David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers

“Hold on!” screamed Purple. Wait —”

A precious moment of stillness while we fell through the angry sky. Still too fast, too fast — were we slowing at all?

Another crash of thunder — this one closest of them all. A second flash of whiteness.

Purple was a stark silhouette. He was grim-faced, but suddenly stern. He stared at the uprushing water with no sign of emotion. Had he miscalculated? Would we hit the water too hard?

The image of a splintering airboat filled my mind — why had I ever come on this god-cursed journey?

“Ballast!” he shouted and disappeared from his post. For a moment I thought he had fallen, but with the next crash of thunder I saw him below, tugging at the ballast bags. Wilville was already there, just emptying one over the side.

“I’ll help!” I hollered, but he yelled back, “Stay where you are, Lant — it’ll be safer — tie off the airbags! Don’t release any more gas until I tell you to!”

He cast about frantically then, looking for things to throw overboard. His eye lit on a pile of cloth — “What the —?”

Shoogar yelped from the rigging, Those are my sails!”

“Good!” And with that, he snatched them up and heaved them over the side. Shoogar began screaming curses, but they were lost in the loudest crash of all.

The spare windbags followed the sails, as did half our food and water. Wilville had emptied all the ballast bags by now and was helping Purple.

We were still falling. A sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach told me were about to die.

Purple called for me to unreel a windbag nozzle, but not to untie it. What was he planning? He grabbed it as it fell, and hooked it to his funnel. He had a ballast bag between his legs; he plunged the nozzle and battery device into the bag of water. I saw him turn the battery up to its maximum release of electrissy. Great gulps of gas roared up the hose — the windbag expanded terrifically.

Purple waved to Wilville. “Get up in the rigging!” he bellowed. “It’ll be safer!”

I could see long streamers of foam below us. We were falling at little more than a fast gallop — the sea was a wall of blackness — I could see the individual waves — Cra-a-ack — the boat smacked down with a great splash that sent water in all directions. For a sickening moment all the ropes were slack — then they snapped taut again as the balloons leapt back. There was a yelp from behind me — Shoogar — I turned in time to see Orbur lose his grip and fall into the water, but he surfaced again almost immediately and began paddling for an outrigger.

Wilville was climbing down from the rigging then to see if Purple was all right, but the magician was screaming: “The balloons! The balloons! We’ve got to finish deflating the balloons!”

“Then you’d better disconnect that!” pointed Wilville.

Purple looked, saw his battery and funnel device lying in a puddle of water at the bottom of the boat. The puddle boiled. Purple yelped and leapt for it.

The boat rocked as Orbur climbed into it, his fur plastered wetly to his body. He started up the rigging to join us, then stopped. He cocked his head oddly — “Wait a minute!” he called. “Don’t deflate the balloons yet.”

“Huh?” Purple cried. “What are you —” Then he stopped too. There was a distant cough of thunder. Behind us. Far behind us.

“The storm is over,” said Orbur. “We’re past it.”

“We fell through it,” muttered Shoogar. He began climbing down. The bird’s nest , where he had been holding onto it, was bent out of shape.

The rolling sea lifted us up and dropped us down. Lifted us up and dropped us down.

The boat lay askew in the water. One of the outriggers had snapped halfway off and had to be retied before we dared to ascend again. Wilville and Orbur were working on it now.

The balloons — nearly empty now — dropped flaccidly above us. They had barely enough gas to hold themselves aloft. We had been sitting in the sea for half a day now. The red sun was seeping into the west, and the day was ever darkening. Purple sat glumly in the rear of the boat with his battery and his filling framework. Shoogar was half-heartedly bailing water. Apparently we had sprung a small leak somewhere.

I staggered aft, stumbling once. “How bad is our situation, Purple?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s not good, I can tell you that. I used an awful lot of power in my attempt to pump up the balloons.”

“But you had to — you had no choice.”

“I shouldn’t have panicked though. I was so afraid we were going to be struck by lightning that I let the gas out of the bags too fast, then I used up too much power trying to replace it. And I don’t think I did that much good. All I did was make steam. I’m sure some oxygen got mixed up with the hydrogen.” He peered upward at the limp airbags. “I’m afraid this may be the end of our journey, Lant.”

I looked around me. Fortunately, Shoogar and the sons had not heard. Or, if they had, they showed no sign. “Are you out of power completely?”

“No, but I’m not sure there’s enough to refill the balloons, Lant —”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Purple nodded. “Yes, of course — we will have to try it. The only thing is, I have to save some power with which to call down my flying egg. I’m not sure I have enough to do both.” He scratched thoughtfully at his chin hair.

I thought hard. “Why don’t we use another ballast spell? Throw away some more weight?”

He started to shake his head to that, then — “Wait! You’re right, Lant. We can lighten this boat considerably. We can’t be that far from land!” He stood up, began looking around for things to throw overboard.

He tugged at a bundle. “What’s this?”

The spare windbags. Orbur found them floating in the water.”

“Oh,” He started throwing them over again. “I’m sorry, Lant,” he said to my shocked expression, “But it’s the same situation as when we were falling. It’s either us or them. Now, what else — what’s in here?”

“Quaff skins, water skins, sour melons, sweet melons, smoked meats — Purple, what are you doing?”

“Throwing it overboard, Lant. We packed enough food for three or four weeks. We don’t need that much. I’m keeping only enough for two more days.” He began dropping armloads of it over the side.

“Not that!” I protested, but he ignored me — the Quaff went too.

We stumbled forward, looking for other things to throw out. The sea rolled around us, rocking the boat and carrying away our hard-won treasures. Our Quaff.

The blankets followed the food, all but three — which Purple agreed might be necessary. He picked up a twisting tool, “Orbur, are you through with this?” Orbur nodded.

“Good,” said Purple. It splashed over the side. He moved forward again. “What’s this junk —”

“Not that!” yelped Shoogar. “That’s my spellcasting equipment!”

“For God’s sake, Shoogar — what’s more important, your life or your spells?”

“Without my spells I wouldn’t have a life,” snapped Shoogar.

For a moment I wondered if maybe Purple wasn’t considering throwing Shoogar over too. But instead he thrust his spell kit back at him. “Here, this must be as important to you as my battery is to me. If something this light is enough to make a difference — well, if we’re that far gone it won’t matter one way or another. Keep it.” Shoogar took his kit and examined it carefully.

Purple stumbled forward and began to empty out the small cabin framework there.

Wilville climbed back into the boat then. “The outrigger is fixed,” he announced.

“Good,” said Purple, dumping an armload of things. He wobbled back to us and began throwing the tools overboard. That done, he straightened and said, “I guess we’re ready to ascend now. Orbur, will you pull down the first of the windbag nozzles while I ready the gasmaker?”