neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“You’re forgetting, sir. Remember when we first journeyed south to the Tailaroam River to seek transport upstream to Polastrindu? So that we could all travel together in ease and comfort, I called forth a fine L’borian riding snake.”

“You’re right. I had forgotten. I remember now, though— just as I remember that you were trying to conjure up something entirely different. You were as startled by the snake’s appearance as the rest of us.”

Jon-Tom looked away and coughed slightly. “So I was. But at least I produced something, and it turned out to be perfectly serviceable. This time I’m going to try for a L’borian riding snake. Having already conjured one previously, I ought to be able to produce it on demand.”

The wizard considered, said reluctantly, “I admit I was not looking forward to the long tramp into Lynchbany. I am of a mind to give my blessings to your attempts. If you are confident . . .”

“Of course, I’m confident.”

Clothahump sighed. “My legs feel older even than my head. We could avoid the sordid haggling that would surely ensue over the hiring of a coach. Very well, then. Let us see what you can produce. But let us move outside first. Some of this furniture is old.”

Jon-Tom followed, feeling several inches taller. Not literally this time, but emotionally, for no perturbation was affecting the world. This was the first time he had actually been requested to spellsing by the wizard, and he was determined not to let his benefactor and teacher down.

The morning was crisp and clear, with the first bite of fall in the air. Clothahump’s anxiety to hurry on their way was caused by the nearness of winter, when the paths to the Northern Plateau could become clogged with early snows. It was difficult to imagine everything cloaked in white, so brilliant were the red and gold hues of the forest.

They set their packs aside. Jon-Tom prepared himself while Clothahump placed a simple but effective lockspell on his front door. Then he and Sorbl stood off to one side while Jon-Tom walked out into the taller grass, away from the shade of the enormous old oak tree.

He let his fingers strum the duar’s double set of strings, adjusted the mass and tremble controls, and cleared his throat. Sorbl left his master’s side and tried to edge inconspicuously around behind the bulk of the tree. Clothahump was made of sterner stuff. He sympathized with his apprentice’s apprehension but held his ground.

Jon-Tom stood off by himself and let individual chords and notes tumble from the duar. This was not the first time he’d had to hesitate. The problem was that while he knew exactly what he wanted to bring forth, he didn’t know what song to employ. Snakes were not a popular subject of popular music.

There was a group that called itself Whitesnake, however. One of their tunes, anything related to transportation, might do it. He couldn’t think of anything more appropriate, and he was acutely conscious of an increasingly impatient Clothahump standing nearby and staring at him. Better to sing something, if only to loosen up, than to continue standing there looking like a complete fool. He closed his eyes, remembered the words, began tapping his right foot in time to the beat, and started to sing.

A slight fluttering in the air, more perceived than seen, caused him to open his eyes. One or two gneechees, those harbingers of magic, were teasing the fringes of his vision. They always appeared when his spellsinging was working. It was a good sign and spurred him to greater efforts with the duar. But while the gneechees remained, darting and dancing around the edge of reality, they did not appear in the hoped-for numbers. Neither did the long, scaly shape of the riding snake.

He sang harder still, peeling the riffs off the duar as smoothly as any Richie Blackmore might have wished. He strained and sang, and finally something did begin to materialize; a twisting, coiled form on the ground in front of him.

He would have smiled and called out to Clothahump and Sorbl but the spell was far from complete, and it was evident he still had a lot of singing to do. The famulus was confident enough to edge back around from behind the tree, since it appeared nothing was going to blast the earth out from beneath his feathers. Jon-Tom sang on and on. He was beginning to worry.

Not that anything remotely dangerous had appeared, but no matter how many verses he recited, the shape on the ground refused to expand. It was a beginning only. It remained nothing more than a beginning. He kept playing until both the song and his throat were wom-out. The last chord faded away into the trees. The pair of gneechees lit out for more congenial climes.

He approached what he had conjured. It was little more than a few feet long, only a thin shadow of the massive, powerful shape of a L’borian riding snake. But he had brought forth something. He hesitated, then reached down to pick it up. It was a snake, all right, but not one that would call L’bor home. Not only was it far too small, it was made of rubber.

Clothahump had walked up to join him, stared thoughtfully at the object over the top of his glasses. “It is well known among wizards, my boy, that even the fates have a sense of humor.”

“Son of a bitch.” Jon-Tom threw the rubber snake as far into the brush as he could. Anxiety had been replaced by anger. Not only had he failed in his declared intention, he’d gone and made a first-class fool of himself in front of his mentor. All those weeks of practice, all that careful studying of fingering methods and positions and sonic adjustments so he could call up something from an interdimensional novelty shop. Maybe the fates weren’t laughing at him, but something surely was, somewhere.

Clothahump sighed and called out to Sorbl, “Pick up your pack, famulus. Lynchbany has come no closer, and I don’t want to spend more than one night in these woods.”

“Wait—wait a minute. I’m not through.”

“You may not be through, my boy, but it appears that you are finished.”

“Just be patient, sir. One more attempt is all I ask.” So they wanted to see some spellsinging, did they? Spellsinging they were going to see! He was going to conjure up a L’borian riding snake or a reasonable facsimile, or bust a gut trying. Grim-faced, he turned away from both wizard and apprentice and settled on another song. His frustration and embarrassment gave added emphasis to each phrase he sang.

Both were powerful forces, though not the ones he would have chosen to fuel his magic, but there was no question about their eificacy. Instantly the transparent autumn morning seemed to darken around them. In the dim light the gneechees that had materialized stood out sharply. Not a couple this time but hundreds, enveloping singer and companions in a cloud of iridescent light. As usual, not one of the minuscule apparitions could be seen straight on. They could be perceived only out of the corner of one’s eye.

Jon-Tom wailed and twisted, sang and played. The fingers of his left hand danced a saraband over the upper strings while his right hand was a blur in front of the duar’s body. As he played, something new was taking shape and form in front of him, something substantial, something worthy of a spellsinger’s best efforts.

Sorbl retreated behind the tree again, and even Clothahump took an unwilling step backward. A foul-smelling wind blew outward from the solidifying manifestation. Its outlines did not flutter and break this time but grew steadily more visible. It grew and added weight and reality.

But the shape was still wrong. He hurried to bring the song to a conclusion, trying to see through the glowing mist that enveloped the object. It was not the object of his desires. It certainly was nothing like a L’borian riding snake. But neither was it a cosmic joke akin to the toy he had conjured up previously.