Norton, Andre - Anthology (46 page)

 
          
 
While Walgur persisted in ferocious efforts to
dissolve Flax's shielding network, Drop sank his teeth into the loop of ribbon
sealed into Helver's Seemings Exchange vial stopper. The body of the vial was
set into a segment of bark-covered tree branch, presumably, Drop supposed, to
exclude light from the potion within. Discarding the stopper to one side, Drop
tilted his head and cautiously carried the open vial onto the settee, where he
trailed the potion's pungent oil along Koron's glassy length. He was fretting
how to provide the requisite drench of water to activate this fraction of the
potion when an awful sizzling sound signaled the collapse of Flax's barrier
spell.

 
          
 
Walgur triumphantly bellowed a spate of sounds
which paralyzed Flax, Otwill, Gilmont, and Drop exactly where they stood.
Fortunately, Drop had just eased into a balanced stance on the floor beside the
settee, so his head was immobilized at an angle allowing retention of the
balance of the oil left in the unstoppered vial. During his two previous
conflicts; with sorcerers, Drop had endured similar binding spells. He
fervently hoped that on this occasion, as twice before, his
magically-experienced cat's body would again recover conspicuously faster than
his fellow victims's human bodies.

 
          
 
Approaching the head of the stairs, Walgur
gleefully rubbed his hands together. "You thought to foil me with your
feeble spells," he jeered, "but when I sensed the activity of your
magic mirror, I focused upon that vulnerable access point within your very
walls." The sorcerer gestured peremptorily at Otwill's motionless form.
''Come hither, fool!" Walgur ordered. "You shall guide me through the
mirror into that tantalizing other-space, where you shall remove your
obstructive spell and restore my castle's portal accessibility." His face
set in a gloating grimace, Walgur retreated backward up the last few narrow
stairs, levitating the helpless Otwill more than an arm's length away from him.

 
          
 
Without overtly disclosing his rapid recovery
from Walgur's binding spell. Drop had been feverishly flexing his muscles. When
the sorcerer drew abreast of the pedestal bearing the vase of lilies, Drop
raced up the stairs, darted beneath the suspended Otwill, leaped onto the
pedestal, and toppled the vase, showering Walgur from head to foot. Startled by
the cat's completely unexpected movement, the sorcerer momentarily lost his
control over Otwill. While Walgur sputtered and gasped, Otwill fell with a
thump, and rolled jerkily from step to step all the way back down the stairs.

 
          
 
Drop climaxed his attack—and further
compounded Walgur's discomfort—by launching himself onto the sorcerer's
shoulder, where he tipped Helver's remaining potion oil down the gaping neck of
the velvet robe.

 
          
 
Caught off-balance by Walgur's binding spell,
Flax was propped awkwardly against a bookcase. He had observed Drop's sequence
of actions with mounting excitement. Although the wizard's muscle control was
still somewhat affected, Flax was able to levitate a large carafe from
Gilmont's desk and tilt it over, drenching Koron's glistening form with a
cascade of water. The only remaining requirement to activate Helver's Seemings
Exchange was thus fulfilled.

 
          
 
Dripping vase water and lily fragments at the
top of the stairs, Walgur struggled to speak despite his own magical
affliction, but he emitted only a few garbled croaks before his flailing arms
stiffened and his eyes literally glazed over. The contaminated spell that had
enchanted Koron in the other-space now claimed Walgur: every part of him was
transformed into glass. As a result of the simultaneous effectuation, Koron was
restored to his living, breathing self ... but was also entirely obscured by
the soaking bulk of the sorcerer's robe.

 
          
 
His bodily control re-established, Otwill
scrambled to his feet and hastened to assist his enshrouded apprentice.

 
          
 
Walgur's rigid form, meanwhile, teetered on
the top step, one out-thrust arm threatening to tip his balance. Descending
from his pedestal perch, Drop obligingly applied a brisk shove with his
forepaws. The crystalline sorcerer careened down the stairs, rebounding from
wall to railing until he shattered with a resounding crash on Gilmont's study
floor.

