neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Neena glared at him. “We ‘ave to be careful, Bickles. Fok up the first time an’ we might not get a second chance, wot?” She brushed glistening notes from her shoulders.

They began to sing, a slow, relaxed rap this time, almost languorous. Caught off guard by the unexpected shift in tempo, it took Buncan a moment to figure out the correct fingering.

“Sounds too high, my oh my

Don’ wanna send it up in the sky

Put it down on the ground

Where it can be found

Sound, sound, pound it in the ground

Beats for the feet, feets for the beat!

We’ve ‘ad our treat, now takes a seat”

The duar’s nexus pulsed softly, an ethereal pale blue mis time. It did not look or feel promising. Indeed, the CD player actually rose another few feet instead of descending. Then it stopped and hovered, seemingly confused.

Still pounding out tracks from the disc spinning within, it commenced a steady regression, descending in time to the otter’s slow-paced rap. The golden vortex attenuated, contracting in upon itself, until it was no thicker than a rotating golden pencil. A few random, ersatz notes flaked off, but they were few now and chords between.

As the rap concluded, the player settled to the ground. The supportive vortex vanished utterly. When it had winked out completely, Squill made a dive for the device. It tried to squirt clear of his grasping fingers, but sometimes even magic isn’t as quick as an otter. He got one paw on the box, then the other, rolled over and sat up, waving it triumphantly. Exhausted, it didn’t so much as quiver in his hands. The music from within ceased.

Neena hurried over for a look. “Is it all right? Is the bloody thing damaged?”

Squill was turning it over in his fingers, careful to keep a firm grip on the plastic in case it was playing dead, waiting for an opportunity to jump free.

“Seems okay to me.”

Clutching the duar by its neck, Buncan came over for a look. “Pop the cover.”

Squill complied. The motionless silver disc inside was warm to the touch but otherwise unchanged. Buncan picked out a loose f-sharp and dumped it aside. It landed discordantly near his boots.

The otter snapped the cover shut and shoved the player into his pouch. “That were too bleedin’ close. Thought we’d lost it for sure.”

Neena’s eyes were flashing. “We spellsang! Bugger me if we didn’t, Buncan!”

“We did, didn’t we?” He eyed the duar thoughtfully. “I wonder why your father never tried singing along with mine.”

“Cor’, mate,” said Squill, “ ‘ave you ever ‘eard Mudge sing? ‘Is voice is worse than yours an’ Jon-Tom’s put together, it is.”

“That might explain it,” agreed Buncan dryly.

Neena put an arm around her brother. “We got our voices from our mum, we did.”

“You realize what this means?” Buncan said slowly.

“Yeah,” piped Squill. “We can ‘ave music anytime we want.”

“It means,” continued Buncan solemnly, “that while I can spellsing by myself, with your help I can do serious magics. I can realize my dreams.”

“Wot dreams?” Neena was suddenly wary.

“Save the world. Defeat evil in ail its manifestations. Rescue fair damsels in distress.”

Squill sauntered back to the arching tree root. “Far be it from me to divert your current, Buncan, but I’m real ‘appy swimmin’ and eatin’ and sleepin’. I ain’t got no crawfish on me tail spurrin’ me to save the blinkin’ world. Let the world take care o’ itself, says I.” He wore a reflective expression as he lay down on the root. “Though I ‘ave to admit the fair damsel part sounds intriguin’.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Buncan walked over to peer down at his recumbent friend. “Where’s your desire to surmount the impossible?”

“Rather surmount a fair damsel.” Squill grinned.

“We’ve ‘eard all about that sort o’ thing from Mudge,” Neena pointed out. “Once you throw out the eighty percent o’ ‘is stories that’s out-an’-out lyin’, the rest o’ it still sounds unpleasant.”

“Let’s try just one more experiment.” Duncan walked away from them, toward the riverbank. Exchanging a resigned whistle and a reluctant glance, the two otters followed. “If it doesn’t come off, I promise I’ll drop the whole business. If it does,” he looked back over his shoulder, “you’ll agree that not to make use of our combined abilities is a real waste of talent, and that you’ll consider coming with me.”

“Going with you?” Neena was pacing alongside him. “Going with you where?”

“Why, to . . .” Buncan hesitated. “I haven’t figured that part of it out yet.”

“Bleedin’ precise,” muttered Squill. “You’ve inherited Jon-Tom’s sense o’ direction as well as his musicianship.” Buncan marched around a bubblebush, ignoring the peach-scented globules that floated out of the mature, oval-mouthed flowers. “Admit it: What we just accomplished was tantalizing.”

“CM, I’ll admit to that,” agreed Squill. “Been a bloody sight more excitin’ if we’d lost Mudge’s player. Could’ve been fatal.”

“We don’t have to try anything that extreme this time.” Buncan worked to soothe his wary friend. “Something simple, to prove we can do this.” “I thought we just did that,” Neena wondered aloud. Buncan reached out and ruffled the fur on the back of her neck. “That player had previously been activated by one of my dad’s spellsongs. We need to do something from scratch, something that’s all our own.” There was eagerness in his voice. “I’ll think of something.” “That’s wot worries me,” Squill murmured. Without stopping, Buncan turned, continued walking backward. “Just one spell that’s all our own. If it doesn’t work I promise I won’t bring this subject up again.”

“You’re a liar, Bunkies.” Neena batted her lashes at him. “But I loves you anyway.” She glanced at her brother. “Wot ‘ave we got to lose, mussel-breath?” “If a spellsing goes awry?” Squill thrust out his lower lip. “Not much, I wager. Our fingers, maybe. Our voice boxes. Our ‘eads.”

“I’ll be careful,” Buncan assured him. “If it looks dangerous, I can kill the spell by putting the duar down. Or you can alter your lyrics, or just stop singing. You’ll be as much in control as I will.”

“Oi, that’s right.” Squill was still reluctant—he remembered too many of bis father’s stories—but with both Buncan and his sister egging him on, he finally gave in.

They reached the river and halted. Downstream lay the little aqueous suburb of Twinkle’s Bend, home to Squill and Neena, their parents Mudge and Weegee, and a diverse but generally copacetic assortment of riparian citizens: more otters, muskrats, beavers, kingfishers, and other water avi-ans, as well as those locals who simply preferred to live close by running water and the delights it afforded. Presently the river below them was deserted. The Shortstub did not carry anywhere near the volume of commerce of its much larger relative, the Tailaroam, which ran deep and wide all the way down to the Glittergeist Sea.

Buncan had spent many a contented afternoon splashing and diving with his friends in those invigorating waters. They were good about not teasing him, for while he was an excellent swimmer for his kind, no human alive could match the aquatic acrobatics of even the youngest, most inept otter.

It was something other than swimming that was currently on his mind, however.

The bank on which they stood rose some nine feet above the river, falling in a gentle slope to a gravelly beach. At the high-water mark mature trees gave way to weeds and bushes. Sunbeams splashed dappling on the languid water with the ease and skill of a knife spreading butter. Nothing moved in the forest on the far side, though the Belltrees there chorused in counterpoint to those on the other side every time they were agitated by a passing breeze.