suddenly caught the corner of his eye. He shook his head and looked again, and spotted a familiar glowing red ball atop the next hill. It was circling slowly. It was a fairy.

Shea stumbled rapidly up the hill. When he reached the summit, the Familiar red fairy who had accompanied him before buzzed excitedly around his head and then started off into the dark. Shea followed, breathless.

The fairy led him along a rough path. After climbing what seemed like an endless procession of low hills, Shea was rewarded by the sight of several more fairies circling in the darkness around two seemingly human forms. VI

Shea broke into a run crashing through a field of sweet-smelling tall grass. More fairies appeared, hovering close ahead above Bitter-Root and . . . Belphebe!

They flew into each other’s arms.

“Harold, darling, we have been searching for you, everywhere!”