CONTENTS
“Things are not always what they seem.”
Words (which some expected to be his last) spoken by Ebenezum, greatest wizard of the Western Kingdoms, when he was discovered in close and personal consultation with Queen Vivazia of Humboldt by the queen’s husband, King Snerdlot the Vengeful. Unfortunately, the following statements made by the king to his elite assassin guards, as well as the reply uttered by the wizard as he climbed down the battlements of Humboldt castle in his nightshirt, have been lost to posterity.
Once upon a time, in a land very, very far away, there traveled a young lad who wanted to see the world. Now this lad’s name was Wuntvor, and he wished to be an adventurer and visit that distant place from which every morning came the sun. As he grew toward manhood, he would look out his bedroom window each dawn as he awoke, and watch the sun rise. He began to think of it as his friend, and he imagined the blazing orb beckoned to him, calling Wuntvor to come and see its home.
So it was that Wuntvor left his native land and journeyed east. He walked for many days, until the days turned into weeks, but Wuntvor did not despair, for he was young and his heart was pure. The weeks became months, and still Wuntvor traveled on, for, although the sun seemed no closer than when he started, he knew that if he but tried hard enough and long enough, he would reach his goal.
Still, the way was long and tiring, with hills and mountains to climb and rivers and oceans to cross. Even one as young and pure of heart as Wuntvor found himself doubting the wisdom of his journey from time to time. So it was on a particular evening, when the sun had journeyed all the way from its home in the east to its resting place in the west. Wuntvor was weary from his day’s march, and decided to camp in a secluded glen by the side of a babbling brook. He spread out his bedroll and ate a meagre meal of bread and cheese, listening to the night-birds overhead.
“Alas,” he said at last, more to himself than to the birds. “Will I never find the home of the sun?”
And a voice answered him:
“Why ever would you want to do that?”
Wuntvor started, realizing that the voice came from a small man who stood by his knee. After he caught his breath, Wuntvor answered:
“It is what I have always dreamed of. It is my heart’s desire.”
“Really?” said the small man, who was dressed all in brown and sported a pair of translucent brown wings. “Well then, you have come to the right place.”
“And just what place have I come to?” Wuntvor inquired.
“Why,” the little fellow said with a big smile, “you have come to f-f-fairyland—“ He had quite some difficulty pronouncing the word, “—of course.”
“Of course,” Wuntvor agreed. “And if this is fairyland, who are you?”
“Why, I am—“ The little fellow paused and frowned. “If this is f-f-f-fair-fairyland—“ The fellow paused again. His face had turned a bright blue. He took a breath and resumed his speech. “If this is—uh—that place, then I must be a f-f—“ His two tiny fists shot into the air. “I am no such thing. I am a Brownie! And proud of it! More than proud! In smallness there is greatness! Brownies forever!”
Wuntvor blinked. Something was wrong here. An old lady stormed down the hill. She did not look happy.
It was then that I remembered where I was.
“No! No! No!” the old lady screamed.
I was in the Eastern Kingdoms, but I had not come here to follow the sun. Rather, I was on a mission of some sort, sent here by my master, the great wizard Ebenezum. Unfortunately, several things had gone wrong. I remembered that, also.
“Can’t you even get a simple fairy tale straight?” the old lady demanded. I recognized her now! Her name was Mother Duck. And she was the reason I had been sent to the Eastern Kingdoms!
“I beg your pardon,” the small fellow in brown said drily. I knew this person too! His name was Tap! It was all coming back to me at once, as if I had just awoken from a dream.
The little fellow added:
“I do not do fairy tales.”
“Is that so?” the old woman queried, her index finger stabbing at the wee man. “No one talks that way to Mother Duck!”
The little fellow took a step back as he hesitantly replied, “I—I would do a Brownie tale!”
“Would you now?” Mother Duck replied. “Well, this is my kingdom and these are my stories. And what we do in this kingdom is make up fairy tales—whether you like it or not. You’ll become a part of my stories, and you will like it!” Her mouth twisted into a cruel grin. “We’ll just have to make the spell a little stronger.”
“Never!” the Brownie bravely retorted. “No spell is as strong as Brownie pride!”
“We’ll see.” Mother Duck stared intently at the little fellow.
“I am sorry,” Tap insisted, doing his best to ignore the old lady’s stare, “but I am a Brownie, and will be until my—uh, that is—I am—uh, aren’t I—um—welcome to fairyland, home of the happy-go-lucky fairies! Like me!”
Tap tried to perform a happy-go-lucky skip, with little success. He didn’t look happy at all.
“Very well,” Mother Duck remarked with a heavy sigh. “That’s one problem taken care of.” She regarded me critically. “I trust you are going to be cooperative?” She turned her gaze from me to look to the heavens. “Why must I suffer so for my art? Why can’t they understand what I’m trying to create?”
I didn’t know what to do. I remembered now that I had been sent here by my master to try to win Mother Duck over to our side in the war with the demons of the Netherhells, who were using their fearsome Conquest by Committee in an attempt to take over the surface world. However, once we had arrived in the Eastern Kingdoms, we learned from one of our allies, His Brownieship, King of all the Brownies, that Mother Duck had already signed a pact with our enemies.
Unfortunately, it had been too late to escape. We were cap-aired, and I was carried away by a clumsy giant named Richard to take part in something Mother Duck called her “Storybook.” Was that where I was now? I had seen Tap the Brownie, but what had happened to my other companions? This Storybook didn’t seem so bad. There must be some way to escape, some way to ...
I looked up to see Mother Duck staring at me. My mouth opened of its own volition, and I began to speak words over which I had no control.
“Once upon a time,” my mouth said, and again: “Once upon a time.”
“Excuse me,” a deep voice sounded from behind me.
I blinked. My mouth snapped shut. The spell was broken.
“What is it?” Mother Duck demanded. “Can’t you see I’m creating?”
“Sorry,” the voice said. “I was looking for Mother Duck.”
“Well, you’ve found her!” The woman’s tone was filled with rage.
“Oh,” the voice replied. “So pleased to meet you.”
I tore my eyes away from Mother Duck and turned to regard the newcomer. He was not at all what I expected. For one thing, he was totally covered with thick brown hair. For another, he appeared to be built like an animal, although he was standing on his hind legs. He wore no clothes, save for a green cap inscribed with the words: “Do it again, Celtics!” If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn this creature was more animal than human. In fact, I would have sworn he was—
“My name is Wolf,” the hairy newcomer said.
Exactly.
“I can see that,” Mother Duck replied. Her anger seemed to have abated somewhat. Even she was taken aback by the animal’s manner.
“Jeffrey Wolf, to be precise,” the newcomer continued rapidly. “And I think you’ll be glad you met me.”
“I certainly hope so,” Mother Duck said, “for your sake.”
“For both our sakes,” Jeffrey replied smoothly. “I trust I’ve come to the right place. You are the Mother Duck who does fairy tales?”
The old woman laughed through her nose. “No one else would dare to call themselves Mother Duck.”
“Quite assuredly.” Jeffrey smiled, showing two rows of very sharp teeth. “I like a woman who knows who she is and what she wants. And what you need in your fairy tales is a talking wolf! Just think of it! What an opportunity!”
“Possibly,” Mother Duck agreed, slowly. “I won’t kill you just yet, then. A talking wolf? Not as good as an Eternal Apprentice, but I suppose it does have possibilities.”
The Eternal Apprentice! The words came rushing at me with the force of a winter wind in July. So there were still other things I had yet to remember. Like the fact that I had met Death on my way to the Eastern Kingdoms, and he had called me the Eternal Apprentice, a person destined to always aid heroes, a person who furthermore was clumsy but lovable, and who was always accompanied by any numbe”r of companions. And the dread apparition also told me that this apprentice was someone who could not truly die, but instead, as soon as his earthly body expired, would be reborn into another body, so that his soul would always be free from Death. Unless, of course, Death caught that person alone and snatched that person in that instant to his grave.
I remembered now how barely I had escaped the foul fiend.
What else had I forgotten from my past? And if this Eternal Apprentice thing was true, how did I know that Death would not come and snatch me while I was under one of Mother Duck’s spells?
I could not let this woman control me again. I would have to escape, and somehow reunite with my other companions. But how could I get away? We seemed to be surrounded by forest. I realized I had no idea quite where I was. I would have to wait, and hope that something Mother Duck said would give me a clue.
“I’m glad you see how valuable a talking wolf could be!” Jeffrey said when Mother Duck stopped scowling. “When do I start work?”
“What?” Mother Duck demanded. “When do you start work? As soon as I decide that I shouldn’t have the giants carry you away to bake you in their bread!”
“But, madam!” Jeffrey waved both his forepaws, entreating the old woman to listen to reason. “I’m the opportunity of a lifetime! Think of it! A talking wolf! What symbolism! What possibility for metaphor!”
“What an ingredient for the giants’ bakery,” Mother Duck replied summarily. “Richard!” she shouted. “Oh, Richard!”
I heard a rumbling in the distance. I had hoped to somehow escape while Mother Duck and the wolf argued. But Richard had captured me before. I knew there was nowhere I could run where the giant would not find me again.
The rumbling grew closer and louder, so that I discerned that it was really two noises, one a repeated pounding, as if someone was dropping Bog Womblers from a great height to fall upon the earth below. The second noise was a repeated crashing, as Richard accidentally crushed everything in the vicinity of his path.
The wolf did not look at all happy about this turn of events. “Who,” he inquired, somewhat hysterically, “is Richard?”
“Oops!” a great voice declared from high overhead. Richard had arrived.
“Richard?” Mother Duck inquired of her very large lackey.
“I’m sorry I asked,” the wolf moaned. “I’ll just be going—“
“I hope you didn’t need that cottage back there,” Richard pleaded. “It was right next to that muddy river bank, and my foot slipped ever so slightly—“
“Don’t worry about it, Richard,” interrupted Mother Duck, her voice tinged with fatigue. “I can have the dwarves build another. In the meantime, I have a job for you.”
“Let’s not be hasty, now,” Jeffrey interjected. “I have too great a talent to be baked away!”
“You also have too big a mouth.” Mother Duck pointed at Jeffrey. “Richard, make sure the wolf stays quiet while I work. If not—“
The giant grinned. “Whole wolf bread.”
“Exactly,” the old lady agreed. “Understand. I must have silence when I create! Now—“ She paused to look at me.
What could I say? There must be some way to keep from coming under her spell again. What would my master have done? Argued with her, probably. Attempted to get her to see reason. Very well, that was what I would have to do as well. I opened my mouth. “Indeed--,” I began.
But the next words that came out were, “Once upon a time.”
Once upon a time. Once upon a time.
“There are two sides to every issue.”
Words (which some were surprised he was still alive to speak) uttered by Ebenezum the Wizard to the elite assassin guards of King Snerdlot the Vengeful, after the king decided to question the parentage of some of his offspring by Queen Vivazia, who did have a habit of long and personal consultations with gentlemen wearing wizard’s robes. Few realize, however, that the fleeing Ebenezum was at the time disguised as a costermonger (although on closer inspection his garb might have passed for a wizard’s nightshirt), and furthermore, that he managed to cast Gleebzum’s Spell of Universal Guilt among the assassins, which caused them to spend the rest of that afternoon repeatedly arresting each other.
Once upon a time, a young lad named Wuntvor traveled far from his native land, seeing the sights and having many adventures. So it was that he came over a hill and saw a bright and verdant valley spread before him. Brilliant sunlight shone down on green trees and golden crops, and Wuntvor thought that he had never seen a place as beautiful as this in all his travels.
He left the hilltop and began his descent into the valley. But he had not gone a dozen paces before he saw a handpainted sign hanging from one of the beautiful, green trees. And on that sign, in large red letters, someone had painted a single word:
DANGER.
Wuntvor paused for a moment, and stared at the sign. Was someone trying to warn him? But danger of what? And where could any danger be on such a fine day as this?
So Wuntvor continued upon his way, whistling merrily as he studied the wildflowers that bordered the path on either side. He came to a broad field of wild grass and clover, and saw that on the far side of that field wound a lazy blue river.
Wuntvor looked along the trail he followed, and noted that in the distance it led to a narrow bridge that crossed the wide expanse of water. Well then, he thought to himself, that is the way that I must go. But he had not walked a dozen paces before he found that a giant boulder blocked his way. And on that boulder was painted a single word, in red letters three feet high:
BEWARE.
Wuntvor paused for a long moment to regard the message on the boulder. This was the second warning he had received since he had entered the valley. But what were these messages trying to tell him? What, or whom, should he beware of?
At length, Wuntvor decided that it was much too fine a day to beware of anything. Let the fates do what they must, he thought. On a sunny afternoon like this, he could best whatever was thrown in his path!
And with that, Wuntvor skirted the boulder and continued down the trail to the bridge. He had not gone a dozen paces, however, before a large man stepped out from behind a concealing hedge. Wuntvor studied the newcomer with some surprise, since he was the largest man the young lad had ever seen, being massive in girth as well as height. The large fellow was dressed in a bronze breastplate, which was somewhat dented and tarnished, and wore an elaborate winged helmet on top of his massive head. He raised a giant club above his head, and uttered but a single word:
“DOOM.”
Wuntvor took a step away, being somewhat taken aback by this new turn of events. Was this the danger that the first sign spoke of? Was this what he had to beware of, as the boulder had cautioned? Yet the large man did not attack. Instead, he simply stood there, the giant club still raised above his massive head.
“Pardon?” Wuntvor said after a moment.
“What?” the large man asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Wuntvor expanded.
“Oh,” the large man answered. “Doom.”
“Yes,” Wuntvor prompted. “But what kind of doom?”
“Oh,” the large man answered again. “Down at the bridge.”
Wuntvor smiled. Now he was getting somewhere! “What about the bridge?”
“Doom,” the large man replied.
But Wuntvor wasn’t about to give up. “At the bridge?” he prompted again.
The large man nodded his head and lowered his club.
‘That’s where the danger is?” Wuntvor added. “That’s where I have to beware?”
The large man continued to nod.
“But what is the danger?” Wuntvor insisted. “What do I have to beware of?”
“Doom,” the large man insisted.
Wuntvor began to despair of ever getting any real answers out of the large fellow. He gazed down the path at the distant bridge. It certainly looked peaceful enough. Just what was this big fellow trying to warn him about? Wuntvor decided he would try to gain a definite answer one more time.
“Indeed,” he began, for there was something reassuring to Wuntvor about beginning sentences in this way, “you tell me that my doom waits on yon bridge?”
The large fellow nodded again, smiling that Wuntvor had understood his plea.
“And yet,” Wuntvor continued, “there is no way that you might explain to me what that doom is?”
The large fellow shook his head sadly.
“Doom,” he agreed.
“Why not?” Wuntvor demanded, upset with this turn of events.
The large fellow looked all around. When he was convinced they were all alone he spoke to Wuntvor in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I am here as a warning,” was all he said.
Wuntvor bit his lip so that he would not scream. After he had regained his composure, he asked:
“But can’t you at least inform me what you are warning me about?”
“Doom,” the large fellow replied sadly.
“Why?” Wuntvor demanded.
“Because that is the way fairy tales work,” the large fellow answered.
Wuntvor blinked. Fairy tales? What was this about fairy tales? The lad felt some faint memory stirring at the back of his brain. A word floated toward his consciousness. Mother. Mother what? Of course, now he remem—
“Once upon a time.” Wuntvor’s lips moved, saying words he could have sworn he never thought. “Once upon a time.”
He shook his head violently and stared at the large man again. “Can you tell me nothing about the bridge?”
“Doom,” the immense fellow pondered. “Perhaps I can ask you a question or two. Would you by any chance have a good deal of gold?”
At last! Wuntvor thought, I shall get some information.
“No,” he answered. “I am but a penniless traveler, out to seek my fortune in the world.”
“Doom,” the other responded. “Still, all is not yet lost. Are you good at riddles?”
What was this large fellow talking about? “Riddles?” Wuntvor demanded. “What do riddles have to do with anything?”
“Doom,” the immense one replied, nodding to himself as if he had confirmed something he’d known all along. “I suggest you turn around and go the other way, unless you fancy yourself as troll fodder.”
And with that, the large fellow turned and disappeared behind a sizable hedge.
“Indeed,” Wuntvor mumbled to no one in particular. Somehow, he did not feel he had gained much information at all.
But after a moment’s thought, Wuntvor decided to go to the bridge anyway. After all, hadn’t he left his native land to seek adventure? He had the feeling that this bridge he was approaching, as small and innocent looking as it was, might contain so much adventure that he could return home immediately after crossing it.
He was not a dozen paces from the bridge when he heard a voice.
“Ho, young traveler! We have advice: If you want to cross, You will pay a price.”
