Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business Strebor of Tharn

CHAPTER ONE
ORIGINS

It is the thirty-first century.

This is the star Alpha Lyrae, also known as Vega.

In our Universe, it is a blue-white, main sequence star. In this Universe, it is a red giant, with a massive Goldilocks Zone, and is surrounded by some two dozen habitable worlds.

And this is Emana Branx, the seventh planet out in the Vegan system, home to the immortal Branx warriors.

They are large, heavy-set, troll-like creatures, with four arms apiece, and straight, sharp tusks and horns. Their skin color ranges from charcoal-gray to pewter to mauve, and is as tough and thick as rhinoceros hide. Possibly tougher.

Each Branx warrior is partnered with an angelic soul-partner. Upon the death of the warrior, this Angel guides their spirit to a new infant Branx body, into which they are reincarnated. No Branx fears death, for they know they are effectively immortal.

This is Lodarthon Ogreich, a young Branx Warrior-in-Training. Chronologically, he is seven Earth-years old, but is physically more a young teen. In his previous lives, he has already undergone many centuries of the Warrior training.

He is very skilled.

He wishes more.

Lodarthon has managed to steal an ancient Euphorixan Spellbook. In an attempt to add Magic to his repertoire, he has been secretly learning certain offensive spells. He believes he is ready to try his first.

He is wrong.

The spell misfires, and he accidentally sends his consciousness some eleven hundred years back into the past, to lodge in the physical body of a semi-crippled seventy-year-old man on the planet Earth. Simultaneously, the old man’s consciousness is projected forward in time, and he finds himself in the body of a thirty-first century Branx teen-ager.

The Branx are quick to discover this. The soul of a human occupying a Branx Warrior’s body is an obscenity and an abomination to them. However, they are loathe to kill the creature, as they fear that the soul-partner may be bonded to the human consciousness, and they will be permanently introducing a human soul into the resurrection cycle. (Spoiler Alert: They are wrong.)

Fortunately, the United Planets, in an effort to encourage diversity, offers each child in its environs, when they come of age, one free one-way trip to anywhere in United Planets Space. Few Branx ever take advantage of this magnanimous offer.

I decide to go to Tharn, in the hopes that the Sorcerers there might be able to send me back home.

CHAPTER TWO
BATTLE SCENE

The Branx Warrior facing me is a full head taller than I am, and several inches broader. He is also far, far better at coordinating his four arms in attacking and restraining me. At the moment, he is methodically tearing my clothes off.

Technically speaking, I am also a Branx Warrior, with rhinoceros-thick skin, horns and tusks hard enough to scratch glass, and four massive, muscular arms. But I am relatively untrained, or, at least, I do not remember whatever training this body has been through.

A year ago, I was a soft, comfortable old man living on Earth, a thousand or so years in the past. My greatest concern was how many times I would need to get up of a night to use the toilet. Now I am lying on a cold stone floor stark naked, while a great gray behemoth above me strips off his own clothing-- a fantastically wrapped array of pachyleather, generously ornamented with various metal buckles and studs-- and is carefully dressing me in them.

He finishes tightening the complicated weaving of straps and buckles around my body. They somehow fit my smaller form just as well as they had fit his larger one. Now he is the one who is standing naked, although no less intimidating. I am now outfitted like a true Branx Warrior. My old apprentices' robe lies in shreds nearby.

"Now I will take what is mine," says the monster. His voice sounds like he regularly gargles with gravel. A shining, near-angelic form rises out of the purple-gray body, grabs hold of the two of us, and the Universe turns upside-down, sideways and backwards.

Now I am the tall, naked one, standing over the smaller Branx cowering on the floor. But he does not cower for long.

No matter which bodies we inhabit, he is better trained than I am. He lifts me over his head, and tosses me at the nearest wall. I hit hard. If I were still human, I would have a number of broken bones. He stalks out the door, wearing my old body, and his own clothes. I do not follow him.

My Master, The Sensei (I know that “Master” and “Sensei” are redundant, but I have never called him anything else) has been observing the short-lived battle with quiet amusement. He has not deigned to interfere. Now he picks me up off the floor. I am astonished again at the strength in his slender frame. I am now well over a half-meter taller than he is, but I find myself leaning on him.

He supports me with ease.

"So it is true," says The Sensei.

"What is true?" I ask, rubbing my bruises. They will not last long. I have learned from experience that the Branx heal quickly.

"The Branx Angels," says The Sensei. "It has been long debated if they are a myth. It is says that the Branx are immortal, that their Angels assist them in their serial reincarnation. It is says that this is why they are such great warriors: they retain all their experience from countless past lives."

"Maybe that's why they're so fracking stupid. All that warrior training crowds out any room for thought in their brains." I look down at my new naked body, and the scraps of robe on the floor.

"I'm going to need some new clothes," I remark.

"More importantly," says The Sensei, "I believe it is obvious that we may now cease our quest to return you to your original body, world, and time."

"OK, it’s not so obvious to me," I say. "You have clearly observed something that I, in my abject humiliation over the last few minutes, have overlooked."

"The original soul born into your first Branx body," says The Sensei, in that tone of voice that means I am trying his patience, "Traveled back in time to Old Earth. In the natural order of things, your old body died, and the Branx was reincarnated-- in some other body on Earth, I imagine. Eventually, over the centuries, he would have made his way out into space, through a series of human or alien bodies, and ultimately, into a Branx Warrior’s body Emana Branx in the current century. There, he sought for you-- that is, his original body-- and has now taken possession of it through the mediation of his personal Branx Angel, who has partnered with him this last ten or eleven centuries. Ergo, we cannot succeed in restoring you to your old body, as in the past, the Branx soul never left it. Quod Erat Demonstrandum."

"So that was Lodarthon Ogreich,” I say. “Well, if he had only explained things to me in the first place, I'm sure we could have come to some arrangement without unnecessary physicality. The body he took back would have been in better condition. Although, I suppose, that is not the Way of the Branx Warrior. At least he left me with a body. Only my third, if I am counting correctly."

"You ought to consider yourself very fortunate," says The Sensei. "You will have avoided Branx puberty, which, it appears from my research, is rather unpleasant. Our friend has just completed it, and will now have to go through it again in a year or two. I do not envy him."

“I know all about Branx puberty,” I say. “Suicidal depression, alternating with homicidal rages. You’re right. I’m glad I missed it. But what is to become of me now?" I ask. "I suppose I am Branx for the duration. Can I continue to stay here as your disciple? I really have nowhere else to go."

"We will need to contact Emana Branx and Weber's World, and get your identity straightened out," says The Sensei. "After that… well, today's events clearly show that you have made little progress in your study of Shidō."

“‘Honor, Obedience, Duty, Sincerity, Frugality, Loyalty, and Self-Sacrifice. The Way of the Warrior is not about mastery of weapons and the techniques of battle,’" I quote, "’But about mastery of the Self.'"

"And you show precious little progress in Mastery of Self, either" says The Sensei. "What I have witnessed within you is Mastery of the Bowl and the Spoon."

I have become inured to this sort of occasional biting sarcasm from The Sensei. Some of the old Zen masters I have read could be downright cruel.

"I was hoping," I say, with what I hope is a tone of adequate humility, "That you would help me establish myself in this Time and Universe, if I am to live out the rest of my days here."

"Perhaps you ought to decide first what you want to do with the rest of your life," The Sensei suggests. "No one really knows what the Branx lifespan is; most of them die quite young. But there have been stories of centenarians still going strong in battle."

I consider this. "Are you telling me," I say, "That after living nearly eighty years, Earth Standard, I might have another full century of life ahead of me?"

The Sensei nods. "Possibly two centuries. As I say, no one really knows. It is best to be prepared."

"For now, if possible, I would like to stay on the Sorcerer's World," I decide. "If possible. Perhaps if I promise to work harder?"

"You have shown some little skill with the Orb, and the Scrying Mirror," The Sensei admits. "Perhaps you ought to study Clairvoyance? I could contact the Coventry of Oracles. There are rumors that the Moon Maiden, or Noadiah might be willing to take on a new apprentice. No one really likes to take on an apprentice, you know."

"So you have told me," I reply.

"However, before we make any social calls," says The Sensei, "We do need to get you something to wear. And this is a loan, not a grant, and I expect to ultimately be repaid for your lessons, room, and board for the last year."

CHAPTER THREE
THE COVENTRY OF ORACLES

The Sensei prefers not to use any method of transportation, magical or otherwise. So we are walking the six miles-- about two leagues-- to the Coventry of Oracles.

It is interesting to walk through Eldorado, or any of the cities of the Sorcerer’s World. Most are named after old fairy towns or heavens or hells. Rothenburg, Reynes, and Ram Setu, to name a few. The Sensei has lived in Eldorado for a dozen years. Despite the name, the city is not made of gold; although the streets are paved with bricks made of some kind of clear, golden crystal. The residences and storefronts we pass are a jumble of architectural styles. Ceramic domes covered in obscure runes. Candy shops made of real candy. Massive stone walls, concealing who-knows-what. Three-story palaces with turrets and steeples and flying pennants, all made of bright, billowing fabric. Classic 2Oth-century television haunted houses with rusting iron gates and their own private cemeteries. Tiny wooden houses painted in primary colors less than four feet high, with windmills in their backyards. Arabian, Native American, and circus-style tents line some streets. Many of the shops are only temporary, randomly, magically moving from city to city around Tharn. Several merely switch from one side of the street to the other on alternating days. Some are only open between midnight and dawn. Some are enchanted, and you may only visit once. The Sensei breaks into parkour for several blocks, bouncing off walls and over rooftops. I keep an eye on him, plodding along at street level. I have no problem keeping up. For my old human self, it would have been impossible. For my twenty-year-old human self, it would have been an effort. The Sensei appears perhaps seventy or eighty years old. He might be a hundred or more. He might be thirty-five. You can never tell with sorcerers.

At last we arrive at the Alcazar of the Coventry of Oracles. It is a massive, squarish building, with several massive, squarish towers. It appears to be plated entirely with a veneer of polished mother-of-pearl, and liberally decorated with tiny sea-shells of every description.

We are greeted by a great, glowing, orange fire-troll, who escorts us wordlessly through a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. We arrive at a great hall, with high windows overlooking a line of great cliffs above a stormy sea. It does not look like anywhere on Tharn I know. The fire-troll motions for us to wait.

We wait.

Our host arrives. He is dressed in a loose black robe, somewhat tattered. His head is uncowled. His countenance is horrifying. He looks like a man who has had most of the flesh burned from his face-- his skin is thin, a dark blood-red, blackened in places. His eyes are hollow and yellow, with fiery blue pupils. His black lips do not entirely close around his knife-like, yellow-white teeth.

His voice sounds like the chiming of church-bells.

“Welcome Sensei.”

“Adrastos,” says The Sensei. “So good of you to see us on such short notice.”

Adrastos smiles. It is not a pleasant sight. “My secretary made this appointment for you over a week ago,” he says. “We are, after all, Oracles. But I see I have made your acolyte is uneasy with my appearance.” He approaches me. He smells of blood and violets.

“Allow me to explain,” says the Oracle. “Every creature has its predator. Humans are, for the most part, the apex predator on Earth. But there are still those who see them as food. Mosquitos, for example. Some crocodiles. Lions, once upon a time. Of course, most predators of the human race are either endangered, or extinct. Humans are dangerous game. Vampires and zombies-- the undead-- are supernatural creatures who also prey on humans-- and some other living sentients. They have become exceedingly rare. My kind prey upon these creatures. There is not really a name for us, we are so few… I prefer ‘vivimortiphages’-- eaters of the undead. Some call us ‘kinemortovores’ - zombie-eaters. And what are you?”

“I am a Branx warrior,” I answer. “From Emana Branx, in the Vegan System. On the outside, at least.”