 
          
 
"Well done, Drop!" Flax approved.
"The instant I smelled the peppermint essence of Helver's Seemings
Exchange Potion, I perceived your inspired plan. Fortunately, your timely
assault distracted Walgur sufficiently for me to shift Gilmont's carafe and
supply the water necessary to initiate the disguise transposition." His
congratulations trailed off as he surveyed the sodden, melancholy chaos that
had overtaken Gilmont's orderly study. Abashed, Flax exclaimed, "My dear
Gilmont, I must express my profound regret that this appalling havoc has been wreaked
upon your premises. We might as well have summoned a rainstorm indoors! Still,
Darmid's Drying Spell should quickly remedy the excess of water."

 
          
 
Once the floor, stairs, settee, and Koron's
sopping robe relinquished their superfluous moisture, Gilmont breathed an
audible sigh of relief.

 
          
 
"We cannot ignore what is left of
Walgur," warned Otwill. "Unless every last fragment of him is
properly disposed, some other Qdk#is-£)ruzanian might be able to reconstitute
him."

 
          
 
"I propose the dispatch of Walgur's ...
residue through the mirror to some reliably safe location," suggested
Gilmont, sweeping the glass shards into a tidy pile with his hearth broom.

 
          
 
"A most excellent idea," Flax
confirmed. "The bottom of the sea should serve admirably. I shall attend
to the disposition forthwith." He marched up the stairs, levitating the
glittering heap behind him.

 
          
 
"Speaking of mirrors," mused Otwill,
"I think Koron may wish to assess his present appearance."

 
          
 
Flax, his errand completed, was just descending
the stairs when Koron bleated in dismay. Otwill had conjured a hand mirror for
him, and the reflection disclosed to the apprentice the full extent of Helver's
Seemings Exchange. Not only had Koron been garbed in Walgur's magically-charged
robe, but he had also been outfitted with Walgur's mustache, beard, and heavy
wig.

 
          
 
Flax could not contain a peal of laughter.
"Allow me to relieve you of Walgur's vain adornments," he offered,
reinstating with a gesture the affronted apprentice's own clean-shaven face and
neatly trimmed hair.

 
          
 
The previous fury of turmoil in Gilmont's
garden had subsided into an eerie, shadowed silence. Standing well to one side
of the study window, Gilmont cautiously gazed outside. "Walgur's minions
appear to have fled," he reported.

 
          
 
"Now that I have had leisure to consider
those attacking forces more carefully," Flax remarked, "aside from
Walgur himself, all the rest appeared to be illusory—some due to clumsier
spells than others. You will have noticed how deplorably his basilisks' tails
were articulated—very poor framing. I suspect that there are no material troops
to withdraw to Walgur's castle. If you should fancy more spacious quarters in
Zachor, Otwill, Walgur's castle ought therefore to be available for immediate
occupancy."

 
          
 
Otwill shook his head decisively. "No,
thank you, Flax," he replied. "I am quite content with my existing
workshop. I might, however, benefit from a few days' recuperative rest , here,
if Gilmont can spare me accommodation.''

 
          
 
"By all means," Gilmont warmly
agreed. "You are welcome to stay as long as you like—as are you, young
man, and you, too, Flax."

 
          
 
"Your offer is exceedingly
gracious," said Flax, "but I must decline in order to hurry back to
my cottage. I had promised to conjure a special bath of sheep dip for Farmer
Salt as soon as the harvest was gathered. Besides, Drop and I have been absent
long enough for every room to be obscured by dust and cobwebs. Our leaving to
rescue Otwill was so precipitate that I neglected to set a cleaning spell."

 
          
 
Gilmont nodded sympathetically. "I
understand ... but before you depart, I have one request. Could you recommend a
suitable warding spell for that troublesome mirror upstairs? I rarely travel
myself, and while I admit that such an entry point may be convenient for visits
from distant friends ... still, I should prefer to exclude the uninvited."

 
          
 
At once, Flax and Otwill launched into a
lively technical debate on the merits and drawbacks of various strictures.
Drop's impatient movement toward the foot of the stairs caught Flax's eye.

 
          
 
"Drop," Flax observed, "during
your time of lodging here with Gilmont, you have gained weight."