And with that, a horrible creature leapt from beneath the bridge and landed less than a dozen paces away from the startled Wuntvor. The creature’s skin was a bright shade of yellowish-green, but that was nowhere near as startling as the horrible fact that it wore clothing filled with purple and green checks, not to mention that it held a brown, smoking thing between its teeth.
The creature removed the brown, smoking thing (which was quite foul smelling besides) from between its jaws, and spoke again.
“Now that you’re here You won’t get old, Unless you give This troll some gold.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor replied. So this, at last, was what he was being warned about. Wuntvor thought, somehow, that he should feel more cheered by finally learning the truth. The truth, though, left something to be desired.
The hideously garbed creature smiled with even more teeth than a creature like that should have, and sauntered toward the lad. Wuntvor decided that what he mostly wished at this precise moment was that the large fellow he had so recently spoken with had been more specific in his details of the danger’s exact nature, so that Wuntvor might be currently pursuing his adventures in an entirely different location from where he was at present.
The creature pointed at Wuntvor. More specifically, its sharp yellow claws pointed at Wuntvor’s belt as it spoke again.
“Gold need not be My only reward, I’ll take instead Your meagre sword!”
Wuntvor looked down at his belt. He had a sword? It came as a total surprise to him. Shouldn’t a person remember if he was wearing a sword?
Well, he reasoned, as long as he had a sword, he might as well defend himself.
“What are you doing?” the sword screamed as Wuntvor yanked it from the scabbard.
The sword spoke! Wuntvor almost dropped the weapon. He definitely should have remembered a sword that could talk. The lad frowned. Something, he thought, is not as it seems.
“I would like an answer,” the sword insisted. “As your personal weapon, I think it’s the least I deserve.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor responded, wishing to grant the magic sword’s wishes. “I was merely drawing you forth to slay yon horrible creature.”
“Merely?” the sword began, but whatever it had to say next was lost beneath the creature’s new rhyme.
“Ho, young traveler, Your valour growing. Sad to say, I must be going.”
And with that, the garishly garbed creature dove under the bridge.
“Merely?” the enchanted blade repeated.
Wuntvor glared at the sword. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Is that a trick question?” the sword responded, a suspicious edge to its voice.
“Nay,” Wuntvor insisted, although he doubted, under the circumstances, that he would know a trick question even if he spoke it. “I fear I am under a spell of forgetfulness, and hoped that a magic sword might know the truth.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” The sword brightened perceptibly. Wuntvor had to shield his eyes not to be blinded by the glow.
“That’s exactly what we magic swords are for,” the blade continued. “My name is Cuthbert, and I’m a first-class example of sorcerous weaponry. What else do you need to know? Your name is Wuntvor. You do remember that? Good. Do you recall that you are on a quest for your master—Hey!”
The sword screamed as it fell from Wuntvor’s hand, which had gone suddenly numb. But the lad had no more thought for his discarded weapon. All he could think of were the words upon his lips.
“Once upon a time,” he said. “Once upon a time.”
And, as if in answer, he heard a second voice come from beneath the bridge.
“Ho, young traveler, No need to fiddle! You’ll simply die If you miss this riddle.”
And with that a second creature leapt onto the path, less than a dozen paces from Wuntvor, who was nowhere near as startled this time, having come somewhat to expect such occurrences. The second monster was a bit different from the first, a tad shorter and more of a putrid gray-green in color. Its clothing was more conservative as well, as it wore dark, almost monastic-looking robes that ballooned around its short body in great folds.
“Riddle?” Wuntvor inquired. This must be the second thing the large fellow warned him about. A riddle that, according to this creature, he could simply die from. Wuntvor suspected the creature was not speaking metaphorically.
The sickly green thing smiled broadly and pulled a piece of parchment from beneath its robes. It read in a clear, high, annoying voice:
“With this riddle, The seeds are sowed: Why did the chicken Cross the road?”
The monster licked its chops, obviously intending a quick and tasty meal. The lad had a difficult time even thinking about the riddle.
Wait a second. Wuntvor stared hard at the riddling horror. A chicken crossing the road? That wasn’t difficult at all. His aged grandmother had told him the answer to that one a thousand times.
“To get to the other side!” Wuntvor shouted triumphantly.
“Get to the other side?” the green thing mused. “Well, I suppose that’s possible. Just a moment.” The creature reached within its voluminous robes and pulled forth a sheaf of parchment.
“No, no, I’m afraid the answer is as follows—“ It cleared its throat and announced portentously:
“A newspaper.”
What? Wuntvor thought. What was a newspaper?
“It is not!” the lad insisted angrily. “Everyone knows that chickens cross the road to get to the other side!”
The creature shook its head sadly, reaching within its robes with its free hand to draw out a knife and fork. “Perhaps that sort of thing happens wherever you come from,” it answered as it scanned the sheaf of parchments. “I do remember seeing that answer somewhere. Ah, here it is: ‘To get to the other side.’ I’m afraid though, that it’s the answer to another riddle entirely. Uh—here it is—‘What’s black and white and read all over?’ “
“What’s black and white and red all over?” Wuntvor repeated.
The creature nodded triumphantly. “To get to the other side!” It paused, waiting for some sign of recognition from the traveler. “You see now, don’t you?” it prompted at last. “You see, because it’s black and white and read, it has to cross—“ The thing paused and stared for a moment at the parchment. “Well, perhaps it is a little difficult to explain. It has to be correct, though. I assure you, Mother Duck uses nothing but the very latest equipment. So there’s no chance for a mistake.” The thing blinked, as if it couldn’t quite believe what it was saying. “Well, not that much of a chance.”
Mother Duck? The lad frowned. Where had he heard that name before? And why did he have an almost uncontrollable urge to say “Once upon a time”?
“Other side?” the thing said, more to itself than to Wuntvor. “What kind of stupid—“ The creature stopped itself and, after a moment, coughed discreetly. “Well, perhaps, in the very slight chance there was an error, we should give you another opportunity. It’s your life at stake, after all.” The green thing riffled through the pile of parchment. “Oh, here’s the old chestnut about four legs, two legs, three legs. She’s got to be kidding. There must be something with a little more verve than that.” The creature turned the page. “Let’s try this one.”
The monster cleared its throat and spoke in a loud, even more annoying voice: “How many elephants can you get into a Volkswagen?”
It paused, staring at the parchment in disbelief. “Where did she get these questions, anyway?” The creature flipped another page, frowning as it quickly read the text. “Let’s see. I don’t suppose you have any idea what a—‘lightbulb’ is? I thought as much.”
The thing crumpled the parchment in its green claws. “I’m sorry, this is ridiculous. What am I doing in a stupid fairy tale, anyway?”
Fairy tale? Wuntvor remembered the Brownie. And that woman the thing had mentioned. What was her name? Mother something. It was on the tip of his tongue. Mother-He had it!
“Once upon a time!” Wuntvor cried in triumph. Wait a second. That wasn’t the point he was going to make. Was it?
“Once upon a time,” he said again for good measure.
And again, as if in answer, a third voice, far gruffer than either of those that spoke before, came from beneath the bridge.
“Ho, young traveler, Not yet beaten; Prepare yourself now To be ea—“
But instead of completing the rhyme, the third creature began to sneeze.
“Are you just going to leave me here?” the sword demanded.
The sword? The sword! He looked down to where he had dropped it. Somehow, Wuntvor had forgotten all about the magic weapon again.
“Yeah!” the green thing shouted at Wuntvor. “And just what are we doing in this stupid fairy tale when we’re supposed to be on a quest?”
A small brown fellow appeared by the lad’s foot. “I couldn’t agree more! Fairy tales! Just think how much better it would be if it were a Brownie tale!”
The green thing had recoiled at the very sight of the little fellow. “Don’t ever agree with me!” he shouted, then looked back to Wuntvor. “There are simply certain things I cannot cope with.”
“I suppose I’m just going to lay in the dust forever,” the sword moaned, “left here to rust, forgotten by my owner—“
The checkered monster was suddenly in their midst. “Are you tired of your lot in life, enchanted sword? Well, come with me, and I’ll offer you foreign sights, adventure—“
“It’s ruined! It’s ruined!” a woman’s voice called from somewhere far up the hill.
Wait a second, Wuntvor thought.
There was something about all this chaos that was disturbingly familiar. He looked around and remembered that the robed creature was Snarks, a demon who was forced to speak nothing but the truth, no matter how unpleasant that truth might be.
And there, in his checkered suit, was Brax the traveling Salesde-mon, purveyor of previously owned enchanted weapons, “Every one a Creampuff!” And the sword was Cuthbert, a weapon that was unfortunately a bit of a coward. And he had seen Tap the Brownie during his last fairy tale.
His last fairy tale?
That’s right! He was a prisoner of Mother Duck, who was currently storming down the hill toward them, pursued by a hairy fellow who looked rather like a wolf standing on his hind legs, sporting a green cap. Hadn’t he seen this fellow before somewhere, too? Wuntvor shook his head.
I wondered what else I didn’t remember.
Somebody was sneezing, but it didn’t sound like my master. A large, blueish-purple, and quite horrible creature crawled from a ravine beneath the nearby bridge. It grabbed a corner of Brax’s sportcoat and blew its nose.
“Guxx Unfufadoo, noble demon, Wants no more of fairy stories! Will no longer obey Mother; Will turn Mother into ducklings!”
“Is that so?” Mother Duck replied drily. “And what seems to have upset my little demon so?”
Guxx advanced on the old lady, his talons spread wide, ready to rip and shred. As he lifted his claws above the woman to prepare for the kill, he uttered three final words:
“No more poetry.”
The wise wizard should, if at all possible, avoid making plans during a crisis. The only problem with this advice is that the mage often discovers that the crisis has already made plans for the wise wizard.
The Teachings of Ebenezum, VOLUME VII
Guxx advanced on Mother Duck.
The old woman stood her ground. “Don’t you think for a minute that you can defeat me. Once upon—“
“Did I hear someone mention poetry?” a booming voice called from the direction of the bridge. I turned away from Guxx to see Hubert the dragon landing in the river, the beautiful Alea astride his broad blue back. But wasn’t there something different about the damsel? Perhaps it was that she was wearing a new gown of royal blue. Then again, I did not remember her blond tresses as being so long that they covered most of the dragon’s back.
Still, all this fairy tale business seemed to be jumbling my memory. At that moment, I could not swear to anything.
“We’ll give you something better than poetry!” the dragon called. “Hit it, Damsel!” The beautiful Alea sang in a clear, high voice:
“All your troubles don’t mean a thing, Whether you’re rich, whether you’re poor; Forget your troubles and dance and sing, For Damsel and Dragon are the cure!”
With that, she did an impromptu dance across Hubert’s scales as the dragon beat time with his wings.
“If they’re the cure,” Snarks mumbled, “give me the disease.”
“What are you two doing here?” Mother Duck demanded, forgetting Guxx to concentrate on the new arrivals. “You were supposed to wait on the other side of the bridge!”
“We were?” the dragon asked. “Well, why didn’t someone tell us about this? We can take direction when required. We’re theater people, you know.”
“Well, I was going to give you the role of your careers!” Mother Duck seemed to be getting upset. “You were going to be the climax of the fairy tale!”
“Oh, is that what we were doing?” Hubert laughed apologetically. “I was wondering about that. I mean, for some reason, there we were, humming this idiotic ditty about ‘Once upon a time, once upon a time.’ Then—zap!--we suddenly remembered who we were and what we were doing here, and next thing we knew, there was this tremendous commotion outside. What could we do but investigate?”
‘That’s right!” Alea chorused. “Damsel and Dragon are always where the action is!”
“Well, this time you’ll wish you were where the action wasn’t!” Mother Duck raised her hands above her head. Was she going to conjure?
Guxx leapt for her with a roar.
It all happened so quickly, I wasn’t quite sure what had transpired. One minute, the heavily muscled demon was flying through the air, straight toward the old lady. Just as his sharp and deadly claws were about to reach Mother Duck, however, the demon somehow managed to perform a complete somersault in midair and land on his back in the mud at the river’s edge.
“Must we be tiresome?” Mother Duck murmured. “I could eat demons like you for lunch. Why do you think the Netherhells were forced to sign a pact with me?”
A chill ran through my frame as I remembered the true severity of our situation. Not only were we prisoners of this woman, but Mother Duck had already allied herself with the evil forces of the Netherhells, a demonic horde who wished to control the surface world for their own foul purposes. My fellow questers and I had been sent to try to enlist Mother Duck in our cause by my master and his fellow wizards of Vushta, now all afflicted with a dread malady that caused them to sneeze whenever confronted by sorcery. This malady made them easy prey for the magical might of the Netherhells, and it appeared that all might be lost for the surface world unless we might gain the aid of the mysterious woman who controlled the Eastern Kingdoms. Once we had met this woman, though, we discovered that Mother Duck had already allied herself with the forces of darkness.
Was there no hope, then, of saving Vushta and the rest of the surface world from an eternity of Netherhells domination? I choked back a cry of anguish. If I foundered in despair, all would be lost.
Indeed, I thought to myself, trying to calm my fears enough to rationally deal with the problem. How would my master, the great wizard Ebenezum, handle a situation like this?
That was easy. I knew he would have continued with his noble purpose, no matter what the odds. There was only one answer, then. As difficult as it appeared, I had to somehow find a way to get Mother Duck to change her mind.
“Indeed!” I called out to Mother Duck, who was still glowering at the mud-covered Guxx. “I was wondering if we might talk about this pact of yours.”
“Eh?” The woman glanced at me as one might regard a passing insect. “Ah. The Eternal Apprentice. Now, now, don’t worry your mythic little head about those things. Mother Duck knows what’s best for you.”
“Indeed?” I replied, rather taken aback. Mythic little head? This was going to be more difficult than I thought.
Guxx pointed a claw at Brax the Salesdemon, who had managed to help his fellow creature rise from the mud.
“Begin!” Guxx exclaimed. Brax began to beat on a drum that he fished out of a sack he had been carrying over his shoulder. s “Guxx Unfufadoo, muddy demon, Follows Wuntvor, noble quester, You will listen to the ‘prentice, Or you will feel Guxx’s fury!”
The large demon cracked his massive knuckles for emphasis.
Mother Duck yawned. “Must we continue to be so tiresome? No one needs to feel anybody else’s fury. We’re here to make fairy tales.”
The hairy fellow with the green cap trotted over to the old woman. “And speaking of fairy tales, may I say that I can see any number of ways to improve your presentation?”
Mother Duck stared glumly at the hairy fellow. She seemed a bit out of sorts.
“Ahem,” the hairy fellow replied, glancing at me and doffing his cap. “Pardon me, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Wolfs the name. Jeffrey Wolf.”
I began to introduce myself in turn when I was interrupted by the very loud noise of Hubert emerging from the lake.
“But you haven’t had a chance to see our act!” the dragon called to Mother Duck. “Now, however, that you have dealt with that untimely interruption, it’s time to begin!” The trees shook as Hubert tap-danced his way into our midst.
Mother Duck stared at no one in particular. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times,” Snarks confided in the old woman.
“Shall we tell them about our new dance craze?” Alea piped up.
“That’ll wow them!” the dragon agreed. “Ah-one and ah-two—“
Alea jumped from the dragon’s back, careful to sweep her incredibly long hair aside so that it wouldn’t get in her way. The two began to sing:
“Don’t you act so nonchalant, Let’s both go where the dancing’s hot! Cause you can go wherever you want When you’re doing the Dragon Trot!”
Mother Duck regarded the performers, all the color drained from her face. “All I want to do is create,” she moaned. “And now this.”
Damsel and Dragon continued:
“First you fling your right foot, fast and free; You might crush a bush, you might crush a tree. Then you kick your left foot, what a romp; And if they don’t like it—Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!”
Damsel and Dragon crushed a large amount of underbrush under foot for emphasis before they launched once again into the chorus:
“Don’t you act so nonchalant, Let’s both go where the dancing’s hot! Cause you can go—“
“Twenty-three years,” Mother Duck went on. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years, and never, ever . . .” Her voice died before she could finish the sentence. Alea began to dance between the dragon’s toes, as, high above her, Hubert performed selected birdsong imitations.
Mother Duck shook her head. “My dear mother always told me I should go into another line of work. You’ll never go hungry if you become a General Witch Practitioner, she’d always say. And love potions! You can get rich with love” potions! But no. I had to follow my own muse and get involved with characters like this.”
Damsel and Dragon launched into yet another verse:
“Next you take your tail and swish it around; Be sure to flatten everything down to the ground; -- What you can’t stomp down you can certainly push. Say, hey, you’re a dragon so crush! Crush! Crush!”
Guxx Unfufadoo began to sneeze.
Mother Duck looked about her entreatingly, as if, somewhere in her Eastern Kingdoms, there might be something that would enable everything to make sense. It was an amazing transformation. This once strong woman, the mistress of all she surveyed, suddenly looked like a tourist lost without her guidebook. A moment ago, she had flicked Guxx Unfufadoo away as if the demon lord were some insignificant gnat. Now, Damsel and Dragon seemed to have totally undone her.