“Not undead?” asks Adrastos. It is a rhetorical question. “Then you have nothing to fear from me, despite my appearance.”

“I have come to see you…” I begin. Adrastos’ smile broadens.

“You have come to me to have your future told”, he interrupts. “By profession, I am an Oracle, and that is my function.”

“Actually, I had hoped,” I answer, “To apply for a position with the Oracular Coventry.”

“Yes,” says Adrastos. “You hoped. But you have actually come to me to have your future told. Sit down, my lavender supplicant.”

A long table has been prepared in advance, with chairs around it, and a pile of a dozen or so large books stacked upon it.

“Ardenty,” says Adrastos into the air. The fire troll steps into the room. “Take the Sensei to the Second Dining Hall. There should be something already prepared for his supper. Sensei, please accompany my servant Ardenty.”

My Master-- former master, I suppose-- leaves the room.

Adrastos sits, and motions me to sit down opposite him.

“Place your hands on the table, palms upwards,” he orders. “Yes, all four. Interesting. Five-fingered hands. Large thumbs. Claws instead of naile.” He sorts through the books, and chooses two. I wait while he searches for the correct pages. He picks up a silver wand, like an orchestra conductor’s baton, and traces the lines on my four palms, muttering to himself.

A blast of lightning strikes outside the windows. For an instant, the room became painfully bright. I flinch involuntarily.

“The balustrades are solid silver,” Adrastos explains. “Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about. The windows are arcane crystal. They will not shatter.”

“Where is that place?” I ask. “It’s not on Tharn, is it?”

“The Western Sea of Korbal,” Adrastos replies. “My Birthworld.”

“I didn’t think there was anything there but Lightning Beasts,” I say.

“And what, pray, do the Lightning Beasts eat? I’ll tell you what. Stormvoles. And the Stormvoles eat the roots of any number of native flora. There are Thunderbirds in the sky, and Electric Eels in the oceans.”

“And Vampire-Eaters,” I add.

“No, no, it was just my mother and I there,” says Adrastos, still reading. “Our people are quite thinly scattered throughout the Galaxy. She and I have both moved on, although we employ a trustworthy Cyclops to shepherd our flock of vampire sheep in one of the caves in those cliffs. Ah, now we are ready to read your future.”

With a last flourish of his wand, a hundred beams of light shoot forth from my fingertips, arcing up through the windows, and out into the dark and stormy night.

“You must understand,” Adrastos explains. “We are not like the Naltoran Seers, who see only that future which will assuredly, unchangeably come to pass. We sort through many possible futures, and help our clients choose the path that fits them best. You, for example, wish a long and peaceful life, devoid of adventure, but perhaps with a satisfying occupation. Like the life Achilles was offered, and roundly rejected.”

“Why do you say this?” I ask. “I haven’t asked you for anything, yet.”

“That is the Palmistry,” says Adrastos. He continues to points to the lines on my palms with his wand. “Interesting… you have a very short Avarice Line, and a deep Channel of Ease… desiring comfort, but not the deceitfulness of riches. And no particular desire for Romance? You are a strange one.”

“I was married to a woman clearly my superior in every way for forty years,” I explain. “It was True Love. We were fortunate. I don’t expect it to happen every day.”

Adrastos shrugs. He begins tapping the lines of light with his wand. As he does, they disappear, one by one. “We can eliminate the lines leading through Adventure, or Danger, or Privation,” he says. “Odd to select Peace and Comfort for a Branx. It appears that your next, pivotal choice is indeed a choice of profession. These four lines,” he tapped away all the others “Seem the best possibilities.”

“First choice through fourth choice?” I offer. “If Plan A doesn’t work out, go to Plan B?”

“Oh, I really can’t rank them,” says Adrastos. “Let’s call them… Plan Red, Plan Yellow, Green and Blue.” He taps the lines, and they change colour. “Let us begin with Plan Red. I will arrange for an interview with a Master in Klevan City you might apprentice yourself to. I will also have the Scriveners put together a little book for you with the results of my reading in a form you can understand. It should take no more than a couple of hours. I’m not sure how to entertain you in the meantime. You could get into a lot of trouble in this place if left unsupervised. I don’t even really want to give you access to the Libraries… Can you just sit quietly here, and watch the storm on my Birthworld? It might be dull, but you seem able to handle dull.”

“Do you have a comfortable chair?” I ask.

I read this through thinking "Gosh, this style is like Klars, I must tell this new poster to check his work out as they are both such fun" then noticed you have 'poster formerly known as...' disclaimer. D'oh!

I don't think I'd enjoy being a Branx warrior either. Turning to (or at least trying to do) magic sounds far more enjoyable than fighting all the time. The Sensei's pragmatism was cute, A zombie eating Seer - well why not, it's no less wonderful an idea than an old man being reborn as a Branx. You really do fill your posts wih superb (and often leftfield ideas), they are always a treasure to read.

Looking forward to where you take this, more, more, more!

Haha I did the same thing

I'm really getting into this. I'm a bit envious of all the random world-building you come up with, used-to-be-Klar! I feel like you've got a really good knack for taking the kind of background details it's easy to gloss over and making them a point of interest without stopping a story dead in its tracks to do it!

CHAPTER FOUR
CRAFTING

Ardenty the Fire Troll eventually shows me to the magic carpet. I am becoming used to interacting with this great orange mute. I suspect he is brighter than a great many people may think. The carpet is woven with a complex faux-Arabian pattern, in red, purple, green and gold.

As I cross the magic carpet, the scenery shifts rapidly around me. When I step off, the carpet vanises-- gone back to Alcazar, I presume. I know I am now in the city of Klevan, hundreds of leagues away. I face a plain white stone storefront. The sign reads “Guaranteed Mundane Artifacts: Professor Zevan Meltzer, Proprietor”.

A woman is waiting outside the shop. She is extraordinarily pale, with a yellowish cast to her skin. Her wide eyes are equally jaundiced. Her hair is difficult to look at; it seems to shift as I look at it, between straw-colored, white, and shades of gray. She is dressed in blood-violet robes. She extends her hand.

“You may call me Mistress Gwenhwyfar,” she says. “Old Professor Meltzer is quite dead, but my associates and I kept his name up when we bought the shop. He had developed a reputation for quality, which we aspire to as well.”

“Intangible goodwill,” I say.

“Oh, you’ll like Calidus,” says Gwenhwyfar. “He talks just like you.”

She escorts me into the shop. There is a small waiting area, beyond which… it is far larger on the inside than the shop appeared on the outside. Two men are sitting behind a small desk. The first is nearly human-looking, although completely bald. He does not even possess eyebrows. His empty black eyes seem to be portals to deep interstellar space, or some shadowy abyss. The other is fat and jolly-looking, with a face the color and shape of a tomato, and a body to match. They are both shirtless.

“This is Master Quaestor Ganzabara, and Master Calidus Effercio,” says Gwenhwyfar. “My associates.” She takes a seat behind the desk with the two men. “This is something in the way of a job interview.”

“You are one of The Sensei’s failed assets?” asks Calidus. “Without magical capability?”

“The Sensei was training me in the Way of the Warrior,” I reply. “As for magic, I have so far been unable to so much as learn to light the evening candle.”

Gwenhwyfar is holding up a short wooden stake ending in a complicated cluster of branches. “The thaumometer shows only background contamination, as might be found in anyone living on Tharn for very long. His soul and body do not appear to have the same origin, and may have been fused through Magic, but certainly not his own, and there is no evidence it has had a lasting effect.”

“Excellent,” says Calidus. “Let me explain our business model. Certain spells require mundane artifacts-- items manufactured by hand, and without Magic. The carpet you arrived on, for example. It was woven by mundane hands, from the wool of mundane sheep, then enchanted by a Master Enchanter. Much of these materials are imported from off-world, for obvious reasons. We manufacture custom items here on Tharn. Not iron, nor silver, of course. We have no wish to offend the Faery populations. There are others who dare that, but we try to keep on good terms.”

“Most of our employees are changelings,” says Quaestor. His voice is hollow and haunting, in contrast to his almost-normal appearance. “Human children taken to Faeryland before the Great Migration. When the Faery find one, they send him- or her, I suppose- to Tharn. Each has been in Faeryland at least two centuries, of course. From before the Migration. Some far longer. To many, it has seemed they have been gone only a few days, perhaps months. Mostly human, from Earth. Some Krill. A few Schwarrites. We did have one little Kryptonian boy, taken a century or so before its destruction, but still seemingly less than ten years old. He was frankly too much for anyone on Tharn to handle, and we eventually sent him to Rokyn.”

“A great many want to go off and learn Magic,” says Calidus. “After which they are spoiled for us. But you are uncontaminated. If you keep yourself that way, and apply yourself to your craft, with your greater maturity, you might be quickly promoted to a factory floor manager position. Provided you can learn one of the trades. Does this interest you?”

“It does,” I reply. For the moment, this seems a reasonable, promising path.

“I think, based on the recommendations of The Sensei and Adrastos, we could hire you on a probationary basis,” says Calidus. “Starting pay is three ounces of gold per month. We find it convenient to pay every ten days. Is this acceptable?”

“I think,” I say, “I might need an advance on my first month’s wages? The Sensei paid me nothing as his apprentice-- I still owe him for these robes-- and I need to find a place to stay.”

“There is an apartment on the second story,” says Gwenhwyfar. “If you would like to rent it. Vacated two months ago by a family of gnomes. It is not spacious-- but we could dock your pay one ounce per month if you would like to stay there. Once you get to know Klevan, you may want to move somewhere else.”

“Consider this an offer of a position,” says Calidus.

CHAPTER FIVE
WATCHMAKER, WATCHMAKER, MAKE ME A WATCH

So it appears I am a watchmaker.

Or, perhaps, clockmaker.

We do not use steel and silver, as in the rest of the Galaxy, but rather copper, brass, and bronze. Some lead, some pure tin. Gold, and a little platinum, too, and corundum for the jewel-bearings.

All these raw materials are produced elsewhere in the shop.

There are chemist’s labs here, weavers and rug-makers, tailors and cobblers, glass-blowers, painters and sculptors, woodworkers, wheelwrights and coopers. We produce what seems to me an unusually large number of spinning-wheels; I cannot think what the sorcerers here on the Sorcerer’s World are using them all for.

The metals we use are refined from copper, zinc, lead, and tin ores by metallurgists here in the factory. Cunning artificers here make the gears, spindles, shafts, bearings, and other parts. I mostly sit and put together what are essentially three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. I am surprisingly good at this. Despite being built along the lines of a troll, my fingers are strong, and capable of delicate work. My sharp claws, especially, come in handy for small work. It also feels natural to work with four hands at once, at twice the speed of the other watchmakers here. Of course, most of the time I use the finely crafted tools for manipulating my tiny gears and so forth.

GMA has been working on a project for about two years for a particularly eccentric wizard. The centuries-old Oz books by L. Frank Baum, depict a fictional character known as ‘Tik-Tok’, a copper clockwork robot. Our client wants to duplicate it. When complete, it is going to be about five feet tall, and will weigh some 3½ tons. His spherical torso is so jammed with machinery that it will be essentially a solid metal mass.

It will be operated with a small wind-up key.

The thing will require around five megawatts of power to function. It would be impossible for any human to wind up, were it not for the planned magical overlay. Using the alchemical principles of similarity and sympathy, the small spring which the user will wind will also magically wind a thousand or so other springs within the copper shell. We estimate an operating time of some five hours for the ‘robot’ when fully wound. As in the book, “Thinking”, “Speaking”, and “Movement” are each wound separately, though using the same key. Only the key and the springs need to be enchanted. The rest of the robot will run according to purely mundane principles.

It really is an amazing piece of engineering. Of course, I didn’t design it. I am only helping to build it.

