Bob the Mage, ch. 8.

[Author's note: Fiction Friday! once again, with chapter eight of our novel, Bob the Mage, which I wrote some time back and have edited into better shape to share with you. When last we saw Bob, our fantasy adventure hero, he had washed up on a desert island where he met Astercam, a scholar formerly in the employ of the evil Morwor Mordrun Mormor (thunder sfx) at Castle Terror, and Bourbon the Unintelligible Barbarian. Bob believes that his princess, Suzy, for whom he has fallen like a sack of anvils, was killed in their shipwreck. But he has promised to help his new friends to make a vessel to escape the island.

Previous chapters can be found at these links:
chapter 7, chapter 6, chapter 5, chapter 4, chapter 3, chapter 2, chapter 1
And remember, if you're enjoying the book, tell a friend! If you're hating the book, let it be our little secret! And if you're undecided, get a second opinion! Here's one: It's great!]

Bob the Mage

By Frederick Key

Chapter 8

We set to work that very afternoon. True to his word, Astercam knocked off some rough blueprints for a sturdy raft to be made with the local weak, splintery wood; the boards would be woven together and reinforced with vines that, when treated with my heat spell, would give us a strong construction that retained flexibility. I don’t know if Astercam was a genius, but he sure knew a lot of things, which he used mainly to bore me on our work breaks in subsequent days.

“Did you know that the Grumbus plant, Fernus gilliganius, of the southern islands can have as many as seventeen points on its leaves? Most plants of that climate in that genus have no more than ten. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“Grunt.”

“I once mentioned that to my friend Passole, the composer. Have you heard of him? I suppose not. Fond of plants, he is. Does a lot of atonal stuff, wonderful. Sounds like machinery grinding to a halt. He was heavily influenced by the famed Magnelli.”

“Speaking of music, I think Bourbon is serenading me again.”

“Such an awful row. Perhaps he’s just hurt himself.”

“We can hope, but no, he’s smiling.”

As the days passed it grew more apparent that Bourbon was either playing for the other team, as it were, or just desperate. Either way, while Astercam was not his cup of tea, it seemed that I was.

“Don’t knock it,” said Astercam. “I think he’s trying to impress you. Have you seen how fast he cut down all that lumber? A mighty man is he.”

“But he’s just not my type.”

“Relax. We’ll be on our way soon. Did I tell you about the paper I wrote on human sexuality? Now there’s a subject. My paper was on the occurrence of same as related to the phases of the moon.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. They aren’t related. It was rather a failure, actually. Perhaps if I’d had a bigger grant I’d have done good work in the field. Did you know—”

“No. Let’s get back to work.”

In a week, thanks to Astercam’s planning, my spells, and Bourbon’s mighty labor, we had completed the raft. I realized with some pride that it would have been impossible without me, as my heat spell, lame as it was, was able to dry and tighten the vines we used in a way mere fire could not. And Astercam cleverly used my glue spell, which never did glue things in place as expected, to turn the mud he had composed into actual pitch. The boat would never have been sturdy enough without my magic. As it was, the thing groaned and squealed and threatened to split as we hauled it to the beach. The question was, would it float?

No.

We pulled it back on shore, dried ourselves off, and examined the problem further.

“Everything about the pitch was terrific,” said Astercam, “except it was water soluble.”

Having determined that my spell was not the issue, he turned back to mixing more saps and minerals and juices to try to get something that would not dissolve on contact with the ocean. After three dull days he had nothing.

On the morning of the fourth day I sauntered up behind him and said, “I think you’re in luck, Astercam. I think Bourbon’s lost interest in me and is starting to look at you.”

We were ready to sail that afternoon.

Astercam had made a chart and crude compass, and Bourbon loaded the raft with dried fruit and gourds of freshwater. I had replenished my magic supplies as best I could from the local flora. I was eager to get off the island. If it meant we would drown, I could accept that, but I couldn’t bear living in solitude, haunted by the memory of Suzy, by the dread feeling that if she had not cared for me she might have stayed on the Tegoran ship and lived.

I found out quickly that a couple of weeks on land had robbed me of my sealegs. Forty feet from shore I felt queasy; by fifty I was letting ’er rip over the side.

Our progress was slow at first, for our simple sail couldn’t catch a breeze, but eventually one began to kick up and we were on our way.

I don’t think we’d made it much more than ten miles from the island when Bourbon gasped in terror. Astercam screamed.

I turned my greenish face forward to see what had scared them.

Seven enormous black clouds were converging over us, bunching like the sky’s own fist. The thunder, when it boomed, sounded like sinister laughter.

“It's Mormor! He’s been waiting for this moment!” Astercam cried. “And now he’s going to destroy us!”

“Whatever,” I said, and heaved again.

Bourbon leaped up, clutching the tiller with one hand, screaming some macho threat in his awful language at the storm while waving his ax with the other hand. I doubted Mormor would be given to second thoughts over that display.

The storm played with us for a while, as I puked and the others howled. The sail was ripped from the mast; the tiller was useless against the waves that batted us back and forth. Rain crashed down, just as it had on Suzy and me in our little boat, and similarly there came a burst of lightning, and then I was once more floating in the ocean—there’s an awful lot of ocean, isn’t there? too much—and clinging to a piece of raft, my companions nowhere in sight. Déjà vu.

I could have drowned from the rain alone, but the waves were fighting for the privilege. I feel certain I shouted Suzy’s name several times, but I don’t know why. Somehow I managed to hold on to the planks, although I was losing my grip on consciousness.

