David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers

“Lant! It is the Cove of Mysteries — or what’s left of it. We are not far from the old village, just a few miles south of it.”

Purple came up behind me, a clicking device in his hands. I had noticed it on his belt before, but he had never explained its use. Now he tapped it experimentally and frowned. At last he smiled, “The level of — “ He used a demon word here, “is not as high as I thought it would be, not much higher than the normal background level. Certainly not dangerous, anyway. It will be safe to walk in this area.”

The boat was splashing through the waves now, and Purple directed the boys to head for a place where the ground sloped gently into the water. We could see one not too far ahead, and the boys shifted direction to make for it.

Purple peered ahead. “Lant, how far are we from Critic’s Tooth?”

“Well, it used to be over there, Purple,” I pointed. A few cracked, half-melted slabs of rock marked a conspicuous gap in the mountains to the north.

He misunderstood. “That peak is Critic’s Tooth?”

“No, that’s Viper’s Bite — one of the lesser foothills before Critic’s Tooth. Critic’s Tooth is gone.”

“Oh.”

The whole range of jagged mountains is called the Teeth of Despair. Critic’s Tooth was one of the sharpest peaks. The region is ruled by the mad demon, Peers, who gnashes and gnarls mightily. He attacks natives and strangers alike. We should approach no closer, lest he blame us for the damage to his Teeth.”

Purple was looking at his ticking thing again, waving it and pointing it. “A good idea.”

We bounced through the surf. There was a gentle bump as the nose of the boat slid up onto the sand. We had reached the northern shore.

“The Cathawk has landed!” shouted Wilville. The Cathawk has landed!”

As one person we jumped for shore, Shoogar and Purple and I scrambling over each other.

At last we stood on solid ground again. The land was desolate, mostly naked rock, blood-colored in the westering light of Ouells and the overhead glow of Virn, but it was solid. No more standing in air, no more standing in water. No more standing in both at the same time.

If ever I returned safely home, I swore, I would never again risk my life in so foolhardy a venture. The skies were not friendly.

Wilville and Orbur had slung up the airpushers and pulled the Cathawk high on the shore, out of reach of the lapping waves. Immediately they began filling the ballast bags, and the interior of the boat as well, with a low level of water. They began checking the rigging, the bicycle frames, and even the watertightness of the boatframe and the balloons. They acted as if they expected the Cathawk to fly again. How, I could not imagine. The gasbags were all limp from leakage, and I did not trust the seams on several of them. They still extended upward from their ropes, but none were very determined about it.

How they hoped to refill the windbags, I did not know.

Shoogar was walking around and chuckling to himself. “I won’t have to acquaint myself with the local spells or the local gods at all. I can start as soon as I check the moons…” and he wandered off toward a distant blackened hill, carrying his spell kit.

A strange black crust covered everything. It shattered when one stepped on it and left miniscule shards, or stinging dust which went up in wisps before the surly wind. Curious, I crunched across the ground toward the hill where Purple stood. He was attaching his big battery to another of his endless spell devices.

He looked both sheepish and defiant as I came up. “Well, I have to try it, don’t I ?”

“But you said it was dead.”

“Perhaps I’ve come to believe in magic,” said Purple. “Nothing else seems to work.” And he finished attaching the wires to the disc-shaped thing from his belt.

He twisted a knob, but nothing happened.

“This yellow eye should light up to show it’s working,” Purple explained, smiling foolishly. He twisted the knob again, harder this time, but the yellow light still did not appear.

“Magic doesn’t work either,” he said. He sighed.

I knew just how he felt then. I longed to be going home myself.

How strange! — that I should consider an area that I had lived in for only a short time as my home; while this bleak map, the blasted remains of the village where I had spent most of my life, was no longer home but a strange and alien land. “Home” was a new land and a different life across the sea.

For that one terrible moment Purple and I were alike. Two strangers, marooned on a bleak and blackened shore, each longing for his home, his wives, and his Quaff.

“All I needed was one surge of power,” said Purple. “Shoogar was right. You can’t mix symbols.”

He picked up his useless devices and trudged slowly down the hill. The ground crunched beneath his feet.

There was nothing to eat. I lay therein the darkness and listened to the roar of the surf and the rumble of my stomach. Man was not meant to live without bread alone. I was dizzy with hunger. My thoughts didn’t even make sense any more.

Purple had spent the red day wandering dully up and down this landscape of despair. I and my sons waited. There was little else we could do. Shoogar was the only one with a sense of purpose. He had positioned himself patiently at the top of a nearby slope to wait for the moons. He chanted a song of triumph.

Purple muttered incessantly. “When the seas recede, we could walk back. Lant’s people did it before. We can do it again. Yes, we could walk back. The generators are still there, the looms are still there. I could recharge my battery. We could make another flying machine. Yes, of course. And this time, we would know better. I would have my battery fully charged. Fully charged. We wouldn’t have to make the same mistakes again. That’s it, we left before we were fully ready. We weren’t tested or experienced enough. But we came so close, so close. Next time, we’ll do it better and we’ll succeed. Next time, next time. Next time —”

He crunched through the dark, mumbling insanely. He would pick up rocks and examine them, then throw them down again and stumble on.

I stared up into the dark at the twinkling moons. There would be no next time. I was sure of that. Shoogar wasn’t going to let there be a next time . From his hill there was only silence now.

I turned over on my blanket and raised up on my elbows. “Purple,” I called, “you should try to rest”

“I can’t, Lant,” he called back. There was a skidding sound and a thump. “Ow —”

“What’s the matter?” I leapt to my feet, thinking Shoogar had struck in the dark.

But no — Purple’s flashlight went on revealing that he had tripped over a boulder. He lay there in his impact suit, grinning foolishly.

I walked over and helped him up. The night was stale and still; the surf was a distant rumble. We stood in the dark, Purple’s light the only thing in existence, casting an eerie white aura into the chaotic blackness.

Purple switched it off. “I guess I’d better save my power,” he said — and stopped.

There was deathly silence. Not even insects still lived in this accursed land. “Save my power,” Purple repeated quietly. His hands clamped on my shoulders and he screamed, “Power! In my flashlight! In my flashlight, Lant!”

“Let go, curse it!” He was as strong as an old ram.

“ Power , Lant! Power !”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Purple. Wait until you get a response from your mother nest.”

He sobered instantly. “Yes, you’re right, Lant,” There was a scraping sound in the dark as he removed the flashlight’s small battery, another sound as he pulled the calling device from his belt, an incomprehensible curse as he tried to attach the wires in the dark. He worked eagerly, impatiently — I could not blame him.