Not that I hadn’t seen it happen before. As the demon Snarks might say, when you watched Damsel and Dragon perform, it was like giving a whole new definition to the word “entertainment.” Faced with an act of Damsel and Dragon’s character, Mother Duck didn’t have a chance.
Still, it was an amazing transformation. Perhaps this would be a good time to make my proposal.
“Indeed,” I began as the duo launched into another chorus. “I was wondering—“
“Where have I gone wrong?” Mother Duck asked, turning to face me. “I’ll be honest with you, I’ve never felt quite comfortable with the whole thing from the very beginning. Even my name—Mother Duck. Oh, it’s not a bad name, mind you, but it doesn’t have quite the snap I was looking for. If your fairy tales are going to be remembered throughout history, your name should have some snap. Don’t you agree?”
“Uh,--“ I answered. “I suppose so. But I wanted to talk about Vushta—“
“What about something more regal,” the old woman suggested, “like Mother Swan?”
“Very nice,” I replied rapidly, “but about your pact with the Nether—“
Mother Duck wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “No, a swan’s much too fussy. I think it should be a common everyday bird, one that people could relate to. Like Mother Sparrow? No, that’s a bit plain. Mother Crackle, maybe?” The old woman made a face, shaking her head as soon as the words had left her mouth.
Damsel and Dragon continued. Did the song have no end?
“Now you know how to do the Dragon Trot, It’s the best dance craze we ever got! You know being a dragon is such a joy, And if they don’t like it: Destroy! Destroy!”
Damsel and Dragon ended with a flourish, bowing to everyone gathered in the clearing.
“Over?” Mother Duck whispered. “It’s over?”
“Did we hear a disappointed cry in the audience?” Hubert queried. “Is it time for an encore?”
“No! No!” their audience replied en masse.
“Indeed,” I added hastily, eager to have them out of the way so that I could get back to my discussion with Mother Duck. “Why ruin a perfect performance by dragging it on needlessly? Rather, let us remember your song for its brilliance and brevity.”
Hubert nodded solemnly. “The apprentice has a point.”
Mother Duck nodded in turn. “Furthermore,” she stated, the power once again in her voice, “if you attempt to sing a song like that again, I will be forced to cast a spell of eternal silence over you.” She pointed both her aged but still nimble hands at Hubert. “Think carefully, or you could spend the rest of your life as a silent dragon.”
“A spell of silence?” Hubert replied, aghast. “A silent dragon?”
But Alea nodded her head knowingly. “Don’t you see?” she told the dragon. “She’s never seen actors from the theaters of Vushta before. She’s obviously afraid of being upstaged.”
“Oh, dear.” The dragon sighed in agreement. “It’s the price you have to pay when you play the provinces.”
“Good,” Mother Duck stated. “I’m glad that’s settled. I’m afraid I was a bit startled by your first song and dance. I assure you that next time I will be prepared for anything you have to offer.” She flexed her conjuring fingers absently. “Remember, the next time I hear the Dragon Trot, you lose your vocal chords.”
A solitary smoke ring rose from the stunned dragon’s nose. She had done what I thought impossible—rendered Hubert speechless.
Mother Duck allowed herself a smile. She was in a good mood at last. It was time to make my plea!
“Indeed,” I began. “Now that you have dealt with that small problem, perhaps we may talk in earnest.”
“Hmm?” Mother Duck replied, as if she had forgotten all about me. “Oh, the Eternal Apprentice? Yes, I did rattle on there a bit, didn’t I? Well, you shouldn’t worry about it. I have quite recovered. In fact, I think it’s almost time for our next fairy tale.”
“Indeed?” She couldn’t leave now! I had been so close. She had to hear me out! “But—“
“Now, now, don’t keep interrupting Mother Duck. That’s a good myth figure. There’s no need to get upset.” She smiled condescendingly. “In fact, with what I have planned for you, I think you’ll need to conserve your strength.”
She stood, hands on hips, and surveyed all who stood around her. “The first two fairy tales didn’t work, but I’ve learned from my mistakes. I was thinking too small. You and your companions keep breaking out of the narrow confines of the tiny stories I have been giving to you. But no more. I am going to concoct a fairy story the equal of all of you.” She sighed happily. “With luck, it will be my masterpiece!”
“A worthy goal,” Jeffrey the wolf agreed. “But just think how much more resonance your stories would have, not to mention symbolism that might speak to a dozen unborn generations, if your tales featured clever talking wolves?”
Mother Duck sighed. “I’ve had just about enough outside interference. Maybe I should have Richard take you away after all. I mean, what kind of fairy tale would use a talking wolf?”
“What kind of fairy tale?” Jeffrey emitted a barking laugh. “Listen, lady, I’ve got some great ones. How about this little kid who has to take this basket of goodies through the woods to her grandmother’s house. But the wolf, you see, eats the grandmother and takes her place.”
Mother Duck looked at the wolf with new respect. “Really? Well, it does have some interesting elements. I like the kid and the grandmother. A nice family angle. The woods and the goodies aren’t bad either. They lend necessary color, I think. And the wolf eating the grandmother gives us that good old fairy tale violence that children love so much. What happens next?”
Jeffrey smiled, pleased with the approval. “Why, I eat the kid, too! Is that great or what?”
“You eat the kid, too?” Mother Duck made a face. “Who would want to hear a fairy tale like that?”
“What do you mean?” Jeffrey replied, somewhat miffed. “It’s really popular in the Wolf family.”
“It only proves, if you want a good fairy tale, you’ve got to tell it yourself.” And with that, Mother Duck climbed back up the hill. Jeffrey the wolf trotted right behind her.
My hope faded as Mother Duck walked away. I had completely failed in my plea for her to change allegiance. How could I get her to see our side of the issue if she wouldn’t even talk to me?
But again, I would not let myself crumble into despair. For my memory was still returning, and, as Mother Duck had surveyed those gathered in the clearing, I had looked around as well. And, as I looked around, I remembered. Here were my companions, Tap the Brownie, Hubert and Alea, and the three demons: Snarks, Guxx and Brax.
And I remembered that I had more companions . . .
First, where had Hendrek gone? The large warrior had appeared in the second fairy tale, warning me of “Doom” if I crossed the bridge. Yet, I had not seen him at all since I had regained my senses. True, Mother Duck might simply have placed him elsewhere, to prepare for the next part of her fairy story. Somehow, though, I wondered, for there were others that I had not seen at all.
One was the vain unicorn, who had followed me all this distance wishing to put its head in my lap. The unicorn, though, had been born in these Eastern Kingdoms. It had known of Mother Duck from before our present quest. Perhaps it also knew a way to avoid her powers. Of course, it could be waiting for me in the next fairy tale as well. So could the Seven Other Dwarves, who could not really be called companions, as we had met them so recently upon our travels, except for the fact that they had tried, unsuccessfully, to protect me from Mother Duck.
I had to face it: it all could be random chance, all controlled in some arcane fashion by the mistress of fairy tales, Mother Duck. Yet, somehow, I sensed a plan behind all these defections, because one more person was absent from this clearing, and had somehow absented herself completely from Mother Duck’s spells. This last person gave me hope, for the final fugitive was my beloved, the young witch Norei.
Norei! When I thought of her, everything fell into place. I knew the real reason I had come on this quest. Oh, certainly, I came to save my master, the great wizard Ebenezum, not to mention rescuing the wondrous metropolis of Vushta, city of a thousand forbidden delights, and the entirety of the surface world from the devastating evil of total defeat at the hands of the Netherhells. But I had personal reasons for my quest as well, reasons in their own way as important if not more so than the grand goals we had set out with on the quest to the Eastern Kingdoms. And those reasons could be summarized in one word:
Norei!
She was my real reason for being on this quest. But then, she was my real reason for everything. I had met other women before my young witch, had even fancied myself for a brief moment in love with one or two of them. Ah, they had been naught but schoolboy crushes, every one, even my liaison with the lovely Alea before she left the Western Woods to join the theater; but it took meeting a woman like Norei to show me the error of my ways.
So it was that I risked my life in the Eastern Kingdoms. I needed to make the world a safe place for Norei and me to be together, a place where we might, if things were to work out as I hoped, grow old together. True, Norei and I had had a few small misunderstandings when we had been together in Vushta. Oh, nothing insurmountable, I was sure, just a tiny confusion about a meeting or two I had had with Alea, and what small problem I had getting the actress to see that whatever had once been between us was now gone. In fact, I had almost succeeded in this goal, and would have gladly explained the few difficulties that still remained to my beloved Norei, if the young witch had still been talking to me. But, of course, she wasn’t, because of an incident with Alea and some canvas, not to mention—but, perhaps it was all a bit too complicated to dwell on at present. I would better spend my time devising some way to contact Norei, for I felt it was only with the aid of the young witch that we would escape Mother Duck’s clutches.
But Mother Duck had walked away. My companions and I were alone; beyond her control for the first moment since we had met. Why was I sitting here thinking when I could be acting? I did not know when an opportunity like this would come again. We would have to talk quickly and make plans before the old woman on the hill wove her spells about us once more.
“Indeed!” I called to my fellows. “Gather ‘round. We must talk!”
The Brownie, Damsel and Dragon and the three demons all came forward, forming a rough half-circle around me.
“It appears that Mother Duck has left us alone foi a moment. We must foment some sort of plan. There is no way we may complete our quest while we are trapped by this woman’s power. In addition, we all know the situation in Vushta, with every wizard there sneezing at the mention of sorcery. Each moment we are imprisoned, the forces of the Netherhells are that much closer to victory. What can we do?”
“Perhaps a cheerful song might help,” Hubert suggested.
“Then again,” Snarks interrupted, “perhaps it might not.”
“Begin!” Guxx instructed Brax, who was still holding the drum. Brax beat as Guxx declaimed:
“Guxx Unfufadoo, noble demon, Will put an end to Netherhells traitors; Will help the ‘prentice defeat Mother—“
He glanced at the dragon before continuing: “Will put a stop to poetry forever!”
The demon smiled, satisfied he had made his case. “And I have exactly the right used weapons to do the job!” Brax added.
“Is it time for Brownie Power?” Tap asked.
“Indeed,” I replied. “It is time for Brownie Power, and Demon Power, and Damsel and Dragon Power as well. Our strength is in our diversity. We all saw how Mother Duck became a bit undone by the surprise of Hubert and Alea’s song. Imagine how shocked she would be if we all used our abilities at the same time?”
“Oh, Wuntie!” Alea exclaimed, rushing over to give me a powerful hug. Her silken blue dress rubbed against my rough shirt, her long blond tresses fell in my face. “How brilliant!” She stepped away to look at me candidly. “I’ve always wanted to date a genius.”
I cleared my throat and looked at the others. Why did the temperature always rise whenever Alea was near?
“Um—er—very well,” I continued. “While we still have time, I will quickly outline the plan.” I glanced about to make sure I had everyone’s attention.
“Now we begin with—uh—we begin—“ I was having trouble forming the words. Sweat trickled down my brow. “We—“ I tried again. “—Once upon a time.”
Alea frowned. “What was that, Wuntie?”
“Oh, no!” Hubert shouted. “I think he’s been—he’s been—once upon a time.”
“You people are making less sense than usual!” Snarks complained. “What’s all this—once upon a time?”
“No! It’s time for Brownie—“ Tap faltered. Both he and Alea said the four words together.
“Once upon a time,” Guxx Unfufadoo chimed in. “Once upon a time.”
And Brax beat along on his drum.
“Here we go again.”
Words (which many were surprised were not posthumous) spoken by Ebenezum after he had managed to elude both King Snerdlot the Vengeful and the monarch’s elite assassin guard by cleverly using the maze of secret passageways in Snerdlot’s castle, only to open a door to discover he was once again in the bedchamber of Queen Vivazia. The queen was, of course, overjoyed to see him still alive, not to mention quite hot and sweaty from his recent pursuit, and therefore crossed the room in record time to give the wizard a comradely embrace. Ebenezum ceased his struggle a moment later, for, upon reflection, the wizard realized there were certain things from which there was truly no escape.
Once upon a time there was a traveler named Wuntvor, who happened upon a little man in the woods.
“Are you a fairy?” Wuntvor asked the little man.
But the little fellow made a face. “Not this time, thank my lucky shoes. No, good sir, I am genuine Brownie, and furthermore, sir, it is your lucky day.”
“My lucky day?” Wuntvor said, taken quite by surprise.
“Yes, you’re the only other person in this fairy—uh—“ The little fellow stopped himself. “—Brownie tale, so I guess it has to be you. It is your lucky day.”
The Brownie stood there, waiting expectantly.
“Thank you,” Wuntvor said at last, not knowing what was expected of him.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?” the Brownie demanded, tapping his tiny foot.
“Why?” Wuntvor obliged.
“Yes,” the Brownie agreed. “Why is it your lucky day! Oh, I guess you did ask. Pardon me. My mistake. Performance nerves, I guess. Well, it is your lucky day because you are to be granted seven wishes.”
“Seven wishes?” Wuntvor asked.
The Brownie nodded.
“I thought the usual was three,” the lad stated.
The Brownie nodded.
“Then why seven?” Wuntvor inquired.
“We’re running a special!” the Brownie exclaimed.
“Oh,” Wuntvor replied.
“Well, aren’t you surprised? Aren’t you excited?”
“I guess so,” Wuntvor responded, not really sure of anything. He had the nagging feeling that he had been here, or a place very much like here, sometime before.
What was that? Somewhere, in the distance, Wuntvor heard voices arguing. An elderly woman was complaining about how no one understood artists.
“Once upon a time,” Wuntvor said. He blinked1. “Seven wishes? You’re really going to give me seven wishes?” He looked down at the little man in wonder.
“That’s more like it,” the Brownie replied. “I mean we wee folk expect some enthusiasm for our efforts, you know? That’s right, seven wishes for anything you want!”
Anything he wanted? The lad was quite impressed with this opportunity, although he was the slightest bit scared as well. Seven wishes were a mighty responsibility, and Wuntvor knew all the old stories about farmers and fishermen receiving wishes and squandering them on puddings and the like. He would have to think about this, for he was a young man, abroad to seek his fortune, and this seven wishes thing might be just the chance he was looking for. But, even though he had more than the usual three, Wuntvor knew he would have to use every wish wisely.
“Well,” the Brownie said, foot once again tapping. “I’m waiting.”
‘ ‘Uh—“ Wuntvor replied in surprise.’ ‘I have to start wishing now?”
“Hey, give me a break. You’ve got seven wishes, here. We Brownies have things to do. Time is shoes, you know!”
Oh, well, Wuntvor thought. Why not? He had to start this wish business some time. He’d have to make the first one a good one.
“Indeed,” he began, for that word seemed to help him to think. “I—um—wish I had a stout weapon to protect me from danger.”
“Granted!” the Brownie exclaimed.
There was a muffled sound from the direction of his belt, like someone hollering behind a closed door.
“Eh?” Wuntvor said, or a sound very much like that. He looked down, and noticed that there was a sword and scabbard hanging from his belt. The lad grabbed the hilt of the weapon and pulled it free.
“It’s about time you let me back out!” the sword exclaimed. “Do you know how boring it can get in there?”
“Pardon?” Wuntvor asked, confused by the weapon’s complaint. “About time for what? Have we met before? You are the sword I wished for as the first of my seven wishes. I don’t understand what you are talking about.”
“First of seven wishes?” the talking sword mused. “Oh, that means we’re not still—we’re in an entirely different—I see. Excuse me. When you’re stuck in a scabbard day in and day out, you lose track of time. I didn’t realize we had started another fairy tale.”
“It’s a Brownie tale!” the little fellow contradicted.
“Wait a minute,” Wuntvor interjected. He had been confused from the beginning of this whole thing, and somehow, anything that anybody said to him only seemed to make it worse. He stared at the sword. “You mean you were around here all along?”
“Hey,” the Brownie said defensively, “I didn’t say you had to wish for something you didn’t already have!”
The lad looked open-mouthed at the Brownie. Had the little fellow tricked him?
“ You should be more careful with your wishes, you know.” The sword chuckled softly to itself. “Before long, I’ll bet you’ll be wishing for puddings!”
Then he had been tricked, and had had the sword at his belt all along. But why hadn’t he remembered the sword? He had felt awkward from the first about being in this fairy tale, or Brownie tale, as if he had done something like this before that he could not quite recall. And he hadn’t been all that surprised to see the sword at his belt. So maybe he had remembered after all. Or maybe he was remembering that he had remembered it all before.
Wuntvor shook his head. It was very confusing. He simply couldn’t remember.
“Well,” the Brownie prompted, “we’re waiting.”
