Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 04 - The Moment Of The Magician

as 'appy and content as could be until you busted in

on *em."

Alan Dean Foster

106

Jon-Tom looked up at the otter. "But it was wrong,

Mudge."

"Only by your standards, mate. Mind now, I ain't

saying yours ain't better; only that they're yours and

maybe nobody else's, and you'd better quit tryin' to

impose *em on every bunch you feel sorry or compas-

sionate for."

Jon-Tom sighed, moved the duar onto his knees.

When he flicked the strings, lonely notes drifted out

over the surrounding water.

"Now wot? You goin' to try and spellsing me over

to your way o' thinkin'?"

Jon-Tom shook his head. "I don't feel tike spellsing-

ing now. If you don't mind, I'm going to indulge in a

little musical sulking."

He began to play without an eye toward any particu-

lar end, to play just to amuse himself and take his

mind off their present predicament. Where was the

benign tropical land Clothahump had told him about,

the land alive with friendly people and ripe strange

fruits waiting to be plucked from low-hanging branches

and brilliant hothouse flowers? Not within walking

distance, that was for sure. They were going to have

to find a boat.

Unless he could spellsing one up- Sure, why not?

His spirits rose slightly. He'd done it once before.

This time he'd be able to avoid the mistakes which

had plagued them on their previous water journey.

He strained for the right song, a safe and proper

boat song. Mudge had been lying on his back, his

paws behind his head. Now he sat up sharpty, his

nose twitching.

"I thought you weren't goin1 to try any magic-

makin'."

"We need a boat. Remember how 1 did it before?"

"Oi, I remember. I remember it made you fallin'

down drunk for nearly a week."

THE MOMENT OF TOK MAGICIAN

107

"It won't happen again," Jon-Tom assured him.

"I'll be more careful this time. I've reviewed all the

lyrics in my mind and they're perfectly innocuous."

"That's wot you always say." He retreated behind a

large tree to watch as Jon-Tom began his song.

His first thought had been of "Amos Moses," but

there was no boat directly mentioned and the song

possessed disquieting overtones. Another Jerry Reed

ditty served fine, however- He modified the lyrics

slightly, confident he could call up a fully stocked

Everglades-style swamp skimmer to carry them speedily

southward through the marsh to distant Quasequa.

Sparkling, dancing motes appeared in the air around

him. Gneechees, the best indication that his spellsinging

was working. A different light, yellow and brown,

began to form a sheet just above the surface of the

water.

"See, no trouble at all." He concluded the song

with a Van Halenish flourish not exactly appropriate

to Jerry Reed, and waited while the object solidified

and took form.

It had a flat deck and bottom, just like the swamp

skimmer Jon-Tom had hoped for. But as he peered

into the night he frowned. There was no sign of the

airplane prop that should have been mounted aft.

He shrugged. A small oversight in the magic. Maybe

he'd confused a verse or two. An outboard would

serve adequately.

The craft bumped gently against the shore. Mudge

walked down to pick up the rope attached to the bow

end.

There was no inboard. There was no outboard.

There wasn't even a rudder. But there was plenty of

board.

The raft was fashioned of split logs. It was eight

feet wide by ten long. Mounted on each side was a

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108

large, split-bladed oar that could be used to propel it

slowly through the water,

"An elegant example o' otherworldly technology,"

Mudge observed sarcastically.

"I don't understand. I tried so hard, I was so

careful." He strummed the duar. "Maybe if I tried

again..."

"No, no, mate!" said Mudge hastily, putting his

paws over bare fingers. "Leave us not push our luck.

So it ain't elaborate and it ain't fast and it ain't

labor-savin'. But it floats, and it beats cuttin' down

green trees to try and make one ourselves."

"But I can do better than this, Mudge. I know I

can."

"Best not to get greedy where magic's involved,

guv. You might make it better, 'tis true. Then again,

you might sink wot we 'ave, and we'd be back to

walkin'- A bush in the 'and's worth two in the bird,

right? No tellin' wot you might call up a second

time."

As if to emphasize the otter's concern, the water at

the raft's stern began to froth and bubble. Mudge

raced up the sand to grab for his bow and arrows

while Jon-Tom backed slowly away from the water's

edge. Something was materializing at the back of the

boat that had nothing to do with its locomotion or

seaworthiness.

Eyes- Eyes the size of plates.

VII

They glowed bright yellow against the night, and

each was centered with a tiny, bright black pupil.

Then there were two more emerging from the water

nearby, and another pair, until ten hung staring

down at the little islet.

Trouble was, they all belonged to the same creature.

Nor did they operate always in pairs. Instead they

drifted with a sickening looseness on the ends of

thin, flexible strands that protruded from a smoothly

rounded, glowing skull. Arms and tentacles rose

from around the raft. Two of them seemed to be

holding the bald yellow skull in place, lest it drift off

on its own.

There was a long thin slit of a mouth, dark against

the glowing bulbous head. It was a strip of solidity in

a mass of insubstantial semkransparent yellow lumi-

nosity- You could see swamp water and the raft and

trees right through it.

"Go away!" Jon-Tom stuttered. "I didn't sing you

upl Mudge, I didn't sing this up."

"Right, mate," said Mudge, his tone indicating

what he thought of his companion's disclaimer. He

held his bow at the ready, but what was there to

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110

shoot at? He was confident his shafts would pass

clean through the apparition.

"I know wot it is. mate. 'Tis a Will-o'-lhe-Wisp, for

certain. I've heard tell of them livin' in swamps and

marshes and such places, if you can call that livin'."

"There is no such thing as a Will-o'-the-Wisp."

Jon-Tom held tight to his duar as though its mere

existence might protect them. "They're not living

things, just floating globes of swamp gas."

"And what are you?" said the Will-o'-the-Wisp in a

surprisingly resonant tone for such an insubstantial

creature. "An earthbound sack of water with a few

brains floating around inside one end." It nudged

the raft, which was shoved halfway up onto the tiny

beach. Swamp water sloshed over Jon-Tom's boots.

"You hit me with this," the wraith said accusingly.

"Now, why would you go and say a thing like that,

mate?" said .an injured Mudge. "Wot would we be

doin' with a bunch o' dead logs like that when we 'ave

this nice, dry little island to spend our lives on?"

"Don't lie, Mudge." The otter threw up his hands

and looked imploringly heavenward.

The Wisp floated out of the water, hovering above

the tallest trees. Glowing eyeballs focused on Jon-

Tom, all ten of them. Then they shifted to stare

down at Mudge.

Mudge smiled ingratiatingly up at the ghostly horror.

"'E's not with me, guv'nor. I'm goin' this way, 'e's

goin' that way- Now if you'll just excuse me..." The