I hope it works.

We have tested each module, and the interactions between adjoining modules, but there is really no way to test the whole contraption together until after it has been enchanted. If experience is any indicator, there will be some de-bugging necessary in the future.

Meanwhile…

My small apartment above the shop is adequate. I have purchased a reader, and am able to check out holo-crystals from the local library with my card. I was surprised to discover they have actual, physical books-- mostly mystic tomes and grimoires, which are off-limits to me in my profession-- but novels and historical non-fiction from around the United Planets as well. These books-- not all of them printed on paper-- are not allowed to be checked out; they are too precious. So I spend some time each week in the library, reading.

The apartment comes equipped with a mini-Autochef®, although there are only a few recipes compatible with my Branx physiology. I am a frequent customer at the local Pile-O’-Meat, a grill and bar here in Klevan City.

The local Haberdashery is fully web-connected. Customized clothing is holo-fitted, then shipped to my residence. I have collected a few outfits, so that I do not need to wear the same thing every day. I suppose I ought to invest in a Solid Printer® at some point, but the employees at the Haberdashery are quite helpful in finding me clothing appropriate to my position and appearance. One does not want to see a Branx Warrior parading around in white tie, top hat, and tails in the middle of the afternoon. I admit to some cultural ignorance and lack of fashion sense, just as when I was a young man on Earth.

What I miss most is music. What is popular right now in the 31st century sounds like a duet between a theramin and glass-armonica, with stray cats as soloists. I would pay good money for a sonic holo-crystal of the compleat Beatles.

CHAPTER SIX
MOVING ON

I am sitting for my second annual review.

“We are quite happy with your performance this year,” says Quaestor. His voice still raises gooseflesh. “Above expectations. We will be increasing your salary from three and one-half to four gold per month.”

“Doctor Pipt was pleased with our ‘Tik-Tok Two’,” says Calidus. He smiles. I had not noticed his cat-like teeth before. “Pleased as punch. That ratchet you put in his speaking works, to give him halting speech patterns-- we would never have thought of that. But Dr. Pipt found it authentic. Your incidental acquaintance with ancient children’s literature was invaluable.”

“The only small problem,” says Gwenhwyfar, “Is that the thaumometer shows a buildup in magical energies in you. Probably from the time you spend among the books in the Library. It might cause you to perform accidental, incidental magic if not corrected. We suggest you abstain for a few weeks, and see if the charge dissipates.”

I consider this overnight.

It is morning. I meet with Gwenhwyfar again.

“I have enjoyed working here very much,” I tell her. “I can hardly imagine what our next major project might me-- more magical robots?”

“Our clockworks orders are slowing down,” says Gwenhwyfar. “You have shown remarkable dexterity… we were considering moving you over to sewing.”

“I can sew on a button or darn a sock, but that is about the extent of my talent with needle and thread. I suppose I could learn. I never thought I would be a watchmaker, either. Still…”

“There is another concern?” asks Gwenhwyfar.

“When I visited the Seers,” I explain, “they foresaw separate four paths for my future. I am curious about those other futures might hold.”

“Ah,” says Gwenhwyfar. “Like one of those ‘Choose-Your-Own-Adventure’ holo-books.”

“Something else like that,” I say.

“If you learn magic, you will not be able to return to your position here,” Gwenhwyfar reminds me. “We have had too many magical accidents that have ruined product.”

“I understand.”

“And how will you find your next prophesied adventure?” asks Gwenhwyfar.

“I’m not sure,” I muse. “Do you have a way to contact Adrastos?”

“I have a crystal ball tuned to the Coventry Networks,” she says. “We could try that. Most sorcerers are on the network.”

The crystal ball is in a shielded room on the second floor-- probably on the other side of a wall of my apartment, although I cannot quite figure out the layout. The room is dimly lit, and Gwenhwyfar sits down to call up Adrastos. Letters of fire appear in the air above the crystal.

You have reached Adrastos at the Coventry of Oracles.
If this is Mother, I will call you this evening.
I asked you not to call me at work.
If this is Strebor, read the Personal Oracle we gave you. You left it at the bottom of your underwear drawer.
If this is Mr. B., the check is in the mail.
If this is the First Coventry, tell Doctor Leitseid, 'yes, no, no, no, goblins, seven, hire a Klaramaran, and ask me again tomorrow.'
Otherwise please leave a message.

Oh, grife,” I curse. “They did give me a Personal Oracle-- and I never opened it.”

The little book is sealed with wax around one edge. It is black, with silver writing on the cover.

PERSONAL ORACLE
Prepared for Strebor of Eldorado
At the request of The Sensei
Scrivener Tertius, Preparer

I break the wax seal.

There are only four small pages inside. The first is pink, and reads:

SEEK OUT A CRAFTSMAN OF GOOD REPUTE

The second page, pastel gold, reads:

ASK YOUR EMPLOYER FOR A RECOMMENDATION

The third is light green, and reads:

LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS

The last, blue page reads:

ASK THE LIBRARIAN

I return to Gwenhwyfar again, to ask her for a recommendation. She is busy, but it is my day off, and I wait outside her office. I show her the book.

“Why not follow the blue or green page?” she asks.

“I don’t know, I… would you give me a recommendation?”

“I believe the Seers mean a recommendation both for and to a new employer,” says Gwenhwyfar. “Kraftwerks is always hiring, but you would be doing much the same work as here. Majisha and Gomer are looking for staff again... although you would need to complete a couple of years of butling school before applying there. It would probably be good experience, though.” She thought for awhile. “If you wouldn’t mind a stay in Faeryland, there is a witch I know there who would be seeking to take on an apprentice.”

“I thought all the doors to Faeryland were closed after the Great Migration.”

“Well, yes, but Tharn is exceptional. We can you send to Faerth-- a distant world far on the other side of the Dominion Space-- which is where all the portals ended up. Or we might wait for the next delivery of Changelings, and you could go back with the faery garrisons. Although those are irregular. We have a portal in the crystal room. We could enchant it to bring you most of the way to a gate on Faerth. From there, you would have to walk.”

I gather a bag. I am leaving most of my things in storage. My room will be rented out to someone else.

Gwenhwyfar, Quaestor, and Calidus are all here to send me off. Quaestor pulls back a curtain in the room with the crystal ball. There is a drawing of a door on the wall, made with colored chalk.

“This will cost you your severance pay,” says Calidus. “And the deposit on your room.”

“Do they accept Tharnan gold in Faeryland?” I ask. “I have a little left.”

“No,” says Calidus. “The fairies’ mediums of exchange are rather more exotic. And expensive, you will learn.”

“Push through,” says Gwenhwyfar, indicating the chalk drawing. “Walk down the road-- such as it is-- until you come to a white picket fence. Make sure to turn and close the gate behind you, and Agatha’s house should not be far beyond. She is expecting you.”

The wall is just a wall. The chalk-marks are just chalk. I press against the wall, and it is unyielding. I press harder, and fall though, like a pane of glass suddenly breaking before me. I fall onto my hands and knees on grey-brown soil. There is an octarine shower of broken magic around me.

I am standing in a desolate desert. It is night. Two bright moons light the sky.There is only empty desert behind me. A rough road lies before me. I begin walking.

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WITCH’S COTTAGE

By mid-day, I come to a portion of weathered white picket fence. The gate is latched, but not locked. I try to shut it behind me, but the latch is fiddly. I turn and work it closed. When I turn back, I am elsewhere.

The fence now encloses a green, grassy yard. A small wooded house, painted in primary colors, with a thatched roof sits in the center. A low rock wall surrounds the house, half-way to the fence. Between the fence and the rock wall, I see a large fairy-ring in the grass. House. Squarish rock wall. Fairy ring. Square fence. Forested area beyond.

There is an old woman waiting for me on the porch. She is dressed all in black, with a stereotypical witch’s hat. This is no fake Hallowe’en hat. It appears to be made of heavy leather, with a wide, well-used brim. Her nose is long and curves down. Her chin is long, and curves up. Her skin is green and warty, like a toad, or an ampalaya.

“Strebor of Tharn,” I introduce myself. The witch looks me up and down.

“I think not,” she says. “You will need a different name here. I’ve seen trolls that look a lot like you… except for the four arms. I’ll call you Four-Armed Johnny. You can call me Agatha Farmer.”

“And what is your real name?” I ask.

“Oh, you’re so sharp,” says the witch. “Take care you don’t cut yourself. You can call me Agatha Farmer.”

“Where is the farm?” I ask. “On the other side of the woods?”

“You must be thirsty after your long walk,” says the witch. “Take a rock from my wall.”

It turns into a large golden fruit in my hand.

“Go ahead, eat it,” says the witch. “Drink all the juice.”

I note the bird droppings that spatter the rocks on the wall.

“Come on, it’s first-class magic, not illusion,” says the witch. “If you’re going to work for me, you have to learn to trust me. And follow orders. Eat your fruit.”

It tastes of peach and apricot, with a hint of raspberry. It is very juicy. I had not realized how thirsty I was.

“Have you had lunch?” asks the witch. “Have a couple more rocks from my wall.”

One stone turns into a lump of bready cake. The other is a mass of roasted meat, still warm. Both are delicious, but after this al fresco luncheon, I need to wash my hands. The witch hands me a large burlap sack.

“Now go into the woods, and find three stones to replace the ones you just ate." She indicates a large grove beyond the fence. "While you’re at it, pick up another twenty or so for our meals tomorrow. Make it an even two dozen. You can wash your hands in the stream that runs through the woods. Then stack the stones along my wall. Leave your luggage here, and bring it in the house when you’re done. Can you follow these instructions, or do I need to write them down?”

“I’ve got it, ma’am. Fix the wall, clean up, come in the house.”

“Ma’am,” the witch snorts. “I don't think so. Call me Mistress Agatha.”

“Yes, Mistress Agatha.” I drop my pack, and head out the gate, and into the woods.

There is an iron pot simmering above the fire when I finally enter the house. The witch ladles out two flagons of steaming brew.

“Hot buttered ale,” she tells me. “Sit down. Let’s get to know one another.”

Agatha Farmer pulls off the black hat, watchcoat, and cloak. She is wearing a flowered print dress and red checked apron underneath. Her black work-boots remain. She pulls at her nose and chin, and the warty green mask comes off, too. She is a pleasant-enough looking old woman, with a long, horsey face. I judge her to be about ninety, but she moves as if she were fifty. She does carry a walking staff.

“You’re an old soul, Four-Armed Johnny,” says Agatha Farmer.

“Literally. I was born in the mid-twentieth century,” I reply. “If my calendar means anything in Faeryland.”

“It does, it does,” says Agatha Farmer. “I myself was born just a hundred years after Columbus discovered the Caribbean. I was the witch old Matthew Hopkins was looking for all those years. He followed me from town to town across England, but could never quite make it to my door. Put two hundred innocent women and girls to death before I put a stop to him. Put to death a few men, too. That’s when I decided to move out here to Faeryland. There were fairy-roads in England back then, just leading straight out of the world. I went west. Used to have the papers delivered, but I never went back. By your time, I don’t suppose there were any witches left in any civilized country.”

“There was a sort of resurgence in the 196O’s,” I say. “But I believe that had a lot to do with the popularity of mind-altering drugs.”

“Chemistry is important for witchcraft,” says Agatha Farmer. “The ancient Greek word for witchcraft was ‘pharmacy’.”

“‘Agatha Farmer’,” I say. “The good witch.”

“Four-Armed Johnny,” says the witch. “The ancient troll. I ought to have called you ‘Yuletide Carroll’. Magical names need to contain a seed of truth in them. That’s Lesson One. Don’t say I never taught you any magic.”

