The Source of Magic (23 page)

“What is that thing with the neck?” Bink asked.

“Mythological zoology is not my specialty,” Chester said. “But I believe it is a Mundane monster called a gaffe.” He paused. “No, that’s not quite it. A grraff. No. A—a giraffe! That’s it. The long neck is to keep it clear of hostile ground magic, or something. Its strangest feature, as I understand it, is that despite that long neck it has no voice.”

“Strange magic indeed!” Bink agreed.

“Strange
un
magic, technically. The Land of Mundania could use a good, sensible shot of magic.”

The sky was now densely crowded with animals, as the remaining stars emerged. Farther along was a crab, and a wingless bull, and a genuine single-headed dog. Birds abounded—half-familiar ones like the phoenix and bird of paradise, and a host of strange ones, like the crane, toucan, eagle, peacock, dove, and crow. There were people too—men, children, and several fetching young women.

That reminded Bink again of Chameleon. The longer he was away from her, the more he missed her. So what if she had her ugly phase? She also had her lovely phase—

“Look—there is the River Eridanus,” Chester cried.

Bink found it. The river flowed half across the sky, meandering from the feet of a giant all the way to—Bink couldn’t see where it finished. Where could a river in the sky go? All manner of fish were associated with it, and one—“What is that?” Bink cried.

“The fabulous Mundane whale,” Chester said. “I’m glad no such monster as that exists in our land!”

Bink agreed emphatically. He traced the river again, seeking its termination. It spread and thinned, becoming vague, eluding him. Then he spied a small lizard. “A chameleon!” he exclaimed.

As he spoke its name, the lizard changed, becoming the human Chameleon he knew and loved: his wife. She looked out at him from the deepest depths of the sky, and her mouth opened.
Bink Bink
, she seemed to say.
Come to me
 …

Bink was on his feet, nearly banging his head against a bone. “I’m coming!” he cried joyfully. Why had he ever left her?

But there was no way to reach her. He could not climb the
air, or fly up there, and in any event he knew she was just a picture, not real. Just a transformed lizard, itself imaginary. Still, he wished—

Now the constellation centaur shot his arrow. The missile blazed as it flew, forming a brilliant streak across the sky, growing brighter and yet brighter as it drew near. Suddenly it loomed frighteningly large and close, as if flying right out of the sky—and cracked into a nearby tree. It was a dogwood; it yelped with pain, then growled and bared its teethlike inner branches in canine fury, seeking its enemy. In a moment it had torn the arrow to shreds.

Bink looked across at Chester, but could not make out the centaur’s expression in the dark. That constellation arrow, no more than a shooting star, had struck a real tree close by! “Was that centaur shooting at
us
?”

“If he wasn’t, he was criminally careless,” Chester replied grimly. “If he was, he made a damn poor shot. That’s a bad example that reflects on the merits of all centaurs. I will forward him a reminder.” Now, visible against the sparkling night sky in silhouette, Chester stood tall and magnificent, a fine stallion of a man, and nocked one of his own arrows. He drew on the bow with all his formidable power and loosed the shaft upward.

Up, up it flew, somehow visible despite the night. Up, impossibly high, right to the verge of the nocturnal dome, right toward the centaur constellation.

Bink knew no physical arrow could strike a star or pattern of stars. After all, the constellations were merely imaginary lines drawn between those stars. Yet—

Chester’s arrow plunked into the flank of the constellation centaur. The creature leaped with pain. From his mouth issued two comets and a shooting star: a powerful exclamation!

“Yeah? Same to you, vacuumhead!” Chester retorted.

The constellation reached back and yanked at Chester’s arrow. A nova exploded from his mouth as he contemplated the damage. Several dim stars pulsed there, suggestive of the wound. He grabbed a handful of soft down feathers from the swan and rubbed them against the injury. Now it was the defeathered
swan who cussed a bright streak of shooting stars, but the bird did not dare attack the centaur.

The sky-centaur snatched the extensible tube called the telescope and put it to his eye. The magic of this tube enabled him to see much farther than otherwise. “****!!” he exclaimed with really foul invective, looking for the originator of the objectionable arrow.

“Right here, hoofhead!” Chester bawled, and lofted another arrow into the sky. “Come down and fight like a centaur!”

