Buncan mumbled a reply. “You two came up with the lyrics that brought it here.”
“I was ‘ungry. I’m inspired when I’m ‘ungry. I thought our singin” would get us a little bitty somethin’ out o’ the river. Not this bloody great mass o’ blubber.”
“IT IS ASSISTANCE I REQUIRE, NOT FLATTERY.” The otters conferred, finally nodding at Buncan, who began to play with more hope than assurance. Perhaps because they were becoming more confident, or perhaps out of fear of what Mudge would do to them if they failed, they rapped with greater facility than ever before. Buncan’s accompaniment was equally accomplished.
The green mist coalesced afresh around the immense bulk, from which eventually issued a relieved sigh of satisfaction. “BE MORE CAREFUL NEXT TIME. AMATEURS,” it concluded. Buncan gritted his teeth and offered no comment, not wishing or daring to do anything that might interrupt the flow of the spellsinging.
“Send it back, back
Back to the sea, back to the water, back ‘ome
“Ome, ‘ome, not the Shortstub to roam
Down in the depths, in the depths, away from ‘ere
Steer it clear, steer it free
Don’t y’see, free, away from me and away from Thee.”
There was a sharp bang, and a brief but intense gust of green wind knocked the three of them off their feet. Previously dammed up by the whale’s bulk, the abruptly released accumulated flow of the Shortstub surged in a towering wave downstream, racing toward its distant juncture with the mighty Tailaroam.
Squill watched the wave recede around the far bend as he levered himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know if it ‘as occurred to any of you lot yet, but it strikes me that this ‘ere sudden spurt o’ water ‘as the potential to be somewot upsettin’ to them wot lives downriver.”
“There’ve been floods on the Shortstub before,” his sister pointed out.
“Not this time o’ year, fungus-lips.” Her brother jabbed a thumb skyward. “Not in this kind o’ weather.”
“Boats, docks, front porches.” Buncan envisioned wholesale downstream destruction as he contemplated the turbulent tributary. “Maybe it would be a good idea if we didn’t mention this little episode to anyone for a while?”
“Capital idea.” Squill was quick to second the suggestion. “Like maybe, never.”
“I think we could leave now.” Neena was eyeing her friend and her brother intently. “And get ‘ome fast.”
There was no need to wait for concurrence.
As they hurried back through the Bellwoods, Bur.can couldn’t resist nudging the otter nearest him. “It worked, Squill. Maybe not exactly the way we intended, but it worked. We spellsang. We performed great magic.”
The otter squinted up at him. “Blimey but you’re a ‘ard one to convince, Duncan. Next time we’re ‘aif likely to bring a mountain down on top of us.”
“Come on,” Buncan prodded his friends. “Aren’t you proud of what we just accomplished? Didn’t you get a little charge out of it?”
“Well. .just a flicker, maybe.”
“Yeah, right.” Buncan was grinning hugely. “We put a little too much into the spell, that’s all. With practice we can do better. Modulate, refine. Neena, you want to try for your fish again?”
“I’m not ‘ungry anymore, Bunkies. We’ve got to do some serious thinkin’ about this.”
“An otter, serious?” he chided her. When she didn’t reply, he lowered his tone. “All right. We can talk about it tomorrow. And if anybody asks us about what happened on the river, we don’t know anything, right?”
“Bloody right,” Squill muttered.
“But we’re a team. Don’t forget that. Sure I’d like to be able to spellsing like that all by myself, but being part of a team has its advantages, too. I can concentrate all my efforts on the duar.”
Neena glared at bun. “CM, and the next time we do somethin’ equally stupid we can run away in three different directions and maybe one o’ us will survive.”
“Don’t be so negative. You’d think you’d never seen a whale before.”
“Never ‘ad,” said Squill solemnly, “and neither ‘ad you, except in pictures. Seemed like a right enough bloke, though. Just a bit put out.”
“Think about this, though.” Buncan was hard put to rein in his enthusiasm. “If we can spellsing up something like that when we’re just trying for a fish dinner, imagine what we might do if we take our time and really make an effort to do something serious. We could do better than Jon-Tom, or maybe even Clothahump. We could change the world.”
“Ain’t sure I want to change the world, mate.” Squill spat to one side as he jogged through the woods. “ “Us a nice day. Maybe if it were blowin’ cold I’d try somethin’.”
“Just think about what we’ve done. That’s all I ask.”
All three fell into a contemplative silence as they hurried on through the forest, the Belltrees chiming uneasily around them.
CHAPTER 5
After the episode in the woods Buncan made a show of tending seriously to his studies, but each day he waited for the opportunity to meet with Squill and Neena. They chose a small glade well away from the river in which to practice. Not out of fear of encountering any more polite but irritated cetaceans, but to avoid those angry citizens whose waterfront homes and business establishments had been damaged by the mysterious tidal bore of some days previous.
They sang only small spells, conjuring up nothing they couldn’t deal with on a nontheurgic level, practicing and refining their ability to match Buncan’s music to the otters’ improvised lyrics. Repetition gave rise to confidence as they invented raps for recovering spent arrows or blunting sword points.
Sharpened skills enabled them to turn grass blue, or open sizable holes in the ground without the use of spade or shovel. They spellsang into existence not raw fish but cooked food, and sleeping platforms complete with fresh linen.
Soon they were feeling very good about themselves and their talent. They just couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Duncan devoted a good deal of time to the problem, certain that if they just kept their secret and had patience an appropriate situation would present itself.
It was peaceful in the house where the west side of the tree wrapped itself around the dimensionally expanded den. Outside, past the neatly maintained lawn and flowers, the Shortstub flowed tranquil and undisturbed to the south.
Father and son were alone, reading. Duncan had heard Jon-Tom speak of something from his own world called “television,” but from his description of it Buncan didn’t see how it could better a book for good company and entertainment. It was an evaluation Jon-Tom chose never to dispute.
His mother was finishing up in the kitchen as the door pealed for attention. Buncan barely looked up from his reading as she entered the hall. As he watched he envisioned her wielding the sword she kept in the back of the broom closet instead of the dishcloth she was presently carrying. It was a difficult image to sustain, no matter how many tales he recalled of her early life.
She leaned back to peer into the den. “Dear, there’s an owl to see you.”
Jon-Tom put down the large book he’d been browsing and rubbed his eyes. He needed glasses, Buncan knew, but insisted on using imperfect vision spells instead. They needed constant adjustment.
Buncan headed for the kitchen on the pretext of getting something to eat. Actually, he rose and moved because it offered a much better view of the front door.
Clothahump’s famulus Mulwit stood there, rustling his great wings as he spoke to Jon-Tom, who knelt on one knee to respond to the owl. Talea lingered nearby. Buncan could overhear them without straining.
“ . . . but the Master declares that youuu have to come now,” the famulus was saying insistently.
“It’s awfully late,” Buncan heard his father reply. “And it’s chilly out. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”