The Source of Magic (15 page)

“Me have hunch you not know crunch.” The ogre dipped a hairy, grimy mitt into the boiling cauldron, fished about, grabbed, withdrew a gooey fistful, plunked it into a gnarly wooden bowl which he shoved at Bink. “Drink, Bink.”

“He means his name is Crunch,” Chester said, catching on. “He’s offering you something to eat. He doesn’t distinguish between meals; all food is ‘lunch.’ ”

“Oh. Uh—thank you, Crunch,” Bink said awkwardly.
You lunch; me Crunch
—now it made sense. An offer of food, an answer to a question, rather than a threat. He accepted the glop. The ogre served the others similarly; his huge paw seemed immune to the heat.

Bink looked at his portion dubiously. The stuff was too thick to pool, too thin to pick up, and despite its bubbling heat it
hardly seemed dead yet. It was a deep-purple hue, with green excrescences. It smelled rather good, actually, though there was a scalded fly floating in it.

Chester sniffed his serving appreciatively. “Why this is purple bouillon with green nutwood—a phenomenal delicacy! But it requires a magic process to extract the bouillon juice, and only a nutty green elf can procure nutwood. How did you come by this?”

The ogre smiled. The effect was horrendous, even in the gloom. “Me have elf, work for pelf,” the golem translated. Then Crunch lifted a log from his stack and held it over the cauldron. He twisted one hand on each end—and the wood screwed up like a wet towel. A thin stream of purple liquid fell from it into the cauldron. When the log was dry, the ogre casually ripped it into its component cords and tossed it into the fire, where it flared up eagerly. Well, that was one way to burn cordwood.

Bink had never before witnessed such a feat of brute strength. Rather than comment, he fished out the fly, dipped a finger into his cooling pudding, brought out a creamy glob and put it gingerly to his mouth. It was delicious. “This is the best food I ever ate!” he exclaimed, amazed.

“You say that, Bink. You think it stink,” Crunch growled, flattered.

Crombie squawked as he sampled his bowl. “
You
may stink; this is great,” the golem translated.

Crunch, highly pleased by the double compliment, served himself a glob by dumping a bubbling fistful directly into his gaping maw. He licked off his fingers, then took another glob. As the others finished their helpings, the ogre served them more with the same hand. No one saw fit to protest; after all, what magic germs could survive that heat?

After the repast, they settled on the straw for the evening. The others seemed satisfied to sleep, but Bink was bothered by something. In a moment he identified it: “Crunch, among our kind we offer some return service for hospitality. What can we do for you to repay this fine meal and lodging?”

“Say, that’s right,” Chester agreed. “You need some wood chopped or something?”

“That no good. Have plenty wood,” the ogre grunted. He smashed one fist down on a log, and it splintered into quivering fragments. He obviously needed no help there.

Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says he can point out where anything is. What do you want, stoneface?”

“Want sleep, you creep,” Crunch mumbled.

“Not until we do you some service,” Bink insisted.

“Take heed, no need!” Crunch closed one fist on a handful of straw, squeezed, and when he let go the straw had fused into one spindly stick. The ogre used this to pick at his gross teeth.

Chester argued caution for once. “We can’t force a service on him he doesn’t want.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know he wants it,” Bink said. “We must honor the code.”

“You sure are a stubborn lout,” Grundy said, for once speaking for himself. “Why stir up trouble?”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Bink said uncertainly. “Crombie, can you point out where the thing Crunch desires is?”

The griffin squawked affirmatively, spun about, stirred up the straw, and pointed. At the Good Magician Humfrey, nodding in the corner, one piece of straw straddling his head.

“Forget it,” Humfrey snapped sleepily. “I am not available for consumption.”

“But he’s a vegetarian!” Bink reminded him. “It can’t be that he wants to eat you. Maybe he wants to ask you a Question.”

“Not for one measly night’s lodging! He’d have to serve me for a year.”

“Me have no question, no suggestion,” the ogre grunted.

“It does seem we’re forcing something unwanted on our host,” Chester said, surprisingly diplomatic. That log-twisting and straw-squeezing and wood-splintering had evidently impressed the centaur profoundly. The ogre was clearly the strongest creature this party had encountered.

