The Source of Magic (29 page)

Bink’s thirst had been casual, at first, but now that he knew there was no water it became more pressing. How long could they go on, before—?

Abruptly they saw light—real light, not the mere passage glow. They hurried cautiously up to it—and discovered a magic lantern suspended from a jag of stone. Its soft effulgence was a welcome sight—but there was nothing else.

“People—or goblins?” Bink asked, nervous and hopeful.

Chester took it down and studied it. “Looks like fairy-work to me,” he said. “Goblins don’t really need light, and in any event this is too delicately wrought.”

“Even fairies aren’t necessarily friendly,” Bink said. “Still, it seems a better risk than starving here alone.”

They took the lamp and went on with slightly improved prospects. But nothing further developed. Apparently someone or something had lit a lamp, left it, and departed. Strange.

Weary, dirty, hungry, and unpleasantly thirsty, they parked at last on a boulder. “We have to find food, or at least water,” Bink said, trying to make it seem casual. “There doesn’t seem to be any on this main passage, but—” He paused, listening. “Is that—?”

Chester cocked his head. “Yes, I think it is. Water dripping. You know, I haven’t wanted to say anything, but my tongue has been drying up in my mouth. If we could—”

“Behind this wall, I think. Maybe if we—”

“Stand clear.” The centaur faced about so that his better half addressed the wall in question. Then he kicked.

A section of the wall collapsed. Now the sound was louder: water flowing over stone. “Let me climb in there,” Bink said. “If I can collect a cupful—”

“Just in case,” Chester said, taking his coil of rope and looping it about Bink’s waist. “We don’t know what to expect in these dark chambers. If you fall in a hole, I’ll haul you out.”

“Yes,” Bink agreed. “Let me take the magic lantern.”

He scrambled into the hole. Once he got by the rubble, he found himself in a larger, irregular cavern whose floor slanted down into darkness. The sound of water was coming from that darkness.

He moved forward, careful of his footing, trailing the line behind him. The water sound became temptingly loud. Bink traced it to a crevice in the floor. He held his lantern over it. Now at last he saw the glint of a streamlet. He reached down with his fingers, and just as his shoulder nudged the crevice lip his fingers touched the water.

How could he draw any up? After a moment’s thought he ripped a piece of cloth from his already tattered sleeve, and dangled that down into the water. He let it soak up what liquid it cared to, then brought it to the surface.

While he was doing this, he heard a distant singing. He stiffened with alarm. Were the lake fiends coming here? No, that seemed highly unlikely; they were water dwellers, not rock dwellers, and by the lord of the manor’s own admission they knew nothing of this nether region. This had to be some creature of the caves. Perhaps the owner of the magic lantern.

By the time he brought the dripping rag to his mouth, the singing was quite close. There was the scent of fresh flowers. Bink put the dangling end of the rag in his mouth and squeezed. Cool, clear liquid dripped down. It was the best water he had ever tasted!

Then something strange happened. Bink experienced a surge of dizziness—not sickening, but wonderfully pleasant. He felt alive, vibrant, and full of the warmth of human spirit. That was good water indeed!

He dipped his rag into the crevice again, soaking it for Chester. This was an inefficient way to drink, but a great deal better than nothing. While he lay there he heard the singing again. It was a nymph, of imperfect voice but sounding young and sweet and joyful. A pleasant shiver went through him.

Bink brought up the rag and laid it on the cave floor. He took up the light and moved toward the voice. It came from a section beyond the water, and soon Bink came to the end of his tether. He untied the rope, let it drop from his waist, and went on.

Now he spied a beam of light emanating from another crack. The singer was in the chamber beyond. Bink knelt and put his eye to the crack, silently.

She was sitting on a stool fashioned of silver, sorting through a barrel filled with precious stones. Their colors reflected brilliantly, decorating all the walls of the room. She was a typical nymph, long and bare of leg with a tiny skirt just about covering a pert derrière, slender of waist, full of bosom, and innocent and large-eyed of face. Her hair sparkled like the keg of jewels. He had seen nymphs like this many times; each had her association with tree or rock or stream or lake or mountain, yet they were all so uniform in face and feature that their beauty became commonplace. It was as if some Magician had established the ideal female-human aspect and scattered it about the Land of Xanth for decoration, attaching individual units to particular locales so that the distribution would be uniform. So she was nothing special. The precious stones, in contrast, were a phenomenal treasure.

