The Flying Sorcerers

the word,’… magic; but I can’t teach you my flying spell.”

Shoogar shook his head, as if to clear it, “Your flying spell is not magic then?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s …” Again, the device hesitated, “… it’s magic.”

I could see that Shoogar’s temper was shortening. “Are you or are you not going to teach me how to fly?”

“Yes — but it is your people who will fly —”

“Then what good is it to me?”

“I mean, your children and your grandchildren.”

“I have no children,” Shoogar fumed.

“I did not mean it that way,” Purple said, “I meant… your children and your grandchildren. That is, the spell is so complex that it will take many years to learn and build.”

“Then let us begin,” prompted Shoogar impatiently.

“But we can’t —” Purple protested. “Not until you learn the basics of… magic.”

“I already know the basics of magic! Shoogar screamed. Teach me the flying spell!”

“I can’t!” Purple screamed back. “It’s too difficult for you!”

“Then why did you say you would if you wouldn’t?” A red-faced Shoogar cried.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t!” bellowed Purple. “I said I couldn’t! ”

And that’s when Shoogar got mad. “May you have many ugly daughters, he began. “May the parasites from ten thousand mud creatures infest your cod-piece!” His voice rose to fearful pitch. “May dry rot take your nesting tree! May you never receive a gift that pleases you! May the God of Thunder strike you in the kneecap!”

They were only epithets, nothing more, but coming from Shoogar they were enough to pale even me, an innocent bystander. I wondered if my hair would fall out from witnessing such a display of anger.

Purple was unmoved — and I must credit him for his courage in the face of such fury. “I have already told you, Shoogar, that I am not concerned with your magic. I am above such things.”

Shoogar took another breath. “If you do not cease and desist I will be forced to use this!” And Shoogar produced from the folds of his robe a doll. I know from its odd proportions and colors that the doll had been carved to represent Purple.

Purple did not even quail, as any normal man would have one. I knew then that he must be mad. “Use it,” he said. “Go ahead and use it. But don’t interrupt me in my work. Your world-life-system-balance has developed in a fascinating direction. The animals have developed some of the most unusual fluids-secreted-for-the-control-of-bodily functions that I have ever seen.” Purple bent back to his devices, did something to one of them, a stabbing gesture with a single forefinger, and a whole section of the west pasture erupted.

Shoogar covered his eyes in despair. Purple had just violated one of the finest pastures of the village — one of the favorite pastures of Rotn’bair, the god of sheep. Who knew What the mutton would taste like this winter?

Then, to add injury to insult, Purple began gathering up fragments of the meadow and putting them into little containers. He was taking the droppings!

Was it possible for one man to violate so many of the basic laws of magic and still survive? The laws of magic are strict. Any fool can see them in operation every day — even I am familiar with them — they operate the entire world, and their workings are simple and obvious.

But Purple, this man of the flying nest was blind even to the simplest of spells!

I was not surprised when Shoogar, grimly intent, set the doll down on the grass and set it afire. Neither was I surprised when the doll had burnt itself into a pinch of white ash without Purple even bothering to notice.

Purple ignored it — and us; he showed not the slightest effect. Flaming sting thing! What powers this magician must have! Shoogar stared at him aghast. How dare he not be affected! Purple’s very casualness was the ultimate insult. When we left him he had one of his clicking boxes open and was fumbling inside. He never even noticed us leaving.

Shoogar was peering into the sky, a frown on his face.

Both suns were still high; broad red disc and blue-white point. The blue sun was poised on the edge of the red, ready to begin the long crawl across its face.

“Elcin’s wrath!” he muttered. “I cannot use the suns — all is unstable. That leaves me only the moons — and the moons are well into the mudskunk.” He hurled a fireball across the clearing. “An eight-mooned mudskunk at that!” He put his hands on his hips and shouted into the sky, “Why me, Ouells! Why me? What have I done to offend you that you curse me with such unusable configurations? Have I not sworn my life to your service?”

But there was no answer. I don’t think Shoogar expected one. He turned back to his spell devices. “All right, then. If it is a mudskunk you have given me, then it is a mudskunk I shall use. Here, Lant, hold this,” and he thrust a large pack at me.

He continued to rummage through his equipment, all the while muttering under his breath. A fearful collection of cursing devices began to grow around him.

“What is all this for?” I indicated the pile.

He appeared not to hear me, continued checking off items in his head, then began loading them into the pack.

“What is all this for?” I repeated.

Shoogar looked at me, “Lant, you are a fool. This,” he said and hefted his kit meaningfully, “is to show the stranger that one does not trifle with the gods of the full belly.”

“I’m afraid to ask. What is it?” I asked.

“It’s the spell of…. No, you’ll just have to wait and see it in action, with the others.” He strode purposefully toward the frog-grading ponds. I hurried after him; it was amazing how fast Shoogar’s squat little legs could carry him.

There was already an uneasy crowd of villagers standing on the rise above the flying nest. None dared approach it. When Shoogar appeared, an excited murmur ran through the crowd — the word of Purple’s insult had spread quickly; the villagers were tense with expectation.

Shoogar ignored them. He pushed through the milling throng and strode angrily to Purple’s nest, ignoring the mud that splashed up and over his ankles and stained the hem of his robe.

He strode around that nest three times without pause, looking at it from all sides. I was unsure whether he had already started spelling, or whether he was just sizing up the situation. For a long moment he stood looking at the land-ward side of that nest, like an artist contemplating a blank skin.

Then, abruptly, he made up his mind. He stepped quickly forward and with a piece of chalk he inscribed the sign of the horned box on the side of Purple’s nest.

An interested murmur of speculation rose from the crowd, “The horned box … the horned box …” This spell would be under the domain of Rotn’bair, the sheep god. Members of the crowd discussed it busily amongst themselves. Rotn’bair is neither very powerful nor very irritable. Most of the Rotn’bairic spells deal with fertility and food gathering. Few things will anger the sheep god; but if Rotn’bair could be angered, Shoogar would know how. The crowd buzzed with an excited curiosity, each speculating on just what form the final spell would take.

Shoogar finished the sketch. Absent-mindedly wiping the chalk from his hands, he strode down to the mudbanks of the river. He paced back and forth along its edge, casting about for something. Abruptly he spotted what he was looking for, something Just below the surface of the water. He grabbed quickly for it, his hands dipping into the river with no splash at all. When he straightened, the sleeves of his robe were dripping, but there was a brownish-looking slug in his grasp, and after a moment I caught the repellent odor of mudskunk.

The scent reached the rest of the crowd at the same time, and a murmur of approval went up from them. The antipathy between Rotn’bair, the sheep god, and Nils’n, the god of the mud creatures, was known even to laymen. Evidently Shoogar was constructing a spell that would play on the mutual antipathy of the two gods.

My guess was right — I pride myself on a fairly good understanding of the basic principles of magic — Shoogar slit the belly of the mudskunk and deftly extracted its anger gland. He placed this into a bone bowl. I recognized the bowl, having carved and cleansed it for him myself. It was made from the skull of a new born lamb and had been sanctified to Rotn’bair. Now he was defiling it with the most odious portion of the mud creature. No