neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“I know, Master,” murmured Sorbl as he led the way down, “but the cellar.”

Clothahump gave him a shove. “I said there was no other way. And pick up your feet or I’ll set fire to your feathers and use you for light.”

Sorbl’s pace increased markedly.

The tunnel walls were composed of nothing more elaborate than packed earth. There was nothing in the way of visible support: no wooden beams, no concrete pillars, no metal flanges or masonry. Only the damp, thick-smelling soil. It muddied his boots. Tiny crawling things retreated from their advancing light, burrowing hastily into walls or floor. Maybe they didn’t need the light, as Clothahump had insisted, but Jon-Tom was very glad of its presence nonetheless.

Perhaps the tunnel’s stability was maintained by another of Clothahump’s complex dimensional spells, or perhaps this was merely part and parcel of the tree-home spell itself. The notion of a tree with a cellar was even more outre’ than the reality of one that had been dimensionally expanded.

Sorbl was several paces ahead of them now, so he was able to lean forward and whisper to the wizard. “He can’t hear us, so maybe now you can tell me what there is to be afraid of down here?”

“Sorbl already informed you: nothing.”

“Look, sir, I don’t want to appear dense, but could you be a little more specific?”

“Specificity is the soul of every explanation, my boy. A question: What is the shortest distance between two points?”

“A straight line, of course. I mean, I’m prelaw, and math was never my best subject, but I know that much.”

‘ “Then you know nothing, or rather, you don’t know about nothing, which is, of course, the shortest distance between any two points.”

Jon-Tom frowned. He was growing more confused, not less. “Nothing is the shortest distance between two points?”

“Ah!” The wizard looked pleased. “Now you have it. Of course, the shortest distance between two points is nothing. Obviously, if there is nothing between two points, then they must coexist side by side.”

Jon-Tom considered this. “I’m not sure that makes sense.”

“Does the logic follow?”

“Semantically speaking, yes, but mathematically speaking . . .”

“Pay attention. If there is nothing between two points, then there is nothing preventing them from being tangent to one another, is there? If the only thing that lies between us and the location of the unperambulating perambulator is nothing, then we should be able to find it quite easily.”

“But there is something between the perambulator and us: a great deal of distance. You said so yourself.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“Then how the blazes do you expect to find it by going down into this cellar?” an exasperated Jon-Tom demanded to know.

“Because if we go into the cellar, we will find there is nothing there. And on the other side of that nothing lies the perambulator. And everything else that is. But our concern at the moment is with the perambulator only.”

“I see,” said Jon-Tom, deciding to give up and wait to see what might actually await them down in the cellar.

They walked for what seemed like another hour but in reality was only another few minutes before the tunnel bent sharply to the left. It opened onto a small domed chamber which, as nearly as Jon-Tom could calculate, lay directly beneath the center of the great oak tree in which the wizard made his home. The floor of packed earth was smooth and clean. Something froze for an instant, momentarily stunned by Sorbl’s light. Then it scurried across the floor to vanish in a small hole in the opposite wall.

Thick gnarled branches protruded from the ceiling, twisting and curling overhead. Though entirely natural, they gave the dome the appearance of a room with a latticework ceiling. Small fibers protruded from the larger wooden coils, probing the air in search of nutrients and moisture.

Roots, Jon-Tom mused. A root cellar. Of course. I should have thought of that, he told himself. He said as much to Clothahump.

The wizard had settled himself in the chamber’s single piece of furniture. The sturdy chair occupied the exact center of the room.

“A root cellar, yes, and a very particular one.” He searched the ceiling a moment before pointing. “Up there is the root of envy. Over there the root of inspiration.” He turned slightly in his chair. “And up in that corner, that slightly golden-hued wood? That’s the root of all evil.”

Jon-Tom stared. Was that particular branch composed of golden-hued wood or wood-hued gold? Clothahump noticed the intensity of his stare and smiled.

“Don’t let it affect you so. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” He turned back around to face the center of the room once more. “Sorbl, since we have the globe, put it here.”

The famulus approached, jammed the light-supporting pole into the earth, and retreated back against a wall without Clothahump having to prompt him to do so. Jon-Tom moved to stand next to the apprentice. Clothahump crossed both arms over his plastron and closed his eyes, a sure sign that he was about to embark on a most powerful spell indeed. As further proof of the seriousness of his intentions, he muttered a few phrases, then removed his glasses and slipped them into their protective case in one of the uppermost drawers of his chest.

“What now?” Jon-Tom whispered to the owl. “What’s he going to call forth?”

Sorbl was standing as close to the wall as possible, heedless of dirtying his vest or feathers. He was staring wide-eyed at the wizard, who had entered into his preevoking trance.

“You already know. He’s going to call up nothing.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. Well, then, there’s ‘nothing’ to be afraid of, is there?” He meant it as a joke, but there was no suggestion of humor in the famulus’s reply.

“That’s right, that’s right! You do understand.”

Clothahump turned slowly to face them, his eyes still shut tight. From another drawer in his plastron he brought forth a small, tightly rolled scroll of paper. “Sorbl.”

“Y-yes, Master?” The famulus approached hesitantly.

“It is for you to read.” Jon-Tom noted with awe that the wizard’s voice had changed. It was slightly louder and a good deal more powerful, as though its owner had grown two hundred years younger in the space of a few moments of silent contemplation. There was much he wanted to know, but this was neither the time nor place to ask questions.

In any event, he suspected that Clothahump would soon show, if not describe, his intentions.

Sorbl carefully unrolled the top portion of the scroll, squinted at the lines thereon. “I don’t know if I can read it, Master. The print is very fine.”

“Of course you can read it,” Clothahump rumbled in his youthful voice. “Your other qualities require much work, but your natural vision is superior. Return to your wall if you wish, but when I raise my arm, you must begin.”

“As you say, Master.” Sorbl retreated until he stood very close to Jon-Tom once more. Man and owl waited to see what would happen next.

Clothahump slowly lifted both hands until his arms were pointing straight up into the dark air. To Jon-Tom’s amazement the arm continued to rise, pulling the wizard’s body with it until he was sitting in emptiness several inches above the seat of his chair. He drew his legs into his shell, pulled in his head until only the eyes were visible above the upper edge of his carapace. For protection? Jon-Tom wondered. His eyes darted around the chamber, found only dirt and emerging roots. There was nothing there to threaten them.

Exactly what the terrified Sorbl had been trying to tell him.

Clothahump began to speak, reciting in a peculiarly monotonous singsong. As he spoke, the blackness seemed to press tighter around them. It shoved and pushed and bullied the single light of the glow bulb until it was no more than a pinpoint of light struggling to hold back the encroaching darkness.