Then I opened my eyes and noticed something very strange.

I was surfing.

The sky above was still black, but the rain had slowed and there was a strong wind at my back. I was perched on my bit of raft, riding the crest of a fast wave. How I got in that position I did not know.

But I had my suspicions.

Ahead of me was nothing but water, until a small blot of black appeared on the horizon. It grew in size as I drew nearer, and it grew quickly. I was moving faster than I ever had by any means before. The island was craggy and dark, apparently barren and made of jutting rock. High atop the highest jut was a cold gray castle in the shape of a human skull. The towers looked like femurs and the walls, assorted tibia. If that’s not Castle Terror, I thought, I’d hate to see what is.

A more pressing matter at the moment was that I was racing at forty knots right for the sharp rocks that ringed the island. Unless I wanted to end life as a red smear, I had to do something. I dived off the wood into the wave, fighting against the wave’s power as hard as I could with my pathetic muscles. Bourbon couldn’t have broken free of that wave, so I had no chance, but I did change direction slightly. While the planks of the raft shattered on the rocks, I shot between two of them and into a cove. I was shoved up on a beach made of onyx sand.

I lay there for a while, orienting myself with some constructive whimpering and a good session of trembling, and then I got up to look around.

The whole island seemed to be made of coal and obsidian, which seemed to suck the light out of the air. I saw not one clam or crab on the beach, nor the slightest wisp of green. I thought that whatever landed on this beach died immediately, and had to pinch myself to make sure I was still alive.

I had to assume this Mormor character wasn’t done playing with me. But why? We’d never met. I hadn’t even had a chance to offend him yet. And if I had, he certainly could have finished me off in the water, as I assumed he had Astercam and Bourbon.

By now I was too tired to be scared anymore, so I started up the rocky path to the castle. If Mormor wanted me for some reason, perhaps he’d tell me if I asked. Not like there was anything else to do around that place.

I did want to make myself presentable—good luck with that, I know. My clothes were rags, my hat long lost to the sea. The rain finally stopped, though, so I decided to use my heat spell to dry myself off a little. You have to be careful with that spell not to use the concentrated form (the difference is a pinkie twaddle); done right, you can dry off quickly, but done wrong you can shoot yourself a blister.

So armed with my new blister I approached the castle. It didn’t have a moat, but then, the whole ocean acted as one. The stones from which the edifice was built were cut in the very size and shape of skulls--human, elf, dwarf, pixie, troll, you name it. I sensed a motif here. The front doors were iron, twenty feet high. One had a keyhole shaped like a screaming mouth. Both had gigantic iron rings, five feet in diameter. An actual giant could pull on them or use them as knockers, but I didn’t even try. I just rapped on the door with my fist.

Incredibly, words in the common tongue appeared in red, fading into existence in the air before me: Servants’ entrance in rear.

“I’m not a servant,” I said. “I am… Bob.”

The words vanished. Then, with a squeal, the doors opened outward, slowly, creaking and howling every inch of the way.

When they stopped moving I stepped inside, into darkness. By themselves the doors slammed shut behind me. I hate when that happens. I wandered forward, my eyes refusing to adjust to the darkness. It stretched as far as the eye could not see. I grew sentimental for the frying pan I’d been in, but it was too late for regrets about the fire now. I pressed on.

After a time I saw a little square of light, so I headed toward it. Did it flicker like a dying man’s spirit? Can’t say. At least it broke up the monotony. And as I approached I smelled food. Wonderful food. Beef roasting. Pork sizzling. Bread baking. Beer pouring. Corn popping. Shrimp frying. No slop, gruel, hardtack, or underripe fruit. Just the real stuff. I left a trail of drool like a slug down the hall.

The light was a doorway that opened up into an opulent dining hall. It was done in high fashion, with elegant bright-burning chandeliers, rococo wall carvings, softly cushioned high-back chairs, everything gilded. Somewhere an invisible string quartet played. I’d been in a couple of great halls before, usually trying for the silverware, but I’d never seen anything like this. The endless table was laden with all the foods I’d smelled, and many I hadn’t, and several that I’d never tried but surely wanted to.

And then I saw, at the table, wearing a delicate white dress, a tasteful tiara on her brow, my princess Suzy.

“Suzy! Is it really you?” I cried.

“Bob!” she cried back, knocking over her wine goblet.

I stretched my arms to her and she to me, and we started one of those runs alongside the table that seem to be in slow motion, when suddenly another figure stepped in between us. I almost kissed him by mistake.

He was not as tall as me, although he looked healthier by a country mile, slender and sinewy, with short curly hair and a neat pointed goatee. His robes were plain dark gray, but a glance told me I had never felt such a soft and fine fabric. He wore a black tunic beneath that covered him all the way to the neck. He smiled, his wide green eyes looking kindly, and stopped my forward motion with a hand clasped gently but firmly on my shoulder. In a smooth, soft voice, he said, “Welcome to my home, mage Bob. I apologize for any inconveniences you may have suffered, but I am so pleased you could join us at last. You know the lady, I see, but I believe I must be rude enough to introduce myself.”

“No need, I’m sure,” I stammered.

“But I must. My name is Morwor Mordrun Mormor, but my friends call me Zippy. Do join us, I insist.”

💀

[Uh-oh! Can't you hear the ominous music? Or is that just Bob's empty stomach rumbling? What will happen now? Is that really Suzy? If she's alive, maybe Astercam and Bourbon are too! No, probably not. Why does a nice guy like Zippy seem to be so into skulls? Come back next Friday for chapter 9!]