“Uh, I wouldn’t—” Bink cautioned.

The constellation seemed to hear the challenge. He swung his telescope around and oriented on the bone-camp. A vile ringed planet shot from his mouth.

“That’s right, dope!” Chester cried. “Come prove you’re worthy of the name!”

Worthy of the name “dope”? Bink didn’t like this at all, but was unable to stop it.

The constellation nocked another arrow. So did Chester. For a time the two faced each other, bows drawn, as it were, daring each other to shoot first. Then, almost together, their arrows leaped forth.

Both shots were uncomfortably accurate. Bink saw the two arrows cross midway in the heavens and home in on their targets as if magically guided. Neither centaur moved: this was evidently a point of honor in such duels. The one who jumped clear would show weakness of nerve, and few centaurs were weak in that department.

Both arrows missed—but not by much. Chester’s shot almost grazed the constellation’s forehead while the sky-centaur’s arrow thunked into the ground beside Chester’s left forehoof, which happened to be quite close to the Good Magician’s head.

Humfrey woke with a start. “You equine menace!” he cried grumpily. “Watch what you’re doing!”

“I am watching,” Chester said. “That’s not my arrow. See, it has stardust on it.”

Humfrey drew the arrow from the dirt. “Why, so it does.” He
squinted up into the sky. “But stardust is not supposed to be down here. What’s going on?”

Now Crombie stirred. “Squawk!” “You’re the Magician,” the golem said. “You’re supposed to know about things.”

“About stellar constellations coming to life? It’s been a long time since I reviewed that particular magic.” Humfrey stared up into the sky. “However, it would be a worthwhile study. Crombie, where’s the most convenient access to that realm?”

Crombie pointed. Now Bink saw a pattern of stars resembling steps coming down to the horizon. They looked increasingly solid, and they seemed closer as he looked, descending almost to the rim of bones. Maybe it was possible after all to ascend!

He looked up into the stars again. They were even more brilliant than before, and the lines between them were stronger. The stick figures had assumed shadings that made them quite realistic. He saw Chameleon again, beckoning him. “I’m going up!”

“Squawk!” Crombie agreed. “I’m always ready for a good fight, and that comet-mouthed centaur needs a lesson.”

Chester was already on his way to the steps, but at this he paused.

“Don’t be a fool,” the Magician snapped, running after them. “Crombie refers to the centaur in the sky, not you. You are loudmouthed, not comet-mouthed.”

“Um, of course,” Chester agreed without complete enthusiasm. He made a visible effort to shake off the annoyance. “Charge!”

They charged for the steps.

“Are you fools crazy?” Grundy yelled. “There’s nothing up there for you!”

Chester glanced at him; Bink saw the change in the shape of the centaur’s head outlined against the massed constellations. “I didn’t hear Crombie squawk.”

“He didn’t squawk!” the golem yelled. “I’m speaking for myself this time. Don’t go into the sky! It’s madness!”

“It’s fascinating,” Humfrey said. “Firsthand study of
animated constellations! There may never be a better opportunity.”

“I have to teach that centaur a lesson,” Chester said.

Bink’s eyes had returned to Chameleon. His need for her became as big as the sky. He continued forward.

“It’s the madness,” Grundy cried, yanking at the feathers of Crombie’s neck. “It doesn’t affect me. I see only the facts, because I’m not real. This is hostile magic. Don’t go!”

“You’re probably right, twerp,” Humfrey agreed. “But this offering is too compelling to be denied.”

“So was the siren! Don’t do it!” Grundy repeated. “Where is your quest, if you let the madness take you now?”

“What do you care?” Chester demanded. “You have no feelings.” He put his forehooves on the first step. It was firm, anchored at every corner by a pinpoint star. The lines were like threads, and the panels between them like glass. A translucent staircase, not quite invisible, going up into the sky.

Bink knew it was magic, and not to be trusted. But Chameleon was up there, waiting for him, and he had to go. His talent would not permit it if it were not safe, after all.

“Well, I’m not going!” Grundy screamed. He jumped from the griffin’s back, fell into the foliage of a flowerbug bush, and scared up a swarm of flowerbugs. In a moment he was lost in the night.