The lad decided he would not let the little fellow fluster him. He didn’t know quite how he had gotten the sword, but he had it. This Brownie would cause him to squander his wishes if he wasn’t careful.
Wuntvor decided to study his surroundings before he made another wish so as to avoid any more obvious mistakes. He stood at the edge of a bridge over a wide but slow-moving stream. The path wound away from him, up a grassy but steep hill. And on the summit of that hill stood a tower, with but a single window at the very top, a window from which, at this moment, poured thick, gray smoke.
What did this mean? Would his adventures lead him to the smoking tower, or should his fate lead him to the other side of the river? There was something about the bridge, too, that made him the slightest bit uncomfortable, although of course he could not remember exactly what it was, except he could swear it had something to do with poetry.
“Well,” the Brownie prompted, “what’s it going to be?”
Yes, Wuntvor thought, what was it going to be, the other side of the river or the tower on the hill? He looked again at the sinister gray turbulence roiling from the window above. Actually, if he were to have his preference, he would as soon have all his adventures in places other than smoking towers, thank you.
Well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Or had he crossed it already? The lad glanced back at the river with a frown. If only he could remem—
Wuntvor shook his head sharply, as if he might dislodge any cobwebs that were growing between his ears. Whatever had happened before, it was time to make another wish.
This time he would wish for something a bit more difficult. And something perhaps that was not as dangerous as adventuring to the tower at the top of the hill. And—dare he hope?-- something of more lasting importance than any single adventure.
“I wish—“ Wuntvor hesitated, wanting to get the words just right. “I wish I could meet a fair damsel to be my own true love.”
“Granted!” the Brownie responded cheerfully. “If you’ll simply follow me?”
With that, the little fellow started up the hill, toward the smoking tower. The lad glanced up again. Did he see flame shoot through the gray clouds?
“Wait a moment!” Wuntvor exclaimed. “Where are we going?”
“Exactly what I would like to know!” his sword chimed in.
‘To meet a fair damsel, just like you wanted. Come on. When you wish for something, you’ve got to follow through. That’s part of the Brownie Code.”
“Indeed?” Wuntvor asked, trotting tentatively after the Brownie, who moved very quickly for one so small. “But what if I don’t wish to go to the tower?”
The little fellow shook his head. “Sorry, Brownies don’t do non-wishes. You’ll have to talk to some other magical subspecies about that. Besides, what are you worried about? You still have enough Brownie wishes left to waste one or two.”
And with that, the Brownie turned away again and resumed his rapid climb.
Left to waste? Wuntvor wasn’t sure he hadn’t wasted the two he had already wished. Still, he supposed he’d never know unless he followed the Brownie to the tower. The lad decided to climb the hill.
Smoke still poured from the window. And as he climbed the steep slope, Wuntvor detected a deep rumbling, something he half heard and half felt shaking the ground beneath his feet. What precisely was going on up there?
Wuntvor decided to ask the Brownie.
“Excuse me,” he said, increasing his stride to catch up to the little man. “Could you tell me exactly why we’re going to this tower?”
“That depends,” the Brownie said cagily. “Could you put your question in the form of a wish?”
“What?” Wuntvor exploded. “Must I use my wishes for everything?” His hand tightened around the hilt of his weapon. “If I weren’t a hero and role model to unborn generations—“
“Careful now!” the sword cautioned him. “You know I don’t like to be used for threats. It upsets my delicate balance.”
The Brownie covered his head with his tiny hands, as if to ward off the lad’s blows. “Hey!” he shouted as he continued up the hill backwards. “Don’t blame me. You should see the wish quota I have to fill. Why do you think we’re giving away seven wishes at a pop? For our health, maybe? It’s tough being in the fairy tale—uh—Brownie tale business. If you’re not on top of it all the time, your limelight gets stolen by a golden goose or something!”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor replied, feeling his grasp of the situation once again slipping away, “perhaps we should continue to the tower.”
‘That’s more like it!” the Brownie cheered enthusiastically. “I don’t suppose you’d want to rephrase that as a wish, either? Just asking! Let’s get to that tower.”
The Brownie turned and ran up the last third of the hill. Wuntvor was hard put to keep up with him.
“One maiden coming up!” the Brownie announced.
Wuntvor was too busy catching his breath to think of an appropriate answer. The rumbling was much louder up here. He could definitely feel it through the soles of his boots. The lad wondered if he wanted to meet a maiden who caused rumbling like that. Still, he had left his native land in search of adventure, and he supposed this qualified as that sort of thing.
“Ready?” the Brownie prompted.
Wuntvor took a deep breath and nodded.
“You got it,” the wee fellow replied. “Now all you have to say is ‘Fair maiden, fair maiden, let down your hair!’ “
“Fair maiden?” Wuntvor said tentatively.
“It’s part of the second wish!” the Brownie insisted. “Say it!”
“Very well.” Wuntvor looked up at the tower and did just that.
“Fair maiden, fair maiden, let down your hair!”
He heard a woman’s voice call down above the rumbling:
“So you may climb my golden stair!”
Golden stair? Wuntvor frowned. What did that mean?
Something plummeted from the window above. Something golden and shining. It was heading right for him!
Then everything went black.
A wizard needs to be many things beyond a mere magician. Among the skills a student mage must cultivate is play-acting, a talent which may be more important than it might seem at first glance. “Why acting?” the novice wizard might ask, but the benefits will soon become apparent when that same mage must “act up a storm” for a spell that is not quite going as planned. And as to “playing,” well, it is only after such a spell has gone horribly wrong, bringing destruction and great financial reversals upon your clients, that you realize how useful “playing dead” can be.
The Teachings of Ebenezum, VOLUME XXII
“There you are.”
Wuntvor groaned, blinking in the bright light.
The Brownie smiled apologetically. “I suppose I should have warned you about the hair. When it grows as long as all that, it gets pretty hefty. Here. I’ve swept enough of it aside so that you can crawl free.” He waved for Wuntvor to follow him.
The lad crawled through the opening, then stood and turned to see what had befallen him. He whistled softly. The Brownie was correct. There was more hair here than he had ever seen in one place before. The entire side of the tower was covered with it; cascading golden blond strands that reached all the way to the window high above. And the hair was so long that it gathered in great masses upon the ground, forming valleys and tiny hillocks all its own, so that it looked like some miniature and yet strangely hirsute landscape spread out before him.
“Well,” the woman’s voice called to him. “Are you going to climb up or not?”
“Oh, most assuredly he shall!” the Brownie shouted. The little fellow nudged Wuntvor’s ankle. “Well, you want your damsel, don’t you?”
Wuntvor nodded, a touch troubled by these proceedings. Shouldn’t there be some way to meet a fair maiden without having to climb up her hair? Still, in a way he supposed it was his fault. He knew from his childhood reading that whenever you got involved in wish stories you had to be incredibly specific, or this sort of thing always happened.
He stepped forward and gathered enough hair in his hands to make a thick rope. He gripped the strands as best he could and hoisted himself aloft.
“Ouch!” came a cry from far overhead.
Wuntvor looked down doubtfully at the Brownie.
“Hey,” the little fellow shrugged. “You want your maiden, you’ve got to do what she asks. That’s the way this wish stuff works. No pain, no gain.”
Wuntvor grabbed a hank of hair above him and pulled himself up again.
“Ooooh!” This time, the noise from the window was more of a moan than a sharp cry.
Wuntvor looked up to the window far overhead. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
And the melodious voice called down:
“Would you just hurry and get up here before you pull out all my hair?”
Well, Wuntvor thought, one should never argue with a fair maiden. If climbing was what she desired, Wuntvor would ascend.
“Yow!” the cry came from the tower, and “Oof! Eeee! Erk! Yorp!” and other exclamations of a similar stripe, every time Wuntvor pulled himself farther up the rope of hair. The lad redoubled his efforts, for he wished to put an end to the maiden’s suffering as soon as possible.
At last his hand grasped the stone window sill. He grabbed the sill with his other hand as well, and hoisted himself up so that he could throw his leg across the ledge.
“Well,” the maiden remarked upon seeing him. “ Tis about time.” She wrinkled her brow and rubbed her head. “Next time, I may choose to be rescued by a lighter hero.”
Wuntvor began to stammer an apology.
“Oh, nevermind,” the damsel replied.” Twas not your fault, after all. I was the one who asked you here. Now, if you would give me a hand, we need to haul up my hair.”
So Wuntvor helped the maiden to gather her hair from the tower wall and return it to her sitting room. As they were involved in this procedure, which was quite time consuming, the lad thought to make polite conversation. Thus he commented upon the length and lustre of her hair, and wondered how she kept it so.
“You don’t know the half of it!” The damsel, who was quite attractive when she had her hair pushed away from her face, rolled her eyes heavenward. “Nobody ever told me having long hair would be like this. Brushing it a hundred strokes takes all day! And when it gets snarled”—she laughed ruefully—“it’s murder!”
Suddenly, the rumbling began again, deep within the tower, so loud that Wuntvor had to cover his ears for a moment until it passed.
“What was that?” he asked with some trepidation.
“Oh, nothing.” The fair damsel shrugged. “Only the dragon.”
A dragon? The Brownie had never said there was going to be a dragon!
Wuntvor walked back to the window and scowled down at the little fellow.
“You’d better get up here!” the lad warned.
“Is that a wish?” the Brownie hollered.
Wuntvor wanted to scream. He could see it happening; one way or another, the Brownie would make him squander all his wishes. But perhaps there was another way. Maybe Wuntvor could help the maiden escape without ever having to confront the dragon.
“Wait there!” he called to the Brownie, then turned about and walked back to the sitting room, where the fair damsel was trying to find enough nooks and crannies in which to stuff her tremendous locks so that she might have room to breathe. Before he did any rescuing, the lad decided, he should ask the maiden’s opinion on the matter. He briefly outlined what he considered the options to be, then asked what she desired most.
“What do I want most?” the damsel replied, fluttering her long and copious lashes. “I want to sing!”
“Sing?” the lad repeated, somewhat surprised.
The damsel nodded, cheerful at last. “When you’ve been trapped in a tower as long as I have, you can’t imagine how much you long to do a musical number for an audience. Even an audience of one.” She flashed her lovely smile. “It was so nice of you to ask me. I’ll do a little ditty that’s always been one of my favorites.”
She cleared her throat, and, to the lad’s astonishment, began to belt out a song:
“Am I afraid of dungeon towers? Oh no, not little me. My locks can unlock any door; My curls will set me free.”
She grabbed a mass of hair and stared at it, enraptured, as she sang again:
“Men can come and go; I really couldn’t care. But I’m in love, I’m so fond of, My glorious, glorious hair.”
The damsel curtsied, apparently finished with her performance. The rumbling returned, somehow more rhythmic than before.
“Oh, thank you, Hubert!” the maiden called. “Thank you all so very much.” She smiled at Wuntvor again. “It’s gratifying to work with a dragon that appreciates my talents.”
Wuntvor realized then what the heavy pounding that filled the tower really was. It was applause—dragon applause. The lad had some trouble comprehending exactly what this meant. He decided to take a direct approach.
“But you are held a captive in this tower!” he said to the maiden. “Don’t you want to escape?”
The maiden bit her lovely lip. “Oh, I suppose so,” she said after a moment’s pause. “But the dragon would have to come along as well.”
If the lad had been puzzled before, now he was totally confused. This made no sense whatsoever. Dragons were meant to rumble, and threaten, and possibly devour, but never ever to applaud. And as to escaping and taking the dragon along—what had the Brownie gotten him into? Next time he saw the little fellow, they would have words.
In the meantime, though, he would have to hurry to stay with the maiden, who was leaving the sitting room by the second door, which led into the tower’s interior. Wuntvor sprinted just behind, careful to stay ahead of the massive curls that swirled along the floor beside him.
“We go down these stairs,” the maiden said. They were in the end of a short corridor. “Hubert waits below.” She began her descent.
The lad followed once again, realizing that he would have to completely rethink his opinions on the relationship between damsels and dragons. Unless, perhaps, there was some more sinister motivation behind the damsel’s actions; that, perhaps, she was adept at luring her young suitors to their doom, say, as a dragon’s lunch? But no, Wuntvor dismissed that idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. No one as sweet and lovely as the maiden before him could be involved in such treachery. But then another, even less pleasant thought struck him with the force of a winter storm.
“Does the dragon do musical numbers as well?” he asked, trepidation once again in his voice.
“Well,” the maiden admitted, “he used to, but there are a few difficulties with his present contract.” She shook her head sadly. “If he uses his voice in an improper fashion, there could be dire consequences. But you didn’t come here to hear our problems. It’s time to talk to Hubert.”
She continued down the stairs. The lad could think of nothing to do but follow. The worn stone steps seemed to wind about the inside of the tower wall. As they descended, the ceiling and inner wall grew farther and farther away until, in the dim illumination, Wuntvor could imagine that there were no other walls at all besides the one he ran his hand against for support.
“Hubert!” the maiden called. “Oh, Hubert!”
With that, the rumbling started anew, much louder than before. They were approaching light—wild, flickering light, like that of a dozen torches.
But the flame was not bom of wooden torches. It came instead, in great fiery gouts, from a dragon’s snout, which appeared less than a dozen paces away from the startled Wuntvor.
“Yowp!” the lad cried, but the dragon regarded him in silence.
‘There you are!” The damsel clapped her hands in glee. “Hubert always was one to make a dramatic entrance. Especially now that he is no longer speaking.”
The dragon rumbled and nodded its head, upon which, Wuntvor noted, the reptile wore a purple top hat.
“Being prevented from talking might be a great burden to anyone whose chosen career is the theater,” the damsel continued. “Many an actor could let this turn of events drag him into a despair from which he might not recover. But not our Hubert.” She pointed proudly at the giant lizard. “This dazzling dragon has turned Mother Duck’s edict into a whole new career direction. Yes, no longer is Hubert a dragon actor. Now, instead, Hubert has become the world’s first dragon mime!” She clapped her hands smartly. “What a trouper! Come on, Hubert! Show him your stuff!”
The huge reptile leaned forward, pushing his forepaws against some imaginary wall, while its rear feet seemed to be walking without getting anywhere. Wuntvor frowned. What was this supposed to mean?
“That’s right!” the damsel exclaimed proudly. “It’s a dragon walking against the wind! What genius!” She turned and looked to the lad for approval.
“Indeed,” the lad remarked for want of anything else to say. “But weren’t we escaping?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right of course. Out there, beyond this tower is a world full of audiences waiting to applaud Hubert’s talent. But look!” The damsel pointed once again at the reptile. “Hubert’s doing a dragon washing windows! What style! What panache!”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor commented again, trying not to get too distracted by the circular motions Hubert was making with his feet. With all this dragon business, the lad was thinking twice about becoming involved with this maiden happily ever after. He wondered if the Brownie would let him re-use a wish. He tapped the damsel on the shoulder, causing her to pause in her gushing praise.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where the door is?” he asked.
“Certainly.” The damsel beamed. “Just beyond Hubert there.”
“Indeed,” the lad responded. “What say we go through it?”
The damsel laughed. “And let the world know our little secret?” She skipped merrily toward the dragon, holding her hair back so that it would not trip her. “Oh Hubert, Hubert, we’re going on tour!”
The dragon nodded and used its tail to push open the tower door, a door larger than any Wuntvor had ever seen—large enough at least to let a dragon through. With such an easy way out, Wuntvor wondered absently why the damsel and the dragon hadn’t left before this. He supposed there had to be some reason, but before he could think of a way to ask about it, the air was again full of rumbling.
He turned to the damsel. “Is Hubert clearing his throat?”
The maiden shook her head. “Oh, dear, no, that isn’t the dragon rumbling at all. Listen carefully. That noise has no tone whatsoever, no sense of dynamics. It’s obviously totally untrained. Besides, I think it’s coming from underground.”
Underground? Why was there something about that fact that made the lad uneasy?
“Once upon a time,” Wuntvor whispered. “Once upon a time.”
The rumbling grew louder, and a great rift appeared in the floor before them. The air became filled with dust, and when the dust cleared, Wuntvor saw that a long table had appeared from the hole in the earth. Seated behind that table were five of the ugliest creatures he had ever seen.
The creature in the center pounded a gavel.
“We claim this land in the name of the Netherhells!”
A gavel? The Netherhells? Thoughts and images raced madly about in the lad’s brain.
“Indeed,” he managed weakly.
“Wuntie?” the damsel cried in alarm. “Is something wrong?”
The lad managed a choked laugh. “Oh, nothing much. I just wish I knew what was going on here!”
“Granted!” a tiny voice screamed at his side.
Memory is a funny thing. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I have forgotten to keep an appointment with the royal tax collector. This always seems to upset the official greatly, until I mention that perhaps I can make up for my error and help facilitate their inspection of my gold by transforming the official into a sparrow, so that he might fly there directly, or into a frog, so that he might hop quickly from one source of wealth to the next, or—perhaps best of all—into a worm, so that he might burrow beneath the earth searching for hidden assets. Oddly enough, every time we have this conversation, the tax collector forgets to make any further appointments. As I said, memory is a funny thing.
