neetha Napew - Spellsinger

about us like fleas on a fox followin' a four-day drunk. You never saw the

almost-likes o' it."

Clothahump was silent for long moments. Then, "So it seems you've some

spellsinging abilities." He scratched at a loose drawer in his plastron.

"It looks that way, sir. I've heard about hidden talent, but I never expected to

find any in myself."

"All most interesting." The wizard rose from the bench, put both hands as far

behind his back as they'd reach, and scratched at his shell. "It would help to

explain so many things. It would explain why in casting I settled upon you and

passed over others." There was a touch of resurgent pride in his voice. "So it

may be I am not as senile as some say. I thought there was more to this than

mere confusion on my part. The talent I sought has been present all along."

"Not exactly, sir. As Talea explained, I can call for something, but I get

something quite different. I don't have control over my, uh, magic. Couldn't

that be awfully dangerous?"

"My boy, all wizardry is dangerous. So you think you might be able to help now?

Well, if we can settle on something for you to help me against, your services

will be most welcome."

Jon-Tom shuffled his feet nervously. "Actually, sir, I didn't mean I'd be able

to help in that way. Wouldn't you still prefer a real magician, a real

'engineer' from my world to assist you?"

"I expect I would." Clothahump adjusted his spectacles.

"Then send me back and exchange me for another."

"I told you before, boy, that the energies required, the preparations involved

need time to..." He stopped, squinted upward. "Ah, I believe I follow your

meaning now, Jon-Tom spellsinger."

"That's it, sir." He could no longer restrain his excitement. "If we both

concentrate, both devote our energies to it, maybe the combination will be

powerful enough to work the switch. It's not like you're shoving me back home

all by yourself, or pulling a replacement here alone. We'd be complementing each

other's talents, and making an exchange all at once. Only a single conjuration

would be involved instead of two."

Clothahump looked seriously at his workbench. "It might be possible. There are

certain shortcuts...." He glanced back at Jon-Tom. "It involves definite risks,

boy. You might find yourself stuck halfway between this world and your own.

There's no future in limbo. Only eternity, and I can't think of a duller way to

spend existence."

"I'll take that chance. I'll take any chances neeessary."

"Good for you, but what about whoever you're going to be trading places with?"

"How do you mean?" He looked uncertain.

"This eng'neer that we locate with our thoughts, Jon-Tom, will be as thrown from

his familiar time and place as you were. He will likely also be trapped here for

considerably longer than yourself, since I will not have the power to try and

return him to his normal life for some time. He might not adapt here as well as

you have, might not ever be sent home.

"Are you willing to accept the responsibility for doing that to someone else?"

"You have to take the same responsibility."

"My entire world is at stake, possibly your own as well. I know where I stand."

The wizard was staring unwinkingly at him.

Jon-Tom forced himself to think back, to remember what his first sight and

feelings were like when he'd materialized in this world. Glass butterflies and

utter disorientation. A five-foot-tall otter and bellwoods.

How might that affect an older man of forty or fifty, who might find it far

harder to cope with the physical hardships of this place, not to mention the

mental ones? A man with a family perhaps. Or a woman who might leave children

behind?

He looked back down at Clothahump. "I'm willing to try the exchange and... if

you're as serious about this crisis as you say, then you don't have any choice.

Not if you want a real engineer."

"That is so," replied the wizard, "but I have far more important reasons for

wanting to make this switch."

"My reasons are important enough to me." He turned away from the others. "I'm

sorry if I don't measure up to your heroic standards."

"I expect no heroic stances from you, Jon-Tom," said Clothahump gently. "You are

only a man. All I ask now is that you make the decision, and you have. That is

enough for me. I will commence preparations." He turned back to his bench,

leaving Jon-Tom feeling expectant, pleased, and slightly anxious.

Self-preservation, he told himself angrily. He would wish whoever was to take

his place the best of luck, and could do no more than that. He'd never know who

was chosen.

Besides, his erratic and possibly dangerous magic could do little to help Talea

and Mudge and Clothahump's world. Probably whoever took his place would be able

to, if Clothahump's perception of the danger threatening them was accurate.

Rationalization or not, that was a comforting thought to cling to.

I didn't ask to be here, he told himself firmly, and if I have a chance to get

home, damned if I'm not going to take it...

XI

The rest of the preparations took all afternoon. They were not ready until

evening.

In the middle of the Tree's central chamber a circle had been painted on the

wood-chip floor. It was filled with cryptographic symbols that might have been

calculus and might have been nonsense. Talea, Pog, and Mudge had been directed

to stay out of the way, an admonition they needed no urging to obey.

Clothahump stood on the opposite side of the circle from Jon-Tom, who tapped

nervously at the wood of the duar.

"What do I do when we begin?"

"You're the spellsinger. Sing."

"Sing about what?"

"About what we're going to try and do. I wish I could help you, my boy, but I

have other things to worry about. I never did have much of a voice."

"Look," said Jon-Tom worriedly, "the riding snake was an accident. I don't know

how I did that. Maybe we should stop and..."

"Not now, boy," the wizard told him curtly. "Do the best you can. Sing naturally

and the magic will follow. That's the way it is with spellsingers. You do that

and I will do my part."

He slipped into a semitrance with startling speed and began to recite formulae

and trace symbols in the air. There was a great deal of mumbling about time

vortices, dimensional nexi, and controlled catastrophe theory.

In contrast Jon-Tom started to pluck hesitantly at the strings of the duar. They

glowed blue as he furiously searched for an appropriate tune. His thoughts were

confused enough without his having to recall the specifics of a song.

Eventually though he settled on one (he had to select something) and began. It

was "California Dreamin'."

He started to feel the rhythm of the song, the deceptive power of the ballad,

and his voice rose higher, the chords becoming richer as he put all his homesick

feelings and desires into it: "I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A." It grew

dark in the Tree. Brilliant yellow clouds formed in the eenter of the circle.

They were echoed by a thick emerald fog that coalesced just above the floor.

Yellow drops of swirling energy started to spill from the clouds, while green

rain rose skyward from the lazy fog. Where they met they formed a

whirlpool-globe that began to swell and spin.

Jon-Tom's voice echoed around the chamber, his fingers flying over the strings.

The powerful electronic mimicry thundered off the walls, blending with

Clothahump's sonorous and steady chant. A deep, low ringing like the distant