The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (36 page)

Finally, at long last, here they were again, in Enchanter’s presence, their reward for many months’ trial.  Would Enchanter help them?  Would Enchanter make their magic and lives permanent?  If he would, a bodyguard of spit-mud creatures would follow him always, protecting him from harm with their very lives.

“You,” said Stephen, “have grown far beyond my expectations—and far, far beyond any other creature that I have made.  I knew I was right to be proud of you—and I was proud of you, and am, and I did not forget you, though I thought you dead.  But I can’t do what you ask.  No—” he held up a hand to forestall the spit-mud creatures’ protests—“not through any hesitation on my part; I don’t mean I won’t help you; I mean I can’t.  There are so many of you channeling my magic that I have none to spare to enchant you permanently, none at all.  You yourselves are preventing me from helping you!  If there were, perhaps, half your number, maybe I could—”

“We are prepared to make sacrifices,” said the crippled little tripod spit-mud, who had become the leader of an entire new race.  “We will do as you command.”

Half the spit-mud creatures broke off from the crowd and swarmed forward.  Stephen and Youngster yelled and sprang back, but the swarm ignored them; they instead skittered past, into the mouth of the cave.  Two minutes later, Stephen felt the puffs of their life-magic extinguish and rush back to him, as two thousand spit-mud creatures dashed themselves into the Blood Pool.

Stephen staggered and dropped back down to the ground.  Now that they were gone, he could feel the vacuum created by their tiny minds, each one connected to his own, each one alive and intelligent and noble.  Unconscious tears sprang to his eyes and fell, even as he grew stronger, his magic surging back into him.  “I didn’t mean for you to kill them!” he gasped.

“They understood that sacrifices sometimes must be made,” said the tripod spit-mud.  “Have enough died?  Can you make us permanent, or must more sacrifice themselves?”

“No—that’s plenty—no more!  I must rest a little, grow back my magic, but then I can begin.  This will take . . . it’ll take a long time to make you all permanent.  A week, at least.  During that time, Youngster and I will need supplies—food, clean water, shelter—”

“We’ll take care of it,” the tripod spit-mud promised.  “We will bring you whatever you need.”

“Yes, all right then.  Indeed.  Yes.  Shall I begin with you?”

The tripod spit-mud hesitated.  “I shall go last,” it said slowly, “that my people will be served first.”  The other spit-mud creatures chittered at it, cheering it on, encouraging it to go ahead.

“If you go first,” said Stephen, understanding, “you’ll set a good example and calm their nerves—and provide me with good practice.  Now, let’s see . . . let me think . . . ah yes; I know how to do this.  Come sit on my hand, and we’ll begin.”

The road well traveled

The rest of that day, and the next, Youngster stayed to watch Stephen enchant spit-mud after spit-mud.  Stephen began slowly, tentatively, as his magic was still weak, but sped up as he strengthened.  Youngster soon wearied of watching, and began exploring the nearby land, traveling further and further afield, accompanied by a small group of spit-mud creatures, who had sworn their lives to protecting him for as long as he traveled with Stephen.

Stephen himself was enjoying his enchanting entirely.  This was exactly the kind of work he liked best, and it was peaceful sitting here, day after day.  Better still, as he finished each spit-mud and severed its connection, he found a little of his magic snap back to him, and a little fragment of his mind freed.  Never before had he been so aware of every fragment of power, and his exact capacity for magic.  The channeling of the spit-mud creatures had stretched his capacity considerably, along with the precision with which he wielded it, of that he was sure.  Before three-quarters of the spit-mud creatures were permanently enchanted, Stephen was already back at what he had once thought of as his normal strength.

After seventeen days of laborious and near-constant enchanting, Stephen finished the last spit-mud creature.  The spit-muds congregated before him and thanked him graciously—and at length—and presently Youngster returned with his own small company of spit-mud creatures, who joined in the mass accolades.

“It has been a pleasure working with you,” Stephen told the spit-muds, “but it is time for Youngster and me to depart.  We have a mission of our own that we have yet to complete.”

“Fifty of our number will accompany you,” the tripod leader informed him.  “They will stay out of sight except in times of need, and will protect you with their lives, and perform for you any boon of your request.”

“I thank you,” said Stephen formally, “and one last thing can I offer you.  I cannot make you a new leg, for I cannot enchant living flesh.  But if you wish it, I can reinforce the crutch that you have made for yourself.”