 
          
 
Gilmont smiled, and patted his own ample
stomach. "My cook is famed throughout the kingdom," he said proudly.
"I can truly boast of my pantry and table. Every visitor to my house gains
weight!"

 
          
 
Flax sat down on the third step next to Drop.
"My domestic arrangements can scarcely compete with Gilmont's lavish
amenities," the wizard admitted. "I desire the best possible future
for you, Drop. Should you choose to stay here, I am sure that Gilmont would
extend his invitation to include you."

 
          
 
"I can think of no more agreeable
guest," declared Gilmont. "Drop would be a welcome addition to my
household."

 
          
 
Drop found himself fondly recalling Flax's
cluttered, eccentrically-built, and often drafty cottage. By contrast,
Gilmont's snug, neat house was ... was too comfortable. Drop realized that he
relished the challenge of life with Flax, never knowing from day to day what
might next appear at the door ... or under it, or through it.

 
          
 
Unable to voice his decision, Drop desired
first to convey his appreciation for Gilmont's courtesy, not to mention the
memorable repasts of fish served with cream by Gilmont's cook. Drawing near to
Gilmont's feet, Drop bowed his head gracefully and purred politely before
turning back toward Flax.

 
          
 
Flax was admittedly absentminded and often
maddening in his human ways, but Drop had felt a sense of territorial Tightness
in both Flax's cottage and his company. There was also the practical element to
be considered. When they returned to Flax's cottage, not only would they have
to contend with the accumulated layers of dust and cobwebs, but the resident
population of mice could be relied upon to have rebounded in number and
boldness. As a wizard, Flax was well-suited to address the human and non-human
complications of magic. Every cat knew, however, that no other creature was
better suited to deal with mice, both indoors and outdoors, than an experienced
cat.

 
          
 
The thought of insolent, unchecked mice
overrunning his territory could not be borne! Drop tugged at Flax's sleeve,
then raced up the stairs. Both mice and home awaited on the other side of
Gilmont's magic mirror.

            
Admitting cat-dependency,
Janet Pack lives in
Lake Geneva
,
Wisconsin
, with felines Bastjun Amaranth and Canth Starshadow.
She writes, directs, and acts in radio ads for a local game store. She gives writing
seminars, and speaks to schools and groups about reading and the writing
profession. When not writing short stories and books, Janet sings classical, Renaissance,
and Medieval music. During leisure time she composes songs, reads, collects rocks,
exercises, skis, and paddles her kayak on
Lake Geneva
.

            
"No animal can tell
good music from bad." Steve Azos, proprietor of the Jazz House Coffee Bar,
laughed and shook his pale head. "No way."

            
Jeff Rath felt an
answer batter against his teeth. He tried to stop the words, but he couldn't restrain
them.

            
"Satchmo can tell."
His brain felt fuzzy, as though he were drunk, his body and thoughts beyond his
control.

            
Hoagy
Carmichael
music danced from the stereo, making everything
shimmer and tilt at crazy angles. Something strange was happening.

            
Why had he revealed his
pet's special talent? Why did he feel so odd, as if his thoughts moved in sync to
the music's offbeats? As if he watched people around him with eyes not his own?
They felt odd and stressed, as if his pupils were dilated and in bright light.

 
          
 
He looked into his Coffee Special sitting on
the antique oak bar. Steve had mixed the brews himself. Had he slipped
something hallucinogenic into the beverage, its taste hidden by the bite of the
coffee?

 
          
 
Steve sipped from his own mug. "What does
this cat do?"

 
          
 
"He turns on the boom box," Jeff
explained, trying to hold on to his sense of reality. "I swear. He knows
what music I need to calm me down or raise my spirits. I unlock the door, greet
him, and he looks at me with huge green eyes. Then he walks to the shelves,
digs out a disk, drops it in the player and hits 'Play.' "

 
          
 
"He opens plastic boxes?" asked
Steve.

 
          
 
"They're in those travel folders that
hold about ten each," explained Rath. "He paws them out."

 
          
 
"Lots of claw marks, right?"

 
          
 
Jeff shook his head. "I've never found a
scratch." He drank and sighed, listening with pleasure as an elegant Duke
Ellington selection began.