“You will restock the Larder Wall every day with stones from the forest,” the witch continues. “Do not pile them atop the stiles, they won’t transmute. Fill the cistern with water from the well every morning; when that is done, you may bathe if you like. Light the fire in the parlor every morning, and allow it to go out at night. The black pot produces drink; the copper pot is for my potions. Do not move either of them, whichever is over the fire. Light the evening fires in my room and your room around sunset. Sweep out the house daily; mop every other day at least. Cut the grass weekly, but leave my garden alone. I will set aside a plot for you to begin your own garden, if you like. There is a great deal of refuse that has built up around the edges of the yard. You need to begin a project of digging a firepit outside the fence. It should be at least ten feet deep and twenty feet wide, and lined with stones. I am sure I will find other projects for you as time goes by. Perhaps I should write down a list of your responsibilities?”

“I think that might be best,” I reply. “Although it sounds mostly like ordinary housework. I will do my best; you will have to help me perform my duties to your standards.”

“It is ordinary housework,” says the witch. “Things I don’t have time to do myself. Once or twice a week, we will sit together, and I will teach you magic. Set the table in the dining room. I haven’t eaten with dishes and silverware for some time. Go out and collect a half-dozen stones from the Larder Wall. Don’t touch them with your bare hands-- I believe I have gloves that will fit you.We will transform them just before eating. After dinner, we will have our lesson.”

I clear the table, and go wash the dishes and silverware in the sink outside. By the time I have dried them and put them away, Agatha Farmer has transformed the parlor.

She sits at a table with an assortment of powders and potions, a tiny cauldron hung on a tripod over a small fire beside her. A full-length mirror leans against one wall.

“That is one of Suleiman’s Daemonenspiegels,” says Agatha Farmer. “An accomplished practitioner can use it to see anyone or anything anywhere, even in other worlds. Tonight we are using it as an ordinary mirror, however. Please stand in the chalk circle in front of it.”

I obey. This is the first time I have ever seen a full-length view of myself. I am pretty imposing.

“Now let’s see if we can find someone more familiar,” says Agatha. She burns some powders in the fire. Acrid smoke wafts through the air. The image in the mirror changes. I look down at my body. I have changed as well. I am my old human self-- a seventy-five-year-old man.

“My, but we had a comfortable life, didn’t we?” says Agatha. “You must be thirty stone, at least. Now I had some reducing powder… ah, this will do.” She tosses more powder into the flames. My vision blurs, and suddenly there are three of me-- each a third the size of the original. Two of my other selves fade, and I see myself again in the mirror, still an old man, but as slender as I was at twenty-five.

“Much better, much better,” says Agatha. She begins to add small amounts of potions and powders to the cauldron. The smoke in the air clears, and I am back to my Branx Warrior form.

“That was all just illusion, of course,” says Agatha. “But we learned something. I have work to do now. See me in the morning before you begin your chores. Good night.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
OPEN FOR BUSINESS

I am awakened by the crowing of a rooster. The sun has not yet risen, but dawn colors the horizon.

Agatha Farmer is sitting in the same chair as when I went to bed. The parlor has not changed, except that the fire under the tripod has gone out. She holds up a large, patchwork coat that has been lying in her lap.

“It had to be done in one night,” says Agatha. “Well, put it on. Who else would I have made it for?” I notice the coat has four arms.

I put it on and feel light-headed.

“Go look in the mirror,” instructs Agatha.

I have the slender, human appearance that I saw last night. I still have four arms, however.

“This is no illusion,” says Agatha. “This is a true transfiguration. ‘Branx’ doesn’t mean a thing in Faeryland, and trolls are persona non grata in many places. This will allow you to move about freely. It will also protect you from Cyclopean Alicorns.”

“Cyclopean Alicorns?” I ask.

“One-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people eaters,” says Agatha. “I left you your four arms-- you are my Four-Armed Johnny, after all-- and your Branxian strength. Most of it, anyway, I believe. Now I’ve been up all night, and I plan to sleep all day. Your chores list is here on the table. Get to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Yes, Mistress Agatha,” I correct myself.

The old witch rises, with a trace of a smile.

“Oh, one important thing,” she says. “At sunset, you will transform back into your troll-like form. You must take off the coat, and cast it into a fire-- any fire will do. When you awake the next morning, it will be hanging in your closet, clean and pressed. Put it on, and you will be transformed into your human form until the next sunset. Understood?”

“Hans My Hedgehog,” I reply.

“More or less,” says the witch. “Goodnight again, Four-Armed Johnny. Or good morning, to you. I am off to my bed.”

There is much to do around the cottage, both inside and outside. I need to focus to complete the chores Agatha considers a priority. Near sunset, she is still sleeping. I set the dining table again, with a bowl of stones in the center. I transform before I am done.

I go to my room and light the fire there. My coat burns with a sickly green flame. When I return to the dining room, Agatha Farmer is there, dressed in a flannel nightgown. She looks as I imagine Red Riding-Hood’s grandmother did, hair wild and askew.

“I will be retiring again around midnight,” she says. “About noon tomorrow, we will have guests. You will attend me as I attend to them. Be cleaned up.”

I have about four hours this morning to fill the cistern, bathe, make the trek into the forest to restock the wall, sweep and mop the house. I wash the windows, inside and out, and take another bath.

Agatha Farmer is dressed in her storybook-witch costume. We must look quite the pair: the midnight green-faced hag, and her patchwork four-armed human assistant. She takes me outside. There is quite a crowd of fairy-folk, all standing outside the fairy-ring in the grass. Ordinarily, it is a ring of yellowing grasses, but this afternoon it seems to have sprung up with mushrooms and toadstools of brilliant technicolor. I recognize many of our visitors from my studies on Tharn. There are Kobold elementals of stone, ice, and vine. There are a couple of bearded Dwarves, a host of Goblins with faces of every kind of rodent and vermin. I see what looks like a dripping Asrai, although it might be a Naiad or Neriad or Selkie or Ron. There is even a Red Cap skulking among the group. Others I do not recognize at all.

Agatha Farmer begins handing out potions, amulets, and other magical artifacts across the fairy-ring. The Dwarves take a couple of jugs of something, the Goblins are happy with a collection of colored stones, the Asrai takes a pair of slippers. When she puts them on, she becomes more human in appearance. The fairies, in turn, leave little piles of gold and other metals, odd fruits, and bundles of herbs lying on the lawn. We are about halfway through the crowd when a wind blows up, and a bluish fog begins to creep through the picket fence. As it begins to pile up outside the ring of mushrooms, they begin to glow. The remaining fairies move back to a respectable distance. The fog forms itself into a giant, fully forty feet tall. Hairless, with large pointed ears, the giant’s skin is covered with tattoos of blue, purple, and black ink. The creature is entirely naked, so that it is possible to see that every inch of his skin is covered with them, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It is impossible to discern what color his skin might be naturally. His fingernails and toenails are lacquered a shining black.

Agatha Farmer reaches into a pocket in her dress, and pulls out a tiny silver bottle. She holds it up for inspection. The giant kneels, and inspects it with an eye the size of my fist. He nods. The witch wraps it in a thick black handkerchief, and lays it in the massive hand. The giant vaporizes into fog once again, which creeps away through the picket fence. There is a palpable sense of relief from the other fairies. The ordinary business of the day resumes.

“That was a Djinn, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“A Marid,” corrects Agatha. “Djinn are fire-creatures, the Marid are water-creatures.”

The sun is low on the horizon when we finish. It is well past supper time, and I can feel it. I grab a stone of the Larder Wall, and it transforms into something like a candied apple.

“Go get one of your bags, and gather up the remittances,” says Agatha, indicating the piles of miscellany the fairies have left behind. “Nothing fragile today, just gather it all up in one bag, and bring it in the house.” She hands me a ring set with a square green stone. Malachite, I think. “Wear this for protection,” she says. “Just in case.”

Agatha snacks on pebbles as I gather today’s payments. Suddenly, what can only be a Rock Troll appears from nowhere. He is easily twice my height, and larder than I am in Branx form. He reaches for me with a deformed hand with fingers large enough to close around my waist.

“Plutus!” cries Agatha. “Is this how you use the Invisibility Cloak I made you? To rob me?”

The Troll is distracted. I break his grip, and push him away. As he staggers back, a heel hits the edge of the fairy ring and bursts into flame. The Troll howls, and lashes out at me. I swat his rocky fist aside. The ring on my finger glows green. I realize what it is: a Ring of Strength. Popeye’s ‘spinach music’ plays in my head. I lift the Troll off the ground, and toss him away from the house, trying not to hurt him. He lands inside the fence, but I know I could have thrown him farther. I spot the rippling Invisibility Cloak on the ground where the Troll has dropped it. I carry it over to him.

“Four-Armed Johnny,” I introduce myself. “Mistress Agatha’s new apprentice. Take this and go home, OK?”

“Plutus,” says Plutus, in a deep, rumbling voice. He takes the cloak, and hangs his head. “I needed a better plan.”

“Yes, rob someone else,” I say. “That would be a better plan.”

“Plutus!” shouts Agatha. “Do you need some ointment for that foot?”

“No,” says the Troll, limping away. I can hear him muttering to himself as he pulls on the invisibility cloak. I don’t need to see him to know when he has reached the forest.

“Ordinary day?” I ask.

“Well, you don’t see a Marid every day,” says Agatha. “And someone tries to steal from me only about every other month. I think Faerylanders have short memories. Or just force of habit.”

“And you’ve lived here for fifteen hundred years?” I ask.

“Well, not here, but in Faeryland, at least,” says Agatha. “Time does pass so quickly. Tempus Fluit, as the whales say.”

CHAPTER NINE
MAGIC LESSONS

Mowing the lawn requires sharpening a scythe, and I need the witch’s help to learn the proper technique. I have some experience with whetstones and Boy Scout knives and cleavers, so I learn quickly. I leave the mown grass to yellow and leach back into the soil for a week. The following week-end, I rake it all up before beginning the mowing again. We have a number of little piles of dry grass.

I have found, in one corner of the lawn, what appears to be the remains of an old scarecrow. It was once well-made, with a hinged hard-wood skeleton. Moldy straw and tattered clothes half-cover it now.

“That is the remains of Espantajo, my servant before you. He was a golem, hard-working and obedient. The spell that animated him wore off over a year ago, and it has taken me this long to replace him.”

“Why not replace him with another golem?” I ask.

“His creator moved away some time ago. Or died. No one seems to know. He was quite expensive. Don’t think you can be easily replaced by automation. It’s part of the trash we need to burn.”

“On Earth,” I suggest, “Some people make compost heaps. Pile up all the organic material in one place, keep it wet, and it turns into soil. I’ve never had one, but we could use the Magic Mirror to find out how to do it right.”

“Compost heaps would be a bad idea in Faeryland,” Agatha Farmer replies. “All that damp, and you end up attracting Wormmen, and Kappa, and Nagas, and all kinds of magical vermin. Better to burn it all.”


It is evening. Apropos of nothing, Agnes Farmer begins:

“Anything is possible with Magick. Of course, the same is true with Science and Technology. Anything is possible. You just have to figure out how to do it.”

“Werner Heisenberg proved that you can’t know the position and momentum of an atom simultaneously well enough to photograph one-- so they would have to remain forever invisible. Then fifty years later, IBM actually took a picture of one, by looking in the area it was not.”

“One thing Magick seems to do more easily than Science is extends one’s life. Certainly many magicians have lived less than a century, but any good wizard can figure out a half-dozen ways to live forever-- or at least, a very, very long time. Some use the Philosopher’s Stone. Some become ghosts or zombies or otherwise undead. Some make themselves immortal through deals with gods or demons or fairies. Some use necromancy or alchemy.”

“And how have you lived so long?” I ask.

“I try to make myself useful,” says the witch. “I try to convince the Universe that it is just better off with me alive than dead.”

Time passes quickly. The days blend together. I am up every morning with the rooster crowing.