“You are kind,” said the spit-mud, “and I will accept your offer.  I could not accept a new leg even if you could offer it, for I am a leader and recognized by my missing leg; the very fact that I am crippled lends me respect.  I thank you, Enchanter, and bid thee farewell.”  It waited patiently for Stephen to reinforce its crutch, then limp-skipped away.  Its many children swarmed after it, only fifty remaining behind.

“On to the capital,” said Youngster.  “I don’t suppose you know the way?”

“Of course I—on second thought, no I don’t; I was relying on Craggy’s sense of direction, and not counting on the Blue Lady.  I have no idea where we are.  Let’s find a King’s Road and ask at the next town.”

“There’s one about ten miles west of here—I found it while scouting.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

As Stephen and Youngster were told at the next town, they weren’t far from the capital, certainly not by the standards by which they had been traveling: it was a little over sixty miles away, and there was a direct and safe road—although, the man who told them this added, a little nervously, they looked like two travelers who could hold their own against bandits, or anything else that crossed their paths.

“We must look very frightening,” Youngster said laughingly, some time later.  “What would he have said if he knew he was talking to an eighteen-year-old locksmith’s son and an out-of-work enchanter?”

“He wouldn’t have believed it,” Stephen replied.  “Look at us; we’re obviously dangerous characters.”

“We are indeed,” Youngster agreed solemnly.  “We have fought victorious against the Blue Lady and the Beast of Quag; we have faced down Robin and the Fairy Queen; we have survived where all others have fallen, though they were larger and stronger; we have traveled in the company of monsters.  What else are we, if not dangerous?

“Very, very lucky—not to mention exceedingly clever.”

“Mmm, yes—and what do luckiness and cleverness make one, if not dangerous?”

The road to the capital was indeed safe and clear, and Stephen and Youngster arrived after two steady marches.

The capital!  It was a sight for sore eyes.  Bustling with life, wonderful aromas filling the air, too metropolitan for anyone to glance twice at the strange, battered men.

“It occurs to me,” said Stephen, as they gazed upon it, “that we have no money.”

“I have a little left from Smallton,” said Youngster, “and Craggy gave me what he made at blacksmithing, for safekeeping.”

“Enough for an inn—and clothing that isn’t in shreds?”

“Enough for clothing,” said Youngster, “enough for your robes, anyway; and we’ll get more from the king, I don’t doubt.”

“But you can’t go before him wearing that!”

“Ah,” said Youngster, “you see . . . I know I didn’t mention it before, but this is my hometown.”

“Your home—”

“My brother, Tinkerfingers—how he got picked for the company was that he sometimes worked for the king, picking locks and fixing things.  That’s how I knew about the company, too.  I wasn’t meant to find out; I just overheard Tinkerfingers talking with the J.E.—whom I already knew as Prince Wilfred—and decided I wanted to come along, so I made Tinkerfingers tell me everything.  Tinkerfingers never minds—minded—me trailing after him and, well, I wanted some adventure.  Stupid, I know.”

“This was your home?”

“Still is, I guess.  I lived with my parents, and they should still be here, unless something has happened.  I don’t know if I could stand it, if anything has.”

“You live near here?”

“Yes!  Stop sounding so shocked; it doesn’t suit you.  My parents will put you up for the night, and we can go see the king in the morning.  First, though, you need new robes; my mother would faint, if she saw you looking so disreputable.”

“You’re not looking much better.”

“No, I guess not; but Mother’s used to me.  Nothing surprises her anymore . . . except that these scars might . . . and about—with—concerning Tinkerfingers.”  Youngster cleared his throat.  “I know where they make enchanter and wizard robes,” he said, forcing a little laugh.  “I know everything in this town.”

Youngster had indeed once known everything in this town, and it had changed so little that he still knew almost everything.  He pointed out and chuckled at the smallest things: so-and-so had repainted his house and so-and-so had finally fixed his leaky roof, and it was strange, but he remembered everything being bigger than this.

What with Youngster’s trips down memory lane—and the tailor’s clicking over the atrocious state of Stephen’s robes; how on earth had he torn them like that, and why had he removed the bottom sixteen inches; he looked ridiculous—it was evening by the time Youngster led Stephen through the streets to a perfectly ordinary-looking house.

“This is it,” Youngster announced.  “It’s exactly like I remember it.  Mother always plants daisies in the windowsill in summer, see?  She won’t believe me when I tell her they’re weeds; she says they’re too pretty to be weeds, and only ugly things count as weeds.  Do you think I should knock, or just go in?”