Wizardnetics: Your Guide to Total Magical Fulfillment, by Ebenezum, Greatest Wizard in the Western Kingdom (thirty-fourth edition)
That did it. Everything came rushing back at once. It was like getting hit in the face with Hendrek’s warclub. I remembered Mother Duck and my quest and companions, and the attacks of the Netherhells and the plight of Vushta and my master and my current situation with Norei and any number of other things.
“Um--,” I remarked. “Indeed.” I remembered again that I had to somehow convince Mother Duck of the error of her ways. But could I do that while we were being attacked by the Netherhells?
“Wait a second!” the small demon at the end of the table exclaimed in a grating voice. “This isn’t Vushta!”
The large demon at table’s center pounded its gavel. “What do you mean? You remember our discussions. The remaining magical might of the surface world has concentrated itself in Vushta. You yourself recall the hundred or more wizards we faced last time we were there.” The demon waved its gavel at the clearing around the table. “Well, this was where all the magic was emanating from. And we followed that magic to get here. Therefore, this must be Vushta.”
“Point of order!” the small demon objected. “This doesn’t look at all like Vushta.”
The main demon waved its gavel even more furiously, as if to disperse the other’s objection into the late summer air. “So they’ve disguised it. Whenever you’re facing more than a hundred magicians, you have to expect clever things like that.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Mother Duck’s voice grew in intensity as she rushed down the hill toward us. “It’s all wrong! Why does this sort of thing have to happen to me?”
“Perhaps,” Jeffrey called as he attempted to catch up to her, “things would go better if you would employ a few talking wolves. Improvisation is a skill much prized among wolfkind—“
“Hey!” a voice called, close by my foot. “Are you just going to let me lay here and rust?”
I looked down. It was Cuthbert, my magic sword. I realized I must have dropped it when the hair had fallen on me.
I knelt and picked the weapon up.
“Much better!” Cuthbert crowed. “The first thing the hero must learn is the proper care of his weapons. And when his weapon is something as magical as mmmmpphh!”
I rapidly slid Cuthbert back into its scabbard. I had other things to think about besides lessons in proper sword care. I wondered how I might get Mother Duck’s attention, but from the way she was glaring at the demonic newcomers, I had a feeling that reasoned discussion was one of the furthest things from her mind.
One of the other demons pointed at the rapidly approaching woman. “I think we may be under attack.”
“Is it time to boil blood?” the end demon asked enthusiastically.
Mother Duck shook both her fists as she barreled toward the committee.
“Oh dear,” the gavel demon remarked, a slight quaver in its voice. “Perhaps we are not in Vushta after all.”
“What are you doing here?” Mother Duck demanded as she rushed before the demons. “I certainly hope you’re not here on one of your missions of conquest!”
“Oh! No, no! Never conquest!” the gavel demon insisted. It paused, cowering ever so slightly. When it became apparent that Mother Duck was not going to smite the creature where it stood, the demon wiped its brow and continued in a more moderate tone: “Well, actually, we were on one of our missions, but not to the Eastern Kingdoms—never to the Eastern Kingdoms, I assure you. We simply got a little turned around. ...” The demon’s voice died under Mother Duck’s withering stare.
“Anyone could have made that mistake,” another of the demons added.
“You see,” explained the small, sickly fellow down at the end, “it’s dark underground, and the signage isn’t all that good either.”
“Am I expected to believe--,” Mother Duck began slowly.
“No, of course not!” the sickly demon agreed. “We’d never expect you to believe that!”
“There could be another reason why we’re here,” the gavel demon chimed in, speaking even more rapidly than before. “Say—we missed you. Of course. That’s it. Certainly.” The demon tugged at its too tight collar. “Uh—you don’t know what a trial it’s been not to see your face. Right. It’s been—well, hours since our last encounter, and we were so looking forward to your inspirational—“
“Silence!” Mother Duck commanded.
The demons silenced.
In the sudden absence of noise, I heard other rustlings behind me. I glanced around to see Snarks, Brax and Guxx climbing up the riverbank.
“And don’t you try anything, either!” Mother Duck proclaimed, fixing the three with her steely glare. She turned back to the committee. “You remember what happened the last time you tried to boil blood around here?”
All five demons nodded their heads vigorously.
“Certainly, Mother Duck.”
“Most assuredly, Mother Duck.”
“The survivors are still under the care of the finest physicians in the Netherhells, Mother Duck.”
“Very well,” the woman stated. “We won’t have any more of that sort of thing, will we?”
The five demons blanched noticeably, turning pastel shades of their various fantastic hues.
“Oh, no, Mother Duck.”
“Absolutely not, Mother Duck.”
“You have it all there in writing, Mother Duck. Would you like us to recite it aloud?”
But before Mother Duck could respond, another gruff demonic voice interjected:
“Begin!”
Brax beat on the drum he had thoughtfully slung from his waist.
“Guxx Unfufadoo, appalled demon, Has had his fill of Netherhells’ cowards; Will grab them by soft underbellies, And feed them to the molten slime pits!”
Guxx flexed his claws as if they could barely wait for the aforementioned grabbing and feeding to begin.
The committee all stared at their former leader, he who had once been Grand Hoohah. Mother Duck was temporarily forgotten. Guxx’s pronouncement had clearly upset them.
“Oh, yeah?” exploded the small, sickly fiend at table’s end.
“You and what army?” the fellow next to him rejoined.
“Why don’t you come over here and say that?” something shouted from the other end of the table.
The primary demon pounded its gavel.
“Now, then,” it rumbled grimly at Guxx. “Let us get something clear. You were once a power in the Netherhells, but you are a power no more. We now hold the reins of the world below. If you choose to question our might, there will be”—the fiend paused for dramatic effect—“retribution.”
“Oh, yeah!” the small, sickly fellow exclaimed enthusiastically. . Mother Duck stepped between the combatants.
“I think not,” she said calmly, staring at the five demon committee members. “You will do nothing of the kind. Those already here are under my protection.”
I could not believe my ears. Mother Duck, our sworn enemy, was actually defending us! I wondered for an instant what had caused her change of heart, and decided it had to be our obvious sincerity. As we participated in her fairy stories, she was coming to know our true, honest selves. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult to reason with her after all!
“But these are demons!” the gavel fiend persisted. “They are ours by Netherhells’ common law!”
“Oh, boy! Is it time to boil blood?” The sickly fellow grinned at my three demonic allies as its fellow committee members also turned their collective gaze in the same direction. “Feeling a little hot under the collars, boys?”
Snarks and Brax both quietly retreated behind the greater bulk of Guxx Unfufadoo.
Mother Duck reached a hand inside her woolen vest. She pulled out a sheaf of parchment. “You are perhaps forgetting this,” she remarked casually. “This is the contract I signed with the Netherhells after our last unfortunate incident, a contract which supercedes all Netherhells laws, prevents all demonic interference in my kingdoms and is possibly the only reason why the Netherhells still exist!”
“That’s telling them!” Snarks cheered, poking his head out to the left of Guxx.
“One should always abide by contracts,” Brax added as he peeked out from the right.
I tried hard to repress a smile. Mother Duck seemed definitely to be swinging to our side in this discussion. As soon as this little altercation was over, I resolved to speak with the woman, addressing her as the ally I was sure she would become. I stared at the ground, searching for the exact words. How would my master handle this?
“We certainly don’t object,” the gavel demon interjected hastily. “We would never object with Mother Duck!” The other committee demons nodded their agreement.
Mother Duck smiled. “I’m glad everyone sees things my way. There will be no more threats against these demons. You are interlopers.” She gestured at the committee, then turned and waved in much the same fashion at the rest of us. “Those already here are pawns. They are mine to do with as I choose.”
Pawns? Do with as she chose7 That wasn’t the way one spoke about potential allies. I frowned. Perhaps I had slightly misinterpreted recent events. Maybe I should address Mother Duck as more of a neutral party.
“Consider yourself lucky, demons,” the old woman continued. “This time, I will accept your pitiful excuses, and look upon your visit here as an oversight. But listen closely: if I see you again, the Netherhells will pay!”
The demons all began to talk at once:
“Certainly, Mother Duck.”
“Our every effort is to please you, Mother Duck.”
“We will do whatever you ask, Mother Duck,” the gavel demon added. “We ask only one boon. Might you, in your infinite wisdom, be able to point out the way to Vushta and the Western Kingdoms?”
Mother Duck sighed. “Very well, even though it isn’t in the contract. I can see no other way to be rid of you for good.” She pointed over the demon’s shoulder. “That way.”
The demon twisted its head around, still perplexed. “That’s all you can tell me? That way? You couldn’t be a little more specific?”
The other demons nudged their leader.
“That’s perfectly all right, Mother Duck,” one bubbled.
“Thank you for all the help, Mother Duck,” another chirped.
“Don’t you think it’s time we were going so that we can leave Mother Duck and her pawns in peace?” the sickly fiend asked hopefully.
“Remember the contract!” Mother Duck whispered helpfully.
“The contract?” The gavel demon repressed a shiver. “Very well, Mother Duck. I never meant to question your directions, Mother Duck. Uh—that way.” It nodded toward the west. “Back into the earth, fellow demons!”
Grunting and groaning, the committee dragged their table back to the edge of the crevice, and then, with a final heave-ho, toppled it into the pit. The five demons quickly followed.
“At last!” Mother Duck glanced about at the rest of us, clapping her hands peremptorily. “No dawdling, now. Back to work!”
“But--,” I began. She didn’t even seem to hear me as she marched back toward the hill, the talking wolf in close pursuit. How could I convince her of the wisdom of our cause if she wouldn’t even stop and listen?
“Oh, Wuntie!” Alea breathed in my ear. “She called us pawns!”
“Indeed,” I replied, wishing that the damsel would not stand quite so close. “I believe she underestimates us. She is so wrapped up in concocting her fairy stories that she ignores us when we are not under her direct control. We must therefore use this time wisely, and complete our escape plans.”
The former Grand Hoohah stepped forward, raising both his clawed hands to gain our attention.
“Commence!” Guxx intoned.
I placed a restraining hand on Guxx’s shoulder. “Please, no declaiming—“ I glanced at Hubert and Alea. “—or singing for that matter—until I’m finished. I fear our time is limited.”
“It’s even shorter than that!” Snarks remarked. “The old lady’s already made it to the top of the hill.”
“No, not quite yet,” Hubert said, motioning the truth-telling demon to silence. “She’s still talking to the wolf. Something about how having hirsute characters in your stories gives those tales a gritty realism. We have a moment yet.” The dragon grinned. “Always depend on dragon ears.”
Snarks nodded. “I’d rather do that than listen to a dragon’s vocal chords.”
“Indeed,” I interjected. “I fear there is no time for an argument, either. But Snarks’s remark about vocal chords reminds me of the way Mother Duck controls us. Each of us falls under her spell through the use of our own voices. I believe we could actually break free of her spell, if only there was some way we could keep from saying those words. All of us must concentrate—“
“Those words?” Guxx rumbled.
“You mean ‘Once upon a time’?” Hubert added helpfully.
Something strange happened to the dragon as soon as he framed the question. The huge reptile’s eyes glazed over, and he began to totter back and forth.
“Look out!” Alea cried.
The rest of the party rapidly retreated as Hubert finally tottered too far and fell upon his back. When the dust settled, I saw that he was grabbing great handfuls of air with his forepaws while his legs kicked out against an invisible barrier.
“What is Hubert doing?” I asked, already afraid of the answer.
“Can’t you tell?” Alea replied, excited despite herself. “It’s a dragon doing the backstroke! He’s back in the fairy story. But what talent!”
So saying the four words turned Hubert instantly back into a dragon mime. I nodded grimly. “This proves my point. If we can only resist, we may be able to overcome this spell!”
“But how can we resist?” Tap asked urgently. “Her spells are even stronger than Brownie Power!”
“We simply must be very careful about what we say, and never put those four words together in a sentence. Now concentrate with me, so that we might prevail.”
I took a deep breath. I had broken into a sudden sweat. Was Mother Duck already attempting to exert her magical control over me? I waved for the others to come closer. “Now listen to me,” I began. “Once Mother Duck gets us under her control, we are lost, for who knows upon what whim she will once again relinquish her control.” My head was beginning to swim. I bit my lip, willing the pain to clear my mind. “Now, all we have to do is take her spells one at a time—“
I blinked. Something had changed. What was I saying? What had I said? Why was everyone around me saying the same thing?
Had something gone wrong with one of my wishes?
I admit it. I have always had a weakness for damsels with long blond hair. Well, actually, I have a bit of a weakness for brunette maidens as well. Ah, yes—and then there are damsels with hair of fire red! And did you ever notice how attractive women can be when they are totally bald?
An uncompleted later chapter of Some Thoughts About Apprenticeship, by Wuntvor, apprentice to Ebenezum, greatest wizard in the Western Kingdoms
(a work in progress)
Once upon a time, Wuntvor had thought this whole wish thing with the Brownie might bring him his fortune. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Now where were we?” the Brownie asked helpfully. “Oh, yes, you had just escaped from the tower with the maiden and the dragon, and having used three wishes, were wondering what next to do on your quest for adventure.”
Wuntvor frowned. The Brownie’s summation sounded fun- damentally correct, and certainly went a long way toward calming the confusion that rattled about in his skull. There was only one thing that troubled him.
“Three wishes?” he queried.
The Brownie nodded his tiny head.
Wuntvor shook his in turn, still trying to remember. “I had wished for ... a weapon. Oh, yes! And to find a woman to be my love. What was my third wish?”
“That you wanted to know everything!” the Brownie replied.
Wuntvor scratched his head. “Then why don’t I remember it?”
The Brownie looked at Wuntvor solemnly, then glanced at the hill beyond. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
What? Wuntvor now found himself so confused that he couldn’t even frame another question. He was beginning to suspect, however, that this whole conversation was a Brownie trick to get him to waste another wish. Perhaps it would be best to go on to other matters.
“Oh, Wuntie!” the beautiful maiden called to him. How did she know his name? Had they ever officially been introduced? “We have great news for you!”
“Once upon a time,” Wuntvor murmured as he turned to face the long-haired beauty, for those words somehow seemed to calm him. “Once upon a time.”
“Hubert and I have been thinking,” the damsel continued. “It is difficult for an unattached man and woman to travel through the countryside. There are malicious gossips everywhere, and certain people who will always think the worst. Of course, having a dragon along does help somewhat. For some reason, people are reticent to speak their worst excesses in the vicinity of a fire-breathing reptile. Still, we might have trouble if your presence is not properly explained. Therefore—“
She paused while the dragon leapt about from foot to foot in what could charitably be called a dance. The giant lizard waved its top hat in Wuntvor’s direction.
“Can’t you see what Hubert’s trying to tell you?” The damsel cheered. “You’re going to become part of our act!”
“Indeed,” the lad replied, somewhat startled by this information. Somehow, becoming part of a touring company with a beautiful damsel and dancing dragon was not his precise defi- nition of “adventure.” Still, he was willing to attempt anything, as long as a lovely maiden was about. Besides which, he reflected, it was easy to make decisions of this type if you still had four Brownie wishes to fall back on.
“Indeed,” he said again.
The damsel clapped her hands happily. “Oh, we’ll have such fun! And listen, we even have an idea for our first routine. It’s an old one, but that means it’s a proven audience pleaser.”
The dragon blew an elaborate smoke ring by way of agreement.
“That’s right,” the maiden trilled. “I’m talking about the Thrilling Dragon Rescue!” She glanced up at the large reptile apologetically. “I know that’s species stereotyping, but what are you going to do? It’s what they expect out in the sticks. And we are definitely in the sticks.” She smiled at Wuntvor. She was lovely when she smiled. “Are you ready?”
The lad nodded his head somewhat dubiously.
“Right, here we go,” the damsel replied. “First, Hubert will breathe a little fire to set the mood.”
The dragon roared above them, flame shooting the length of the clearing.
“Now,” the damsel instructed, “it is time for you to stare bravely at Hubert and draw your sword.”
Wuntvor did as he was told.
“What’s going on here?” the sword demanded, its voice cracking in its haste.
The damsel assured the weapon that it was only needed for a demonstration.
“Oh, really? You’re sure about that?” the sword replied, somewhat mollified. “You’ll have to excuse me, but in my line of work, it’s easy to get jumpy. I mean, here you are, sitting snug in the dark, lulled into complacency by the steady slap-slap-slap of scabbard against thigh, then whizzo, you’re out in the sunlight. Wouldn’t you find that the slightest bit disconcerting?”
“I had never thought of it from a sword’s point of view,” the damsel mused. “Still, now that you are in the theater, we should be able to avoid that problem entirely. In our act, you will know exactly when you will be drawn, and precisely what you are supposed to do.”
