Shaman (44 page)

She started her writing career sketching science fiction comic books in the last row of her third grade classroom. She was never apprehended. Since then her short fiction has been published in
Analog
,
Amazing Stories
,
Century
,
Realms of Fantasy
,
Interzone
,
Paradox
and
Jim Baen's Universe
. Her novelette,
The White Dog,
was a finalist for the British Science Fiction Award.

Her debut novel,
The Meri
(Baen), was a Locus Magazine 1992 Best First Novel nominee. She is a sometime collaborator with Michael Reaves; with whom she's penned three Star Wars novels, and a Del Rey original,
Mr. Twilight.

Maya lives in San Jose where she writes, performs, and records original and parody (filk) music with her husband and awesome musician and music producer, Chef Jeff Vader, All-Powerful God of Biscuits. The couple frequently serves as Guest of Honor at science fiction/fantasy conventions and at filk music gatherings, and has been honored with Pegasus Awards for Best Parody and Best Performer. They've produced five music albums:
RetroRocket Science
,
Aliens Ate My Homework
and
Grated Hits
(parody), and the original music CDs
Manhattan Sleeps
and
Mobius Street
. To top it off, they've also produced three musical children: Alex, Kristine, and Amanda.

Star Wars: Shadow Games
Del Rey / Lucas Books, 2011
with Michael Reaves
A Princess of Passyunk
Book View Café, 2010
Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny
Book View Café, 2010
Laldasa: Beloved Slave
Book View Café, 2011

Shaman

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

ISBN: 978-1-61138-174-0
Book View Café edition
May 29, 2012

Copyright © 2012 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Cover & interior art © Nicholas Jainschigg

Cover design by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

www.mayabohnhoff.com

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

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A Merlin's Tale

A Novel by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

Lord E Lordy wanted the Wiz. That's where the Last Little War got started.

You see, Lord E Lordy — he's
alcaldé
of the next-door kingdom of Potrero-Taraval — was of a mind to conquer. This was not unusual. Lord E was always of that mind. Potrero has been spreading all the time, bit by bit, south and east toward Excelsior and Merced.

It started doing this when Lord E's daddy was
alcaldé
of Potrero. He was an expansive bastard. He pushed Potrero-Taraval down against tiny Bernal in the southeast and up against Embarcadero all the way to the Farm. He even gobbled up the Buena Vista, whereupon the Embarcaderans beat him back, but not before some folks died.

Folks like
mi madre y padre
.

Lord E'd like to be an expansive bastard, too, but he's fortunately not as good at it as his daddy. Once in a while he sends his knighties against the Border between Embar and Potrero, but they always turn back — usually about the time they see
our
knighties with their body-armor and AKs, and decide knives and crowbars won't cut it.

But this time, Lord E determined that he would leave his knighties at home and send only smeagols over the Border. 'Cause Lord E had a new merlin and Lord E's new merlin had a plan.

It is my eternal shame that I didn't know this. It was Deadend, smeagol extraordinaire, who brought the smell to Hismajesty's attention.

“Somethin's up,” he says.

We are hanging in the Throneroom of the Regency Palace when he comes in and makes this pronouncement.

“What's up?” asks Squire, 'cause that's his job. Hismajesty don't talk to smeagols.

“It's an ill wind from Potrero-Taraval,” says Deadend, “Lubejob's been skulking around the Farm.”

“Says who?” asks Squire, scathing-like. “Or are you fabricatin'?”

“Kaymart and Bags put me onto the rumble. I saw the smeagol myself. It was Lubejob. I put a tail on him. Followed him all the way back to the Slot.”

“Ask the smeagol, ‘then what?'” orders Hismajesty.

“Then what?” asks Squire.

“Then he huddles with his gang. Mark me, Squire, there's evil afoot — we're being scoped.”

Hismajesty looks to me. “Had you an inkling of this perfidy, merlin?” he asks me.

“The branches of the Tree of Destiny did quiver,” I say and cross my fingers, 'cause the TOD was sitting on the balcony in a stiff breeze at the time. “I perceived no cause.”

Hismajesty's brows go all gnarly. “Summon Scrawl,” he tells Squire and Squire turns to the gofer next to him and says, “Gofer Scrawl.”

Hismajesty's brows are still looking like smooshed black caterpillars. “Prepare to read the runes,” he says to me.

