lettered in unknown script.
Three stories above ground a doweled landing post projected from the massive
tree. Braking neatly, the robin touched down on this. With surprisingly agile
wing tips it reached into the chest sack, fumbled around, and withdrew several
small cylinders. They might have been scrolls.
These the bird shoved into a dark recess, a notch or small window showing in the
side of the tree. It warbled twice, piercingly, sounding very much like the
robins who frequented the acacia tree outside Kinsey Hall back on campus.
Leaning toward the notch, it cupped a wing tip to its beak and was heard to
shout distinctly, "Hey, stupid! Get off your fat ass and pick up your mail!
You've got three days' worth moldering up here, and if I come by tomorrow and
it's still piled up I'll use it for nest lining!" There followed a string of
obscenities much out of keeping with the bird's coloring and otherwise gentle
demeanor. It turned from the notch with a gruff chirp, grumbling under its
breath.
"Horace!" shouted the otter. The bird looked downward and dropped off the perch
to circle above them.
"Mudge? Whatcha doin'?" The voice reminded Jon of one he'd heard frequently
during a journey to another exotic section of the real world, a realm known as
Brooklyn. "Ain't seen ya around town much lately."
"Been out 'untin', I 'ave."
"Where'd ya pick up the funny-looking bozo?"
"Long story, mate. Did I 'ear you right when you said the old geezer hain't been
'ome in three days?"
"Oh, he's inside, all right," replied the bird. "Mixing and sorcering as usual.
I can tell because there's a different stink blowing out that mail drop every
time I fly in. You wouldn't happen to have a worm on ya, would ya?"
"Sorry, mate. Crayfish and oysters run more t' my taste."
"Yeah, I know. No harm in asking." He cocked a hopeful eye at Jon-Tom. "How
'bout you, buddy?"
"Afraid not." Anxious to please, he fumbled in his jeans' pockets. "How about a
Juicyfruit?"
"Thanks, but I've had all the berries I can stand for now. I'm up to my ass
feathers in berries." He stared at Jon a moment longer, then bid them a civil
good-bye.
"Always did envy them birds." Mudge looked envious. "Wings are so much faster
than feet."
"I think I'd rather have real feet and hands."
Mudge grunted. "That's a point t' reckon with, guv'nor." They moved to the
doorway. " 'Ere goes now. Mind," he whispered, "you be on your best behavior,
Jon-Tom. Old Clothahump's got the reputation o' bein' fair-tempered for a
wizard, but they're a cranky group. Just as soon turn you into a dung beetle as
look at you. It ain't good policy t' provoke one, 'specially one as powerful and
senile as Clothy-nose 'ere."
The otter knocked on the door, nervously repeated it when no reply was
forthcoming. Jon-Tom noted the animal's tenseness, decided that for all his
joking and name-calling he was deeply fearful of wizards or anything having to
do with them. He twitched and shifted his feet constantly while they waited. It
occurred to Jon-Tom that at no time had he actually seen the otter standing
motionless. Trying to ignore the pain pounding in his side he struggled to stand
straight and presentable.
In a moment the door would creak inward and he would be standing face to face
with what was, at least to Mudge's mind, a genuine magic-making wizard. It was
easy enough to visualize him: six and a half feet tall, he would be garbed in
flowing purple robes enscribed with mystic symbols. A bestarred pointy. hat
would crown the majestic head. His face would be wrinkled and stern-what wasn't
hidden beneath a flowing white beard-and he would very likely be wearing thick
glasses.
The door opened inward. It creaked portentously. "Good morning," he began,
"we..."
The rest of the carefully rehearsed greeting shattered in his throat as he
stumbled backward in panic, tripped, and fell. Something tore in his side and he
sensed dampness there. He wondered how much longer he could tolerate the wound
without having it properly treated, and if he might die in this falsely cheerful
place, as far from home as anyone could be. The monstrosity that had filled the
open doorway drifted toward him as he tried to crawl, to scramble away....
II
Mudge stared disgustedly down at his charge, sounded both angry and embarrassed.
"Now wot the bloody 'ell's the matter with you? It's only Pog."
"P-p-pog?" Jon-Tom was unable to move his eyes from the hovering horror.
"Clothahump's famulus, you colossal twit! He..."
"Never mind," rumbled the gigantic black bat. "I don't mind." His wing tips
scraped the jambs as he fluttered back into the portal. Oversized pink ears and
four sharp fangs caught the light. His voice was incredibly rough, echoing from
a deep gravel mine. "I know I'm not pretty. But I never knocked anyone down
because of it." He flew out now to hover nearer Jon.
"You're not very handsome yourself, man."
"Go easy on 'im, Pog." Mudge tried to sound conciliatory. " 'E's been magicked
from 'is world into ours, and 'e's wounded besides." The otter diplomatically
avoided mentioning that he'd been the cause of the injury.
Jon-Tom struggled unsteadily to his feet. Claret ran from the left leg of his
pants, thick and warm.
"Clothahump been workin' up any otherworldly invokings?"
"He is soberer dan usual, if dat's what you mean." The bat let loose a derisive
snort.
A rich, throaty voice called from the depths of the tree, an impressive if
slightly wavering voice that Jon-Tom instinctively knew belonged to the master
sorcerer. "Who's there, Pog?"
"Mudge, da otter hunter, Master. And some damaged, dopey-looking human. ""Human,
you say?" There was an excited edge to the question. "In then, bring them in."
"Come on," ordered Pog curtly. "His nibs'll see you." The bat vanished into the
tree, wings larger than the robin's barely clearing the entrance.
"You all right, mate?" Mudge watched the swaying form of his unwanted companion.
"Why'd you 'ave a fit like that? Pog be no uglier than any other bat."
"It wasn't... wasn't his countenance that upset me. It was his size. Most of the
bats where I'm from don't grow that big."
"Pog be about average, I'd say." Mudge let the thought slide. "Come on, now, and
try not to bleed too much on the floor."
Refusing the otter's support, Jon-Tom staggered after him. The hallway was a
shock. It was far too long to fit inside the oak, despite its considerable
diameter. Then they entered a single chamber at least twenty-five feet high.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes of evident age and all sizes and
bindings. Incense rose from half a dozen burners, though they could not entirely
obliterate the nose-nipping miasma which filled the room.
Scattered among books lay oddly stained pans and bowls, glass vials, jars filled
with noisome objects, and other unwholesome paraphernalia. Skulls variously
treated and decorated were secured on the walls. To Jon-Tom's horror, they
included a brace that were obviously hu
man.
Windows offered ingress to topaz light. This colored the high chamber amber and
gold and made live things of the dust motes pirouetting in the noxious air. The
floor was of wood chips. A few pieces of well-used furniture made of heavy wood
and reptile skin dominated the center of the room.
Two doors ajar led to dimly glimpsed other rooms.
"This is impossible," he said to Mudge in a dull whisper. "The whole tree isn't
wide enough to permit this one room, let alone others and the hallway we just
came through."
"Aye, guv'nor, 'tis a neat trick it is." The otter sounded impressed but not
awed. "Sure solves the space problem, don't it? I've seen it in towns in a few
wealthy places. Believe me, the initial spell costs plenty, not t'mention the
frequent renewals. Permanently locked hyperdimensional vortical expansions don't
come cheap, wot?"
"Why don't they?" Jon-Tom asked blankly, unable to think of a more sensible
comment in the face of spatial absurdity.
Mudge looked up at him conspiratorially. "Inflation."
They looked around to see Pog returning from another room. "He says he'll be
along in a minute or two."
"What kind of mood is he in?" Jon-Tom looked hopefully at the bat.
"Comprehensible." Keeping his balance in midair, the bat reached with a tiny
clawed hand set halfway along his left wing into a pouch strapped to his chest.
It was much smaller than the robin's. He withdrew a small cigar. "Gotta light?"
"I'm out o' flints, mate."
"Just a second." Jon-Tom fumbled excitedly in his jeans. "I do." He showed them
his cheap disposable lighter.
Mudge studied it. "Interestin'."
"Yeah." Pog fluttered close. Jon-Tom forced himself to ignore the proximity of
those gleaming, razor-sharp fangs. "Never saw a firemaker like it." He swung the
tiny cigar around in his mouth.
Jon-Tom flipped the wheel. Pog lit the cigar, puffed contentedly.
"Let's 'ave a look, lad." Jon-Tom handed the lighter over. The otter turned it
around in his paws. " 'Ow's it work?"
"Like this." Jon-Tom took it back, spun the wheel. Sparks, but no flame. He
studied the transparent base. "Out of fluid."
"Got stuck wid a bum spell?" Pog sounded sympathetic. "Never mind. And thanks
for da light." He opened his mouth, blew smoke squares.
"It has nothing to do with spells," Jon-Tom protested. "It works on lighter
fluid."
"Get my money back if I were you," advised the otter.
"I'd rather get me back." Jon-Tom studied his wrist, "My watch has stopped, too.
Battery needs replacing." He held up a hand. "And I don't want to hear anything
more about spells." Mudge shrugged, favoring Jon-Tom with the look one would
bestow on an idiot relation. "Now where's this lazy old so-called wizard of
yours?" Jon-Tom asked Pog.
"OVER HERE!" a powerful voice thundered.
Shaking lest his discourteous remark had been overheard, Jon turned slowly to
confront the renowned Clothahump.
There were no flowing robes or white beard, no peaked hat or cryptically marked
robe. But the horn-rimmed glasses were present. Somehow they remained fixed
above a broad, rounded beak, just above tiny nostrils. The glasses did not have
arms extended back and behind ears, since a turtle's ears are almost invisible.
A thick book clutched in one stubby-fingered hand, Clothahump waddled over to
join them. He stood a good foot shorter than Mudge.
"I mean no disrespect, sir," Jon had the presence of mind to say. "I didn't know
you were in the room and I'm a stranger here and I..."