60 . Crafg Shaw Gardner
She turned back to me. “Now, Wuntie, point the sword away from you at arm’s length, and run straight for the dragon’s breastbone.”
“Wait a minute!” Cuthbert wailed, the panic back in its voice. “This is just another trick to get me into battle, isn’t it?” The sword laughed ruefully. “I know the way it is around here. I mean, I remember what my old uncle used to tell me—he was an enchanted brass headboard, and knew all about these things—he’d say, ‘Cuthbert, my boy, never get involved with heroes. Heroes are always hacking or slashing something. Stay away from practical swords and daggers. Go for ornamental, my boy,’ he said. But did I listen? Oh, no! Magic latticework was too dull for me! Magic locks and keys didn’t get to go places and do things! So I end up becoming a talking sword; nothing but a hero’s tool!”
“Now, now,” the lad reassured the overwrought blade in his hand. “I’ve always had great respect for my weapons. And I will only draw you when it is time for action.”
“I know it,” the sword replied bitterly. “Then you’ll use me! Oh, the trials of being an intelligent inanimate object!”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor answered solemnly, wishing to put an end to these histrionics. “Cuthbert, we are acting out a play. There will be no cutting, and no blood.”
“No cutting?” the sword quavered.
“Indeed,” the lad replied.
“No blood?” Cuthbert asked.
“No blood,” Alea reassured the weapon.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Cuthbert cleared its throat. “Go forth, brave warrior! Your noble sword will lead the way!”
“I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way,” the maiden said. “Motivation is so often a problem in our line of work. Now, Wuntie! Thrust your sword forth and rush the marauding beast!”
“Should I say anything?” the lad asked.
“An excellent idea,” the damsel agreed. “A bloodcurdling epithet or two would be perfectly in character.”
“Indeed,” the lad replied, taking a deep breath before he began his run.
He shouted as he picked up speed, hoping to find an appropriate phrase: “I’ll get you—uh—beast—uh—reptile—uh—uh—you’d better watch out uh—I’ve got a sword here.”
“Well, we’ll have to work on your epithets,” the maiden said as she stepped in front of the dragon. The lad skidded to a halt, his shining sword mere inches from the maiden’s massive hair. The damsel smiled. “You are, however, very good at stopping. As you see, the brave hero is brought up short by the appearance of the beauteous maiden. However, the hero does not truly fall in love with the maiden until she begins her song.”
A song? Hadn’t something like this happened to Wuntvor before? Oh, yes, up in the tower. But he had the feeling that it had occurred many other times as well. The young man looked around. Where was the Brownie when he needed him?
But it was too late. The damsel had already begun to sing:
“If you’ve got a dragon, You’ll never be cold; But he will eat you Before you get old!
“If you’ve got a dragon, You’ll never get wet, Unless all that fire Works up a sweat!
“If you’ve got a dragon, I’ve got a hunch, Your future is short, And it’s probably lunch!
‘Take me from this dragon, Oh please set me free; Or I will be flame-broiled On its rotisserie!
“Now you’ll be a hero, Please don’t be a slob! Or soon I will end up A damsel-kebab!”
The song ran on, verse after verse. After a time, Wuntvor decided to sit, resting his talking sword gently across his knees.
“We don’t get much of a part in this, do we?” the sword remarked.
The lad nodded and sighed. “This acting stuff isn’t all that I had hoped. It doesn’t seem to be much more than a lot of waiting around.” He glanced up at the damsel, who was singing a verse about dragon fritters. “I do wish this could be a little more exciting.”
“Granted!” came a little voice from nowhere.
Wuntvor heard heavy footsteps crossing the bridge behind him. He stood, turning so quickly that he almost lost his sword.
A massive warrior stood on the near end of the bridge, holding a huge warclub in one of his very large hands.
“Doom,” the warrior intoned. “The time of reckoning has come.”
It is difficult for some people to realize that giants, like many other huge magical creatures, are largely misunderstood. Think on it, however. How many times are you going to have a reasoned, caring conversation with a creature from whom you are fleeing for your very life?
I’m OK, I’m a wizard: The Magician’s Guide to Perfect Mental Health, by Ebenezum, greatest mage in the Western Kingdoms (fourth edition)
“Let’s not get any rash ideas,” the sword cautioned.
“Shall we see what this warrior wants?” Wuntvor suggested.
Cuthbert groaned softly. “Oh, I knew this was going to be a bad day. You know what I mean? Did you ever have the feeling that you’ve gotten up out of the wrong side of the scabbard?”
“Doom,” the large warrior rumbled as the lad approached. “Norei is waiting. I was supposed to say that.”
Norei is waiting? Hope suddenly sprang in Wuntvor’s breast. But that meant that—
“Once upon a time,” the warrior and the lad said in unison.
“Doom,” the large fellow repeated. “I am the warrior of warning. And I am warning you: The giant is coming.”
“The giant?” Cuthbert and the damsel screamed in unison. Even the dragon took a few involuntary steps backward.
“The giant?” the lad replied. “I guess that’s bad?”
“The giant can find you, no matter where you hide,” the sword wailed.
“The giant knows no mercy!” Alea added.
“Doom!” the warrior of warning concluded.
“I guess it is bad,” Wuntvor said. “What am I to do?”
“Hide!” the sword screamed. “All is lost! There is no hope!”
“I fear that your weapon is incorrect,” the damsel stated boldly. “Where there is theater, there is always hope! But how best to use your newfound abilities?”
The dragon rumbled overhead. Both Wuntvor and the maiden looked up to see the reptile waving his forepaws in a slow rhythm. When the paws were spread apart, the lizard moved his head back and forth, as if it studied something.
“Of course!” the damsel cried as she applauded. “What genius. It is an honor, Hubert, to be working with you!”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor interjected when there appeared to be no explanation forthcoming. “I am sure it is truly a subtle piece of genius. Would you mind giving me a hint as to its exact meaning?”
“Oh, can’t you see?” Alea cheered. “It’s a dragon mime reading a newspaper!”
A newspaper? Wuntvor frowned. That word was somehow familiar. Didn’t that have something to do with a chicken crossing the road?
“Indeed,” the lad said at last. “What’s a newspaper?”
The damsel pulled a piece of parchment from her bodice. As she unfolded the sheet, Wuntvor saw it was covered with dense script.
“This is a newspaper!” she declared. ‘To be more specific, a trade newspaper!”
Wuntvor found this new statement no more illuminating than what had been said before. However, he was sure that, if he remained quiet, it would all be explained to him, at least after a fashion.
“I tell you, if you want to move around in this business, you simply have to keep up with the trades.” The maiden rapidly scanned the page. “All we have to do is give you a new identity. The giant won’t be able to find you if you no longer exist!”
“Indeed?” So that was their plan? Wuntvor was still not convinced.
“Ah!” the maiden called in triumph. “There’s a town named Bremen that’s looking for some musicians. Opportunities are everywhere!” She shook the parchment in the lad’s direction. “See? Here’s another place—Hamlin. ‘Piper wanted.’ All you need is a few simple flute tunas. . . .”
She frowned as she continued to read. “Well, I don’t know about that one. Being a musical leader for a bunch of rats isn’t everybody’s idea of a good time. It always pays to read these things all the way through.”
“Doom,” the warrior interjected. “You have no time to read. The giant is coming.”
The damsel ignored the sword’s hysterical screams to stare critically at Wuntvor. “Perhaps we do not have time to give you a new identity, but theater will save you yet! It is time for a quick disguise.”
“Indeed?” the lad asked. Well, he had asked for adventure, and now, apparently, he had it. He stuffed his sword back in its sheath so that all he heard was an occasional muffled whimper. Perhaps it was time then to come up with sojne disguise that would allow him to flee unhindered through the forest; a brave soldier, perhaps, on an unnamed mission from which he could not pause, or a simple woodsman, rushing home after a trying workday. The lad resolved that, whatever the charade, he would act it to make the maiden proud.
The damsel looked about quickly. “We have little enough at hand. We will have to use a length of my hair.”
“We will?” the lad queried, somewhat surprised by this turn of events. Should a brave soldier have long, blond hair? Or would it be more appropriate to a humble woodsman?
“Alas, it is all that is available to me,” the damsel replied. “Have no fear. I shan’t miss it. You wouldn’t believe how fast it grows. Hubert! I have need of your claws.”
The dragon obligingly knelt nearby, shearing off a length of the maiden’s locks with one reptilian forefinger.
The damsel picked up the newly freed mass of hair with a smile. “Now all we need is a length of sackcloth that we can wrap like a skirt to hide your leggings. Hubert, if you could nip back into the tower larder to see what we have?”
The dragon nodded and nipped.
“Now.” The beautiful maiden bit her perfectly formed lip as she surveyed Wuntvor’s skull. “We will need my sash to serve as a headband to keep the hair in place.”
“Indeed?” the lad remarked hesitantly. “If I may ask, what is this disguise to be?”
“You will masquerade as a fair maiden—“ She frowned at his face. “Well, at least as a maiden, until you have left the vicinity. The hair is long enough to disguise you above the waist, and the skirt should hide your lower extremities as well. Once you are beyond the Eastern Kingdoms, you can remove the wig and resume your true identity.”
“A maiden?” the lad began to protest. “But—“
“Doom,” the warrior of warning interjected. “The giant.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor replied. “The giant.” He stood still while the real damsel adjusted the hair and headband, then wrapped about his waist a long piece of brown cloth that the dragon had brought.
“There,” the beautiful maiden said at last. “You’ll do. The hair will fall in your face, further masking your features. Just don’t let anybody get too close to you.”
“Indeed.” At least the lad could agree with the last remark. “Now you must excuse me while I make my escape.” The sooner he was shed of this silly disguise, the better.
“Doom,” the warrior agreed. “Leave quickly.”
“But take smaller steps,” the damsel coached as Wuntvor moved away. “And hold your head up. Remember, you are a refined maiden now.”
Wuntvor didn’t respond. He felt more like a refined dustmop with all the hair in his face. And he almost tripped on the long skirt. How did people walk in these things, anyway?
Still, from the way the others had spoken of the giant, this appeared to be his only chance for survival. He had no choice but to ignore how ludicrous he looked and hope he could escape from this place before anything truly embarrassing happened.
“Farewell, Wuntie!” the damsel called as he began his flight in earnest. “Perhaps some day we can act together again, in more intimate surroundings!”
Wuntvor waved a final time, careful not to move his head too quickly, lest he dislodge the mass of hair. Even taking smaller steps, he was soon out of sight of the others, surrounded by the ancient Eastern forest.
“Well, hello there,” a beautifully modulated voice spoke from the nearby underbrush. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Wuntvor stopped short. Could this be the giant? He reached for his sword.
But something considerably shorter than a giant stepped from between the bushes. Still, despite its smaller size, it was more wondrous than a giant could ever be.
“A—a unicorn,” the lad said aloud.
“Not just any unicorn,” the beast replied proudly. “The unicorn. Your unicorn. Could you have forgotten me so soon? Oh, of course you could. You’re in one of her fairy tales, aren’t you?”
“Once upon a time,” the lad replied.
The creature sighed magnificently. “This might be more difficult than I thought. And after I’ve traveled so far to see you again. If not for that certain quality you have—“ The unicorn looked at him meaningfully. “You know what I’m talking about. Lcan’t help myself.” The beast shuddered gloriously. “And now this.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” the lad replied, for he couldn’t remember this beast at all, which was doubly disturbing, since the unicorn was one of the most memorable things he had ever seen.
“I know,” the creature said with a profound sadness. “I’ve got eyes, don’t I? I can see what you’re doing: Practicing to join one of the forbidden delights as soon as I’ve gone. You know how desperately I need to rest my weary head! How can you toy with my affections so?” The beast brushed at the lad’s blond wig with its lustrous golden horn. “It’s even worse when you get kinky!”
“ Indeed,” the lad said, still uncertain of what the magnificent beast was going on about, but increasingly glad for his ignorance. “I’m sure what you are saying is all very interesting, and I would be glad to discuss it with you at some other time. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a forest to flee.”
“Well, if you are in such a hurry,” the unicorn remarked coyly, “I suppose I can’t tell you about Norei.”
“Norei?” Why did that name send a shiver down his spine? Why did the words’ ‘one true love” fill his brain? Of course!
“Once up—“ Wuntvor clamped his lips tight before he could finish the phrase. This was no time for reassurance. There were serious things to consider. He thought of Norei again, and a young woman’s face burned its way into his consciousness. The young witch. His only love. Norei. It took his breath away.
“Are you all right?” the unicom inquired.
Wuntvor took a deep breath, remembering to stand up straight. “Indeed,” he replied.
“That’s a relief,” the beast remarked. “It seemed you were having a spasm of some sort. I’d hate to lose you now, when we’ve gotten so close.”
“But what of Norei?” Wuntvor asked, wishing to hear more of her. “Do you mind if we walk as we talk? I’m afraid I’m trying to escape.”
The unicom trotted wondrously alongside as Wuntvor began to walk swiftly but casually. Smaller steps, the young man reminded himself.
“Well, of course, Norei’s the reason why I’m here.” The creature wriggled its splendid eyebrows. “Well, at least that’s one of the reasons.”
“And Norei?” the lad prompted.
The unicorn sighed. “Well, if we must. Norei has a plan for your escape. Now remember these words: Happily ever after!”
“Happily ever after?” the lad repeated.
“Exactly. Said at the proper moment, those words will set you free. Mother Duck will hold sway over you no more.”
“Mother Duck?” Wuntvor asked, suddenly remembering her as well. “But how did you escape her control?”
“It is in the nature of being a unicorn.” The beast sniffed magnificently. “My coat is so white, my hooves so swift, my horn so blinding in the summer sun, that Mother Duck’s spells reflect off me and can do me no harm.”
“Indeed?” the lad said, wondering if this information might do him some good at a later time.
“Certainly,” the wondrous creature murmured proudly. “Why do you think unicorns appear in so few fairy tales? Mother Duck can’t use what she can’t catch.”
“So Norei--,” Wuntvor began.
“Norei, Norei, always Norei!” the unicom wailed. It paused, pointing its shining horn at the leaf-strewn ground. “No, it is quite all right. Forgive my outburst. I am myself again. What can my longing do but make me a better beast?” The creature looked at the lad with its deep and soulful eyes. “For what is perfect beauty without perfect pain?”
“And Norei?” the lad insisted.
“Yes, yes, of course,” the unicorn added hastily. “She will save you, of course, if you simply remember the magic words. Of course. Still—“
The magic creature paused again, its eyes filled with the greatest sadness Wuntvor had ever seen.
“Is there something else you wish to say?” the lad asked.
“Well,” the beast began hesitantly, “I was just thinking . . . my head is so heavy . . . and your lap is so near ... so inviting ...” The beast shivered wondrously. “I realize you are not entirely yourself and it wouldn’t mean quite the same thing—well, a beast can dream, can’t it?”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor responded, wishing he could find a way to change the subject. “I’m sure we might be able to come to some arrangement, if I weren’t in the midst of fleeing for my life—my, did you ever see such a large tree in your life?”
And, indeed, there was a huge tree before mem, perhaps twenty times the circumference of any of its neighbors. Stranger still, this tree was not the usual deep brown of the others in the forest, but was closer to the green of meadow grass.
“That’s no tree,” the unicom replied. “That’s a beanstalk.”
“A beanstalk?” the lad rolled the word around his tongue. “Indeed. And what is a beanstalk?”
The unicorn looked at the lad incredulously. “Surely you know what big beanstalks are for. They take you up to where the giants live.”
“Once upon a time!” the lad cried in surprise. For, when he looked up the beanstalk, he saw someone descending from far overhead.
An incredibly deep voice wafted down from the clouds.
“Oops!” the voice said.
They tell you to “always watch your feet.” But if you‘re constantly looking at your feet, how can you tell where you’re going?
Some Notes on Apprenticeship, by Wuntvor, apprentice to Ebenezum, greatest mage in the Western Kingdoms
(a work in progress)
Something was falling very rapidly from the sky. Something that Wuntvor suspected would be much heavier on impact than a mass of hair.
“I suggest that we move as quickly as possible back into the forest,” the unicorn called, already on the move.
“I think I need to do more than that!” Wuntvor exclaimed. “That’s the giant I’ve been trying to get away from.”
The unicorn risked a final look aloft. “Well, I fear that this particular giant is going to be very close very soon.”
“Indeed!” the lad yelled back, redoubling his speed. “I just wish I had some place to hide.”
“Granted!” a small but very chipper voice yelled nearby.
Wuntvor screamed as a pit opened up beneath him.
The lad opened his eyes. He couldn’t see a thing. With some trepidation, he parted the mass of hair that had descended in front of his face. He looked at an expanse of light gray rock. He lifted his gaze and saw that he had fallen into a cave of some sort, but it was a well-lit cave, swept and tidy besides, obviously the sort of place someone or something called home.