“Knock,” Stephen advised.  “They’ll be less startled.”  And less alarmed, he added mentally, if they don’t immediately recognize you and think that a strange, rough man and a hideously scarred enchanter have broken into their home.

“What if—what if they don’t recognize me?” Youngster wondered, echoing Stephen’s thoughts.  “What if they don’t believe me when I tell them who I am?”

“You’ll never find out unless you knock.”

Youngster fidgeted, staring at the door.  Jerkily, before his nerve could fail him, he darted his hand up and knocked heavily.

A moment of silence.

“Maybe they’re not home,” Youngster suggested.

There was the soft sound of footsteps inside, and the door opened to reveal a squat, pleasant-looking woman with rosy cheeks, graying hair, and Tinkerfingers’s eyes.

She gaped.  “Martin?” she whispered, then gave a strangle cry and lunged forward, wrapping her son in a tight, desperate hug.  “You’re back!  We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever be back.  Oh, what happened to my boy?” she cried, pushing him back to get a good look at him.  “You’ve grown up—and you’re taller, I’m sure of it.  And you—you—” she ran her hand gently over his face, fingering the scars.  “What happened to you?  Who did this do you?  And—who are you?” she added, finally noticing Stephen.  Before Stephen could answer, she continued, “You’d better come in and tell me everything.  Is Algie with you?”

Youngster remained silent, and his mother saw the answer upon his face.  She gulped a sob and closed her eyes for a second, to recover herself.

“You’d better come in,” she repeated, when she could speak again.  “I want to hear everything.  Yes, you come too,” she added, when Stephen hesitated.  “I can see you’ve traveled a long way.  Come in and sit down.”

Youngster’s mother led them inside to a modest sitting room.  “You two stay right there; I’ll just nip into the kitchen.  You must be famished, skinny as rods, the both of you.  I’ll just go and get some tea and something to hold you over, and we can have supper when your father comes home.  Just—just stay right there and don’t you go away.  I’ll be back soon.”  She bustled away, sniffling.

“So,” said Youngster, in the awkward silence that followed.  “Now you know my real name.”

“You’re Martin,” said Stephen, “and Tinkerfingers is—”

“Algernon; yes.”

“I never would have guessed it.  Part of me always expected that your name really was Youngster, or at least began with a ‘yuh’ sound.  Do you want me to swear never to use your name against you?”

“No,” said Youngster; “you don’t have to swear.”

“For Tinkerfingers’s name, then—”

“Stop being stupid and self-sacrificing; I think I know you better than that.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Stephen; and indeed, he was glad.  He had thought Youngster trusted him, but it was hard to tell, sometimes, whether they were really friends or just two people on the same mission to the same destination.  “Does that mean you want me to call you Martin?”

Youngster shuddered.  “It’s strange, hearing that name again.  I’d almost forgotten it was mine.  I guess you’d better, at least around my parents.  What they’d say if they heard you calling me Youngster, I can’t imagine.  No, wait, I can imagine—and I wish I couldn’t.  They . . . they simply wouldn’t understand.  They’d call it silliness.”

“Here we are,” Youngster’s mother announced, bustling back in.  “You do take tea, don’t you?” she asked Stephen, and he nodded in reply.  “There you go.  And sugar?  Milk?  Oh dear, dear, I’ve completely forgotten my manners.  My name is Betsy Wright—you must call me Betsy, my dear—and you are—?”

“Stephen,” Stephen replied, rising to bow.  He caught the look of wordless astonishment on Youngster’s face and grinned down at him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Betsy Wright.  “No, sit right back down again.  I’ll be back directly with the biscuits—” and she was gone again.

“Your name is Stephen?” Youngster demanded, the moment his mother was out of sight.

“Surely you didn’t think ‘Enchanter’ was my name.”

“But—but—it’s so ordinary—and you never said anything—”

“You didn’t ask,” Stephen pointed out.  “Believe it or not, I was born to ordinary parents without a shred of magic who brought me up in an ordinary house and gave me an ordinary name.” 

“Don’t laugh!  It was an honest mistake; anyone would have made it.  How was I to know?”  Youngster paused.  “Do you mean that, all this time, you’d have told me your name, if I’d bothered to ask?”

Stephen sobered immediately.  “If you had told me yours,” he answered seriously.  “And despite my indignant words when we met, it was probably wise of the Jolly Executioner to hide your names.  Names are powerful in the hands of those who know how to manipulate them—and I do know.”