neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Whoooooo the hell are youuuu? And what doooo youuuu want here?”

“Uh, I need to talk to Clothahump.” Duncan tried to see past the hovering owl. He could hear the wailing specter somewhere in the back.

“The Master is busy right now. Come back another tune.” The owl made as if to shut the door.

“Just a minute. Who’re you?”

“Mulwit, his famulus.”

Not for the first time it struck Buncan that Clothahump went through famuli the way an echidna went through termites. Using his bulk, he forced his way past the owl.

“This’ll just take a minute. My dad’s his partner.”

“Youuu’re Jon-Tom’s nestling?” Mulwit looked around uneasily. “It doesn’t matter. Youuu have to get out of here. If the Master catches me talking instead of working, it’ll go hard on me. But I shouldn’t let youuu in. Not now. Not in the middle.”

“Middle of what?” Buncan asked.

“Middle of everything. Go away.” With that Mulwit flew off up a side passage, his great wings scraping the walls with each powerful downbeat.

Left alone, Buncan thoughtfully closed the door behind him before starting up the narrow hallway that led into the depths of the interdimensionally expanded tree. Light globes illuminated the way.

Peering into a study filled with scrolls and books, he found it deserted and moved on.

“Clothahump? Master Clotnahump?” He came to the workshop and halted.

Suddenly it was right there.

Snarling and thundering, the funnel-shaped storm confronted him. Sticks and chunks of gravel spun wildly within the spiral structure. Instinctively he started to retreat, reaching for his sword.

It was at home, with his dress clothes. Weapons weren’t allowed in school.

The stout storm slid behind him and shoved him forward, into the room. He could feel the intensity of the collared winds, the power within. It could as easily have wrenched his head off his shoulders.

At which point Clothahump appeared, peering curiously over his glasses.

“What have we here? Buncan Meriweather, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Sir.” Buncan turned to stare at the storm, watching in awe as it scooted across the floor, over benches, tiptoeing daintily among delicate equipment. “I was worried about you, sir. I thought maybe this was some theurgic weapon called up by an enemy of yours. I see now that you control it. What hapless unfortunate is to be visited by this irresistible horror?”

“No one. I’m in the midst of my spring cleaning.”

Buncan pointed uncertainly at the coiled riot of a storm. “That has to do with spring cleaning?”

“Yes. It’s a tornado, albeit a small one. That’s your father’s name for it. Mine’s much longer, and I prefer his. They’re very useful meteorologic phenomenons . . . if you can keep them under control. Otherwise they make a total hash of everything.” Turning, he uttered a string of phrases which meant nothing to Buncan.

Compliant, the tornado took one last passing swipe at Buncan as it whizzed around the room, sucking the dust from window shelves, poking under carpets, scouring behind furniture, and generally going about the tasks Clothahump had assigned it earlier.

“Quite efficient, actually.” Ignoring the tornado, the wizard put a thick-fingered hand on Buncan’s back and eased him out of the workshop, leading him back toward the front study. “Have to renew the spell periodically, though, or it gets irritable. What brings you to the tree, lad?”

Buncan was glancing back over his shoulder. “I think it wanted to eat me.”

“Instinct. Don’t blame it for that. It’s a very effective, not to mention ecologically sound, method of cleaning, especially for those hard-to-reach spots.”

“What’s ‘ecologically’?”

“A term I acquired from your father. Something that sorcery needs to be more concerned with, I’m afraid. Have to stop dumping toxic waste in the third cosmic interstice, things like that. Bright fellow, your father, if a bit impulsive. Of course, he’s a human. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Somehow it seemed counterproductive to try to hide anything from the greatest wizard in the world. “I know. I’ve got problems.”

In tine study, Clothahump directed his visitor to the couch beneath the wide picture window while taking the stiff-backed chair directly across. “You’re eighteen. Of course you’ve got problems. All the troubles of the world have fallen exclusively on your shoulders, and you haven’t the vaguest notion how to cope with them.” The wizard glanced to his right. “Mulwit!”

The owl appeared in seconds, a heavily patterned headband restraining the feathers above its eyes. The broom and dustpan were gone, having been replaced by a rag and a bottle of amber liquid.

“Purebark tea for my visitor and me,” the wizard commanded. “Cold or hot?” he inquired of Buncan.

Why is it, he wondered, that whenever I want to talk about my troubles everyone keeps offering me tea? “Uh, hot, I suppose.”

“Be off!” Clothahump ordered.

The owl shot Buncan an impressively venomous look but soared away to comply. He returned in short order.

“Now then, lad.” The wizard adopted a benign tone as he poured himself a cup of the pungent liquid and stirred in a teaspoon of Noworry honey. “Tell me your problem.”

“Well, for one thing, the other kids know that my old man’s a spellsinger and they’re always teasing me about it It’s been that way ever since I started school. I’m sick of academics anyway.”

“Your father has mentioned the situation. He seems to believe you might be better off apprenticed to some worthy craftsperson. Or, if you choose to pursue your music, as a member of some larger group. These seem to me worthwhile goals for someone of your age to consider.”

“But I want to be a full-fledged spellsinger like Jon-Tom.”

“Yes, well,” the wizard demurred. He sipped at his tea as he crossed his short, thick-skinned legs. “Not just anyone can be a spellsinger, you know. It’s rather more difficult than, say, greengrocering. Your father is an exception. There has to be innate talent present, a special spark.”

Buncan tapped the duar strapped to his back. “I’ve inherited his ability. I know I have!”

“I don’t know that such ability is inheritable.”

“I can make magic already. I just can’t, well, make to do exactly what I want it to every time.”

“According to your father, you can’t make it do what yoa want it to any of the time.”

“Dad had similar troubles when he was starting out.”

“It wasn’t as extreme as it seems to be in your case. His voice was merely bad, and he utilized already composed lyrics from his own world. Not liking his music much, you improvise, and from everything I hear it would appear that while your playing may possibly be his equal, your singing is truly excruciating.”

Buncan winced. That criticism was becoming a part of him. An unpleasant part. “I’ll get better.”

“Perhaps. If you don’t kill somebody in the meantime.”

“So I mussed up the kitchen a little. So what?”

“From what I was told, your would-be spellsinging put your mother at some physical risk.”

“My mother, at physical risk?” Buncan tried not to laugh. “My mother could disembowel any three of the best swordsmen in Polastrindu before they could land a blade on her. With her balancing arm fastened behind her back.”

Clothahump wagged a stubby finger at his visitor. “The fact remains that you are dabbling in harmonic forces you imperfectly comprehend and cannot control.”

Buncan slumped back in the overpadded couch. “Why does that sound like a cliché to me?”

“Clichés are merely truths repeated to the point of boredom, lad.”