Brian Murphy - The Search For Magic

Without high rotational speed to steady it, the great wheel wobbled. Finally the long axle touched the snowy ground, and the amazing contrivance ground to a halt, leaning on its side like a monstrous child’s top.

A hatch opened on the axle’s upper surface and a head covered by a puffy black hat emerged. Mixun, though stiff and reeling from the cold, stood up and tried to look dangerous. Raegel didn’t bother. He sat crossed legged in the snow, awaiting whatever fate lay ahead.

The puffy black hat was attached to a puffy black suit. The person in the suit climbed out and dropped to the ground, staggered, and fell down. Another round, padded hat appeared in the hatch.

Mixun started toward the strange visitor. Raegel grasped his leg as he passed.

“You don’t know who they are,” he warned.

“They have warm clothes, and probably have food and drink,” Mixun said. “And I want some!”

By the time he reached the axle, four black-suited figures had come out. They all wobbled in circles, as if drunk. Mixun grabbed the closest one. He was small, shorter by half than Mixun, who was not a tall man. Mixun snatched at the lacing on the front of the puffy hat and shoved it back. Out came a mass of silver-white hair and an ageless pink face.

Gnomes. He should have guessed. The strange giant wheel had all the earmarks of a gnomish mechanism.

“Greetings!” cried the gnome. When Mixun did not promptly reply, he repeated his salutation in Elvish, Old High Dwarvish, Ogrespeak, then whinnied like a centaur.

“Common tongue will do,” Mixun said, setting the little fellow back on his feet. “Who are you?”

Eight minutes later the gnome concluded his name.

Three-quarters frozen, the only part Mixun remembered was the first bit: “Master maker of wheels, wheel-rims, spokes, hubs, axles, cotter-pins, bearings (roller and ball), fabricated in wood, bronze, brass, iron, and steel…” In lieu of all that, Mixun thought of him as “Wheeler” from then on.

The other gnomes gradually recovered their equilibrium and surrounded the freezing pair. They chattered volubly about the weather, thickness of the ice beneath their feet, the formation and texture of snowflakes-on and on without pause, as Raegel slumped to his knees and Mixun’s eyelashes grew heavy with frost.

“We’re dying!” he managed to gasp. “Can you help us?”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Wheeler. The near-identical gnome on his right said, “Over-active glands. Gets ‘em every time, these big people.”

“Maybe they have the Wingerish Fever?” said another.

“You have the Wingerish Fever,” said Wheeler severely. The gnome in question put a hand to his neighbor’s forehead.

“How can you say that?” he replied. “My blood pressure feels normal!”

“The c-c-cold,” Raegel chattered. His eyes fluttered and closed, and he fell backward in the snow.

“Dear, dear,” said Wheeler. “They aren’t dressed for the climate, are they? Come, let us repair to the Improved Self-Propelled Ice Engraver and warm these poor men.”

“Did I hear you say the ISPIE needs repair?” asked the gnome with the Wingerish Fever. “No!” said the other four gnomes.

Wheeler took Mixun by the hand and led him to the hollow axle of the stupendous wheel. The rest of the gnomes took hold of Raegel’s hands and feet and dragged him to the open hatch.

The interior of the axle was very tight, sized as it was for beings of gnomish height and bulk. Mixun crawled through a thorny hedge of levers, rods, and pulleys, finally falling exhausted between two brackets of the axle frame. At least it was warm.

The gnomes put Raegel in the niche across from Mixun. One gnome gave him a steaming mug of liquid, and Mixun took it gratefully. He raised the cup to his lips, but the smallest of the gnomes stopped him.

“That’s not a beverage,” he said.

Mixun looked over the mug rim at the round, pink-faced creature, framed by a wreath of silver-white hair. The gnome’s wide, round eyes were filled with concern.

“What’s it for?” he asked.

“It’s Supreme Cold Weather Foot Wash. You pour it on your feet.”

Mixun stared at his boots-encrusted in snow, which was rapidly melting. The littlest gnome took the mug from his hand and poured the steaming green liquid over his feet. The snow disappeared, and a strong sensation of warmth flooded Mixun’s feet. Unfortunately, the most appalling stench also arose. Mixun covered his nose with his hand and said, “Faw! What’s that stink?”

“A side effect of the compound,” said the gnome. “I’m still working on it. But your feet are warmer, are they not?”

He had to admit they were. Pleased despite the smell, he asked the gnome his name.

Seven and a half minutes later (for he was younger than Wheeler, and therefore had a shorter name), the little gnome finished his proud epithet. From it, Mixun understood the gnome was a maker of oils and unguents, a mixer of soaps, greases, and anything slippery. Because of his expertise, Mixun dubbed him “Slipper.”

“Take start positions!” Wheeler shouted. Slipper thrust a second mug of footwarmer upon Mixun.

“For your friend,” he said, and dashed away.

“Flywheel to neutral! Spring tension sixty percent! Wind velocity, twenty-two!”

“Blood pressure one hundred seventeen over fifty-five,” said the gnome with Wingerish Fever.

“Shut up!” said the rest.

Huddled between the axle ribs, Mixun could see the gnomes hopping about, working their mysterious apparatus and happily shouting numbers and figures at each other. The center of the axle was a cage-like structure made of wire and rattan, and inside this stood Wheeler, his feet planted on a narrow board studded with four small wheels. That puzzled Mixun. Why was the gnome standing on a wheeled platform?

“Make secure all loose securables!” Wheeler cried.

The gnomes took turns strapping each other into bags of rope netting hanging from rings on the axle wall. When one gnome was fully laced into his bag, his neighbor would climb into his own hammock and wait for the secure gnome to wriggle out and lace him. Mixun thought this would go on forever, as one gnome would always be left free by such an absurd process, but after several go-rounds, the last free gnome was tied in place by Wheeler, who left his rattan cage just long enough to finish the job. He climbed back onto his wheeled plank, threw a big lever, and the giant wheel began to shake.

All at once Mixun realized he and Raegel weren’t tied down at all. “Ho!” he called. “What about us?”

“No time for tea or hotcakes now,” said Wheeler, setting a pair of leather-framed goggles over his eyes.

Mixun was about to protest when the gnomes threw several levers at once. The windmill vanes outside caught the wind, and their motion was transferred by crown gears to a huge stone flywheel inside the rim of the great wheel itself. As the ponderous disk of granite gained speed, ropes wound tight, sandbag counterweights rose and fell, and the entire device shivered with building power. The tip of the axle lying on the ice rose a bit, then fell back with a bump. Mixun braced his arms against the hull and looked on wildly.

His feet warmed and stinking, Raegel came to. Rubbing the melted frost from his eyes, he saw his friend facing him, gulped, and said, “Hullo, Mix. What’s happening?”

“Gnomes!” That said it all.

The axle rose again, higher this time, wobbled in a circle and dropped back once more. Both men were thrown in the air and settled back in their former places with a heavy thump.

Wheeler picked up a mallet and used it to whack a large, red-painted peg outside his cage. With a shriek of tortured tackle and straining leather straps, the full force of the flywheel was applied to the outer wheel structure. The axle leaped into the air, shaking violently. Pounding blows rattled Mixun’s teeth and made Raegel’s head bang painfully against the wooden axle wall. Mixun knew what was causing the bone-jarring vibration-the sharp iron plows were chewing up the ice again.