“Is this some sort of spell?” I ask Agatha Farmer. “I hear a rooster every morning, but I never see one.”

“It lives on the top of the roof,” replies the witch. “And it’s invisible. I assume it comes down to peck at scraps and worms every day. I tripped over it once, so watch your step.”

I work at my chores. There is a great deal to do, and a have a backlog of projects and repairs that I am putting off for ‘someday’. The firepit is nearly dug, but the workshed needs repair-- needs to be rebuilt, actually-- and that requires learning lumberjacking. Every day I need to lay and light the fires, fill the cistern, restock the Larder Wall, and sweep and wash.

One day we go to market in town.

A fringed surrey without a driver shows up outside the picket gate after breakfast, pulled by two roosters, large enough for me to ride on. One white, one black, both with crimson combs.

“More chicken magic?” I ask.

“A phase I was going through,” Agatha replies. She is wearing her ordinary face, a tan-and-gold granny dress with deep pockets, and a thin white sweater. We head out in a direction opposite the forest, across the wilds, and onto a raised roman-style flagstone road.

“You understand the geography of Faeryland?” Agatha Farmer asks.

“I have seen very little of it, other than your cottage and woods,” I reply.

“They aren’t my woods,” says Agatha.

“Faeryland is big. Bigger, perhaps, than you can imagine. Think of a sphere something over two parsecs in diameter, but a thin shell less than a thousand miles thick. Millions of Earths could fit on it-- more than millions. More Earths than there have been human beings that ever lived on Earth. You could do the math. But more than that: it has a Moebius landscape. Walk around the world in any direction, and after a single circuit, you would only be on the other side of the surface. You would need to walk around again-- or dig a hole a thousand miles deep-- to return to where you started. So instead of being twelve-and-a-half square parsecs in area, it is twenty-five. My cottage stands on a little hill, as the same hill as the village we are headed to, so there is a reasonable-looking horizon. Our sun is an unsleeping firebird, which rises out of the earth in the morning, soars through the sky, and illuminates the underside at night. This is why we have no seasons here. I ought to take you to see the place where it rises from the ground. It is surrounded for some ways by a burned and blackened desert. Other areas have different sorts of illumination. A close-hovering stars, or stars, or other flaming orbs. Demi-gods driving fiery chariots. Scarab beetles rolling balls of burning dung. There are areas where it is always day, others where it is always night. Cities that know only Summer or Winter. Countries where it is always Hallowe’en of Mardi Gras. Places with four or five or seven seasons you and I have no name for. It is impossibly diverse, and, of course, there is magic everywhere. In all these years I have not seen the slightest part of it.”

“And where is it we are headed now?” I ask.

“It is called The City With No Name. Which is, of course, its name. Most of the inhabitants call it No-Name, or Gan-Ainm, or some such variation. There are a few of them around This one is primarily Seelie and Unseelie. Tall Elves and Goblins and Brownies and Leprechauns and Hobgoblins and Coblynau and the like. Trolls and Ogres live up in the hills; occasionally you see one come into town.”

We pass long, empty stretches, then a few large farms. One grows acres and acres of what look like sapphire-blue grape-vines. It takes several minute to drive past. The witch catches me looking.

“If you ever run across bottle of indigo wine, it probably comes from here,” she tells me. “A lot of fairies love the stuff, but a single shot-glass full will give a human a three-day blackout and whopping hangover.”

We arrive in No-Name. We pass by houses ranging from two stories to a quarter-story high. The roosters take us straight up to an open-air market.

“Agatha Farmer,” cries a slender little man with nut-brown skin. “You need to settle with me.”

“Exchequer, this is my new domestic, Four-Armed Johnny. Johnny, this is the Exchequer of the Market. Business is conducted on a credit basis, and most of the shopkeepers here owe me something as well. The Exchequer keeps the balances straight, and occasionally needs a little something to balance the books.” The witch turned towards the little man. “You needed a seventh gill of Virgin’s Tears, I believe?” She produces a small, sealed copper cup. The Exchequer waves a wooden wand over it, and appears satisfied.

“Next time you come,” he says, “I need a drop of oil from a living man’s thumb.”

“I can give you that now,” she says. “Do you have an appropriate container?” The Exchequer produces a small glass vial. “Lend me a hand, Johnny,” she orders. She takes out a small bottle with an eyedropper in the lid, and drops a drop of mineral oil into the palm of my hand. “Let it run down your thumb, and into the vial,” she instructs.

“That’s cheating,” says the Exchequer.

“Because I happen to have a living man with me?” she asks.

The Exchequer points his wand at me, then waves it over the little vial of oil. “Evidently, that will do. He is a real man, then?”

“He has the soul of a man,” says the witch. “And that’s the important thing.”

“Did you just give away a piece of my soul?” I ask.

“Only as much as would fit in a drop of oil,” says Agatha. “You won’t miss it.”

“And what are Virgin’s Tears?” I ask.

“Just what it sounds like,” says Agatha.

We proceed through the market, picking up bits of metal and stone and packets of herbs. Sometimes Agatha gives the vendor something in exchange, sometimes she doesn’t.

“I grow most of what I need, but occasionally I need something special,” she explains. We come to a tent with several bowls of colorful, fragrant spices. It is attended by a golden-skinned fairy girl with large green eyes. “Do you have my special order, Sillandra?” asks Agatha. Sillandra goes into the back of the shop, and returns with a small paper packet. “Some of the ingredients in this blend need to be harvested under a full moon,” Agatha explains. “And as there is no moon in this part of Faeryland, they need to be imported.”

We also buy a mixed box of glass vials, small wooden boxes, tin, copper, brass and bronze jars, and an assortment of corks. We are home before sunset, but I am behind in my chores. Agatha keeps me up late, identifying every item we bought, and drilling me until I can remember them all without error.

“I want to send you to do shopping next time,” she says. “And I want to make sure you get me the right ingredients.”

I am up with the crowing of the invisible rooster in the morning. I put on my patchwork coat, and go back to work.

The Mad Gardener’s Song
by Lewis Carroll (from Sylvie and Bruno)

He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realise," he said,
"The bitterness of Life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the Police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
"You'd best be getting home," he said,
"The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
"And all its mystery," he said,
"Is clear as day to me!"

He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
"A fact so dread," he faintly said,
"Extinguishes all hope!"

As the football game receded mercifully into the background, I escaped into Tharn and became absorbed in the adventures of young (now) Strebor. Not such a bad life, no lack of surprises and weird and wonderful things, even if the chores are a bit mundane. I hope you continue the tale.

Well, I have forgotten what email I used to create the John Robert Roberts logon.
So I will continue this story under my old established alias
For those who are listening.

CHAPTER TEN
DWARVES AND GNOMES

"What are those little Trolls doing across the way?" I ask. "I saw them down the path a few days ago. Thought they were statues at first."

"Not Trolls," says Mistress Agatha. "Stone Dwarves. They live about two hundred times slower than most fairies and humans. To them, a week passes like an hour. A year only seems a couple of days. They're peaceful, tend to keep to themselves. Tend to ignore us Ephemerals. They live ten or twenty thousand years, at least. Even longer than True Fairies."

"They seem to be setting up some kind of camp beside the road."

"They probably are. They move around a lot, from one range of mountains to another. When they make camp on their treks, they will sleep for two months or so. It is best not to disturb them. In fact, it is nearly impossible to disturb them."

Over the next few days, I watch the incredibly slow-moving Dwarves set up camp, and lie down on their portable stone beds. I assume the deep rumbling noise which permeates our area for the next few weeks, almost below the range of hearing, is the Dwarves' snoring.

* * *

I go out to work in the yard, and notice the Stone Dwarves are covered with graffiti. I go out through the gate and cross the road to take a closer look. A great deal of it is in a language I do not understand. However, from the accompanying drawings, it appears to be both lewd and insulting.

Agatha Farmer joins me. I am startled by her sudden appearance. She walks very quietly.

"Volish Gnomes," she says. She looks out over the fields on this side of the little house. "They live underground. Not the best neighbors. Troublemakers. They think this sort of thing is funny."

She turns back towards the house. In a short while the chicken-drawn carriage turns up. Agatha gets in silently. I assume she is going to town.

She returns in the evening with large ceramic jugs of turpentine.

She is up before I am in the morning, washing off the Stone Dwarves. She does not ask me to help.

Another morning. The Stone Dwarves are as gray-white and clean as when I first saw them. But there is a symbol burned into our lawn, with some sort of acid or herbicide. It is a large, rough circle with a figure-8 inside.

"A hex symbol," Agatha Farmer explains. "A warning from the Volish Gnomes. Don't work too hard today. We'll be up late tonight."

At sunset I change back. Mistress Agatha waits until past dusk, until the sky is fully black, and the stars are out. She dons her witch's cloak, but does not bother with the green mask. We go out to the hex symbol. Once we pass the fairy ring, Agatha starts mumbling. When we reach the figure-8 burned into the grass, she pulls out a bag of dust, and tosses it in the air. Then she says a word-- so loud and short I can't understand it.

There are two Volish Gnomes, one standing in each side of the figure-8. They remind me of nothing so much as meerkats. They are extremely dirty, and smell like dead worms.

"Two of you?" asks Mistress Agatha. "Only two?" The Gnomes shrink back, trying to appear as small as possible. It is apparent they can neither cross the circle, or dig down into the grass. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Mistress Agatha Farmer," the Gnome's voice is high, and childlike, but like a child that has spent its short life smoking. "A good witch."

"And yet you put this in my yard?" asks Mistress Agatha. She takes out a second bag of dust, and sprinkles the contents all over the burnt portion of the lawn. Grass sprouts up, quickly enough to see it grow. She sprinkles the Volish Gnomes as well. The wormy smell fades slightly. She glares at the poor, trembling creatures. "I was a witch," she says, "Before your grandfathers' grandfathers' parents had even met. What are you going to not do now?"

"We are not going to paint the sleeping Dwarves," says the second Gnome. It may have been female? Mistress Agatha glared.

"Not even after they wake up," says the first Gnome. "And we will put no more Curse Signs in your grass."

"Or anywhere near your house," says the second. "In fact, we will stay on the other side of the road, in our burrows. Except when we come out to hunt, and scavenge. And even then, we will stay on the other side of the road."

"We are nomads," says the first. "Wanderers of the open road. Perhaps we have stayed in this place too long. Perhaps it is time to find another burrow."

"Don't hurry," says Mistress Agatha. "You'll just be off bothering someone else. At least you and I understand one another. Vacat vobis, liberum est ire."

That last bit I understood. The standard ending to a spell of confinement-- 'Time for you to go.'

"Do you suppose they will keep their promises?" I ask.

"Perhaps not," says Agatha. "But they know I will keep mine."

I think about this. "But you didn't make any promises," I observe.

Agatha Farmer turns a dark eye on me. "My promises are implicit," she says.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
FAIRY MAGIC

"Science harnesses the Universe by observing it. Magic harnesses the Universe by communicating with it. Spells may be invoked by writing, or casting bones, or by gestures, but most often, and most easily, by speaking. And when you speak to the Universe, the Universe speaks back, so listen carefully."

"No spell works the same for all spellcasters. The Homo Magi were known to have particularly strong magic. One great sorcerer might call up a massive thunderstorm, while a lesser magic-worker might use the same spell to conjure enough spring rain to water his garden. Although he, too, might conjure thunderstorms, with a more difficult, a more powerful, a more dangerous spell."

"Magic draws on the mana around us. Plentiful in Faeryland, thin in our home Universe. Many magical creatures have mana within themselves. Some creatures and things produce it naturally, as plants produce glucose. Others collect and store it, as a dragon hoards gold."

