L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“I’m mighty glad to see you alive,” Shea said and he planted a kiss on her lips.

They returned to the spirit cave on the two-seater broom with Belphebe in the pilot’s seat. She had learned how to fly in his absence and handled it with as much élan as she did the Shea Chevrolet. Shea wisely kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Shea was in a daze while Belphebe bathed her adventure-scarred husband in a pool inside the cave; the spirits had given him a wine that tingled through his body and restored his strength. Soon the world and its worries faded from view and he slept like a log.

At breakfast, Harold learned that Snag and Votsy were missing, and so was the magic book. He had hardly digested this information when Quamoclit came buzzing in excitedly. The witch and an army of goblins had marched into the spirit lands and had set a great fire which was rolling rapidly toward the spirit cave.

“Damn” Shea said angrily, “Sycorax must be upset over my escape.”

“We must do something, Harold” said Belphebe. “Even without the book, you are still a master of magic.”

“Against that witch, I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Shea, “but we’d better have a look. Too much of this Island has been laid waste already.” Outside they mounted the two-seater broom, and accompanied by the spirits flew off to see what they could do.

Cruising low over the treetops they soon spotted the fires and landed in the field where Harold, Belphebe, and Polacek had first appeared on the island. It was safe, but the surrounding forests were all ablaze, and in the distance them were hundreds of goblins running to and fro with torches spreading the conflagration.

They made a neat landing in the clearing and Shea dismounted, puffing his hand to his head in an effort to remember the spell he had used in the Kalavela to bring rain. Even though in that case it had backfired an brought clouds of soot, he had to try; the forest fire was raging out of control. He made several passes and began to chant a few lines of rather poorly constructed poetry about April showers. He had sung the spell in Finland, but spoken verse seemed to work better in the world of Shakespeare.

Soon, large black clouds boiled overhead. Belphebe shuddered and put her arm around Shea. The air became still and damp and the goblins stopped their work. The crackling forest fire was all that could be heard. Even the witch Sycorax looked warily into the sky. A blinding flash of lightning struck, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder.

A fine mist filled the air. That soon turned to rain, which quickly became an unbelievable downpour. It was almost as though they were standing under Niagara Fails. Shea grabbed Belphebe with both arms. He could hardly even see her, The ground on which they were standing became a river and rushing water swirled around their legs. The spirits arrived and grabbed at Shea and Belphebe, pulling them along to higher ground just as a wall of water, laden with logs and broken trees, washed across the clearing.

* * *

Later, after the rain had stopped and the flash flood subsided, a sodden Shea surveyed the desolation below. The forest fire was out all right, and the goblins had been washed away. But so had half the countryside, and the grassy field had turned into a litter-strewn muddy swamp. Bitter-Root and Quamoclit were wringing out what remained of Belphebe’s clothes.

“I think I got the decimal point wrong on that one.” Shea said humbly.

“Is the fire not drowned, and are not our enemies gone with the flood?” said Quamoclit, turning to him with respect in her eyes.

“Yes, Harold,” chimed Belphebe, “the day is ours!”

Shea kept thinking of another line from Shakespeare: “The quality of mercy is not strain’d. . . .” Today it did more than droppeth gently from heaven upon the place beneath . . . and he felt, at the moment, extremely beneath.

Shea waded back into the mud and, with help from his companions managed to pull his flying broom out of the muck. Most of the feathers were missing, and it was all he could do to get it to limp along a few feet above the ground as they flew slowly back up the stream toward the spirit cave. The flood had certainly done an efficient job of clearing the valley. No help from the witch was even needed.

Belphebe nudged Shea and pointed ahead. Harold could just make out two figures mired in a sea of mud below. He nudged his flying mount closer. The figures turned into Votsy and Snag. The two men in the muck yelled and waved as the broom carrying Harold and Belphebe approached.

“Holy Saint Wenceslaus! You wouldn’t believe the storm we just had!” the Czech said excitedly as Shea cautiously landed the broom on the mud and his feet sank into the muck. Polacek was trying to free a log apparatus that looked rather like an oxcart, and was filled with round stones.

Belphebe laughed. “We would believe, Vaclav. Harold summoned the storm to quench a great fire in yon forest.”

“Bejesus. Harold, doncha think ya overdid it?” complained Polacek, “It nearly washed us away?”

“So I got the decimal point wrong, as usual. But it had to be done. . . . Where on earth have you been?” demanded Shea. “You were supposed to wait for us outside the witch’s cave?”

The Czech suddenly turned away, shamefaced. “Hey, we waited. Then a bunch of goblins came along and we had to make a strategic retreat before Snag could crack a few heads.” The sailor looked up and smiled. “When we came back, all hell had broken loose and the witch’s guards were everywhere. So we lay low till dark and then sneaked back to where the broom was hidden.”

“Twas there Pollychek found the book,” added Snag.

“You’ve got it?” Shea asked excitedly. Nonchalantly the Czech pulled the volume out from under his coat.

“Safe and sound. Your broom was gone, so I figured you and the missus had to be all right Then I had this idea,” Polacek slapped the log device full of rocks proudly. “We’ve got a whole army here!”

Belphebe’s eyes lit up. “You brought back the sailors from the beach!”

“You got it, toots. And this truck used to fly, albeit slowly, till rainmaker Harold washed us out with that biblical flood.”

Shea shook his still aching head in disbelief.

* * *

They spent the rest of the day, digging the “truck” out of the mire and finally managed to get the load of sailors, in the form of rocks, safely inside the spirit cave. There followed a heated debate between Polacek and Shea as to who would turn the stones back into men, and how.

The spirits, on the sidelines, sadly complained that the power of Sycorax was beyond them; their magic could not help.

At last a course of action was decided upon, much to Polacek’s dismay. Shea placed a stone on the center of a table. In very subdued and sonorous tones, he tried the sound magic he once used to raise simulacra. When he had finished there were two rocks on the table, but no sailors. He shook his head in dismay.

Shea let Polacek try next, with one of the spells Chalmers had intended to use to restore Florimel’s human form. There was a puff of smoke and his rock turned into a foot-long bullfrog.

Polacek burst out laughing. “A fitting end for a man of the sea!” Snag suddenly appeared and grabbed him by the throat,

“Hey! Hey! Just kidding, just kidding, Snag. It was a joke. Somebody put that frog in a box till I can fix him.”

Several hours later, the company went to sleep for the night with a cave still full of rocks.

* * *

After a fine conjured spirit breakfast, Shea felt refreshed and restored. He would have to find out just what they did to whip up such refreshing food! His mind turned back to the problem of the stones. Absently he watched Polacek fanning a rasher of bacon that was too hot to eat. Suddenly, Shea stood up with a start: