The Source of Magic (26 page)

“Still, there must be some feeling remaining,” Bink said. “It can be like that, approaching a goal. Two steps forward, one back—but you must never give up.”

Grundy showed more animation. “Say, that’s a positive way of looking at it, mushmind!”

Bink was glad to have given encouragement, though the golem’s unendearing little mannerisms remained evident. “How did you know what I was about to ask? About the destruction of—”

“You always come up with questions, Bink,” the golem said. “So we pointed out the location of the subject of your next question, and it matched up with the tree stump. So we researched it. It was a challenge.”

That was an intriguing ramification of Crombie’s talent! Anticipating the answers to future questions! Magic kept coming up with surprises. “Only a real creature likes challenges,” Bink said.

“I guess so. It’s sort of fun, the challenge of becoming real. Now that I know that maybe it’s possible. But I still have this ragtag body; no amount of caring can change that. It just means that now I fear the death that will surely come.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “Anyway, the tree was blasted by a curse from that direction.” He pointed.

Bink looked. “All I see is a lake.” Then, startled: “Didn’t the ogre say something about—?”

“Fiends of the lake, who hurled a curse that blasted the whole forest,” Grundy said. “We checked: that is the lake.”

Humfrey descended from the tree. “I’d better bottle some of this wood, if I can get my magic to work on it,” he said. “Never can tell when it might be useful.”

“Cast a spell hurling it away from your bottle,” Chester suggested from the tree. He, too, dropped to the ground, after some awkward maneuvering that put his handsome posterior in jeopardy. Centaurs really did not belong in trees.

The Magician set up his vial and wood and uttered an
incantation. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, and a gradual clearing of the air.

There sat the vial, corked. There sat the wood. The Good Magician was gone.

“Where did he go?” Bink demanded.

Crombie whirled and pointed his wing. Directly toward the bottle.

“Oh,
no
!” Bink cried, horrified. “His spell reversed, all right! It banished
him
to the bottle!” He dashed over and picked it up, jerking out the cork. Vapor issued forth, expanding and swirling and coalescing and forming in due course into the Good Magician. There was a fried egg perched on his head. “I forgot I was keeping breakfast in that one,” he said ruefully.

Grundy could hold back his newfound emotion no longer. He burst out laughing. He fell to the ground and rolled about, guffawing. “Oh, nobody gnomes the trouble he’s seen!” the golem gasped, going into a further paroxysm.

“A sense of humor is part of being real,” Chester said solemnly.

“Just so” Humfrey agreed somewhat shortly. “Good thing an enemy did not get hold of the bottle. The holder has power over the content.”

The Magician tried again—and again. Eventually he found the proper aspect of reversal and managed to conjure the wood into the vial. Bink hoped the effort was worth it. At least he knew, now, how the Good Magician had assembled such an assortment of items. He simply bottled anything he thought he might need.

Then Bink encountered another pile of earth. “Hey, Magician!” he cried. “Time to investigate this thing. What is making these mounds? Are they all over Xanth, or just where we happen to be?”

Humfrey came over to contemplate the pile. “I suppose I’d better,” he grumped. “There was one on the siren’s isle, and another at our bone-camp.” He brought out his magic mirror. “What thing is this?” he snapped at it.

The mirror clouded thoughtfully, then cleared. It produced the image of a wormlike creature.

“That’s a wiggle!” Bink exclaimed, horrified. “Are the wiggles swarming again?”

“That’s not a wiggle,” Chester said. “Look at the scale. It’s ten times too large.” And in the mirror a measuring stick appeared beside the worm, showing it to be ten times the length of a wiggle. “Don’t you know your taxonomy? That’s a squiggle.”

“A squiggle?” Bink asked blankly. He did not want to admit that he had never heard of that species. “It looks like an overgrown wiggle to me.”

“They are cousins,” Chester explained. “The squiggles are larger, slower, and do not swarm. They are solitary creatures, traveling under the ground. They are harmless.”

“But the piles of dirt—”

“I had forgotten about that,” Chester said. “I should have recognized the castings before. They eject the dirt from their tunnels behind them, and where they touch the surface it forms into a pile. As they tunnel on, the further castings plug up the hole, so there is nothing left except the pile.”

“But what do they
do
?”