?There are innumerable fields of magick. Numerology, Arithmancy, Necromancy, Thaumaturgy, Alchemy, Witchcraft, Sorcery, Chiromancy, Astrology, Cartomancy, Nomenology? the list goes on and on. Undoubtedly someone in the future will create a sort of magick that does not yet exist.?

"Fairy Magic resembles Demonology, as the magician summons a magical creature to do their bidding. It is not a fraction as dangerous, though. Fairies are willful, mischievous and unpredictable, but Demons are truly malicious and malevolent. Every moment they exist in this world, they will be trying to kill you, or worse. Still, the basics are much the same."

Mistress Agatha has me draw a rough chalk heptagram, then I sprinkle fine sand on it until it is well covered.

"Demons are particular about mathematically exact pentagrams," she notes. "Fairies, not so much. We do need these, however." She lays out seven silver tiles outside the points of the heptagram. They are engraved with words in a language I cannot read.

"What the fairies call the 'seven deadly virtues'," Agatha explains. "These four represent Prudence, Courage, Temperance, and Justice, while these three represent Faith, Hope, and Love. Thus we bind the Fairy."

"This is a Pixie," she instructs. "The drawing in the book is approximately life-sized. They come in as many colors and varieties as there are flowers. I want you to fix that picture in your mind, and imagine a conduit opening within the center of the heptagram. When you have the picture firmly fixed in your mind, say, 'Fairy Appear' in a firm voice."

My first try meets with no success.

"We need something to entice it," says Agatha. She hands me a thimble, and has me fill it with a drop of honey. I place it in the center of the heptagram.

"Fairy Appear!" No success. "What am I doing wrong?" I ask.

"I suppose you could try channeling some of the mana around us, but the Pixie ought to have enough of its own... Wait!" she points at the little thimble. It is empty. "Invisible, the little trickster. Show yourself!" she cries. Her voice echoes in a way mine did not.

A pixie no taller than my little finger appears within the heptagram. She is clad in cloth-of-gold from head to toe.

"Who is the Master here?" asks the pixie. "You, or you?"

"He is your Master," says Agatha. "And I am his." She walks away, and leaves the two of us alone.

"What is it you wish, Master?" The tiny voice drips with sarcasm.

Agatha and I have prepared for this. It is only a test. I pull a gold three-gram Tharnan coin from my coin-purse. "A simple request. Please make a duplicate of this coin for me. Real gold, not fairy-gold. An exact copy. Then you may go."

"Why should I?" asks the Pixie petulantly.

Agatha returns with a hand-mirror. "This Pixie is a variety known as a Vanity," Agatha tells me. "This is a very fine mirror. Perhaps your Pixie would like to see it?"

"Maybe," says the Vanity. "Maybe a peek in your mirror, and another sip of nectar, and you can have your silly gold coin."

I hold up the mirror. The Vanity preens for several minutes. "That's enough," I say. She gives me a pout. I pick up the eye-dropper full of honey, and put another drop into the thimble at the center of the heptagram.

"Ow! She bit me!" I fling the eye-dropper across the room. I will need to wipe up that trail of honey. "How is that possible?" It is evening, and the creature has somehow bitten through the rhinoceros-thick hide of my Branx form.

"Be more careful. Next time, keep your fingers out of the center of the heptagram," says Agatha.

This strikes me as very funny. I chuckle, then giggle, certainly an unpleasant sound coming from a Branx Warrior. My head aches. The room wavers, then spins.

"You're pixilated," sighs Agatha. "These creatures have a stinger-like proboscis down their throats, and a variety of poisons. I will need to take care of that wound."

She washes my finger, applies a salve, and wraps it in gauze. My head clears. When we check the heptagram again, the Vanity is gone, but there are now two gold coins lying side-by-side on the table. I move to clean up the sand and chalk.

"Wait!" warns Agatha. She shakes a pinch of pepper into her palm, and blows it at the heptagram. There is a tiny sneeze. "Invisible again. You need to go," says Agatha.

"Don't want to," says a disembodied voice. "Don't have to. I drank his blood; I can stay as long as I want to. Let me out"

"Even if we let you out of the heptagram, there is a fairy ring around this house," says Agatha.

"Then I'll live in this cottage," says the invisible Vanity. "It's cozy enough."

"I think not," says Agatha. She gets a glass jar, unscrews the brass lid, then fills it with smoke from the fire. She drops it over the center of the heptagram, and the Vanity is perfectly visible inside, a Pixie-shaped hole in the smoke. Agatha claps on the lid.

"Clear away the heptagram now," she says. I obey immediately. She draws out the jar, and proceeds outside. We walk up to the fairy ring, carrying the jar of Vanity.

"No, please," cries the little voice. "If you take me across, I'll die!"

"I saw a Troll step on this once," I say. "I know exactly what will happen to you."

"There is a roll of sod in your work-shed," says Agatha. "Lay it out like a carpet over the fairy ring." It is a matter of a few minutes work. Agatha crosses with the little jar of Vanity.

Before she opens the jar, she asks, "Would you like us to name you?"

"What, so you can summon be back anytime you please?" It is astonishing how much sarcasm can fit into that little voice. "Yes, please."

"She's your Pixie," says Agatha. "You name her."

"Fine," I say, addressing the jar. "I will name you 'Modesty'."

Her little giggle is so high-pitched that you can hardly hear it.

We carry the pixie our into the outer yard, and release her from the jar.

I put the roll of sod back in the shed. We go in the cottage, and I finish cleaning the chalk, and the sand, and the spilled honey.

"That did not go badly at all," says Agatha Farmer. "I believe you learned something."

"Quite a few things," I say. "And I got three grams of gold in the bargain." I place my two coins back in my purse.

Agatha Farmer looks at me. "Oh, she didn't" She looks concerned. "How much gold did you bring from Tharn?"

"Just the one piece," I say. "A little silver. I know it's probably bad form to bring silver to Faeryland"

"Empty your purse," says Agatha. A dozen silver coins drop out, and a four gold ones.

"Is it empty now?" she asks.

"There are still two gold coins here."

"Take them out."

I obey.

"There are still two gold coins here."

"Well, this is what comes of experimenting with Fairy magic," says Agatha. "You now have a fairy servant and an ever-filled purse. May I take your silver? I get some little call for it, and it is scarce in most of Faeryland."

CHAPTER TWELVE
DREAM

I was dreaming.

I dreamed I was back on Tharn. Somehow, I was in the Palace of the First Coventry.

I was scheduled to be tested, but I had not studied for the exam.

"Modesty," I whispered. The little Pixie appeared.

"Transform yourself into a beautiful young human girl," I commanded. "You will pose as my apprentice. Do nothing to expose this deception."

We presented ourselves before Doctor Leitseid and the First Coventry. Whenever instructed to perform a spell or feat of magic, I deferred to my 'apprentice'. The Coventry was impressed.

"Very well done," said Doctor Leitseid. "Ordinarily, you would pass with honors. But you are taking shortcuts. Almost... cheating." He waved his hand, and the Vanity's transformation faded away. "Beware of relying too much on Fairy Magic."

I wake up shivering.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GEHENNA

"I found a woodman's axe in the shed," I announce. "You said before that is not your forest. Who can I ask permission from to cut down one tree?"

"It is Terra Nullius," says Agatha Farmer. "Or, at least, Fabula Mundi Nullius. You may cut as much wood as you like. But I am sure you can also find several trees already dead-- standing or fallen-- that would be well cleared away. Are you still thinking of re-building the workshed? Give me a couple of days to prepare a milling spell to aid you. It would not hurt to replace some of the fence, either."

I collect the trees and move them to the homestead. The milling spell works beautifully, whole snags falling into neat piles of 2"x 4" parallelepipeds. The new shed and most of the fence are assembled more quickly than a set of furniture from IKEA.

I am left with a great deal of old, rotting timber.

"What we need," says Agatha, "Is a Gehinnom-- a garbage pit, for burning." She finds a large shovel in the newly-organized workshed. "Eight feet deep, with the same breadth and width, should be sufficient."

"Is this an enchanted implement?" I ask.

"As you well know," says Agatha, "There are certain tasks that should only be done in the mundane way, if enchantment is to follow. I have some plans."

It takes two days to dig the pit. I pack the loose dirt in high mounds around it, making it nearly twice as deep. The soft soil gradually hardens into clay in the Faeryland sun.

"I need you to gather stones from the forest to line the floor of the Gehinnom," says Agnes. "The same sort you use to rebuild the wall every day. A little larger, if you can find them."

It takes another two days to line the floor and walls of the firepit.

Agatha walks along the stone floor, inspecting the adobe-like walls. She seems pleased. I am sent to gather wood and scrap and grass clippings from around the cottage to fill the pit. She produces an immense tarpaulin from somewhere, and I assist her in covering the Gehinnom. A spark from her snapping fingers ignites the mass. Red light glows beneath the tarpaulin, then orange, then yellow, then chartreuse. The green fire will burn all night. We have supper together, and I prepare for bed, just as though there were no awesome magicks swirling in a pit outside the cottage.

In the morning, we pull away the tarpaulin. The stones I gathered and set in the floor have... melted? into a mosaic of hexagonal tiles covered with occult patterns. The walls have the appearance of alabaster, or mother-of-pearl.

"Well," says Agatha, "We shan't have another trash fire like that for some time, I imagine."

We investigate the bottom of the pit. There is only a scattering of ash, and what appear to be char-blackened bones scattered across the floor. It might all add up to a full, human skeleton.

"Anyone you know?," I ask Agatha Farmer.

"Don't be flippant," she replies. She bends down and picks up what looks like a femur. "Enchanted ironwood," she says. "These are the remains of Birdshoe, my old golem house-servant. His body was made of straw and clay. I did not expect his bones to be so fireproof. Help me gather them."

The witch produces a large black bag, seemingly from nowhere. It takes a couple of hours to gather all the little bones, including all the vertebrae and finger and toe fragments. They are noticeably heavy for being only made of wood. The char wipes off easily, and by the time we have collected them all, our hands are black. Agatha sends me down with a broom to sweep the Gehinnom, just to make sure we did not miss any pieces.

The black bag goes into a room I have never seen before, behind a door that was not there yesterday. There is a long work-table there, and over the next few weeks I occasionally find Agatha there, patiently re-assembling the three-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle.

I may soon have a golem to assist me with the household chores.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REPAYMENT

I clear the breakfast things, and am preparing to go about my daily chores.

"Sit down for a moment, Johnny." says Agatha. She smiles at me. "Working hard?"

"Yes, ma'm," I reply. "And learning a little magic."

"Magic is hard work," says Agatha. "And can have hard consequences to the unwary."

"And seeing just what is possible, with magic," I add.

"Anything is possible with Magic," Agatha avers. "The only restraint is a lack of imagination. Of course, the same is true of Science and Technology, as well. Anything is possible, if you can just figure out how."

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. I get up to begin my daily chores.

"Relax today," says Agatha. "Things can go undone. We will be having a visitor later."

The visitor is a brownie, about a foot tall. He keeps carefully outside the stone fence around Agatha's cottage.

"This is Four-Armed Johnny," says Agatha. "My Famulus."

"Lennox Greusaiche," says the brownie. He holds up a small vial.

"I'll take that," says Agatha, reaching down.

"A drop of oil from a living man's thumb," says Lennox Greusaiche. "Worth six day's labor."

"You're selling me into slavery?" I ask.

"Renting you out," says Agatha Farmer. "Although you're no slave. You can leave any time you want. Although I am obligated to fulfill my promises, and if you don't go with the Greusaiche, you can't return to work for me."

"What sort of work is it?" I inquire.

"Packing boxes," says Lennox Greusaiche. "Of shoes."

"No more than eight hours a day," says Agatha, sharply eyeing the brownie. "And time off for meals, and a comfortable bed. And a fire."

"Naturally," says the brownie. "I'm no martinet. Not anymore."

