neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“But, my boy, the risk,” Clothahump said earnestly. “One wrong word, one wrong note, and you could cancel out the protective spell I put in place around us. We could be swallowed up by this fiery perturbation of unknown duration, never to become ourselves again until it is too late.”

Jon-Tom nodded toward the sun. “The greater fire or the lesser, what’s the difference? We might as well be swallowed up. We’re not getting any nearer the perambulator by sitting here and sweating. He who hesitates is lost.” He thumbed a few chords, the notes clearly audible above the rumble of the imprisoning flame.

“ ‘E who plays the wrong song is screwed,” Mudge warned him.

“Work your magic if you can, man,” said Colin. “I am not afraid.”

“That’s because you ‘aven’t seen wot shit-for-brains ‘ere can sing up,” Mudge told him as he backed as far away from his tall friend as the fire would permit.

Jon-Tom considered. There were plenty of fire songs in his repertoire. Trouble was, most of them, such as the old ‘Tire—you’re gonna burn” or “Come on baby, light my fire” were pro-conflagration rather than anti. It took him several minutes to recall the lyrics to a suitably dousing ditty. Then he began to sing and to play.

The sound of the duar had an immediate effect on the crackling, twisting ocean of heat surrounding them. Flames big and small shuddered and shrank in time to his beat. But when the song had done and he’d mouthed the final stanza, the fire was still there.

Closer than there, in fact, for part of the blaze appeared to jump toward him. He’d finally gone and done it, then. Not only had he failed to make the perturbation snap back to normal, he’d canceled Clothahump’s protective spell exactly as the wizard had feared. He spread his arms and prepared himself as best as he could to accept the embrace of the flames.

The red-orange tongue of destruction halted a yard in front of him. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” it hissed.

“We only want you to join us,” crackled another, moving in from the right.

Jon-Tom opened one eye, his arms still spread wide, and squinted at Clothahump. “This is part of the perturbation?”

“Most extraordinary.” The wizard was studying the dancing flames. “It would appear that the fire has released the spirits of land and forest, of individual trees and stones. They have taken up residence in the blaze itself. Have a care, lest they induce you to join them. If they are attempting to convince you to do so voluntarily, it must mean that they cannot overcome us by force.”

“Don’t worry.” A relieved Jon-Tom held his ground against the tempting flame and let his arms drop to his sides. “I don’t even like to hold a match.”

“Join us, join us! Come and play and burn. Cast off your solid raiment and feel the pleasure of weightlessness! Run before the wind and devour die world anew! Don’t try to beat the heat—join it!” the blaze chorused.

“No, thanks,” Jon-Tom told them firmly. “I never was big on conspicuous consumption.”

“Well, then, sing us another song. Another melody of searing affection, of rampant incineration and fickle combustibility.”

“And if I’m so inclined?” He held his breath. So did his companions.

“Why, then, if you please us, we’ll pass on by and not trouble you any more. Sing to us again and we will not disturb your rest, much less consume you.”

Jon-Tom thought of challenging them to do their worst, since it was Clothahump’s opinion that the fire couldn’t touch him without his willing acquiescence, but it seemed prudent not to force a confrontation with a forest fire of major and unnatural proportions. Easier to sing all the songs he’d thought of at first. If there was such a thing as an intelligent blaze, better to be on its good side, he told himself.

So he sang, smoothly and skillfully but without putting any more energy into it than was necessary in case they were trying to pull a fast one on him. He’d sung better but never hotter, leading off with Kiss’s “Heaven’s on Fire” and concluding with half the songs from Def Lepard’s Pyromaniac album. The flames appeared to appreciate his efforts, jumping and prancing, throwing off bits and pieces of themselves into the sky.

By now the heat had become truly oppressive. He would have disrobed, save that he didn’t dare take his hands off the duar or his eyes off the intelligent flames dancing before him. At the moment they were enjoying themselves, but he didn’t doubt that their attitude could change quickly. And he was running out of stamina as well as songs.

“I’m getting tired,” he told them. “Couldn’t we take a break for a little while?”

“Oh, no, play on, burn on, dance on!” A thin tongue of flame reached out from the fiery wall and came within inches of caressing his right palm. It scorched the small hairs on the back of his hand. He jumped back a step and kept playing. Clearly Clothahump’s spell was weakening. Their continued survival might depend on his continued singing.

He was beginning to despair and his throat was getting sore when the flames vanished. Instantly and without warning they were gone, down to the last smouldering ember. Trees were trees again, and the rocks no longer burned. Once more they found themselves standing amid the cool confines of the coniferous north woods.

“Sorbl, get up there and let us know if you can see any flames, anywhere at all.”

Obediently the owl took wing. He did not stay up very long.

“Nothing, Master. The world is as it was before the fire. We have snapped back. Nothing burns, except—” He pointed in alarm to his left.

The duar was glowing. Jon-Tom did a hysterical little dance as he fought to disengage himself from the instrument and toss it to the ground. It lay there glowing white-hot but did not burst into flame. Everyone waited and watched until it had cooled off enough for its owner to pick it up again. The strings were still warm.

Jon-Tom inspected it thoroughly. “Looks okay.”

“That’s a sight,” Mudge commented. “I know you can overheat an engine, an’ a draft animal, an’ a party or a lady, but I never saw anyone overheat an instrument before.”

“Too much singing about fire and burning and flames.” He caressed the precious instrument lovingly, then turned to face Clothahump. “Sir, you spoke of perturbations that might be aimed at us specifically. Do you think this was one of those?”

The wizard considered. “Difficult to say. I could not sense any unusual malignity, but that is proof of nothing except how much age has affected my sensitivity. One thing is certain, though. Regardless of whether or not this was intended to stop us or was one more in the series of general perturbations, it was more serious than most. As the perambulator’s frustration and agitation grows, its perturbations are likely to become more and more dangerous.

“From now on we must mount a night watch, lest some life-threatening perturbation catch us unawares in our sleep.”

“I’ll take the first watch tonight,” Colin volunteered. “I like the night.”

“I’ll ‘ave the second,” said Mudge hurriedly. “I’d rather stand early than late.”

Jon-Tom sighed. “I guess I’m stuck with the graveyard shift. Dormas, I’ll wake you when my shift’s done.” She nodded agreeably.

It wasn’t often that Sorbl had a chance to show off. This was one time when he did. “And I, naturally, shall stand watch last and longest. Being a Buboninae, I can tolerate the night better than any of you.”

“Provided Dormas keeps a sharp eye on the liquor supply,” Mudge murmured to Jon-Tom. “Wot about you, Your Brilliantship?”

Clothahump’s manner was ever so condescending. “I am the most powerful wizard in the world, not to mention the brains of mis little troop. I do not stand guard over myself.”