 
          
 
"Tell you what," said Steve,
thumping down his mug. "My sister's been wanting a cat for her kid. Let's
make that bet. Bring in your Satchmo on Friday. If he indicates that he likes
the new trio I've hired, I'll believe that animals have musical sense. If your
cat hides or seems indifferent, my sister gets him. Gloria's going to be
tending bar that evening, she'll help judge."

 
          
 
"Sure," the brunette said with a
grin as she reached for a clean mug.

 
          
 
Jeff asked hoarsely, "What's in it for
me? Besides possibly losing my cat."

 
          
 
"Let's see." Steve swirled his
coffee as music curled around them. "I know. One of my friends is
acquainted with Terry McCormack, the music producer. That company's always
looking for talent scouts with jazz savvy. Maybe they'd give you a job that'd
let you quit your three part-timers. I could arrange an introduction."

 
          
 
Rath shook with internal palsy, but his hands
remained steady as he raised his mug and drained it. The world seemed more
skewed than ever. He could not force his head into lateral movement to deny the
proposal. All he could manage was a jerky nod. His neck felt like it was
anchored with a rusted hinge which might snap and send his head rolling across
the bar. He moved like a marionette, controlled by some power outside himself.
Jeff hated the feeling.

 
          
 
Steve said, 'This is Tuesday. Bring in your
pet on Friday night. Then we'll see." He raised his drink. "I still
say no cat knows music."

 
          
 
Rath sat silent and miserable, thinking it
might be a good thing if he could disappear along with the last of the Duke's
sweet notes. How could he have made a bet on a buddy who couldn't speak for
himself?

 
          
 
''Another Coffee Special to seal the
bet?" offered Azos.

 
          
 
"Can't, thanks." Rath slipped off
his stool, surprised to find his feet solidly beneath him and the floor where
it should be. "I work in a few hours. Gotta sleep." Bru-beck's
"Take Five" began, one of his favorites. "Thanks for the coffee,
Steve." He shrugged into his jacket.

 
          
 
"Don't forget," the owner called to
his back. "Friday at eight, you and the cat."

 
          
 
Jeff stepped into the rain beyond the door.
"Satchmo, how could I have done this to you?" he groaned. "Why
do I feel so odd?"
Seattle
's winter fog caged him in a misty bubble that suspended all reality
except the slap of his feet against wet pavement as he trotted the four blocks
to his tiny apartment. The ends of his shoulder-length hair guided damp beneath
his collar and he shivered. "Buddy, you're going to hate me. I'll never
find another cat like you: Not with your music magic." Feeling suddenly
tired and very much alone, he dragged up three flights of stairs and unlocked
his door.

 
          
 
Satchmo Jazzz waited for him in the middle of
the main room, the tip of his gray and black tail twitching. Creamed coffee
cheeks bristling with white whiskers contrasted with the tabby's brick-red
nose. Round green eyes rimmed with black and buff looked enormous set amid dark
and light stripes of his face. Rath shucked his jacket, scooped up the
sixteen-pounder, and plomped them down in the worn easy chair.

 
          
 
"Tell you what I did," Jeff said in
a rush, ruffling the soft fur behind Satch's ears as the cat sighed and
demanded more attention. "You're my best friend. I don't want to lose
you." Satchmo looked straight at him, peridot-green eyes absorbing every
word. "I made a stupid bet that you could tell if Steve's new trio is
good. They're playing Friday. We're supposed to go there and listen. Do
nothing, and his sister's kid gets you. Act interested and we win. Then you and
I get introduced to some music producer needing a talent scout. That meeting
might not gain us anything." Shaking his head, he scrubbed fingers through
his dark hair. "I know you're pretty unusual, but this is more than even
you can—"

 
          
 
Rath's lap cooled suddenly as Satchmo jumped
down. The cat strode to the stereo boom box, tapped the "Play"
button, and sat beside it staring at the man as the strains of "Don't
Worry, Be Happy" filled the room.

 
          
 
Jeff laughed and leaned back, patting his
legs. "No matter how bad it gets, you always make me feel better,
Satch." The tabby leaped into his lap, turned once so the softest part of
the worn jeans were under his paws, and settled down purring.

