“Oh, sure you can, mate.” Squill exuded confidence. “It’s all beat. Just follow us. You can do that, can’t you?” “I suppose.” Who is the spellsinger here? he found himself wondering.
This wasn’t going to work, he told himself. But what else was he going to do? Slink homeward? Time enough for that. Time enough to deal with his parents, and Master Washwurn. “Okay. I’ll suggest some words-of-power I picked up from listening to Dad. You work them into whatever lyrics you improvise, and I’ll back you the best I can.” He hefted the duar, his fingers hovering over the strings.
The otters looked at each other. “Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill asked his sister. “We can’t just imitate one o’ those Other World songs we’ve ‘eard. It ‘as to be specific to the situation.”
“To the player.” Neena nodded at the black rectangle, which lay motionless on the ground in front of them.
While Buncan waited impatiently they discussed various approaches among themselves. Finally Squill indicated their readiness. Facing each other, the otters commenced . . . to rap. Music flowed from the duar as Buncan matched them chord for word.
“Got no music and we got no sound
Got to hear it clear if we wanna go ‘round
Play it loud and play it neat
Play it in the forest ‘cause we ain’t got no Street
‘Cause we wanna hear the beat
Dig it, wig it, feets for the beat!”
Certainly it was the first rap ever heard in the Bellwoods. The otters were nothing if not enthusiastic and facile improvisers. Buncan was hard-pressed to match their energy with music.
The radiance at the nexus of the duar intensified, darkening from pale pink to a deep rose hue. It expanded to envelop his fingers, then his hands.
The CD player began to quiver.
CHAPTER 4
THE OTTERS CONTINUED TO SING AS THE BLACK RECtangle bounced on its edges. Bounced in tune to the music, Buncan noted. As he looked on, a miniature golden vortex issued from the transparent, domed cover. Music began to emanate from the tiny built-in speaker. He didn’t recognize the song: He was too busy playing.
Abruptly the otters ceased then- rapping so they could stare. Buncan’s fingers stilled.
The player was now floating four feet off the ground, still jiving and bouncing to the music which issued from within. The words meant nothing to any of them, but that didn’t matter. Not now.
“Let’s make it louder.” Squill was enthralled by his own accomplishment. His sister nodded slowly, her eyes focused on the perambulating player. They resumed their rapping, while Buncan hastened to back them. Or were they backing him? He had no time to wonder.
In response to their efforts the music pouring from the player grew louder. Much louder. The black rectangle was now rotating rapidly on its axis, pierced through from top to bottom by the golden vortex. Around the trio the forest began to vibrate, the Belltrees ringing in time to the rap. Insects and small flying reptiles scattered in panic.
Duncan’s initial hesitation had vanished completely, his earlier depression displaced by the ecstasy of pure performance.
“This is great!” He had to shout to make himself heard above the music erupting from the energized CD, the harmonic vibrato of the duar, and the pounding pulse of hitherto never heard otter-rap. Sparks flew from the duar’s nexus. They were matched in intensity by bursts of celestial light that were flung off from the golden vortex. He’d been wondering what that was ever since it had first appeared. Now he felt that he knew.
It was music made visible.
And then, as the otters finished off a particularly zesty phrase, the vortex containing the CD player shot straight upward, climbing toward the clouds. Neena squealed in surprise.
At that the player paused, seemed to shudder slightly, and stopped. The vortex hummed energetically as it hovered motionless at treetop level.
The incipient spellsingers gathered beneath it, staring upward and occasionally dodging drizzling shards of effervescent music. As soon as these struck the ground they melted away like ice in a frying pan, notes sinking in descending scale into the music-moistened earth.
“Great.” Buncan brushed an errant b-flat from his forehead. “Now what do we do?”
Squill balanced his cap on his head as he craned his neck to study the player. It showed no inclination to descend from its lofty position.
“Don’t ask me, mate. You’re the one wot wants to be a spellsinger.”
Buncan felt his blood pressure rising. “You two got me into this.” He blinked. “Hey, what am I upset for? It’s not my dad’s player.”
The otters looked at him. “You can’t just leave it like this,” said Squill. “You’ve got to ‘elp us.”
Buncan shrugged. “That’s the way the magic falls.”
Neena clutched at his arm. “We’ve got to get it down, Bunky. If we don’t, Mudge will kill us.”
“Not to mention wot Mom’ll do.” Squill tried not to envision Weegee in a rage.
“We sang it up there,” Buncan pointed out. “If we try that again, it’s liable to vanish completely. But I don’t know what else to do.”
Squill looked unhappy. “Me neither.”
“Of course, we could get some help,” Buncan said thoughtfully. “Corander the raven could just fly up and pluck it out of the air.”
Squill shook his head doubtfully, the feathers in his cap fluttering. “The bloody thing might take off with ‘im, too. That’d be ‘ell to try an’ explain. No, spellsingin’ put it up there, it’d best be spellsingin’ we use to try an’ get it down.”
“You could climb that nearest tree,” his sister suggested,
“and take a jump at it.”
He glared at her. “Wot, am I a flyin’ squirrel?” He made an obscene suggestion.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Buncan plucked at the duar’s strings. “Let’s get it over with. But you’d better be prepared for it not to work.”
“It ‘as to work.” Neena and her brother backed up slightly and conferenced.
“Get on with it,” snapped Buncan after a while. He wasn’t impatient so much as he was nervous.
Neena glared at him. “We ‘ave to be careful, Bickles. Fok up the first time an’ we might not get a second chance, wot?” She brushed glistening notes from her shoulders.
They began to sing, a slow, relaxed rap this time, almost languorous. Caught off guard by the unexpected shift in tempo, it took Buncan a moment to figure out the correct fingering.
“Sounds too high, my oh my
Don’ wanna send it up in the sky
Put it down on the ground
Where it can be found
Sound, sound, pound it in the ground
Beats for the feet, feets for the beat!
We’ve ‘ad our treat, now takes a seat”
The duar’s nexus pulsed softly, an ethereal pale blue mis time. It did not look or feel promising. Indeed, the CD player actually rose another few feet instead of descending. Then it stopped and hovered, seemingly confused.
Still pounding out tracks from the disc spinning within, it commenced a steady regression, descending in time to the otter’s slow-paced rap. The golden vortex attenuated, contracting in upon itself, until it was no thicker than a rotating golden pencil. A few random, ersatz notes flaked off, but they were few now and chords between.
As the rap concluded, the player settled to the ground. The supportive vortex vanished utterly. When it had winked out completely, Squill made a dive for the device. It tried to squirt clear of his grasping fingers, but sometimes even magic isn’t as quick as an otter. He got one paw on the box, then the other, rolled over and sat up, waving it triumphantly. Exhausted, it didn’t so much as quiver in his hands. The music from within ceased.
Neena hurried over for a look. “Is it all right? Is the bloody thing damaged?”
Squill was turning it over in his fingers, careful to keep a firm grip on the plastic in case it was playing dead, waiting for an opportunity to jump free.