Yet Bink glanced only passingly at the stones. His gaze became fixed on the nymph. She—he felt—it was rapt adoration.

What am I doing?
he demanded of himself. With Chester waiting for a drink, Bink had no business here! And for answer, he only sighed longingly.

The nymph overheard. She glanced up alertly, breaking off her innocent melody, but could not see him. Perplexed, she
shook her maiden tresses and returned to her work, evidently deciding that she had imagined it.

“No, I am here!” Bink cried, surprising himself. “Behind the wall!”

She screamed a cute little scream, jumped up, and fled. The keg overturned, dumping jewels across the floor.

“Wait! Don’t run!” Bink cried. He smashed his fist into the wall with such force the stone cracked. He wrenched out more fragments, widening the hole, then jumped down into the room. He almost slipped on some pearls, but did a little dance and got his balance.

Now he stood still and listened. There was a strange smell, reminiscent of the breath of an attacking dragon, one just behind a person and gaining. Bink looked about nervously, but there was no dragon. All was silent. Why didn’t he hear her still running?

In a moment he had it figured. She might flee in alarm, but she would hardly leave her treasure unguarded. Obviously she had dodged around a corner and now was watching him from hiding.

“Please, miss,” Bink called. “I mean no harm to you. I only want to—”

To hug you, to kiss you, to
—

Shocked, he halted his thoughts in mid-train. He was a married man! What was he doing chasing a strange nymph? He should get back to Chester, take the centaur his ragful of water—

Again he paused in his thoughts.
Oh, no!

Yet he could hardly doubt his sudden emotion. He had imbibed from a spring, and become enamored of the first maiden he had seen thereafter. It must have been a love spring!

But why had his talent let him drink it?

The answer was distressingly obvious. He wished he hadn’t thought of the question. His talent had no regard for his feelings, or those of others. It protected only his physical, personal welfare. It must have decided that his wife Chameleon represented some kind of threat to his welfare, so it was finding him another love. It had not been satisfied with separating him
from Chameleon temporarily; now it intended to make that separation permanent.

“I will not have it!” he cried aloud. “I love Chameleon!”

And that was true. Love potions did not undo existing relations. But now he also loved this nymph—and she was a great deal more accessible.

Was he at war with his own talent? He had ethics it evidently did not; he was civilized while it was primitive. Who was to be the master, here?

He fought, but could not undo the effect of the love spring. Had he anticipated what his talent was leading him into, he might have balked it before he drank, but now he was the victim of a
fait accompli
. Well, he would settle with his talent when he found a better occasion.

All was fair in magic. “Nymph, come here and tell me your name, or I’ll steal all your treasure!” he yelled.

When she did not respond, he righted the keg and began scooping up gems. There was an amazing assortment: diamonds, pearls, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and too many others to classify. How had the nymph come by such a fortune?

Now the nymph appeared, peeking around a curve in the tunnel. Coincidentally, Bink smelled the fleeting scent of woodland flowers. “But I
need
that treasure!” she protested.

Bink continued his work. The stones sailed into the barrel. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“What’s yours?” There was an odor like that of a hesitant deerfly at the edge of a glade.

“I asked you first.” All he wanted to do was keep her in conversation until he could catch her.

“But you’re the stranger!” she pointed out with female logic.

Ah, well. He liked her logic. He knew it was the effect of the potion, but he was captive to her mannerisms. “My name is Bink.”

“I am Jewel,” she said. “The Nymph of Jewels, if you insist on the whole definition. Now give me back my stones.”

“I’ll be glad to, Jewel. For a kiss.”

“What kind of a nymph do you think I am?” she protested in
typical nymphly fashion. Now there was the odor of pine-oil disinfectant.

“I hope to find out. Tell me about yourself.”