It is easy work. Iron shoes, iron hob-nailed boots, and boots with iron heels and soles. I know that most fairy-folk can't touch them. Silver is painful, but iron is deadly. With my four arms, I am able to work quickly. There are a few others in the warehouse, but we are too far apart for conversation. I don't get to know anyone. They seem to come and go; I seldom recognize anyone from day to day. I receive precisely eighteen meals, and sleep precisely six nights. My coat goes into the fire every night, and returns to me every morning.

On the seventh day, Lennox Greusaiche hands me the last box I packed, and we return to Agatha Farmer's cottage.

The lawn has grown tall and ragged. It is overrun with weeds. Ugly-looking wildflowers bloom here and there. Parts of the cottage need painting. The rock wall is half-gone.

Agatha herself looks worn.

"I trusted you, brownie," she says. "I told you I have had dealings with your kind before. It has never ended well, and this time is no different. This is the last time I do business with any of your kind, no matter what you buy at the Goblin Market."

"What's wrong?" I ask. "I was gone six days... he treated me well... just as promised."

"You remember six days," Agatha replies. "You were goner six months."

"I apologize," says the brownie. "No excuses. I have brought you a peace offering." He indicates the box I am carrying.

"'Easier to ask forgiveness than permission'?" Agatha quotes. She opens the box. "Seven-league boots? And Class One, I see." The old witch has difficulty suppressing a smile. "Don't think this makes up for it. It will be a long time before I trust a brownie again."

Lennox Greusaiche smiles broadly. "Your famulus does good work," he says. "Thank you."

I am looking right at him, and suddenly he is not there.

"So there are different classes of seven-league boots?" I ask.

"You have work to do," says Agatha Farmer grumpily. "You're six months behind."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SPEAKING SPELL

"You are going to learn a simple spell," says Agatha Farmer. "And because it is a simple spell, it is protected by all sorts of rules and conditions. It is a single word. You must never speak this word, except when you are casting the spell, otherwise it will never work for you again. Nor may you write it down, or cause it to be spoken or written down."

"Then how am I to learn it?" I ask.

"I will give you a pamphlet," says Agatha Farmer. "Study it carefully. It contains clues and riddles regarding each letter of the word. When you think you have it, come see me, and I will give you a test."

It is a sort of megaphone spell. It allows my voice to be heard over a large area, simply by speaking normally. It does not increase the volume of my voice, but allows anyone within a particular area to hear me as though I were standing next to them. The riddles are obscure, but I ponder them as I go about my work. At last I think I'm ready.

"Imagine the whole area of the house, and lawn, and gardens," says Agatha Farmer. "I will go stand at the farthest corner of the outer wall. Try to speak to me."

I say what I think is the magic word. Then "Hello?" I say.

"Got it in one." Agatha's voice is in my ear, although I see her far across the lawn. "But you're speaking too loud. Pretend I am right next to you."

"Is this better?" I ask.

"Very good," says Agatha. "We may make a magician of you yet. Now, you don't need to learn a counter-spell. The effect wears off in a couple of minutes. If you ever need me, this is easier than running back to the house. Now go back to your chores."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BOOTS AND STONES

"There are four classes of what are called seven-league boots." After supper, we continue our lessons. "Class four simply never wear out. Ugly things, though. You wouldn't want them for your only footwear. Class three allows a person to walk all day-- seven leagues-- without tiring. Class two allows the wearer to walk exactly seven leagues in one step. If you are good at trigonometry, you can overshoot your mark, and then step back at an angle. Otherwise, you get as close as you can to your destination, then change shoes. Now these," she holds up the iron-soled boots the brownie gave her. "These are Class One. You direct them with your eyes and your mind. Choose a destination, fix your mind on it, take a step, and you're there. Up to seven leagues away. That's twenty miles, if you are metrically challenged."

"Yes, I know," I reply. Somewhere, a distant bell rings. The old witch starts.

"Damn," she says. "We're going to have a visitor tomorrow."

I keep the house pretty clean, but Agatha wants it to shine for our guest. For the first time since I have lived there, she goes off to buy groceries. Noodles. Mushrooms. Some odd vegetables I do not recognize. A part of the house-- where usually her cauldron hangs-- becomes a kitchen. At about noon, a tall, striking young elf-man riding a black stag waits at the stone gate.

"Luthien Darkover," says Agatha, "Welcome to my home. I invite you in. Your mount stays outside, though."

The tall elf dismounts. Looking into his eyes is like staring into a candle flame. He hands me a folded handkerchief.

"This will unfold into a stable for my Niger," he says. His voice is like a cool summer breeze. His words are hypnotic. "Please take care of it. I assume you have water and suitable provender available."

Agatha Farmer nods her approval. "Johnny Four-Arms, I would like to introduce you to Luthien Darkover," she says. "My son."

I am sitting on the floor, polishing Luthien Darkover's boots. They are of some fine thick leather. They were mirror-bright half an hour ago.

"I like your servant, mother. Did you make him?"

"He is slightly transmogrified," says Agatha. "But he assumes his natural form at sunset."

"I await the revelation," says her son. "Would you consider selling him?"

"He is not a slave," says Agatha. "He is my apprentice. And your people do go through your slaves, don't they?"

"Alas, they are so fragile," says Luthien Darkover. "Ephemeral, like a day-fly. These really are fine noodles, Mother. I don't suppose you have been brewing, by chance?"

"What is it you want, Luthien?" asks Agatha. "You didn't come all this way for dinner and ale."

"I want to settle down, Mother," says Luthien. "Find a nice girl. Get married. Maybe give you grand-children."

"I've had grand-children before," says Agatha. "And aren't you still married to that little Alderlin girl?"

"That was a century ago," says Luthien. "Desiree has been gone for twenty years now."

"And yet the Faery have ways of extending the life of their human companions," says Agatha.

"Oh, but she was so tedious," says Luthien. "Yes, fair, and beautiful, and sylph-like at fifteen, but a mundane, shrewish virago at thirty. I gave her the run of the brugh and the servants for fifty years."

"As you went off and joined the Wild Hunt, I suppose," says Agatha.

Luthien shrugged. "I have my avocations. I can keep myself entertained."

"And now you want to troll Ganainm Village for your next human wife," says Agatha. "And you want me to give you a recommendation."

"You know I can't enter a human community-- even part-human, like Ganainm-- without being invited," says Luthien.

"Why not take an Elf or Faery for your next wife?" asks Agatha.

"Have you seen how Titania and Oberon treat one another?" asks Luthien. "They have been enemies since before the days of Doctor Chaucer. Nowadays, whenever they ever approach within a thousand miles of each other, the local communities prepare for war. It is even worse when they reconcile, and double their mischief for a time. No, thank you, no Faery marriage for me."

"Marry a witch, or a sorceress, then," says Agatha. "Someone who can keep up with you."

The last rays of the setting sun flickered in the western windows.

"Oh, my, he is impressive," says Luthien, observing my transformation into my natural Branx form. "Are you sure he's human?"

"Fully human, according to the laws of Faeryland," says Agatha. "I see you have made dinner. Thank you, Johnny."

I have placed three plates on the table, each with a few fist-sized stones. "I was not sure if your son would be joining us," I say.

Agatha fills a flagon at her cauldron, and comes to the table. "I think not," she says.

"Are you still subsisting on those stones?" asks Luthien. "That enchantment gives me indigestion."

"And so I cooked all day for you, instead" says Agatha. "Show some gratitude." She returns to her cauldron, and from the new cooking-pot on the new stove, brings Luthien a bowl of some fragrant stew.

Agatha touches a stone on her own plate with one finger, and it becomes a large fish-ball. "Just what I wanted," she says. "As usual." She picks up a knife and fork.

I usually eat with my hands when in Branx form. I have prepared myself a feast of six stones tonight. Three become juicy citrus fruits to quench my thirst after a long day, two become large chunks of some sort of savory roasted meat, and one is a kind of cruciferous vegetable which I have had before, but have never learned the name of.

Luthien touches the stones on the third plate, and they transform into chunks of raw, bloody flesh.

"Ugh," he says, recoiling. "And me a vegetarian."

"Liar," says Agatha Farmer.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PROSPECTS

"You met with the Village Elders?" I ask.

"Someone suggested I give testimony under the influence of Veritaserum," she answers.

"You said something you wish you hadn't?"

"I said a few things Luthien wished I hadn't. I'm afraid he's going to have to look for another human town further out in Faeryland. And someone else to recommend him."

Agatha spends the remainder of the day in the new Workroom, rebuilding the skeleton of the golem Birdshoe. I see she has woven the bones of the hands and fingers together with fine rolled straw.

"It's a variety of flax, actually," Agatha tells me. "There is a village family that produces and sells flax seed, linseed oil, various linens, and chicken-feed. These fibers are too coarse for fine linen, and only minimally processed, so I get them at a discount."

"Are you making it to assist me, or replace me?" I ask.

"Well, I don't expect you will remain here forever," says Agatha. "At some point, you will want to establish your own steading as a man-witch."

"That may not be for some time," I admit. "My magical education is proceeding slowly."

Agatha waves at the door leading to the main part of the cottage. "I taught you the basics," she says. "Everything I know is in one or the other of the books scattered about the house. And a great deal that I have forgotten. Study for an hour every night before bed, and in a year you will have studied magic for three hundred hours. In three years, a thousand hours. You show some facility. You ought to make a fine man-witch. Even a magician, or a wizard. Although I doubt you would ever reach the rank of sorcerer."

"Why not?"

"You don't have the temperament. Sorcerers are vain, prideful, and narcissistic. They believe nothing is beyond their power. They tempt Fate, and the forces of nature. They will undertake any quest to get what they desire. They try to remake the Universe in their own image. More often than not, they fail, and the Universe crushes them instead. But those who succeed find themselves in a rarefied atmosphere with few peers. Sorcerers seldom have enemies as powerful as themselves; in fact, they are usually their own worst enemies. Does that sound like you?"

I had to admit, it did not. Possibly it described Lodarthon Ogreish, who had pursued me through a thousand years of time and space to get his body back.

"I had my fortune told once,"I explain. "I followed the oracles to your cottage."

"I would be interested in seeing that," she says.

The next morning, Agatha is studying Adrastos' oracle to me.


SEEK OUT A CRAFTSMAN OF GOOD REPUTE

ASK YOUR EMPLOYER FOR A RECOMMENDATION

LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS

ASK THE LIBRARIAN

"This is in an interesting form," Agatha tells me. "Like many prophecies, it is somewhat ambiguous. It might be a four-tined destiny, in which any of these outcomes is relevant. Or, it might be a four-fold prophecy, in which each part is to be independently fulfilled. In which case, my cottage is only a wayside on your journey. The only way to really know for sure is for you to go to the City of Emeralds."

"I assume that means Oz," I venture.

"Possibly. Have you encountered another City of Emeralds in your travels?"

"No,,, but does a Land of Oz really exists?"

"Oh, certainly," says Agatha. "Various enchanters, human and faery, have created replicas of Oz in various locations throughout Faeryland. Some are more accurate or friendly than others. But most people agree that the real, original Kingdom of Oz exists in Faeryland as well. Located on a small continent in the Nonestic Ocean, and situated among the kingdoms of Ix, Ev, Boboland, Hiland, Loland, Noland, Merryland and the rest. If you are going to find the authentic Emerald City, that is the place to look."

"Where is it?" I ask.

"Now that is the problem," says Agatha. "It lies some seven million miles across Faeryland from this cottage. Even if I owned a flying broom or magic carpet, it would take a good long while to get there, even flying non-stop. The portals that once led there were closed long ago. I don't know personally any trustworthy long-distance teleporting magicians. You might take the Fairy Locomotive Line, but that would be a seven year's journey, and I'm not even sure how near to the Kingdom of Oz the closest Railway station sits. If you are really interested, I will give it some more thought."

