neetha Napew - Spellsinger

sound of a huge bell being played two speeds too slowly on a bad tape recorder

began to fill the room. A tingling came over Jon-Tom's entire body, a glittering

heat that radiated through him.

He continued to play, though it felt now as though his fingers were passing

through the strings instead of striking them. Glass bottles shattered on the

workbench and books tumbled from their shelves as the very heart of the Tree

quivered with the sound. For all anyone inside knew, the whole forest was

shaking.

The climax of the song was nearing, the end of the ballad, and he was still

within the Tree. He tried to convey his helplessness to Clothahump, his

uncertainty about what to do next. Perhaps the wizard understood his anxious

stare. Perhaps it was just that their timing was naturally good.

A violent yellow-green explosion obliterated clouds and fog and whirlpool-globe.

A great invisible fist struck Jon-Tom hard in the sternum and sent him stumbling

backward. He bounced off the far wall, staggered a couple of steps, and fell to

his right. Scrolls, fragments of skull, some stuffed heads mounted on the wall,

wood shavings and chips, powders and bits of cloth were raining around him.

Within the circle a whitish haze was beginning to dissipate.

He paid it little attention because he could see it, and he should not have been

able to. Even through the shock of the explosion and his subsequent fall he knew

he oughtn't to be able to see haze or Tree. He should be back home, preferably

in his own room, or in class, or even flat in the middle of Wilshire traffic.

Instead he lay on his butt within the same Tree.

"It didn't work," he murmured aloud. "I didn't go back." He felt like the hero

of a war movie who'd set off the magazine of his own ship and gone down with his

captors.

The last of the haze was fading from the circle. He caught his breath, aware of

something besides his own self-pity now.

A tall young woman just a hair short of six feet was sitting spraddle-legged in

the center of the circle. Her arms were straight behind her, keeping her in a

sitting position as she gazed around with an altogether appropriate air of

bewilderment. Long black hair was tied in a single ponytail.

She was clad in an absurdly brief skirt with matching pantyshorts beneath,

sneakers and high socks, and a long sweater with four large blue letters sewn on

its front. Her face was a stunning cross between that of a Tijuana professional

and a Tintoretto madonna. Jet-black eyes, black as Mudge's, and coffee skin.

Shakily she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and looked around.

With Pog's assistance Clothahump was rolling off his back. Once on all fours he

was able to stand up. He started hunting around for his glasses, which had been

knocked off by the concussion. A curved dent in the Tree wall behind him showed

where he'd struck.

"What happened?" Jon-Tom thought to ask, his eyes still mesmerized by the woman.

"What went wrong?"

"You, obviously, did not go back," said Clothahump prosaically, "but someone

else was drawn to us." He stared at the new arrival, asked solicitously, "Are

you by any chance, my dear, an eng'neer? Or wizard, or sorceress, or witch, as

they would be known hereabouts?"

"Sangre de Christo," husked the girl, taking a cautious step away from the

turtle. Then she stopped. Her confusion and momentary fear were replaced by an

expression of outrage.

"What is this place, huh? Comprende tortuga? Do you understand?" She turned

slowly. "Where the hell am I?"

Her eyes narrowed as they located Jon-Tom. "You... don't I know you from

someplace?"

"Am I correct then in assuming you are not an eng'neer?" asked Clothahump

despondently.

She looked back over a shoulder at him. "Engineer, me? Infierno, no! I'm a

theater-arts student at the University of California in Los Angeles. I was on my

way to cheerleading squad practice when... when I suddenly find myself in a

nightmare. Only... you are not very frightening, tortuga.

"So if this is no nightmare... what is it?" She put a hand to her forehead,

staggered a little. "Madre de dios, have I got a headache."

Clothahump looked across the demolished circle. Jon-Tom was still staring

open-mouthed at the girl, his own failure now forgotten. "You know this young

lady, spellsinger?"

"I'm afraid I do, sir. Her name is Flores Quintera."

At the mention of her name the girl spun back to face him. "I thought I

recognized you." She frowned. "But I still can't place you."

"My name is Jon Meriweather." When she didn't react to that, he added, "We

attend the same school."

"I still can't place you. Have we had a class together, or something?"

"I don't think so," he told her. "I'd remember if we had. I have seen--"

"Wait a minuto... now I know!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I've

seen you working around campus. Sweeping the halls, working the grounds at

practice."

"I do that occasionally," he replied, embarrassed. "I always managed to be out

gardening whenever the cheer squad had practice." He smiled hesitantly.

Loud, high-pitched feminine laughter came from behind him. Everyone turned to

see Talea sitting on the wood-chip floor, holding her sides and roaring

hysterically.

"I don't know you," said Flores Quintera. "What's so funny?"

"Him!" She pointed at Jon-Tom. "He was supposed to be helping Clothahump cast

for an engineer to switch places with. So he was thinking back to his home, to

familiar surroundings. But he couldn't keep his mind on his business. It was

drifting while he was spellsinging, from engineering to something more pleasant,

I think."

"I couldn't help it," Jon-Tom mumbled. "Maybe it was something about the song. I

mean, I don't remember exactly what aspects of home I was concentrating on. I

was too busy singing. Maybe it was the line, 'If I had to tell her....'" He was

more embarrassed than he'd ever been in his life.

"So you're responsible for my being here," said the raven-haired amazon,

"wherever 'here' is?"

"Sort of," he mumbled. "I've kind of admired you from afar and when I should

have been thinking of something else, my thoughts sort of... drifted," he

finished helplessly.

"Sure. That clarifies everything." She fluffed her hair, looked around at man,

woman, otter, turtle, bat. "So since this guy is too tongue-tied to explain,

please would one of you?"

Clothahump sighed and took her by the hand. She didn't resist as he led her to a

low couch and sat her down. "It is somewhat difficult to explain, young lady."

"Try me. When you come from the barrio, nothing surprises you."

So the wizard patiently elucidated while Jon-Tom sat off to one side morose and

at the same time perversely happy. If he was going to be marooned here, as it

seemed he was, there were worse people to be trapped with than the voluptuous

Flores Quintera.

Eventually Clothahump concluded his explanation. His intense listener rose from

the couch and walked over to confront Jon-Tom.

"Then it wasn't entirely your fault. I think I understand. El tortuga was very

enlightening." She turned and waved around the chamber. "Then what are we

waiting here for? We have to help these people as best we can."

"That is most commendable of you," said an admiring Clothahump. "You are a most

adaptable young lady. It is a pity you are not the eng'neer we sought, but you

are bigger and stronger than most. Can you fight?"