“We cannot allow that.” Gragelouth was insistent in spite of their situation. “We seek the Grand Veritable.”
The whirlwind spun a little tighter and its voice rose. “I’ve heard of that. There’s nothing to it. No reality. It’s a story, a rumor. Nothing more than a tale with which to amuse a fresh breeze.”
“That is what we seek to determine. Not to minimize the honor of being deemed collectible, but we really cannot spare the time.”
“Good luck convincing them of that.” Reabsorbing its esteemed bathtub, their drafty interlocutor retreated.
Another maelstrom took its place, rotating proudly. “Want to see what I’ve collected?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Buncan slowly.
“Ah, c’mon.” It spun very near. “See?”
A spiraling torus was thrust toward them. Buncan flinched but held his ground.
An old woman hovered within the blustery extrusion. She was clad entirely in black. Long, stringy hair hung from beneath her pointed black hat, and her narrow, pinched face was dominated by a huge hooked nose at the end of which reposed a hairy wart of unsurpassed ugliness. The folds of her skirt billowed around the broomstick she straddled.
“Lemme guess,” said Neena. “You do collect intelligent creatures.”
The cyclone hummed. “You got it.”
“Hey, you!” The old woman shouted toward them. “Can you get me out of this? I’m late for a whole batch of appointments.”
“Sorry, madame,” replied Gragelouth politely. “We are preoccupied with troubles of our own.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. It’s just that I’ve been stuck inside this damn thing for longer than I care to think. Sort of flying in place, if you get my drift.”
“Ow’d you ‘appen to get trapped in there?” Neena studied the old woman with interest.
“Didn’t get trapped, young water rat. Got collected. Last thing I know I was heading south past Topeka air control, minding my own business, and the next I’m swept up in this thickheaded hunk of air.” She shook her head in disgust. “That’s what I get for evesdropping on cockpit conversations instead of paying attention to the regular FAA weather updates.”
Buncan didn’t quite know how to respond. “Uh, how are you doing in there?”
“Well, the food ain’t too bad, and the view’s interesting. Could be worse, I reckon. I expect I’ll get out of here soon enough. Then she’ll get it!” The torus retracted into the body of the whirlwind.
“Who’ll get it?” Neena wanted to know. But with a hideous cackle, the old woman disappeared skyward.
“You never know where you’re going to find things when you travel between worlds,” the storm informed mem.
“Whirlwinds can travel between worlds?” Buncan asked.
“With ease. Molecular diffusion beats jogging any day. The aether’s more permeable than most people think. You just have to pick your spots.”
“Sounds like rot squared to me.” Squill scratched his forehead.
A bulge in the whirlwind’s side provided them with a temporary view of a small elephant with extraordinarily large ears. “You wouldn’t believe where I picked this up,” the storm told them. Before they could take a closer look, the airborne pachyderm vanished into the dark depths.
The vortex which had first approached them interrupted the display. “Looks like those two have finally got their coriolis forces aligned.” Leaving distinctive tracks in the sand, the garrulous pair retreated.
Their place was taken by the two wailing storms which had been battling over right of perception: the large, charcoal-gray, intimidating spiral and its smaller but equally pugnacious counterpart. They roared and bellowed within a handsbreadth of each other as they confronted the travelers.
The smaller inclined its crown toward them. “We’ve reached a settlement.”
“We have,” boomed the other as flying rocks crashed against one another within its flanks.
“Look here.” Gragelouth adjusted his attire. “We have some conclusions of our own.”
“Silence!” A blast of wind sent the sloth stumbling. Buncan and Squill caught him under his furry arms. “Collectibles should be seen and not heard. Besides, we’re not going to hurt you. Physical damage would reduce your display value.”
For some reason this revelation did not make Buncan feel especially grateful.
“We’ve decided to divide you among us. I get the large armored quadruped and its small flying companion. The rest of you will go with C’s’.” The smaller whirlwind advanced slightly.
“You’re not splitting us up.” Buncan draped a possessive arm loosely over Snaugenhutt’s neck.
“You have nothing to say about it,” growled the larger storm. Behind it, the assembled cyclonic forces murmured their approval. They completely filled the canyon, obscuring the sheer stone walls and the sky beyond. Amidst these howling and bellowing gales the cluster of boulders held by Buncan and his friends was an island of calm.
‘No avenue of escape presented itself. Even if one had, Buncan knew, they couldn’t outrun the wind.
“If you’ll just organize yourselves into two groups,” hissed the smaller whirlwind, “this’ll be a lot easier for everyone.” Buncan felt a persistent gust nudging him to his right. He fought against it as best he could, trying to dig his heels into the sand.
“We haven’t got time for this.” He steadied the duar against his waist and began to play.
The otters hadn’t been idle. They’d used the delay to prepare themselves. Clinging tightly to Snaugenhutt’s armor, they sang out at the top of their lungs.
“Hey, yours make music,” rumbled the larger of the two acquisitive eddies. “That’s not fair.”
“The agreement is made.” The second etched small circles in the ground with its foot.
As they squabbled Buncan played on, grateful for the respite. Keeping a watchful eye on the whirlwinds, the otters harmonized maniacally.
“Yo, y’know, we got us a real problem here
There’s some winds in the air gonna cost us dear
Need somethin’ to stiff ‘em
Stifle ‘em, kick ‘em
Knock ‘em for a loop and stuff ‘em
Down in a crack, gotta break their back
Take ‘em apart or cram ‘em in a sack, Jack
If y’know what we mean.”
Something began to take shape between the wind-battered travelers and the bickering storms. The magic was working, but Buncan’s elation was muted. Instead of a familiar silver-gray mist, something black and ominous was forming.
It started as a softly mewing spindle-shape hardly large enough to bully a pebble. As the otters rapped on it grew larger, until it was the size of a bedpost, men a lamppost. Tightly wound as an anxiety attack, it swelled and expanded, a coal-black shaft screwing its way skyward.
In seconds it was large enough to divert the attention of the equivocating whirlwinds. The smaller suddenly refocused its attention.
“Are you doing that? Look at it, just look!” It spun in uneasy circles. “Stop it. You’ve got to stop it.” This expression of concern from that which had just threatened them naturally inspired Buncan to play faster, the otters to improvise even more enthusiastically.
The agitated whirlwind shifted toward mem, its intentions clear. Buncan braced himself for the shock of gale-force gropings.
They never came.
The squabblers had waited too long. By now the spellsung black spindle was enormous. Punctuated by intermittent bolts of dark lightning, its howl was deafening.
As the whirlwind darted forward, the spindle cycled to intercept it. A sound not unlike a breathy grunt filled the air as the approaching vortex was knocked backward. Trees, rocks, chunks of debris flew from its flank as it momentarily lost shape.
“Never seen a whirlwind throw up before,” the immovable Snaugenhutt observed.
As the rotating black spire they had called forth continued to mature, Buncan wondered if perhaps the otters oughtn’t to tone down their lyrics a little. But he couldn’t stop playing long enough to make the suggestion, and in any event the specter they had conjured was now making too much noise to be heard by anyone.