Wuntvor peered carefully through his disguise. As far as he could tell, there was no one moving about. But didn’t he smell food?
Until this instant, the lad had not realized how hungry he was. When was the last time he had eaten? Wuntvor couldn’t remember, but then there were so many things he could not recall.
“Once upon a time,” the lad murmured as he walked toward the warm food smells. He turned a corner in the cave, and found that the home that he had stumbled upon was not simply a resting place for some creature from the wild. No, there were furnishings here; places to sit and hangings upon the wall, although none of it was quite like anything he had ever seen.
Wuntvor warily circled a trio of stools. They looked much like ordinary stools except that each had a seat covered with some sort of cloth padding. Well, he didn’t imagine that padding could hurt him, so perhaps he should try sitting down, especially since the warm food smells came from the table just beyond.
The lad sat first in the tallest stool. But he leapt off in an instant, barely stifling a cry of pain. His posterior stung in half a dozen places. That stool hadn’t been soft at all. Rather, the padding seemed to be filled with sharpened rocks. Wuntvor had never felt anything so hard in his life.
The lad tentatively felt the padding on the second stool, wary of further tricks. But this cloth was what he expected, soft and pliable. Perhaps the first stool was a trick of some sort, placed there for unwary visitors. Then again, it could have been built for something that enjoyed sitting on sharpened rocks. Wuntvor fervently hoped for the first alternative.
Still, there were three large pieces of pie on the table beyond the stools, and their aroma was making Wuntvor’s taste buds Scream for sustenance. The lad decided he would have to try the second chair after all. He climbed the stool and sat gingerly.
Ah, that was much better, Wuntvor thought as he sank into the padding. But shouldn’t he stop sinking? There seemed to be no seat under the stuffing. The lad felt he would sink forever. He leapt from the stool as best he could. He never realized anything could be that soft!
Wuntvor stood there for a long moment, waiting for his heart to quiet down. Perhaps he should leave this place before he got into further trouble. If only he weren’t so hungry!
Well, there was always the third stool. It was the smallest of the three, so he would be able to easily get away should there be any trouble. And, now that the lad thought about it, neither of the first two stools had caused him any serious damage.
Well, he was here to go on adventures, the lad reasoned, and, considering what had happened thus far, sitting on the small stool qualified. He took a deep breath and sat.
To his surprise, the stool felt wonderfully comfortable. It was like sitting on a pile of new-mown hay, soft yet buoyant. Wuntvor couldn’t imagine a better seat.
The lad smiled. It was time to turn his attention to the food. There were three pieces of pie before him, the filling a tempting pinkish-purple. Cautiously, Wuntvor reached for the largest piece.
He pulled his hand back with a stifled cry, stuffing his fingers in his mouth. He had never in his life felt anything that hot! He examined his fingers. There didn’t seem to be any permanent damage. And the juice that had clung to his skin had been quite tasty.
Even more cautiously, Wuntvor decided to touch another piece of the treacherous dessert. He pushed gently at the crust of the middle-sized piece. The crust didn’t give at all. It was solid as a rock. And cold, too, as if someone had kept it stored in a mound of snow. Never in his life had he felt a dessert that cold.
The lad withdrew his hand. What was going on here? If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would have left this strange place at that instant. But here he was, sitting on the smallest, most comfortable stool. As long as he was here, he might as well attempt to sample the smallest of the three wedges of pie.
He gently touched the crust. To the lad’s surprise, it was pleasantly warm. He pulled the pie toward him. At last, he could satisfy his hunger. He took the wedge in both hands and brought it to his eager lips, tentatively sampling a bit of the filling with his tongue. It was delicious, just the right mixture of tart and sweet. There would be no more tricks this time.
Wuntvor took a big bite and screamed. He spit the contents of his mouth back onto the table. The pie was full of tiny sharp things, like nettles. A couple had gotten stuck to his tongue and gums, and the lad carefully pulled them out, whimpering softly with the pain. Who lived in this place anyway? Who would be crazy enough to bake a deadly pie?
That’s when the lad heard the voices, and the heavy footsteps. Someone, more than one—two or three—they were coming into the cave!
Wuntvor jumped from the stool. Where could he go? Where could he hide? The voices were getting closer. They were just beyond the bend. The lad ran around the table and bolted through an open doorway that led into another room.
He looked quickly around this new space. Besides a small hole in the ceiling to let in light, there were no further openings. Wuntvor was trapped! But wait a moment. On the far side of the room were three pools. Perhaps one of them might lead to safety.
The voices were in the next room! Wuntvor ran to the wall by the door, praying whoever had arrived would not look in here until he had made his decision.
A deep, gravelly voice spoke first:
“Guxx Unfufadoo, poppa demon, Sees that we’ve had an intruder! Sees that someone has been sitting In his stool—my rocks are messy!”
“Oh, dear--,” another deep voice began, but stopped to cough. “Oh, dear,” the same voice repeated, this time in a falsetto, “Someone’s been sitting in my stool, too. Look, it’s all saggy!”
“Someone’s been sitting on my stool, too!” exclaimed a third voice, even more grating than the first two. “And the seat’s still warm!”
Uh-oh, the lad thought. They suspected he was still here. If he was going to escape, it would have to be soon. But which of the three pools should he try? From what had already happened in this place, he knew he had to be careful. There could be all sorts of things lurking in those dark waters. As quietly as possible, the lad crept across the room, eager to examine his potential escape routes.
The deep voice spoke again in the other room:
“Guxx Unfufadoo, poppa demon, Sees the stranger has not rested; Sees he’s disturbed my Sweet Demon Pie—he’s scuffed its molten surface!”
“Someone has touched my Sweet Demon Pie as well,” the falsetto voice answered. “You can see the fingerprint etched in the frost. And I had put in extra brambles, just for you!”
“Someone’s gone after my pie, too,” said the most grating of the voices, “and—ptuui! --is he a messy eater!”
The voices in the other room were becoming more agitated by the minute. Wuntvor knew he would have to make a decision soon, or it would be too late. He knelt down by the largest of the three pools, trying to see whether it had a bottom.
The water appeared totally opaque. More than that, it looked like it was colored a dull gray. More even than that, Wuntvor doubted it was water at all, but rather some far heavier, more odiferous liquid. He wondered if he should disturb the surface with his hand, but was wary of the great quantities of steam the pool seemed to be producing. After all, he had already been burned once. No, this pool definitely would not do. Perhaps, he thought, he should try one of the others.
He duck-walked over to the next smaller of the three, but noticed that its surface was marred by something solid floating through the viscous liquid. It was only when the cold breeze rose to brush his face that he realized the solid particles were ice.
No, Wuntvor thought, that pool won’t do either.
Still, there was the smallest of the three. So far in this household, he seemed to have the most luck with the most diminutive objects he had found. Perhaps his good fortune would hold here as well.
Cautiously, he placed his hand gently in the liquid. It slid down quickly, as if his flesh had somehow grown heavier under the surface. He imagined, if he had not braced himself, that not only his hand but the rest of him would have been drawn into the pool instantly. There was something strange about the feel of the liquid itself, too, somehow slippery and heavy at the same time, like oily oatmeal.
Wuntvor quickly pulled his fist from the pool. His hand was covered with slime.
“Uck!” the lad yelled, quite beside himself.
‘ ‘Who’s that?” three gruff voices called from the other room.
Wuntvor heard three sets of feet heading for the doorway. This, then, was his last chance to escape. He looked back at the mucous-filled pool. If he was going to jump, it was now or never.
Mucous-filled pool? The lad decided it would definitely be never.
He almost reconsidered when three heads appeared in the door.
“Guxx Unfufadoo, poppa demon,” An incredibly large and ugly bluish-purple creature began,
Sees the stranger came in this way, Sees she looked at all the slime pools, Who’s been mucking in our pool muck!”
The second demon nodded its somewhat shorter, somewhat grayer head, which caused its long hair to bob about like a gaggle of spastic snakes. That is, if you could call it hair. It looked to Wuntvor more like a mass of tangled seaweed.
“Someone dragged herself past my slime pit as well,” the second creature added in its falsetto.
“Somebody’s been inspecting my slime pit, too!” the third, slightly smaller creature (who was wearing a lace bonnet) declared as it pointed at the cowering Wuntvor. “And there she is!”
She? the lad wondered for an instant, before he remembered his disguise.
“It’s a human!” the lace bonneted demon continued. “And it might be female!”
The seaweed-haired creature waved pleasantly. “Welcome to our home, oh golden locks. As we are civilized creatures, I thought I might introduce the three of us before we eat you.”
It pointed at the largest of the three. “This is the poppa demon. And over here is our little baby demon. And I, of course, am the momma demon.” The seaweed-haired creature gave Wuntvor a conspiratorial glance. “Should you be interested, in this time of crisis, I also sell used weapons on the side.”
With that, the poppa demon sauntered into the room.
“Guxx Unfufadoo, poppa demon Sees our golden-haired intruder; Cooks her with a little butter; Eats her with a side of cole slaw!”
“Poppa’s right,” momma demon agreed pleasantly as it, too, entered the room. It was wearing a dress of orange and green plaid. “How fortunate that you have come. We really like to eat golden-haired girls.”
“Even golden-haired girls that look like that?” baby demon sneered as it also hopped into the room. Wuntvor thought its diaper looked a little incongruous on one so green and scaly.
“Now, now, baby demon,” momma reprimanded. “Diners can’t be choosers.” The creature smiled at Wuntvor. “Now, if you would just walk this way, I think I have a pot barely big enough!”
Wuntvor fought down the panic growing deep inside him. These were intelligent creatures, he told himself. Certainly they could be reasoned with.
“Indeed?” he asked. “And what if I was not exactly as I appeared? What if I were, say, an adventurer in disguise?”
“What if you were thrown into a pool of molten slime by an enraged demon?” the baby of the family replied. “It’s not nice to fool poppa demon.”
“Yes,” the momma agreed, “Daddy does have a temper. But you won’t have to worry about that, will you?” The creature frowned contemplatively at Wuntvor. “I’d say forty-five minutes at 375 degrees and all your worries will be over.”
“Indeed,” the lad replied, following the momma demon through the doorway into the other room. He reasoned that, though he would be much closer to the stove, he would also be that much closer to the cave mouth and escape.
“You can just sit anywhere.” The momma demon motioned expansively at the glittering countertop before them. “Oh, and as long as you’re sitting here, you wouldn’t mind helping me peel carrots, would you? Believe me, it will help you pass the time.” The creature opened a cupboard door and searched through a pile of large knives. It extracted the smallest of the lot and handed it apologetically to Wuntvor. “It’s so hard to get good help down in these caves.”
Wuntvor took the knife and began to peel. He wondered if he could use this little tool as a weapon. But what could he do with something this tiny—poke the demons to death?
It was then he recalled he still had a sword hiding under all his hair.
The momma demon chatted on as it minced onions. “I know that this may seem to be an imposition, in that we’re going to eat you and all, but could you tell me who does your hair? I mean, look at mine! I can’t do a thing with it. Lucky for my sideline. Amazing how a collection of used weapons cuts down on comments on your appearance.”
“Uh—indeed,” Wuntvor answered, keeping the conversation alive until he could think of a way to escape. “Mine just sort of—uh—comes naturally.”
The momma demon sighed. “Well, I guess beautiful hair simply doesn’t fall out of the sky. If you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”
“We want to eat!” the baby demon exclaimed as it rushed into the room. The amazingly large and imposing poppa demon was right behind.
Well, the lad thought, it was now or never. He drew his sword with a scream.
“Oh, no you don’t!” he shouted at the startled demons.
“That’s right!” the sword added. “You don’t. In fact, as of this moment, no one does!”
The lad stared at the sword. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve had enough of being whipped from my scabbard on a moment’s notice!” the weapon sniffed haughtily. “From this minute on, I’m on strike! That’s quite correct: As of now, I refuse to cut anything, anywhere, for any purpose. Sorry I have to be so blunt about this, but things have to change!”
“But I am about to be cooked and eaten!” the lad wailed.
“Sorry,” the sword answered, “but your scare tactics won’t work on me this time. You’re always about to get killed one way or another. There comes a point when a weapon has to say ‘no more’!”
Wuntvor looked up helplessly as the three demons approached.
“Do you have any last requests?” the momma demon asked as she raised her butcher knife.
The lad nodded. “Only one. I wish I could get out of this alive.”
“Granted!” shouted a tiny voice from nowhere.
The practicing wizard will often find himself in stressful situations. Two different clients may expect completely opposite results from some magical situation. The practicing mage must therefore weight each client’s case carefully, thinking of the long-term results of his magicks, what part of his spells will best satisfy each client, and how best to leave if one of the parties in question becomes angered by the results. But no matter what the outcome, the practicing wizard must never neglect the first rule of professional wizardry: Always make sure you are paid by both clients well in advance.
The Teachings of Ebenezum, VOLUME XXI
Wuntvor found himself back in the forest. The Brownie stood beside him.
“See?” the sword in his hands reproached him. ‘There are always alternatives to violence.”
The lad slid his weapon back into its scabbard. He would have to deal with it later.
“So where have you been?” the lad demanded of the little fellow.
“Oh, here and there,” the Brownie replied nonchalantly. “I’ve always been there when you needed me, haven’t I? We wee folk have ways of making ourselves scarce. I decided that my presence was getting in the way of your story. It’s an area of concern for us magic-producers: You were becoming too wish-conscious.”
“My story?” Somehow, the lad had never thought of his adventures in quite that way. Still, why else would he keep saying “Once upon a time”?
“But now it’s time for me to come back,” the Brownie explained. “It’s the Grande Finale. You’ve only got one wish left. You’d better make this one a doozy.”
For a minute, Wuntvor considered wishing for a pudding and getting it over with once and for all. But no, with the way his luck had been running lately, he would probably need the last wish for something serious. He told the Brownie to stick around.
“As you wish,” the little fellow replied, adding quickly: “Sorry, just a manner of speaking.”
The lad turned from the Brownie to examine his surroundings. He was once again near the huge beanstalk, although now the giant seemed to be nowhere about. In fact, nothing much had changed, save for a sizable depression in the forest floor that Wuntvor had not noticed before.
“Indeed,” the lad remarked after a moment’s thought. “I think it is time for me to resume my escape.”
But he had not gone a dozen steps before a chorus of voices assailed him from the surrounding shrubbery.
“Your mother wears army boots!” the first voice yelled.
“That’s exactly like a human,” a second voice added. “We come to visit, and you don’t even say hello!”
“Oh, wow!” a third voice commented.
Eight very short men stepped from the forest and formed a semi-circle around them.
“Indeed?” Wuntvor asked. “Pardon me, but have we met?”
One of the eight stepped forward, and spoke as he wrung his hands. “Oh dear, oh my. Excuse us, please. We didn’t realize you were still under one of Mother Duck’s spells. We are, of course, the Seven Other Dwarves.” He waved to his fellows. “Snooty, Nasty, Touchy, Dumpy, Noisy, Sickly and
Spacey. And I am their humble and only barely competent leader, Smarmy.”
“You can say that again!” one of the other dwarves shouted. Wuntvor assumed that must be Nasty. Unless he was Snooty?
“And who elected you?” another asked with a tone of moral outrage. Okay, then this one must be Snooty. Unless he was Touchy?
One of the others groaned. Did that mean he was Noisy? Or could he be Dumpy or Sickly? Wuntvor decided that this speculation was getting him nowhere.
“Indeed,” he began. “It’s been awfully nice chatting with you, but unfortunately, I was in the midst of escaping.”
“But that is the very reason we are here!” Smarmy exclaimed, redoubling his hand wringing. “How serendipitous for all of us!”
“Pardon,” said the lad, quite surprised. “Are you escaping as well?”
“What a stupid idea!” one of the others, who had to be Nasty, replied.
“If you will excuse the forwardness of my fellow dwarf,” Smarmy interjected, “no, escape is the farthest thing from our minds. As magical creatures, we belong in the Eastern Kingdoms. Rather, we have been sent by Norei, to help guide you in your own escape.”
Norei? His beloved! The beautiful witch’s face came back to Wuntvor in a rush. It was hazy still, he realized with a shiver. What else had he forgotten?
‘That is correct,” Smarmy continued after Wuntvor had regained his equilibrium. “Now please listen carefully, and may I say that I am honored that one as unworthy as myself was chosen to pass on this information—“
Smarmy paused for a second as catcalls like “You can say that again twice!” and “Yeah, who did pick you to be leader?” emanated from his fellows before he continued:
“You are to go to a hill in the west, and wait there for His Brownieship.”
“His Brownieship?” Tap, the Brownie wish-giver, suddenly paled.