“There is something Crunch wants, even if he doesn’t know it himself,” Bink said. “It is our duty to locate it for him.” No
one argued, though he was sure they all wished he would drop the subject. “Crombie, maybe it isn’t the Magician he wants, but something
on
the Magician. Exactly where did you point?”

Crombie squawked with tired resignation. He pointed again. Bink lined up his own finger, tracing the point. “There!” he said. “Something in his crotch.” Then he paused, abashed. “Uh, his jacket, maybe.”

But the Magician, tired, had fallen asleep. His only answer was a snore.

“Oh, come
on
!” Grundy said. “I’ll check it out.” And he scrambled up on the Magician, climbing inside his jacket.

“I don’t think—” Bink began, startled by this audacity.

“That’s your problem,” the golem said from inside the jacket. “It must be—this.” He emerged, clasping a vial in both arms. For him it was a heavy weight.

“That’s the demon-bottle!” Chester said. “Don’t fool with—”

But Grundy was already prying out the cork.

Bink dived for him, but as usual was too late. The cork was not ornery this time; it popped off cleanly as Bink grabbed the bottle.

“Now you’ve done it!” Chester exclaimed. “If Humfrey wakes—”

Bink was left holding the bottle as the demon coalesced, unbound by any magic inscription or incantation. “Some—some—somebody make a—a—” Bink stammered.

Beauregard firmed, standing with a huge tome tucked under one arm. He peered at Bink beneath his spectacles. “A pentacle?” the demon finished. “I think not.”

“What have I done?” Bink moaned.

Beauregard waved negligently with his free hand. “You have done nothing, Bink. It was the foolish golem.”

“But I set him in motion!”

“Perhaps. But do not be concerned. Rather consider yourself as the instrument of fate. Know that neither the bottle nor the pentacle constrained me; I but honored these conventions to please the Magician, to whom I owed professional courtesy. The agreement was that I should serve in this capacity of
reserve-informant until circumstances should free me, by the ordinary rules of demon control. That chance has now occurred, as it was fated. A genuinely bound demon would have escaped, so I am free to go. I thank you for that accident, and now I depart.” He began to fade.

“Wait!” Bink cried. “At least answer this nice ogre’s Question!”

Beauregard firmed again. “He has no Question. He only wants to sleep. Ogres need plenty of rest, or they lose their meanness.”

“But Crombie’s talent indicated—”

“Oh, that. Technically there is something, but it is not a conscious desire.”

“It will do,” Bink said. He had not realized that ogres could have unconscious desires. “Tell us what it is, before you go.”

“He wants to know whether he should take a wife,” the demon said.

The ogre growled. “What kind of life, if me have wife?” the golem said.

“Now that’s interesting,” Beauregard said. “A golem, serving fee for an Answer he can not comprehend.”

“Who could make sense of a one-word Answer?” Grundy demanded.

“Only a real creature,” Beauregard replied.

“That’s the point—he’s not real,” Bink said. “He wants to know how to
become
real.”

Beauregard turned to the centaur. “And you want to know your talent. I could tell you, of course, but you would then be in fee to me, and neither of us would want that.”

“Why don’t you just answer the ogre’s question and go?” Bink asked, not quite trusting this too-knowledgeable freed demon.

“I can not do that directly, Bink. I am a demon; he would not accept my answer, rational though it would be. He is of an irrational species, like yourself; you must answer him.”

“Me! I—” Bink broke off, not wanting to comment on his present problem with Chameleon.

“I spoke in the plural,” Beauregard said, a bit condescendingly.
“You and Chester and Crombie should discuss your relations with your respective females, and the consensus will provide the ogre with the perspective he needs.” He considered. “In fact, in that context, my own comment might become relevant.” And he settled down on the straw with them.

There was a silence. “Uh, how did you—that is, there is a lady ogre—uh, ogress in mind?” Bink asked Crunch.