 
          
 
They'd been together for five years, through
good and bad times. This last six months since he'd been laid off at TechWorks
and had lost his investments through lousy advice was the leanest stretch
they'd had. Love interests for Jeff had dwindled to nothing because of his
peculiar hours, leaving him very lonely.

 
          
 
The cat stoically accepted his partner's
frustration, exhaustion, and erratic hours working whatever jobs he could get.
In return, Satch offered companionship and entertained them with a zany
selection from Rath's CDs. How and when the cat had learned to dig the disks
from their folders and work the boom box Jeff couldn't recall. It was part of
Satchmo's magic.

 
          
 
He combed the cat's brindle coat, remembering.
Rath had known that Satch was uncommon from the moment they met. Five years ago
he'd been walking across the parking lot of TechWorks, the area's largest
computer hardware and software development firm, when an escaped Rottweiler had
taken a fancy to his ankles. Jeff had butted the dog in the side with his
briefcase and sprinted for the building. A gray blur streaked between them, and
the Rott veered after the cat.

 
          
 
Panting, Jeff slid his security pass through
the slot outside Tech Works' huge door. The feline wheeled and charged
full-speed toward the building, the dog slavering three paces off its tail.
Rath slipped inside. Something made him look back. He spotted the cat flying
for safety. Jeff awaited his rescuer, holding the door just wide enough for the
kitten to squeeze through. He let it shut just in time for the Rott's nose to
smash into thick plastic.

 
          
 
"What am I going to do with you?"
Rath had looked at the bedraggled, half-grown kitten and met a pair of intense
peridot-green eyes. The bond between them was instant. "You could sit on
my desk."

 
          
 
The tabby "Yowwed" silently as Jeff
picked him up and carried him to his cubicle. On the desk, the kitten washed
and settled into what Jeff called the "loaf" position—lozenge-shaped,
head up, eyes slitted, tail and paws tucked beneath his body. He accepted
admiring pats with grace, but his aloof mien announced his affection centered
on his desk mate. When lunchtime came, Jeff shared two cold-cuts sandwiches
with his hungry new friend.

 
          
 
That afternoon, Sheila in the next compartment
had switched the radio station to elevator music. The kitten's eyes sprang
open, his head whirled around, and his agonized wail cut across the melody. He
jumped down, located the radio, hopped onto that desk, and began batting it.

 
          
 
"Your kitten's attacking my radio,"
Sheila shrieked.

 
          
 
"Change the station," Rath
suggested, stepping around the partition to claim the tabby.

 
          
 
Sheila did so, passing one with jazz. The
kitten complained and reached out a protesting paw. She tuned in the Louis
Armstrong song. Jeff, hearing a satisfied purr accompany the brilliant trumpet,
decided to name the cat Satchmo in honor of that musician.

 
          
 
Many incidents since then had convinced Rath
his cat knew good jazz. He had bought a stereo boom box with a radio and left
it on a station that specialized in a mixture of Pat Metheny, the Marsalis
brothers, Thelonious Monk, Charlie Bird Parker, and Lady Day, as well as cuts
from new musicians. Satchmo reacted with his best cat smile to the oldies
except for the more outrageous of Spike Jones' pieces, turning up the corners of
his mouth and hooding his eyes in ecstacy. New musicians he divided into three
groups: the good, the okay, and the walk-aways. Jeff learned that when the
tabby turned tail, that person or group wasn't long on the play list. Satch
seemed to hear something that made his ears flatten and his toes twitch to be
gone.

 
          
 
Leaning back, Rath smiled and relaxed a
little. Telling his mental alarm to wake him in three hours, he fell asleep to
the cat's rumble matched to the body percussion and soft vocals of Bobby McFerrin.

 
          
 
By Friday Jeff wasn't so certain of success.
He spent his afternoon as a clinic security guard trying to think of ways to
quit the bet with dignity. He could not let his best friend go. He calculated
his finances, thinking that he might be able to eke out the adoption fee from
the local humane society if he skipped three meals before his next paycheck.
Then Steve's sister's brat would have a kitten to maul and he could keep
Satchmo. No other solution occurred to him as he walked to the security firm's
headquarters after his stint, changed into street clothes, and hurried home.