She edged farther into the room, distrusting him. “I’m just a rock nymph. I see that all the precious stones get properly planted in the ground, so that goblins, dragons, men, and other voracious creatures can mine them.” Bink smelled the mixed fumes of hard-laboring men and goblins. “It’s all very important, because otherwise those creatures would be even wilder than they are. The mining gives them something to do.”

So that was how the jewels got planted. Bink had always wondered about that, or would have wondered had he thought about it. “But where do you get them to start with?”

“Oh, they just appear by magic, of course. The keg never empties.”

“It doesn’t?”

“See, it is already overflowing with the gems you are trying to put back. You aren’t supposed to put them back.”

Bink looked, surprised. It was so. He had assumed the keg was empty without really checking it, because his main attention had been on the nymph.

“How am I ever going to process all those extra stones?” she demanded with cute petulance. “Usually it takes an hour to place each one, and you have spilled hundreds.” She stamped her sweet little foot, not knowing how to express her annoyance effectively. Nymphs had been designed for appearance, not emotion.

“Me?
You
spilled them when you ran!” Bink retorted. “I’m trying to pick them up.”

“Well, it’s your fault because you scared me. What were you doing behind the wall? No one’s supposed to go there. That’s why it’s walled off. The water—” She paused with new alarm. “You didn’t—?”

“I did,” Bink said. “I was thirsty, and—”

She screamed again, and fled again. Nymphs by nature were flighty. Bink continued his gathering, arranging the surplus jewels in a pile beside the keg, knowing she would be back. He hated himself somewhat, knowing he should leave her alone,
but found himself unable to stop himself. And he did owe it to her to clean up this mess as well as he could, though the pile was getting unwieldy.

Jewel peeked back around the corner. “If you’d just go away and let me catch up—”

“Not until I’ve finished cleaning up this overflow,” Bink said. “As you pointed out, it is my fault.” He placed a huge egg-shaped opal on top of his mound—and watched the whole thing subside, squirting out diamonds and things. He was getting nowhere.

She edged in closer. “No, you’re right. I spilled it. I’ll catch up somehow. You just—just leave. Please.” The sneezy tang of dust ticked his nose, as if a herd of centaurs had just charged along a dry road in midsummer.

“Your magic talent!” Bink exclaimed. “Smells!”

“Well, I never,” she said, modestly affronted. Now the dust-odor was tinged by the fumes of burning oil.

“I mean you can make—you smell like what you feel.”

“Oh, that.” The oil merged into perfume. “Yes. What’s your talent?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But I just told you mine! It’s only fair—”

She edged within range. Bink grabbed her. She screamed again most fetchingly, and struggled without much strength. That, too, was the way nymphs were: delightfully and ineffectively difficult. He drew her in for a firm kiss on the lips. She was a most pleasant armful, and her lips tasted like honey. At least they smelled like it.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she rebuked him when he ended the kiss, but she didn’t seem very angry. Her odor was of freshly overturned earth.

“I love you,” Bink said. “Come with me—”

“I can’t go with you,” she said, smelling of freshly cut grass. “I have my job to do.”

“And I have mine,” Bink said.

“What’s your job?”

“I’m on a quest for the source of magic.”

“But that’s way down in the center of the world, or
somewhere,” she said. “You can’t travel that way. There are dragons and goblins and rats—”

“We’re used to them,” Bink said.

“I’m not used to them! I’m afraid of the dark! I couldn’t go there, even if—”

Even if she wanted to. Because of course she did not love him. She had not drunk the love-water.

Bink had a naughty idea. “Come and take a drink with me! Then we can—”

She struggled to disengage, and he let her go. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her! “No, I couldn’t afford love. I must plant all these jewels.”

“But what am I to do? From the moment I saw you—”

“You’ll just have to take the antidote,” she said, smelling of a newly lit candle. Bink recognized the connection: the candle symbolized her bright idea.

“There is an antidote?” He hadn’t thought of that.

“There must be. For every spell there’s an equal and opposite counterspell. Somewhere. All you have to do is find it.”

“I know who can find it,” Bink said. “My friend Crombie.”

“You have friends?” she asked, surprised, smelling of startled birds.