The ogre responded with a volley of growls, snorts, and gnashings of yellow teeth. It was all the golem could do to keep up the translation, but Grundy rose to the occasion and spouted at the height of his form:

“One lovely bleak morning during thunderstorm warning me wandered far out beyond hail of a shout. Me was in a good mood just looking for food. No creature stirred this far from home; no dragon, no monster, not even a gnome. Me entered a forest huge and tall; the trees were so big me seemed small. The way was so tangled no walker could pass, but it opened like magic a lovely crevasse, with nickelpedes and more delights, and stagnant water rich with blights, and me tramped up to a hidden castle with shroud for flag and scalp for tassel. The wind blew by it with lovely moans, and all the timbers were giant bones. At entrance slept little dragon called Puk, guarding what left meself awestruck: a fountain packed with purple mud, spouting gouts of bright-red blood. Me stared so long me stood in doze, and me mouth watered so hard it drooled on me toes. But me knew such enchantment would be complete the moment me yielded and started to eat. Me wanted to see what further treasure offered itself for the hero’s pleasure. And in the center in a grimy sack lay a wonderful ogress stretched on a rack. She had hair like nettles, skin like mush, and she face would make a zombie blush. She breath reeked of carrion, wonderfully foul, and she stench was so strong me wanted to howl. Me thought me sick with worm in gut, but knew it was love for that splendid slut. Me smashed she in face with hairy fist, which is ogre way of making tryst. Then me picked she up by she left leg and dragged she away, me golden egg. Then whole castle come awake: goblin and troll and green mandrake. They celebrated the union of hero and cute by pelting
we with rotten fruit. But on way out we tripped a spell that sounded alarm where evil fiends dwell. They had put castle to sleep for a hundred years, those fiends who hated ogres’ rears. They fired a spell of such terrible might we had to flee it in a fright. Me dodged it every way me could, but it caught we good in midst of wood. As it struck me cried ‘Me crunch no bone!’ and it thought we ogres both had flown. It dissipated in such mighty flash the whole near forest was rendered trash. Now me crunch no bones lest fiends of lake learn they curse have make mistake. Me not want them throw another curse maybe like first and maybe worse. Me love lies stunned within the wood, sleeping away she maidenhood. But one thing now gives me pause: she never did make much applause. All me want to know is this: should me leave or fetch the miss?”

The others sat in silence for a time following this remarkable recital. At last Crombie squawked. “That was a considerable adventure and romance,” Grundy said for him. “While I can appreciate the fetching qualities of your lady friend, I must say from my own experience that all females are infernal creatures whose primary purpose in life is to deceive, entrap, and make miserable the males. Therefore—”

The ogre’s grunt interrupted the griffin in midsquawk. “Hee hee hee, hee hee hee!” Grundy translated, interrupting himself. “Me fetch she instantly!”

Chester smiled. “Despite my friend’s recommendation, I must offer a note of caution. No matter how badly the filly nags the stallion, and how unreasonable she normally seems, there comes a time when she births her first foal. Then the dam no longer has much interest in—”

“She no nag? That is snag,” Crunch growled, disappointed.

“But in due course,” Bink said, “she is bound to return to normal, often with extremely cutting wit. In any event, I should think some nagging is better than no nagging. So why not rouse your beauty and give her a proper chance? She may make your life completely miserable.”

The ogre’s eyes lighted like torches.

“I must concur,” Beauregard said. “This conversation has been a most intriguing insight into the condition of human,
animal, and ogre emotions. What is nagging to humans is applause to ogres. This will do nicely to conclude my dissertation.”

“Your what?” Bink asked.

“My doctoral thesis on the fallibilities of intelligent life on the surface of Xanth,” Beauregard explained. “I sought information from the human Magician Humfrey, and he assured me that a term of service in his bottle would provide me the insights I required, since a person’s nature may best be gauged through the questions he considers most vital. This has indeed been the case, and I am now virtually assured of my degree. That will qualify me to form permanent liaison with my chosen demoness, who would seem to be worth the effort. This causes me to experience a certain demoniac exhilaration. Therefore I present you each with a small token gleaned from my researches.”

The demon turned to Chester. “I prefer not to inform you of your magic talent directly, for the reason given above, but will provide a hint: it reflects the suppressed aspect of your character. Because you, like most centaurs, have disbelieved in magic among your kind, whole aspects of your personality have been driven as it were underground. When you are able to expiate this condition, your talent will manifest naturally. Do not waste a year of your life for the Answer of the Good Magician; just allow yourself more self-expression.”

He turned to Crombie. “You can not escape your fate in this manner. When you return from this quest—
if
you return—Sabrina will trap you into an unhappy marriage unless you arrange for a more suitable commitment elsewhere before you see her. Therefore enjoy yourself now; have your last fling and do not be concerned for the morrow, for it will be worse than today. Yet marriage is not after all, for you, a fate worse than death; you will know that when you do face death.”