neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Buncan glared. “I’ll take care of you next, Othol.” The much smaller anteater stubbornly held his ground.

Fasvunk took a ponderous step forward, heavy paws held out in front of him in fighting mode. “You got to get through me first, toad-turd.”

Sucking in a breath, Buncan checked to make sure his duar was secure against his back, and adopted a stance. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable about this. Have it your way. No claws, and no biting.”

“Why not?” Fasvunk grinned. “So you can make the best use of your height? No restrictions, baldy.”

“Suit yourself.” Buncan presented his fists. “No death-dealing, though. I don’t want you ripping out my throat.”

“Hey, would I do that?” The bear opened his right paw, displaying half-inch-long claws. “Just a little nick here and there. Maybe I’ll carve my initials in your ass.” Several of the spectators giggled.

“And maybe,” replied Buncan threateningly, “I’ll twist off that stub you call a tail and shove it up your nose.”

Fasvunk’s smile vanished and he grunted heavily, advancing. “Like to see you try, human.”

“No one’s going to ‘try’ anything,” said a new voice.

The circle patted quickly to admit Master Washwum. Not that it would have mattered if they’d tried to hold their ground. The silverback gorilla went where he chose.

Adjusting his thick glasses, his gaze flicked from one antagonist to the other, his white collar stiff against his bull neck. “What’s this all about, then? You two at it again?” He glared at Buncan. “I thought I told you no more fighting.”

“Hey, he started it!” Buncan gestured at the somnolent black bulk of Fasvunk.

“Wasn’t me, sir.” The bear sounded appropriately chagrined.

The silverback’s nostrils flared. “I have just about had it with both of you. You! Get back to class.”

“Yes, sir.” Fasvunk turned and beat a hasty retreat back toward the buildings, followed by a wake of relieved onlookers.

“And as for you,” the gorilla began, turning his attention back to Buncan.

“You don’t like me,” Buncan said sharply. “You always side with him, or the others.”

“I do not side with anyone, boy,” said the silverback with great dignity. “But even you must admit that you are a caution to me.”

“If it’s about that piece of ensorceled carpet I put in your desk last week, that was intended for reupholstering your old chair. It needs it. I was just trying to do you a good turn.”

“It gave me a turn, all right,” Washwurn admitted. “Half a week’s worth of notes full of interwoven thread; unreadable.”

Buncan kicked absently at the dirt. “It was an accident.”

The gorilla considered his rambunctious pupil. “You are still intent on following in your father’s footsteps, aren’t you? If that is the case, you will find a solid academic background invaluable in your intended line of work. It will be especially helpful if it should develop that certain factors preclude your excelling in that difficult profession. Your voice, for example.”

“Don’t you criticize me too. Master Washwurn. I can play.”

“That’s not enough, a fact I am certain your father has repeatedly pointed out to you. I shall see you back in class. And see if you can’t somehow make peace with that unimaginative lump Fasvunk.”

Buncan’s voice fell to an irritated whisper. “Fasvunk’s a wus.”

Washwurn pretended not to hear. “And get yourself cleaned up.” He turned and with immense self-presence walked back toward the buildings.

Buncan followed him with his eyes. He was alone on the recess ground. His expression tightened as he turned and started running. Not toward the buildings, not after his instructor, but for the line of nearby trees. For the familiar succor of the forest, which did not criticize. For the balm of the Bellwoods, which welcomed without questioning.

He ran aimlessly, the Belltrees tinkling around him. He was a good runner, and it wasn’t long before he’d left both the school and the outer fringes of Lynchbany far behind. The same light breeze which stirred the bell leaves cooled him as he ran. Glass butterflies flitted brilliantly through the branches, and in a half-eaten bush coilpillars flashed metallic scales at him as he charged past.

Exhausted, he finally slowed to a walk. Sympathetic or not, Washwurn would still report the incident and his subsequent absence from class to his parents, Buncan knew. It wouldn’t be the first time. It meant he’d have to endure another lecture from his father. He’d far rather be beaten, but Jon-Tom was too enlightened for that. If only the old man knew how painfully his words fell on his offspring’s ears.

The river lay just ahead. He could follow the big curve around to the far side of Lynchbany and hang out there, with friends who had given up school and even thoughts of apprenticeship. Borgemont the mongoose would be awake soon, and Sissily, human like himself but much prettier, might put in an appearance.

Changing his mind, he headed south, sticking to the forest, heading for the one place where everyone sought answers. What he had in mind would be hard to go through with, perhaps even degrading, but he couldn’t go home yet and he couldn’t go back to school. It was the only place left.

Tenebrous clouds hung over the gigantic old oak. They didn’t worry him, because he knew they were only transitory. The rest of the sky was perfectly clear. It meant that Clothahump was at home and working. From time to time all manner of objects could be seen hovering over his tree: intersecting rainbows, lambent sunshine, tropical downpours, the occasional isolated fragment of befuddled comet. Less wholesome sights ofttimes greeted nocturnal visitors: swarms of dainty dark winged shapes with glowing orange eyes, or ticklish feelers.

Buncan was not afraid of clouds, no matter how threatening. He stepped out of the forest into the neatly mown clearing that surrounded the tree. Immediately a throaty nimble assaulted his ears, and he looked around anxiously.

Dipping out of the center of the boiling clouds was a tightly restrained swirling funnel, the tip of which poked and probed as if feeling for the earth like some necromantic drill.

Buncan’s first thought was to run and warn Clothahump. But what if the wizard wasn’t home? What if some old enemy was taking advantage of his absence to destroy the turtle’s beloved tree?

The duar was heavy against his back. He was completely confident in his playing, but his voice, his lyrics . . . What if he made things worse? What if instead of banishing the apparition he tempted it toward him?

As he equivocated it touched down, corkscrewing across the neatly manicured grounds, sending twigs and leaves and dust flying in all directions. Despite its extensive root system, a bubblebush weed was ripped from the soil to vanish into the howling funnel.

Then the swirling tip touched the tree itself. It grew momentarily darker, denser, before sliding neatly through a half-open upper-story window. He could still hear it, roaring and growling somewhere deep within the irreplaceable bole.

It was time to make a decision. He could race home and relate the tale to his father. Jon-Tom would surely know what to do. Or . . .

He could take action himself. Wasn’t that what he’d been wanting all along?

Unlimbering his duar as he walked, he strode purposefully across the meadow that isolated Clothahump’s tree from the rest of the forest.

When he reached the door he realized suddenly he had no idea how to proceed. More from reflex than forethought, he knocked.

To his shock and surprise, it was opened from within. A fluttering, hovering shape hung in the air before him. The young great homed owl regarded him disdainfully. It wore a short red vest embroidered in gold and silver thread with unrecognizable cabalistic symbols. Talons clutched a broom in one foot and a dustpan in the other.