"Tosh, boy." Clothahump smiled and waved away the coming apology. His voice had
dropped to normal, the wizardly thunder vanished. "I'm not easily offended. If I
were I wouldn't be able to put up with him." He jerked a thumb in Pog's
direction. "Just a moment, please."
He looked down at himself. Jon followed the gaze, noticing a number of small
knobs protruding from the wizard's plastron. Clothahump tugged several,
revealing tiny drawers built into his front. He hunted around for something,
mumbling apologies.
"Only way I can keep from losing the really important powders and liquids," he
explained.
"But how can you... I mean, doesn't that hurt?"
"Oh heavens no, boy." He let loose an infectious chuckle. "I employ the same
technique that enables me to enlarge the inside of my tree without enlarging the
outside."
"Bragging," grumped Pog, "when da poor lad's obviously in pain."
"Hold your tongue!" The bat whirled around in tight circles, but went silent. "I
have to watch his impertinence." Clothahump winked. "Last time I fixed him so he
could only sleep right side up. You should have seen him, trying to hang from
his ears." He chuckled again.
"But I don't like to lose my temper in front of guests. I cultivate a reputation
for mildness. Now then," he said with a professional air, "let's have a look at
your side."
Jon-Tom watched as the turtle gently eased aside the crude bandage concocted by
Mudge. Stubby fingers probed the glistening, stained flesh, and the youth
winced.
"Sorry. You'd best sit down."
"Thank you, sir." They moved to a nearby couch, whose legs were formerly
attached to some live creature of unimaginable shape. He lowered himself
carefully, since the cushions were barely half a foot off the floor, at a level
designed to accommodate the turtle's low backside.
though. We'll soon have you fixed."
" 'Ere now, your wizardship," Mudge broke in. "Beggin' your pardon, but I've
always 'eard tell 'twas sorceral procedure to seek payment for magicking
services in advance."
"That's not a problem here... what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't, but it's Mudge."
"Um. As I said, payment will be no problem for this lad. We'll simply consider
this little repair as an advance against his services."
"Services?" Jon-Tom looked wary. "What services?"
"He ain't much good for anything, from what I've seen," Mudge piped up.
"I would not expect a mere scavenger such as yourself, Mr. Mudge, to
understand." The wizard adjusted his glasses haughtily. "There have been forces
at work in the world only I could fully comprehend, and only I am properly
equipped to deal with them. The presence of this lad is but a small piece of a
dangerously complex puzzle."
There, Mudge thought triumphantly. Knew he'd been muckin' about.
"It is obvious he is the one I was casting for last night. You see, he is a
wizard himself."
"Who... 'im?" Mudge laughed in the manner of otters, high and squeaky, like the
laughter of wise children. "You're jokin', mate."
"I do not joke in matters of such grave import." Clothahump spoke somberly.
"Yeah, but 'im... a wizard? He couldn't even put a new spell on 'is firemaker."
The turtle sighed, spoke slowly. "Coming as he does from a world, from a
universe, other than our own, it is to be expected that some of his magic would
differ from ours. I doubt I would be able to make use of my own formidable
talents in his world. But there is an awesome interdimensional magic abroad in
the world, Mudge. To cope successfully with it we require the aid and knowledge
of one accustomed to its workings." He looked troubled, as though burdened by
some hidden weight he chose to keep hidden from his listeners.
"He is the magician I sought. I used many new and unproven words, many
intergrams and formulae rare and difficult to blend. I cast for hours, under
great strain. I had given up hope of locating anyone, and then chanced upon this
drifting spirit, so accessible and free."
Jon-Tom thought back to what he'd been smoking; he'd been drifting, no doubt of
that. But what was all this about him being a wizard-magician?
Sharp eyes were staring into his own from behind thick lenses. "Tell me, boy.
Are not the wizards and magicians of your world known by the word En'geeniar?"
"En'gee... engineer?"
"Yes, that is the proper sounding of it, I think."
"I guess that's as good an analogy as any."
"You see?" He turned knowingly back to Mudge. "And it is through his service he
will pay us back."
"Uh, sir...?" But Clothahump had disappeared behind a towering stack of books.
Clinking noises sounded.
Mudge was now convinced he'd have been much better off had he never tracked that
granbit or set eyes on this particular gangling young human. He studied the
slumping form of the injured youth. Jon-Tom was spritely enough of word... but a
wizard? Still, one could never be certain of anything, least of all appearances,
when dealing with wizardly doings. Common folk did well to avoid such.
How could anyone explain a wizard who could not spell a simple firemaker, much
less fix an injury to himself? The lad's disorientation and fear were real
enough, and neither spoke of the nature of wizards. Best to wait, perhaps, and
see what concealed abilities this Jon-Tom might yet reveal. Should such
abilities suddenly surface, it might also be best to insure that he forgot who
put the hole in his ribs.
"Now lad, don't pay no mind t' what Clothahump says about payments and such. No
matter what the final cost, we'll see it's taken care of. I feel sort o'
responsible t' make certain o' that."
"That's good of you, Mudge."
"Aye, I know. Best not even t' mention money to 'is nibs."
Laden with bottles and odd containers fashioned of ceramic, the turtle waddled