“They move about, make piles of earth. That’s all.”

“But why are they following me? I have nothing to do with squiggles.”

“Could be coincidence,” Humfrey said. He addressed the mirror. “Is it?”

The mirror’s unhappy baby face showed.

“Someone or something is setting the squiggle to spy on us, then,” Humfrey said, and the mirror smiled. “The question is, who?”

The mirror turned dark. “The same as the source of magic?” Humfrey demanded. The mirror denied it. “Bink’s enemy, then?” And the smiling baby returned.

“Not the same as the fiends of the lake?” Bink asked.

The baby smiled.

“You mean it
is
the same?”

“Don’t confuse the mirror with your illogic,” the Magician snapped. “It agreed it was
not
the same!”

“Uh, yes,” Bink said. “Still, if our route takes us past the
fiends, we have a problem. With the enemy spying on us all the way, and throwing obstacles in our way, he’s sure to excite the fiends into something dire.”

“I believe you are correct,” Humfrey said. “It may be time for me to expend some more of my magic.”

“Glory be!” Chester exclaimed ironically.

“Quiet, horserear!” Humfrey snapped. “Now let me see.
Do
we have to pass the fiends of the lake to reach our destination?”

The mirror smiled.

“And the fiends have curse-magic sufficient to blast forests?”

The mirror agreed.

“What’s the most convenient way to pass without trouble?”

The mirror showed a picture of Bink watching a play.

Humfrey looked up. “Can any of you make sense of this?”

Crombie squawked. “Where am I?” Grundy translated.

“Let me rephrase that question,” Humfrey said quickly. “Where is Crombie while Bink is watching the play?”

The mirror showed one of the Magician’s vials.

The griffin went into an angry medley of squawks. “Oh come off it, beakbrain!” the golem said. “You know I can’t repeat words like that in public. Not if I want to become real.”

“Beakbrain’s concern is understandable” Chester said. “Why should he be banished to a bottle? He might never get out.”

“
I’m
supposed to do the translations!” Grundy complained, forgetting his prior reluctance.

Humfrey put away the mirror. “If you won’t pay attention to my advice,” he informed Crombie, “then do it your own way.”

“You temperamental real people are at it again,” Grundy said. “The rational thing to do is listen to the advice, consider the alternatives, discuss them, and form a consensus.”

“The little imp is making uncommon sense,” Chester said.

“
Which
little imp?” Grundy demanded.

“I suspect,” the Magician said grimly, “that the garrulous golem would be best off in a bottle.”

“We’re fighting again,” Bink said. “If the mirror says we can pass the fiends most conveniently by traveling in bottles, I’d
rather gamble on that than on the sort of thing we’ve just been through.”

“You don’t have to gamble,” Grundy pointed out. “You have to go watch a dumb play.”

“I have faith in my mirror,” Humfrey said, and the mirror blushed so brightly there was a faint glow through his jacket. “To prove it, I will submit to bottling myself. I believe the one Beauregard used is pleasantly upholstered and large enough for two. Suppose Crombie and Grundy and I enter that bottle and give it to Bink to carry? Then he can ride Chester to the play.”

“I’m willing” Bink said. He wondered privately whether the Good Magician would take all his other bottles with him into the bottle. That seemed a bit paradoxical, but no doubt was possible. “But I don’t know exactly where the fiends are, and I’d rather not barge in on them unexpectedly. If we approach carefully, circumspectly, they may be less fiendish.”

Crombie pointed to the lake.

“Yes, I know. But
where
at the lake? At the edge? On an island? I mean, before I innocently walk into a tree-blasting curse—”

Crombie squawked and spread his wings. His proud colors flashed as he flew up and made for the lake.

“Wait, featherbrain!” Chester cried. “They’ll see you by air! That will give us all away!” But the griffin ignored him.

They watched Crombie wing handsomely out over the water, his plumage flexing red, blue, and white. “I have to admit the ornery cuss is a beautiful animal,” Chester murmured.

Then the griffin folded his wings and plummeted toward the surface of the lake, spinning in the air. “A curse!” Bink cried. “They shot him down with a curse!”

But then the figure straightened out, regained altitude, and winged back. Crombie seemed to be all right.

“What happened?” Bink demanded as the griffin landed. “Was it a curse?”