“But Norei--,” Wuntvor began, desiring to see the young witch as soon as possible.
“I must beg your forgiveness,” Smarmy interrupted, “but that is all I know. You must travel to the Western hill.”
“His Brownieship?” the little fellow fretted. “Why would he be coming here, when I’m already in charge? I mean, I’ve been doing my job, haven’t I?” The Brownie frowned up at Wuntvor. “Oh, dear. Maybe I haven’t. What is this seven wishes thing, anyway?” He hit his tiny cheek with his tiny hand. “Mother Duck! I’ve fallen under her spells!” He appeared to be sweating. He tugged earnestly at Wuntvor’s sackcloth skirt.
“Listen,” he said to the lad, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything that’s happened lately when His Brownieship shows up. I mean—buckles and laces!--I’ll be demoted to heel sorting!”
“Indeed?” the lad agreed, not absolutely clear himself on all the fine points of what had happened. “What say we resume our escape?” If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that, if Norei had asked him to do so, he wanted to get to that western hill as soon as possible!
“Farewell, then!” Smarmy called as Wuntvor and Tap marched to the west. “And believe me, I can’t wait for this to be over so that I can resume my Brownie lessons.”
“Oh, that.” The Brownie grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps, if it’s all right with you, we won’t mention that to His Brownieship either.” The little fellow groaned softly, shaking his head. “I’ll be demoted to bent buckle straightening!”
The Brownie had to hurry to catch up with the marching Wuntvor, who was rushing so fast that he almost tripped over his skirt at least three times. The small steps, indeed, the whole charade was forgotten in the lad’s hurry to see Norei again. He had to reach that hill before Mother Duck’s spell could reassert itself. He had to! Nothing would get in his way this time!
The day was growing late, the forest around them filled with long shadows. Wuntvor picked the Brownie up so that he might move even faster, heedless of the bushes and shrubs that stood in his way. They came at last to a clearing, but they both had to squint to make out a large shape etched against the glare of the late afternoon sun.
“Is that the hill we seek?” he asked the Brownie.
Tap still squinted into the brightness. At last he spoke, his voice hushed: “Alas, no. It is something even more awe-inspiring.”
The Brownie climbed to Wuntvor’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “It is a shoe.”
The lad stared at the shape. A shoe that big could mean only one thing—
“Oops!” came from far overhead.
A copse was smashed to splinters directly behind them.
“Now just stand still!” Richard the giant called down to them. “It’s not going to do you any good to run. I’m too big to get away from!”
Wuntvor resisted the urge to flee screaming into the forest. He knew the giant was right, and furthermore, he suspected that, the more he might try to escape Richard, the larger the risk would become of falling victim to one of the huge fellow’s frequent accidents.
The giant scooped the lad up in one very large hand.
“Ah,” his very large voice boomed with satisfaction. “I knew I’d get you sooner or later!” He brought his hand up to eye level, peering intently at the lad. “Not that it’s any of my business, but why are you wearing that silly costume?”
Wuntvor couldn’t take it. It was the final straw. He would go down fighting! He pulled his sword.
“All right!” Cuthbert demanded hysterically. “What’s going on this time?”
“We have to take on a giant,” the lad replied.
“A giant?” the sword asked a bit too brightly. “Oh, is that all? Why don’t we take on the entire amassed might of the Netherhells, instead? Oh, I forgot. We’ve already done that! And, speaking of forgetting, I suppose you don’t remember our conversation from the last time I was out of the scabbard?”
The lad’s brow crinkled with thought. “That was when we were with the demons?”
“Bravo,” the sword replied sarcastically. “There’s something about constantly being trapped in these fairy tales. It sure wreaks havoc with the continuity!”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor responded. “I fear we have no time for continuity, or naught else but battle!”
“See?” the sword cried with a note of triumph. “You don’t remember.’ WeJl, I guess I’ll have to fill you in again. I’m on strike.’”
“Pardon?” the lad inquired.
“I quit,” Cuthbert affirmed. “My life should be more than hacking and slashing. I must have complained to you about this a hundred times, and still you wouldn’t listen. Well, there comes a point when a magic sword must take a stand. As of this moment, my fighting days are through. Not another cut! Not another parry! And riposting is completely out of the question.”
The lad stared at the sword. “Indeed? Well, if that is the way you feel.”
“Who are you talking to?” the giant rumbled, peering at the tiny man in his hand.
“Oh, nothing. Something completely beneath your notice.”
“What?” Cuthbert demanded. “I expected you to negotiate. Instead I become nothing?”
The lad shrugged. “How do I explain a sword that won’t cut or parry? It seems to me that the object in question ceases to be a sword.”
“You are too talking to something,” the giant rumbled.
“Well,” Cuthbert said, considering the lad’s words, “perhaps my reaction has been a little extreme. I suppose I could agree to a concession or two. I mean, I’m a reasonable sword. Say, I might consent to a little dueling here and there—you know, in demonstrations and charity jousts—things like that.”
“No, no, I assure you,” Wuntvor insisted to the giant. “This whole thing is beneath your notice.”
“Beneath his notice!” the sword wailed. “Oh, you’re a tough negotiator. All right, because we’ve been together so long, I’ll even do a real swordfight once in a while, one-on-one, duels of honor between gentlemen, as long as there’s no bloodshed.”
Richard frowned. “Won’t you tell me, please? I’m tired of missing things beneath my notice. Being a giant, you miss a lot of the nitty gritty.”
“All right! All right!” the sword blurted. “All right, perhaps even a little blood now and then, as long as you clean me quickly. Only, no ichor! I refuse to do ichor!”
“This is my magic sword,” Wuntvor told the giant.
“Thank you,” Cuthbert commented.
Richard flinched. “That isn’t anything like a magic toothpick, is it?”
“Well, a bit. Except a sword is, of course, much more powerful.” He had disabled the giant with a magic toothpick once before, he remembered. But he neglected to mention that, unlike the toothpick, the sword lacked the ability to grow to a size large enough to bother the giant.
“I don’t know if this is fair,” the big fellow complained. “You have to promise not to use that thing.”
Wuntvor shook his head. “I don’t promise anything, unless you put us back down.”
The giant’s frown deepened even further. “Put you down? I don’t think Mother Duck would like that.”
“Indeed?” Wuntvor replied regretfully. “I may have to use the sword. ...”
“Now wait a minute--,” Cuthbert began.
“That is,” Wuntvor whispered, “if I had a sword.”
“Use the sword! Use the sword!” the weapon insisted.
“Hey!” Tap called, still perched on Wuntvor’s shoulder. “Don’t forget you have another weapon.”
“More voices,” Richard grumbled. “Why do all you people have to be so small?”
Wuntvor glanced over at the little fellow. “Tap,” he whispered, “do you really think you could work some magic on this giant’s shoes?”
“You mean those?” Tap pointed at the footwear far below. He looked back at Wuntvor, wonder in his eyes. “If I do this right, it could be my masterpiece!”
“You’re not answering my questions!” Richard rumbled. “Giants are not used to being ignored. Not that I want to provoke you into using your sword—anything but that. It’s just that someone as large as I am expects civil conversation from my victims.”
Tap concentrated, a terrible frown on his tiny face.
“What?” the giant demanded. “What’s happening to my shoes?”
The Brownie began a slow dance from Wuntvor’s collarbone to his shoulder socket.
“Hey!” the giant cried. His tone had become threatening. “You remember Mother Duck’s ovens, don’t you? What’s happening to my laces?”
Tap’s dance became more sprightly. Wuntvor winced at the pounding of tiny feet, but did his best not to move. Brownie Power was their only hope.
“My shoes! My shoes are moving!” The giant swallowed, a distant booming sound, as he tried to regain his composure. “Yes, the ovens! The ones where she bakes heroes into bread?”
Tap redoubled his jumping about, adding rhythmic hand gestures.
“Well--,” the giant gasped, rivers of sweat now exploding from his enormous brow. “Well, you’re about to become a hero sandwi—“ The huge fellow breathed in sharply. “I can’t stand it anymore! I’ve gotta dance!”
And with that, Richard began leaping about, clumsily mimicking the Brownie’s movements. Wuntvor fell into the giant’s palm, clinging for dear life.
“Oops,” Tap gasped, clinging in turn to Wuntvor’s wig. “Perhaps I overdid it.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor agreed, watching the scenery move wildly as the giant swung his hand from shoulder level up above his head. “I suppose you can’t undo this?”
The Brownie shook his head, miserable. “I’m afraid not. I mean, how can you undance?”
The lad looked below them, his expression grim. “Then we’re going to have to jump.”
“Jump?” the Brownie wailed.
Wuntvor pointed at the huge head below. “Into his hair! Now!”
Both lad and Brownie leapt. The hair bounced beneath them, breaking their fall. Wuntvor slid down a thick strand, waving for Tap to follow.
A moment later, they had both planted their feet firmly on the giant’s skull. Wuntvor looked about him. From here, Richard’s hair looked like a dense, dark forest, save that the hair had a much rougher exterior than any tree bark, and was covered with a thick, moist substance.
Tap inspected the moisture more closely, wrinkling his nose. “Hair oil.”
“Indeed,” the lad replied as he caught his breath. The giant continued to jump around beneath them. “Pray tell me, Tap, what will happen when the dance is over?”
“Why,” Tap replied proudly, “the dance is never over. The recipient of the dancing spell dances on and on, until—“
The Brownie paused, a look of horror on his tiny countenance.
“Until?” the lad prompted.
“Exhaustion!” the Brownie whispered.
The skull lurched wildly beneath them.
“Quickly!” Wuntvor cried. “Into my pocket, Tap! We must anchor ourselves.” He pulled forth his sword.
“What is it this time?” Cuthbert screamed.
“No blood!” the lad called back. “We just need to stick you in this giant hair follicle.”
“That oily thing? Yu—“ The weapon’s voice died as its point gushed into the spongy strand. The Brownie leapt for the protection of the lad’s vest.
Richard swayed a final time, then stumbled to his knees. Wuntvor swung wildly about, but the sword held.
“Gotta--,” the giant managed, his labored breath as loud as the wind between two mountaintops,”—dance.” And with that, the giant collapsed, falling face first to the earth far below.
“Oops,” Richard mumbled, his nose and brow pressed against the shattered pine trees. Then he began to snore.
Wuntvor stood, shaken but still more or less in one piece. He pulled Cuthbert free from the oily stalk.
“—uck!” the sword concluded. “I had thought there was nothing worse than ichor. Apparently I was wrong.”
Wuntvor sheathed the weapon before it could complain further. He climbed carefully down from strand to strand, careful not to slip on the moist hair. He breathed a sigh of relief as his feet finally touched the ground.
Tap peered out of the lad’s pocket.
“Are we down yet?”
Wuntvor nodded, still catching his breath.
“Totally off the giant?” Tap asked. “Completely on the ground?”
“Indeed,” the lad answered.
Tap leapt from Wuntvor’s pocket with a flourish. He did a little dance as his tiny feet hit the earth, waving at the fallen giant. “I tell you, was that Brownie Power or what?”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor said again, rather than what he was really thinking. “I wonder if we have gotten any closer to the western hill?” In fact, Richard’s head seemed to have crashed into a rise of some sort. It was so hard to tell. The giant’s head was so big, it made everything else seem disproportionately small.
There was a small explosion directly in front of them.
“His Brownieship!” Tap exclaimed.
“I’ll deal with you later,” the newcomer replied. For it was, indeed, the King of the Brownies, complete with his leather crown. Tap moaned softly, fearing the worst.
“But first,” His Brownieship announced regally, “I have a message. And I am better at delivering messages than some Brownies I know.” Tap moaned again, covering his tiny head with his tiny hands.
His Brownieship looked up at Wuntvor. “There are shoes in your future.”
“Indeed?” the lad queried.
The King of the Brownies nodded nobly. “Very big shoes.”
“You might be a little late.” Wuntvor pointed down at the other end of the giant. “Would those be the shoes you mean?”
His Brownieship frowned, then leapt up to Wuntvor’s shoulder to get a better view. He stared for a long moment, speechless.
The Brownie king tore his gaze away at last. “No, those are not the shoes.” His head turned once again toward the giant. “Still, they may require further study—“ His Brownieship shook himself. “But this is not the time. I have told you what I dare. In the Eastern Kingdoms, Mother Duck is everywhere. You will know the shoe when you see it. Norei and I will attempt to distract—but I have already said too much. Just remember—Happily ever after!”
Happily ever after? The unicorn had told him about that, too, but what with all the excitement in dealing with Richard, the phrase had slipped the young lad’s mind.
“Indeed,” Wuntvor agreed.
“And now,” His Brownieship continued, turning his attention to Tap, “as to what we will do to certain Brownies who appa- rently find it impossible to follow orders ...”
“Buckles and laces!” Tap pleaded. “But, Your Smallness, there were extenuating circumstances!”
“Circumstances that led you to completely forget you were supposed to wait for me in Vushta?” His Brownieship demanded.
“Well—uh—yes,” Tap replied somewhat unevenly. “You see, there was this quest, and this demon, Snarks, whom I was supposed to teach the wisdom of the Brownie Way, and then these Seven Other Dwarves—“
A horrible, deep rumbling noise drowned out the Brownie’s excuses. It took Wuntvor a moment to realize what the noise was: Richard had groaned.
“And I suppose,” His Brownieship spoke to Tap as if the giant wasn’t even there, “you also completely forgot the Brownie Code when you got wrapped up in this silly seven wishes thing?”
“Well, you see, then we ended up in the Eastern Kingdoms,” Tap continued hurriedly. The little fellow seemed to be perspiring even more heavily than he had during his giant-controlling dance. “You can’t imagine how powerful Mother Duck is. And then there was this giant, see—“
The earth moved as the giant sat up.
“Oops,” Richard intoned. “I didn’t mean to fall down like that. But at least you weren’t so foolish as to run away. Nobody can run away from a giant.”
Wuntvor drew his sword.
“Don’t I get any rest at all?” Cuthbert wailed. “It’s bad enough that I’m still all slimy from hair oil!”
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” His Brownieship said to his subordinate.
“All right now,” Richard remarked as he shifted his weight. “I want you all down there to stay calm. Let’s make this capture as painless as possible.”
“Indeed,” Wuntvor remarked. “Tap, perhaps your best answer would be to repeat the Brownie Power dance that defeated the giant before.”
“Buckles and laces!” Tap exclaimed, looking anxiously at His Brownieship. “Would that be all right?”
“Of course,” Richard continued, “I can’t guarantee you a painless future. Who knows what Mother Duck has in store? After all, bread may be your destiny.”
“That would be better than being stuck in a scabbard when you’re covered with slime!” Cuthbert commented. “And after all the service I’ve given you. Don’t you ever think of cleaning your weapon?”
Richard frowned. “That’s that magic sword again, isn’t it? I warned you about that magic sword!”
“Yes,” Wuntvor hissed to Tap. “I think it is once again time for Brownie Power!”
“Is it?” Tap whimpered to His Brownieship.
“Perhaps,” the Brownie king replied coolly. “After you have given me an account of all your actions.”
“Is there anything in Brownie Power that can clean off hair oil?” Cuthbert asked hopefully.
“You’ve heard my warning,” Richard rumbled. “Here I come.”
Tap stared at the descending hand, then turned wildly to the others.
“Do something!” Wuntvor pleaded.
“Explain!” His Brownieship demanded.
“Do nothing!” the giant warned.
“Clean me off!” the sword moaned.
“That’s it!” Tap the Brownie shrieked. “I can’t take it anymore! Once upon a time. Once upon a time!”
A glazed look came over the Brownie’s countenance. The worried, perspiring Tap was gone. Wuntvor realized that in his place was a calm, collected little person, totally under the control of Mother Duck.
“What’s happening here?” His Brownieship demanded. Tap didn’t respond. The Brownie king turned angrily to Wuntvor.
“If I don’t get this oil cleaned off me, I’m going back on strike,” Cuthbert complained. “I demand decent working conditions!”
“Now I want you to stay perfectly still,” Richard said quietly. “We don’t want any accidents. You know how easy it would be for me to squeeze just a little too hard.” The giant made a tsking sound that resembled distant thunder. “You’d be turned into pumpernickel in no time.”
“I’m warning you!” The Brownie king shook his tiny fist at Wuntvor. “I need to know what happened to Tap. His Brow-nieship does not like to be fooled! I demand an answer!”
“So do I!” echoed the sword.
Wuntvor was beginning to realize the feelings that had driven Tap to his present state.
The giant’s hand was almost on top of him.
“Very good,” Richard the giant rumbled. “No resistance at all. That’s a good victim.”
Wuntvor was almost beyond his wit’s end. He had to say something.
“Enough!” he screamed. “I wish I didn’t have to deal with any of you people!”
“Granted!” Tap the Brownie shouted with finality.
Wuntvor knew immediately that he had made a mistake.