neetha Napew - The Time Of The Transferance

A series of small drums wound round a central post like fruit on a branch. Grotesque horns hung next to attenuated woodwinds. On the floor was a pipe carved from the trunk of a single tree. It must have weighed a hundred pounds or more and had fingering holes the size of Jon-Tom’s fist.

“Bear pipe,” Izzy explained. His voice was high and reedy, not unlike that of some of his stock. “I sold the former owner a duplicate of much lighter wood and accepted this in part payment. It’s been here a long time.”

“I can see why,” Jon-Tom said. “No one but another bear could lift it.”

“So true, but I enjoy watching customers try. Sometimes a big cat will get it off the ground. Then they find they don’t have the lung power to operate it. What maybe perhaps possibly can I do for you, sir? By your stance and attire I divine you are a person of means, for all that you appear to enjoy associating with lesser lifes. I will be most very muchly pleased to help you, just as soon as your friend returns the small gold music box to the cabinet from which he has removed it.”

Jon-Tom whirled to glare back at Mudge. The otter sheepishly removed an exquisitely made music box in the shape of a clavier from his inside vest pocket and put it back into the open display cabinet in front of him.

“I were just ‘avin’ a close look at it, mate. Tis a pretty thing and I thought of buyin’ it, I did.”

“I know, and you had to see whether or not it would ride comfortably in your breast pocket.”

“Very comfortably I’m sure,” said Izzy agreeably. “My name, you should know, friends, comes from my dancing talent and not any inability to take care of business.”

“Pfagh.” Mudge made a show of sauntering over to inspect a clock that was at least as tall as he was. “ Tis all right for me to look at this one or do you think I’ll try an’ walk off with it when you ain’t lookin’?”

“I’d put nothing not at all never past an otter.” The indri smiled back at Jon-Tom. “What appeals to you, friend? What can I sell you? A timepiece?”

“I have plenty of time. I need something else. I am a spellsinger.”

The indri peered intently at his customer over the rims of his glasses. “Truly absolutely for sure so? A spellsinger? I’ve never met one myself though I once had an encounter with a substantial rumor.”

Jon-Tom indicated the sack secured to his backpack. “Got a busted duar with me. I don’t suppose you could fix it?”

“A true duar? Far beyond my meager skills, friend magic music maker. I’m no dabbler in the arcane arts.”

“Then I don’t guess you’d have one for sale, either.”

“Ah ah, because I do not myself personally me deal with magic does not mean I am unwilling or unable to trade in it. Sadly unfortunately discouragingly I have no duar to sell you. In fact, in all the years I have been in this business I have never so much as seen set eyes upon viewed a duar. I however have an item or two that might do for you.”

The first instrument he produced from below his counter resembled a piccolo with Pinocchio syndrome. Tiny secondary pipes emerged from the central tube like the branches of a tree. It was fashioned of holly wood and inlaid with mother of pearl.

“Difficult hard troublesome to play, but it is said that in the right hands it can make rain and snow.”

“I’m not a weatherman. I need something more versatile.”

“I understand comprehend got you.” Izzy put the flute aside and placed a pocket accordion on the counter. There were only four keys on each side of the little squeezebox. Jon-Tom gave it a try out of curiosity. It made a sound like a overweight hog trying to sing Wagner. Mudge looked pained.

“What does it do?”

“A proper musician can bring food and drink into being and the quality of the food varies according to the sweetness of the song.”

“Forget that then,” said Mudge. “If we ‘ad to depend on the smoothness of ‘is voice to get us out o’ trouble we’d ‘ave been dead a ‘undred times over by now.” He nodded curtly at the squeezebox. “Tryin’ to make food with that we’d bloody well starve to death.”

Jon-Tom made a face at the otter but pushed the instrument back across the counter. “I don’t know how to play the thing anyway.”

Izzy looked discouraged. “Then I suppose assume guess I must let you have the one item which might really be of use to you.”

Jon-Tom’s face lit up when he first saw the instrument the indri removed from a locked box behind the counter, but his initial excitement faded as he inspected the workmanship more closely. There were similarities to his own instrument, but a duar it was not. There was a resonating chamber, smaller and simpler than his own, different controls, and only one set of metal strings. They did fade into insubstantiality where they crossed the resonating chamber, but they did not vanish entirely into another dimension.

“A suar.” Izzy plucked idly at the strings. “This little beauty was owned by a pinheaded prestidigitator who used it only on holidays.”

Mudge had sauntered over to inspect the instrument closely. “Stuff the sales pitch, bug eyes. Do it work?”

“So I am told, though the owner was hardly what one would call a master of magic. Perhaps in more skilled hands....” He left the thought unfinished.

“Looks a lot like an ordinary mandolin.” Jon-Tom accepted it from the indri. “If it wasn’t for this,” and he indicated the place where the strings faded from view, “I’d say you were trying to sell me an ordinary musical instrument.”

“Not for three hundred gold pieces I’m not.”

“Three hun...” Mudge choked on the figure, then put a hand on Jon-Tom’s arm. “Come on, mate. I never thought I’d meet a bigger thief than meself, but ‘tis finally ‘appened.”

“Too expensive,” said Jon-Tom. The indri tried to appear indifferent. “As you wish. Another willing to pay will come along. Music is cheap. Magic is expensive.”

Jon-Tom hesitated, ran his fingers experimentally over the strings. Strange to be strumming one set instead of two, but it reminded him of his electric guitar back home in a way the duar never could. “Can I try it out?”

“Certainly of course naturally.” The indri bestowed a frosty stare on Mudge. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to cheat you.”

Jon-Tom tried a few impassioned stanzas of Pink Floyd’s “Money.” The result was not what might have been hoped, but neither did it prove the storekeeper a liar. A tiny white cloud materialized in the air of the shop, drifted about uncertainly for a minute, then excreted a miniature lightning bolt. Instead of thunder the cloud made a noise like a cash register and a shower of coins began to rain on the indri’s counter. The cloud eventually gave out and dissipated, but not before exactly three hundred large coins lay in a gleaming pile on the hardwood. The only problem was they were silver rather than gold.

“Best I can do,” Jon-Tom said apologetically.

“Ah well.” Izzy surveyed the pile. “It is a suar and not a duar.”

“But the magic works. I can spellsing with this.” Jon-Tom held the instrument out at arm’s length. “The power is there, but not the strength. I’ll just have to scale down my expectations. Will you take the silver and,” he considered carefully, “five pieces of gold? We still have an ocean voyage to pay for.”

“Done! Finished, completed, agreed upon.”

Mudge sidled up close to his friend. “You could’ve bargained ‘im down and got it for a lot less, mate.”

“A lot less than what, Mudge? We got it for a song.”

The otter was eying the pile of silver hungrily. “Then ‘ow about givin’ us another demonstration, mate? Just for entertainment value, wot?”