“Squawk!” Crombie replied. Grundy translated: “What curse? I merely did my turnabout to get a closer fix on the fiends. They reside under the water.”

“Under the water!” Bink cried. “How can we go there?”

Humfrey brought out another vial and handed it to Bink. “These pills will do the trick. Take one every two hours while submerged. It will—”

“There’s a mound starting!” Chester cried. “A spy!”

Humfrey whipped out yet another vial, uncorked it, and aimed it at the upwelling dirt. A jet of vapor shot out, striking the mound. Crystals of ice formed. The mound froze.

“Fire extinguisher,” the Magician explained. “Very cold. That squiggle is frozen stiff in its tunnel.”

“Let me kill it while I can catch it!” Chester said eagerly.

“Wait!” Bink said. “How long will the freeze last?”

“Only a couple of minutes,” Humfrey said. “Then the squiggle will resume activity with no impairment.”

“And no memory of the missing minutes?” Bink asked.

“It should not be aware of the lapse. Squiggles aren’t very smart.”

“Then don’t kill it! Get out of its observation. It will be convinced this was a false alarm, that we were never here. It will so report to its master, throwing the enemy off the track.”

The Magician’s brow lifted. “Very intelligent, Bink. You are thinking more like a leader now. We shall hide in the bottle, and you and Chester can carry it with you. Quickly, before the freeze abates.”

The griffin remained uncertain, but acquiesced. The Magician set the vial, performed his incantation, and man, griffin, and golem vanished.

“Grab the bottle, get on my back, hang on!” Chester cried. “Time’s almost up!”

Bink snatched up the lone vial remaining, jumped on Chester’s back, and hung on. The centaur took off. In a moment his hooves were splashing through the shallow water. “Gimme a pill!” Chester cried.

Bink fumbled out a pill from the bottle, praying he would not spill the works as he bounced around. He popped one into his mouth and handed the other forward to Chester’s raised hand. “I hope these work!” he cried.

“That’s all we need—another wrong bottle!” Chester exclaimed. “Gobble a foaming insulation pill …”

Bink wished the centaur hadn’t thought of that. Insulation, or freezing extinguisher—ouch!

He glanced back. Was it his imagination, or was the dirt mound growing again? Had they gotten away in time? Suppose the squiggle saw their footprints?

Then Chester hit a dropoff, and they plunged underwater. Bink choked involuntarily as the liquid covered his mouth—but the water was just like air to his breathing. In fact, it was like air to his whole body, except for its color. They could breathe!

This experience reminded him of something. In a moment he had it: the Queen’s anniversary party! That had been illusory underwater scenery, while this was genuine. Unfortunately, the Queen’s version had been prettier. Here things were murky and dull.

Chester plodded on, picking his way carefully through the unfamiliar aquatic environment. Dusky clouds of sediment stirred up around his legs. Curious fish looked the pair over. Chester now held his bow in his hands, in case they should encounter a sea monster. Apart from the tension, it was soon rather dull going.

Bink drew out the bottle that held the Magician and put his eye to the side. Vaguely he made out the shapes of a tiny griffin and tinier man. They were in a carpeted room like that of a palace, and were looking at moving pictures in the magic mirror. It seemed very comfortable. Much nicer, in fact, than forging through the murk toward fiends.

Another ugly thought came. Suppose he had grabbed the wrong bottle himself, and popped the Magician into his mouth in lieu of a water-breathing pill? Such things were very scary right now.

Bink put the vial in his pocket, reassured that his friends were secure. He wondered what would happen if he shook the bottle violently, but resisted the urge to experiment. “Let’s go visit the fiends,” he said with false cheer.

Shortly they approached a splendid marine castle. It was
formed from seashells—which meant it was probably magical, since few seashells formed in lakes without the aid of magic. Little whirlpools ascended from its turrets, apparently bringing air down to the inhabitants. Instead of a moat, the castle had a thick wall of seaweed, patrolled by vigilant swordfish.

“Well, let’s hope the fiends are kind to travelers,” Bink said. There were no bubbles as he spoke; the pill had fully acclimatized him.

“Let’s hope the Magician’s mirror knew its business,” the centaur responded grimly. “And that the fiends don’t connect the fool griffin with us, if they saw him.”