I do, and damn quick. Hismajesty's an ace dude if you're square with him, but if he thinks you let him down —
wham
! — you could be deadjim in no appreciable time. I don't wish to be deadjim, so I get my rune can and hustle back to the Throneroom.

Scrawl is there when I get back, and Firescape and Cinderblock, too, 'cause this looks like it could be a job for the military.

She's a piece of work. Firescape, I mean. Number one jade — all rigged out in black leather and red spandies and redder hair, with her Magic Weapon slung at her hip.

My pants get uncomfortable. I shake my rune can to announce myself and get my hormones' attention off Firescape.

Hismajesty waves a hand at me. He's not scowly now — mostly, I think, 'cause of
Her
majesty, who is sitting in his lap. Hermajesty's name is really Ampam and she was born in the produce bin of a mini-mart on Columbus, but His M doesn't care, though he is of higher origin, having come into this world in the back seat of a Mercedes-Benz.

There is a circular pit in Hismajesty's Throneroom. We call it the Pit. Here, we gather to read runes and jam on Saturday nights. This is where Scrawl and I go now.

While the Majesties and the others sit in the soft cushions around the shallow edge, Scrawl and I move down onto the stone floor and begin to circle each other. She shakes her rune bag at me; I shake my can at her. It is a bright red can and says “Hills Bros” on it. There is a picture of a merlin drinking a cup of coffee on the front, and it is this I direct at her so she will remember that I am a merlin and she is only Scrawl.

She yields, of course, 'cause that's protocol, and I am the first to spill my runes on the center of the great Mandala in the floor of the Pit. We both hunker down to ponder them.

Scrawl makes humming noises and nods as if she sees auspicious stuff. I see nothing but broken chips of glass and bottle caps. There is even a matchstick or two and a button from the fly of my jeans. There is also a rotten old peach pit; someone's used my rune can for a garbage receptacle. I snag the pit and chuck it over my shoulder.

Scrawl "ahems" at me, then waves her hand over the stuff like she is stirring a pot. I look at her face but her big, watery eyes are mum. I wonder if she is wondering what
I
see.

I squint at the runes, then my eyes go wonky like they do. I see a shape. Looks like a giraffe, but that doesn't make sense. I look at it some more and it gets to be a crane — the kind there is near some of the big skyscraper carcasses downtown.

“A crane,” I say and nod, then see something else. “And a scales.”

Scrawl comes to peer over my shoulder. “Yeah,” she says. “Could be.”

I move to another angle. My wonky eyes see a mountain...or a pyramid...or maybe it's the Regency Palace.

I say, “Mountain,” and Scrawl mumbles, “My turn, Taco-face.” She moves, too, giving me the hairy eyeball. Then she screeches, “Danger! Danger! They's after something!”

“Sooth!” says Firescape. “Of course, they's after something. Lord E's
always
after something.”

I begin to suspect that Scrawl sees less in the runes than I do, but while I am trying to make sense out of “crane,” “scales” and “mountain,” she stands up straight as a lamp post, clutches her head and says in her best Voice-O-Doom, “They's after Hermajesty!”

The Majesties don't like this pronouncement. They look at each other and get all scowly again.

I check my higher consciousness, trying to sense out what this has to do with cranes and scales and mountains. When I think of mountains, I think of trees. Mountains have lots of trees — more than the Farm, even. And they are much bigger than the Fabled Tree of Destiny — Giants. This makes me think I am supposed to be thinking of the Fabled TOD.

I say as much. “I think of the Tree of Destiny. Runes are not enough. The Tree must be consulted.”

Scrawl sees that Hismajesty likes this pronouncement better than hers, so she gives me the hairy eyeball again. I am the only one who can talk to the Tree. Still, she pretends to be agreeable.

“Taco's right,” she says, “meanwhile, I shall consult the wall runes.”

We are dismissed and I make my way up the Great Crystal Elevator to my chambers on the top floor of the Palace. The Palace is much narrower at the top than it is at the bottom. On my floor there are only eight big rooms, joined two and two. Four are the Majesty's; four are mine, although I've considered asking Firescape to share them with me. Two of the four have beds so I have my choice of sleeping places. Naturally, I have in mind that she should share the beds, too.

I go to the room I use as a workshop. There, out on the balcony, is the Fabled Tree. He is enjoying the sun, and the tips of his branches reach upward, waving. I am sorry to disturb him, but I must, taking my seat beside him at the balcony.