neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Oi! I’ve an idea, I ‘ave!”

“Now there’s an odd notion,” said Neena.

Squill ignored her. “Me sister and me, we ‘ave wonderful voices, we do. An’ we’re bloomin’ quick with wordplay.”

He twirled a whisker. “Otters are quick with everythin’. ”

“I ‘ave to admit that this one time me squish-brained brother ‘appens to be right,” Neena agreed. “Though I don’t see ‘is point.”

“Don’t you get it?” Squill eyed Buncan eagerly. “Wot if you played an’ we took care o’ the singin’?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Spellsinging’s not a cooperative enterprise.”

“Says who? Don’t wizards ofttimes work together to homogenize a big spell?”

“Sure, but that’s different.” Isn’t it? “We’ve known each other all our lives.” Neena enthusiastically took up her brother’s suggestion. “We’ve grown up together. We’re personally and emotionally compatible. Lots o’ times.”

“Being friends is different from making magic together,” Buncan argued.

“Bein’ friends is a kind of magic,” she countered.

“Much as it pains me deep to admit it, me brother might ‘ave somethin’ worth pursuin’ “ere.” Her eyes shone brightly.

“It’s worth a try, mate,” Squill added. “Wot’s to lose?”

“We can try that new kind of music.” A delighted Neena clapped both paws together. “The kind that Jon-Tom brought back from his last visit to the Otherworld, that our parents don’t like. That’s a good reason to use it.”

Buncan pondered. “You mean that rap stuff? I don’t know if I can play to accompany that.”

“Oh, sure you can, mate.” Squill exuded confidence. “It’s all beat. Just follow us. You can do that, can’t you?” “I suppose.” Who is the spellsinger here? he found himself wondering.

This wasn’t going to work, he told himself. But what else was he going to do? Slink homeward? Time enough for that. Time enough to deal with his parents, and Master Washwurn. “Okay. I’ll suggest some words-of-power I picked up from listening to Dad. You work them into whatever lyrics you improvise, and I’ll back you the best I can.” He hefted the duar, his fingers hovering over the strings.

The otters looked at each other. “Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill asked his sister. “We can’t just imitate one o’ those Other World songs we’ve ‘eard. It ‘as to be specific to the situation.”

“To the player.” Neena nodded at the black rectangle, which lay motionless on the ground in front of them.

While Buncan waited impatiently they discussed various approaches among themselves. Finally Squill indicated their readiness. Facing each other, the otters commenced . . . to rap. Music flowed from the duar as Buncan matched them chord for word.

“Got no music and we got no sound

Got to hear it clear if we wanna go ‘round

Play it loud and play it neat

Play it in the forest ‘cause we ain’t got no Street

‘Cause we wanna hear the beat

Dig it, wig it, feets for the beat!”

Certainly it was the first rap ever heard in the Bellwoods. The otters were nothing if not enthusiastic and facile improvisers. Buncan was hard-pressed to match their energy with music.

The radiance at the nexus of the duar intensified, darkening from pale pink to a deep rose hue. It expanded to envelop his fingers, then his hands.

The CD player began to quiver.

CHAPTER 4

THE OTTERS CONTINUED TO SING AS THE BLACK RECtangle bounced on its edges. Bounced in tune to the music, Buncan noted. As he looked on, a miniature golden vortex issued from the transparent, domed cover. Music began to emanate from the tiny built-in speaker. He didn’t recognize the song: He was too busy playing.

Abruptly the otters ceased then- rapping so they could stare. Buncan’s fingers stilled.

The player was now floating four feet off the ground, still jiving and bouncing to the music which issued from within. The words meant nothing to any of them, but that didn’t matter. Not now.

“Let’s make it louder.” Squill was enthralled by his own accomplishment. His sister nodded slowly, her eyes focused on the perambulating player. They resumed their rapping, while Buncan hastened to back them. Or were they backing him? He had no time to wonder.

In response to their efforts the music pouring from the player grew louder. Much louder. The black rectangle was now rotating rapidly on its axis, pierced through from top to bottom by the golden vortex. Around the trio the forest began to vibrate, the Belltrees ringing in time to the rap. Insects and small flying reptiles scattered in panic.

Duncan’s initial hesitation had vanished completely, his earlier depression displaced by the ecstasy of pure performance.

“This is great!” He had to shout to make himself heard above the music erupting from the energized CD, the harmonic vibrato of the duar, and the pounding pulse of hitherto never heard otter-rap. Sparks flew from the duar’s nexus. They were matched in intensity by bursts of celestial light that were flung off from the golden vortex. He’d been wondering what that was ever since it had first appeared. Now he felt that he knew.

It was music made visible.

And then, as the otters finished off a particularly zesty phrase, the vortex containing the CD player shot straight upward, climbing toward the clouds. Neena squealed in surprise.

At that the player paused, seemed to shudder slightly, and stopped. The vortex hummed energetically as it hovered motionless at treetop level.

The incipient spellsingers gathered beneath it, staring upward and occasionally dodging drizzling shards of effervescent music. As soon as these struck the ground they melted away like ice in a frying pan, notes sinking in descending scale into the music-moistened earth.

“Great.” Buncan brushed an errant b-flat from his forehead. “Now what do we do?”

Squill balanced his cap on his head as he craned his neck to study the player. It showed no inclination to descend from its lofty position.

“Don’t ask me, mate. You’re the one wot wants to be a spellsinger.”

Buncan felt his blood pressure rising. “You two got me into this.” He blinked. “Hey, what am I upset for? It’s not my dad’s player.”

The otters looked at him. “You can’t just leave it like this,” said Squill. “You’ve got to ‘elp us.”

Buncan shrugged. “That’s the way the magic falls.”

Neena clutched at his arm. “We’ve got to get it down, Bunky. If we don’t, Mudge will kill us.”

“Not to mention wot Mom’ll do.” Squill tried not to envision Weegee in a rage.

“We sang it up there,” Buncan pointed out. “If we try that again, it’s liable to vanish completely. But I don’t know what else to do.”

Squill looked unhappy. “Me neither.”

“Of course, we could get some help,” Buncan said thoughtfully. “Corander the raven could just fly up and pluck it out of the air.”

Squill shook his head doubtfully, the feathers in his cap fluttering. “The bloody thing might take off with ‘im, too. That’d be ‘ell to try an’ explain. No, spellsingin’ put it up there, it’d best be spellsingin’ we use to try an’ get it down.”

“You could climb that nearest tree,” his sister suggested,

“and take a jump at it.”

He glared at her. “Wot, am I a flyin’ squirrel?” He made an obscene suggestion.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Buncan plucked at the duar’s strings. “Let’s get it over with. But you’d better be prepared for it not to work.”

“It ‘as to work.” Neena and her brother backed up slightly and conferenced.

“Get on with it,” snapped Buncan after a while. He wasn’t impatient so much as he was nervous.