"Let me think about it, too," I say.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CAST-IRON BOOTS

"How soon until Birdshoe is ready?" I ask Agatha.

She laughs.

"'Ready' is a complex notion. I suppose if I worked hard for the next two weeks, I could finish his body. But animating him? I don't have the magic on hand for that. That's how I lost him in the first place-- the animating magic just ran out. Of course, I could manipulate him like a puppet-- animation of the inanimate is simple enough magic. But if I am going to do that, I may as well do all the chores around here myself. No, giving the gift of true life to the non-living: that is complex, difficult magic. Something I never mastered. This renovation of Birdshoe has been an exercise in nostalgia."

"Oh… " I stammer.

"You've been thinking of going to Oz, and feel bad about leaving me alone?" says Agatha. She cackles softly, a sound I have never heard her make before. "I've lived on my own for centuries at a time," she says. "I could do it again. And you have done a fine job cleaning up around here. It will take me some time to get the cottage back into the state it was when you came. I've been thinking of ways to get you there in less than seven years myself."

"Magic cyclone?" I ask.

"We don't have one available," says Agatha. "But we do have Lennox Greusaiche's seven-league boots."

"You think I could walk to Oz?"

"If you use them to their fullest extent, walking, say seven thousand steps per day, I estimate you could be there in a week. Of course, you will want to practice with them first. And you will need to find food and shelter, and a fire every night."

"I suppose there would be traveler's inns along the way?"

"Perhaps," muses Agatha. "But your first stop would be somewhere about a million miles from here, and I certainly don't know what is there. Take a few days to practice with our seven-league boots, while I see what preparations I can make for your journey."

Here's a word of advice about seven-league boots: they are rather difficult to control. The difficulty is somewhere between learning to ride a bicycle and learning to play the piano. For a fortnight I practice with them. For another fortnight I give up, as I am falling behind in my chores. I also need some time to heal from some unfortunate landings. At the end of another fortnite, I begin to feel I have a reasonable amount of control.

Agatha is working on Birdshoe. The bones are now a solid mass of woven flax-- something like Burning Man, but more carefully and artistically made. The worktable is gone, and Birdshoe sits in a wicker chair.

"I think I'm ready to go," I tell her.

"Are you?" she asks.

"Except I have no idea where I'm going," I admit.

Agatha leaves the workroom, goes into her private bedroom, and returns with a backpack.

"I put this together for you," she says. "Think of it as a pension for a job well done." She begins pulling items out of the sack.

"This is your firestarter, ordinary flint-and-brass tinder box. You will need this to keep your human form during the day. This is food: an Onion-of-Cheese-- no matter how you peel the outer layers, there is always more cheese-- and a Half-a-Loaf, no matter how much you cut, there is always more. This is a perfectly ordinary kitchen knife, but one of my better ones. This--" she took out a metallic disk-- "is my own invention. You see how half of it looks like polished copper, and the other half like verdigris? The green side always points toward the True Emerald City. I call it an 'Oz-Compass'. This is an Extensible Stragulum-- it will fit in your bag, folded into the size of a handkerchief, but will expand into a thin blanket, should you need to sleep outdoors. They make tents along the same lines-- you remember Luthien had one that folded out into a stable for his black stag-- but I haven't been able to locate one in the area. Enchanters tend to live far apart, and don't like to encroach on a witch's territory. Lastly, this leather wallet contains a small handful of silver and gold coins."

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "This seems to be all I need for a long journey."

"That's seven witch-gifts, not including your satchel," Agatha says. "I don't dare give you more, or some ill fate is likely. A word of advice, though-- stay at inns, or other hostels when you can. Staying the night in the open can be hazardous, and eating nothing but magical bread-and-cheese can cause constipation."

Early in the morning, we leave the little cottage, and I sight my way with the "Oz-Compass". My course lies over a large hill, but a single step will take me past it.

"I want those boots back, by the way," says Agatha. "Once you get where you're going, command them to return home, and they will find their own way back."

"I will," I promise. "Thank you again for all you have done. I hope you can get Birdshoe animated somehow."

"I have already sent out word that I am in the market for another apprentice," says Agatha.

I nod, aim for the mountain, and take my first step.

To Oz.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TO OZ: DAY ONE

I march onwards.

Am I really going to Oz? I ask myself. The Oz of ten or eleven centuries in the future, but the real faeryland nevertheless.

There is a great deal of Faeryland between me and my destination. Headed due west from the cottage, I pass the charred crater where Agatha Farmer's section of Faeryland's sun sets every night. I come to a great sea, wider than seven leagues, which the boots force me to walk around. They do not allow me to walk on water. The green compass gets me quickly back on track. There is an area of ice and glaciers which takes me perhaps a hundred steps to cross. The landscape changes rapidly. For a moment, I am in a deep forest, and attacked by Cyclopean Alicorns. But I am simply moving too fast for them to be a nuisance to me. I stop for an hour by a scenic lake, and eat enough magically renewing bread and cheese to fill my belly. It is not the best bread, nor the best cheese, but it is adequate. I have actually eaten worse meals prepared by my own hand.

I come to a dark wood, but continue to walk. I really don't know how much time has passed. The various domains of Faeryland have their own suns, and skies, and lengths of day and night. At last, tired of walking and getting hungry, I stop for the night in a small clearing. I build a fire, dig a latrine, and find an area of long grass to sleep in. My coat goes into the fire as the last embers die. I cover myself with the thin Extensible Stragulum, which is surprisingly warm and comfortable. After such a long walk, I quickly fall into a deep sleep.

I wake to a crashing, roaring thunderstorm. The clearing has turned into a swamp, or at least a temporary wetlands. I crouch under the Stragulum, blind to nearly everything around me. I am no longer comfortable.

I see a light in front of me, and move toward it. It is an open door in a tree. A small round man gestures to me from beyond the door.

"Come in out of that rain," he says. "Oh, my, you're bigger than I thought. Let me let you in through the back door."

The door in the tree closes, then opens again, now several times larger. I step in, out of the rain.

My host is small; the top of his head barely comes up to my waist. He is clean-shaven, with a mop of curly gray hair. His eyes are gray as well. His face is round, matching the rest of his body.

"Enter, friend," he says. There is a brief thrill of magic in his welcome. I suspect that any unfriendly types would be cast out by that greeting. "Bequem Quando," he bows. "My name," he explains. "And you are?"

"Oh. Well. Most recently, I have been known as Johnny Four-Arms," I tell him. "Before that, I was called Strebor."

"Well, Young Johnny, I think you have come a far way away from where you started. Firstly, I have never seen your kind before, and secondly, you are wearing a fine pair of seven-league boots, not the usual footwear for stay-at-homes."

"Do you know the witch Agatha Farmer?" I ask.

"Sorry, no," says Quando. "There have been no witches in these parts for centuries. Nor have I seen anyone your size in quite some time. Giants, yes. Rock trolls, up in the mountains, even larger, yes. But I am afraid there have been no Twice-Tallers like yourself in these realms for centuries." He gestures around the room. I see that the furniture is massively oversized. I cannot reach the top of the mattress on the giant bed even standing on my tip-toes. "I haven't any smaller bed for you, I'm afraid, unless you want one in my size, or smaller. I do have a ladder, however."

A small, slender woman with smooth golden skin enters, carrying a ten-foot ladder. She exactly matches The Bequem Quando in height, if not in width.

"My servant, Glorfinniel," Bequem Quando says proudly. "She is one of the Kourai Khryseai. A gift from Hephaestus himself." The two help me up the ladder into bed. My host wishes me a good night, and promises me a good breakfast in the morning.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
TO OZ: DAY TWO

I wake up in the morning light with my coat lying beside me in the giant's bed.

My host enters through the door through which he exited the night before. Once small, it is now twice the height it was before.

"I convinced House to make some accommodations for you," says the little gray man. "And I have made you a good breakfast."

I walk out of the giant's room into the smell of bacon frying. There is something wrong with the ceiling. It bends and distorts so that I am able to stand up straight, but throughout the rest of the house it is scarcely four feet high.

Mr. Quando has indeed provided a good breakfast. There is sausage and bacon and ham, and golden scrambled eggs, some kinds of frosted cakes, a pitcher of juice, and what I learn is a pitcher of thick, cold, yellowish milk.

Mr. Quando has never seen me except in my Branx Warrior form. I make sure he is watching as I put on my coat.

"So you are not such a Turrier after all," says Mr. Quando. "Interesting. Would you prefer more fruit and less meat for your breakfast?"

"This is my enchanted form," I explain. "The other is my true nature."

"As long as you're comfortable," says Mr. Quando. "That's what they call me, you know. The Comfortable Man. This house, my larder, my pantry, my servant… I have spent some time and effort to assure my own comfort. And I share those comforts with others. Please, sit and eat."

As I sit down, he gets up from the table and moves to a large chest with many small drawers. He rummages through a few, then pulls out a small ceramic box. He takes a dab of the gel inside, and spreads it on his eyelids.

"A powerful spell," he notes. "That is no glamour-- you are physically transformed. I believe you mentioned a witch?"

"My former employer," I explain. "What is that?"

"Ointment of True Sight," says The Comfortable Man. "It allows one to see through glamours. Not always a good idea in the Faery Kingdoms. Seeing the truth can be depressing. Here-- you can take it with you, if you like."

"And in return?" I ask.

"Ah, yes, you worked for a witch," says Mr. Quando. "'There is always a price for magic’ is the Enchanter’s Creed. My personal belief is, 'Share and Share Alike'. All benefit." He toddles over and opens a small door under a set of stairs. There is a cellar down below, filled with food. "I have a couple of giants who bring me their scraps from time to time. Sausages, jerky, smoked meats. I have more than I can eat." He patted his belly. "All because I shared with them a couple of magic rings once, a century ago. The rings were useless to me-- I don't really travel, and that was their purpose-- but exceedingly useful to the giants’ family. Sharing and gratitude are the grease of the wheels of comfort."

I take the little box. It is just large enough to get the tip of my finger into. I smear the ointment on my eyes. Nothing changes.

Mr. Quando is back at his chest of many drawers. "Are you on a long journey?" he asks.

"At several million miles," I admit. "I have a compass to guide me, but I lose track of how far I have traveled in a day."

"What you need is a sevenhourglass," says The Comfortable Man. He pulls out an amulet on a chain. It has the appearance of a glass coin with the image of an hourglass within. "This will help you keep track of time across the various demesnes of Faeryland."

"And where am I now?" I ask.

"This place is called Eastron." says Bequem Quando. "Home to the thousand families of Truffolk. The forest Pazzlings, the river Febbers, the Dooppins of the mountains, the Dozzits of the deserts. Smoffits, Smikkits, Spakkins, Quottins, Lotters, Scacklings, Wommers, and so forth. I'm a Cobbling, myself. There aren't many of us left. The doors of my House will open to anywhere in Eastron. That's how I found you."

"Do you have some sort of alarm for stranded travelers in distress?"

"Just so. And House has defenses against the dangerous ones. Can I also send you off with a pack of provisions? Even with seven-league boots, it will be a long journey. As I say, I have more cured meat than I can eat in a long, long time."

"You are too generous," I object.

"Nonsense," says the Comfortable Man. "Don't think that I am rushing you, but I assume you want to get back on the road. I would be happy for you to stay here at House for as long as you like. I had a wandering mermaid, once, who stayed for several weeks. She had a beautiful singing voice, and was delightful company. In the end, wanderlust overcame her, and we opened a door to the rivers."

I took out the green compass. "Can you let me out," I asked, "At the furthest edge of Eastron in that direction?"

"Indeed I can," says Bequem Quando. "Although it will not take you more than a few steps closer to your destination."