“Good riddance,” Chester muttered, mounting the steps. The surfaces bowed slightly under his weight, drawing the anchoring stars inward, but held. Crombie, impatient with this, spread his wings and flew around the centaur and came to rest higher on the stairway. Apparently the ascent was too steep for comfortable flying by a creature of this size, so he preferred to mount by foot. The Good Magician was third, and Bink last.

In a line they ascended. The stairway spiraled, so that soon Crombie was climbing directly above Bink. It was an interesting effect, but Bink was more intrigued by the view below. As he climbed above the level of the trees, the nocturnal landscape of the Xanth wilderness opened out below, impressive because of its special nature. Bink had once been transformed into a bird, and once had ridden a magic carpet, and once had flown
in human form; magic had given him quite a varied experience. But this slow ascent up through the levels of the forest, with firm footing beneath him—this was different from the various forms of flight, and in a certain respect unique. He was highly aware that he could fall; the steps had no railing to hold him in, no barrier at the fringes of the steps. This seemed to put him right into the situation in a way that flight did not. To be above the ground, yet tied to it …

The night forest was beautiful. A number of trees glowed. Some reached bone-white tentacles up; others were balls of pastel hues. Some had giant flowers that resembled eyes, and these eyes seemed to be focusing on Bink. Other treetops formed into mazes of interlocking branches. As he watched, the whole forest assumed the shape of a single human face.
DON
’
T GO
! it mouthed.

Bink paused, momentarily disgruntled. Was the wilderness really trying to speak to him? Whose interest did it represent? It could be jealous of his escape to the sky. Hungry for his body. Or just mischievous.

Crombie had balked at the tangle tree. Chester had been fortuitously deafened in time to save them from the siren’s call. His talent had been operating then. Why was it quiescent now?

He looked upward. The enormous panorama of the sky awaited him—animals, monsters, and people. They were all frozen in place at the moment, awaiting the arrival of Bink’s party. Up there lay adventure.

He resumed his climb. He had to hurry, because the others had continued moving, and were now several spirals ahead of him. He didn’t want to be late for the action!

As he caught up to the Magician, who was lagging behind the stout four-legged entities, something buzzed in from the darkness to the side. It sounded like a very large insect, one of the exotic bugs. Not another gold bug, he hoped! He waved his arms, hoping to scare it off.

“Bink!” a small voice cried.

What now? He was getting winded from his rapid climb, and had to watch carefully to be sure he didn’t make a misstep while absorbing the splendors of the immense canopy above
and the broad disk below. He was in the very center of a phenomenal scene, and he wanted to experience every aspect of it with full intensity, and he didn’t need any bugs distracting him. “Go away!”

The bug flew near. There was light associated with it. It was a flying fish, propelling itself by a jet of bubbles from its fuselage, so that its rigid wings could provide sufficient lift. The gills were air-intakes, and assorted little fins provided stability and spot maneuverability. Flying fish were swift, Bink knew; they had to be, or they dropped to the ground. This one carried a light on its back like a miniature lantern, and—

“Bink! It’s Grundy!” And lo, it was indeed the golem, braced on the back of the fish, guiding it with little reins and a bit set in its mouth. Grundy’s free hand held the lamp, which seemed to be a tiny star, captive in a little net. “I caught this fish by luring it with fish-talk; now it understands and is helping. I have the spell-reversal wood along.” He tapped his saddle with his rein-hand. It was the gnarly fragment that Bink had discarded.

“But how can the fish fly?” Bink demanded. “How can you translate? The reversal—”

“It doesn’t affect the fish because the fish has no talent; the fish
is
magical,” Grundy explained with limited patience. “The wood only reverses exterior magic, not inherent magic.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me,” Bink said.

“The wood reversed birdbeak’s talent, but did not change him back into a man,” the golem continued. “It fouled up the gnome’s information, but did not make him a regular man either. It didn’t affect you, because—”

The golem was not aware of Bink’s talent, but this remained a pertinent question: had Bink’s talent conquered the wood—or been reversed by it? The answer could be a matter of life and death! “What about you?” Bink demanded. “You’re still translating!”

“I’m not real,” Grundy said shortly. “Take away my magic and I’m nothing but string and mud. The wood is just wood, to me.”

“But the wood was affecting you before! You were speaking gibberish, until I got you away from it.”